Microstory 794: Racetrack

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To say that the Amadesins are despicable people would be the understatement of the aeon. After the Old Worlds fell, the survivors of the religion—which had been increasingly losing followers for centuries—realized that their time was running out. They had one, maybe two, generations to go before their numbers were so thin, they would be considered a true alternative cult. In order to protect their traditions, they decided to hide themselves away in a higher dimension. They were obsessed with growing their army, and had had enough of trying to convince preexisting people of what they believed to be holy truths. They would just make their own people, and brainwash them right from the beginning of their short lives. Armed with technology they stole from others, they figured out how to grow humans, rather than gestate them in living mothers, which could only be done one or two at a time. Their human fields were vast, and had to be separated across new dimensions in their domain, which were collectively known as Thuriama. You could stand on a tall mountain and not see the end of it. In decades, their population rivaled some smaller galactic civilizations. Decades later, they were the largest in the universe. This had the side effect, however, of causing their lives to be incredibly dull. The old ways required a lot of work to go out and proselytize to the people. Without these jobs, they had nothing to do with their lives. They ended up concocting all sorts of untoward means of entertainment, often involving forcing their minions to humiliate themselves. But this grew boring as well, because there was no resistance. The people they had harvested felt no humiliation, for they knew no better than the cards life had dealt them. So the Thuriamen elite grew bold, and started seeking amusement beyond their dimensional home. One particular pastime involved kidnapping people, and coercing their loved ones to participate in a great transdimensional race. It was dangerous and deadly on its own, but racers who failed to win would be killed anyway, and their families would remain as slaves. Winners would also be killed, because they had zero leverage against their oppressors, and needed to  be silenced. Unfortunately for Thuriama, they made a big mistake when they abducted members of Zoey Attar and Amber Fossward’s team. This would be the last race in history, and marked a major milestone in the ultimate and final destruction of the twisted Amedesin megacult.

Microstory 793: Argine

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Argine Agliana was one of the hardest working people that anyone who knew her knew. When she was but a child, she started babysitting for families in her neighborhood. She was often not much older than the children she was charged with taking care of. As she got older, she started doing even more things for people; mowing, raking leaves, walking pets. As soon as she turned fourteen, she was old enough to find something more regular and formal, so she started out as a violin teacher at a small shop on Pebble Road. When she turned fifteen, she became a certified lifeguard. Her parents thought she would quit her first job, but she ended up doing both. Somehow, she managed to work at least two jobs throughout her entire school career. One summer, she even had four at the same time, and though she felt she was handling it, her parents forbade her from continuing like this, and made her taper that back down. By the time she graduated from college, her résumé was two pages long. Movie theatres, libraries, delivery sorting facilities, and warehouses. Sadly, though, even with all this experience, she had an incredibly difficult time finding a more mature position. She was an adult now, and had completed her studies, so it was time for a yearly salary. She had the right education to be a copyeditor, but no one would hire her. It seemed like they were all looking for experience in the industry, which she was unable to accumulate, because...well, no one would hire her without it! All those other jobs were all but pointless now. Still, she had saved up so much money from them, that she was able to stay afloat without much.

At this point in her life, she was only holding one job as a maintenance contractor, working at the best rate of pay she’d ever had, but limited to minimal shifts. This was meant to give her the extra time to dedicate to her job search, but that didn’t appear to be helping much. She was doubting her whole life’s choices, and thinking she had wasted all that time she could have spent gathering interesting and memorable experiences with friends. And then the contractor she was working for started having some legal troubles, which pushed her out of the workforce for the first time since she was seven. Worried this gap in her résumé might reflect poorly on her, Argine’s father suggested she start volunteering. “Pick a cause, and support it,” he would say. This was the best advice she could have received, especially since she had saved up so much money that she could spend an extended period of time with no revenue. She went back to her roots, and started working with underprivileged children at a nonprofit organization. Many had learning disabilities, but came from families who could not afford formal care. Her supervisor was so impressed with her that he recommended her for a paid position, of which there were very few. And this was what she did for years, until she had accrued enough contacts to start her own nonprofit, which worked to build homes for these families. She died at the age of 107 as an unsung hero, but was soon thereafter recognized by the committee responsible for granting individuals the Carina Olguin Industry Award. She kept the award on the mantel in her home in Heaven, and it was the only thing she took with her when the War came.

Microstory 792: Sharp Top

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

Microstory 791: Swan

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There is no creature in this universe, or any other, with a more beautiful singing voice than the Slrdr. God created us in her image, which means that we are all human, in some form, or another. The Slrdr, however, are an exception to this that few understand. Their most notable feature may be that they have eight genders, each one vital to the development of scion, but this characteristic has a match in Slrdrn music. Regardless of gender, all Slrdr are born with two separate vocal cords, which allow them to produce an array of musical permutations otherwise relegated to artificial instruments. Since the species evolved with hearing that was superior to their other senses, music has become the most important component of their culture. A Slrdr who cannot sing is...well, not quite a Slrdr. Unfortunately, these individuals do exist, and they are—somewhat affectionately, but also somewhat dismissively—called swans. Though untrue, there is an ancient Earthan belief that swans do not sing until the moment of their death, at which point they will melodically produce a final farewell to the world. The Slrdr kind of swans are born with dysfunctional vocal cords, which either renders them completely mute, or with minimal vocal power. Indeed, when humans first met the Slrdr, they were skeptical about the concept that these people will suddenly gain a previously unhad capability, just before expiring. Yet years later, a xenopologist had the occasion to meet a swan who was nearing the end of her life. As promised, she mustered all of her strength, and belted out her own death knell. Legend has it that she could be heard all the way to the next star system, but of course this part was a gross exaggeration. At the time, the xenopologist reported his observations, but was unable to gather enough data to explain how this was possible. He postulated that her muteness was merely psychological, rather than physiological. Decades later, a group of human and Slrdr scientists set about to study the phenomenon in a more controlled environment. A swan jesh, whose gender would generally give her the responsibility to teach her ensemble’s clutch how to sing, was suffering from an incurable terminal disease, and was on her way to the end. They placed her in an imaging chamber, and discovered that her body was transforming on a cellular level. Organs usually used for breathing and temperature regulation reassembled themselves into a new configuration—one that resembled Slrdrn vocal cords. Her body was killing itself so she could make music with her voice for the first and only time in her life. Somehow, it knew that she didn’t have long left, and instinctively provided her with something she had never experienced before. Her swan song was recorded, and is to this day, the most popular piece of music in the galaxy, played in households on every planet to ease children to sleep. Leading researchers still do not quite know why a swan would be able to do this. The current theory, however, is that it’s an evolutionary reaction. Many socially-dependent species developed a trait that cause them to call out to their community when in trouble. It is believed that swans, even while suffering this handicap for their entire lives, are alloted the dignity of not dying alone, and unheard.

The Advancement of Leona Matic: August 23, 2169

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As predicted the temporal dimension closed up when Leona and Serif reached their next scheduled date of August 22, 2368. They were unable to get any decent sleep while stuck in the dimension, though, so they had to catch up on it at that point. Fortunately, nothing was going on. All of their problems had seemingly been solved. Of course, no one talked about this, for fear of others claiming they jinxed their relative good luck. Superstitions, being what they were, which was nonexistent, turned out to be irrelevant, for come 2169, the two of them discovered they had lost one of their people back home. Xearea Voss died on the twenty-first of November of last year. She was seventy-nine years old, and is survived by her brother, Agent Camden ‘Centurion’ Voss. If all went according to plan, the new savior was conceived on the following day. “Where there is death, there is also life,” Missy recited from what was essentially a powers that be slogan she heard once regarding the role of Saviors.

“How did she die?” Serif asked.

“The Gravedigger arrived to give us the news, and pay his respects,” Paige told them. “Evidently after sending us on our mission to find her replacement, she was retired. She was much older than other Saviors have been before retiring. She died of heart disease, like any other old person who wasn’t transhumanistic.”

“If she not only retires, but also dies, before her replacement is even born, what does the world do without someone for that...uh,” Serif began to ask.

“Nineteen years,” Leona helped. “They use interim Saviors, don’t they?”

“Indeed,” Missy confirmed. “They’re usually salmon who normally do other things, but they occasionally ask help from choosers. I’ve done it a few times myself. We think that the powers made a mathematical error. In the beginning, there was only one Savior, because the population was so low. As the population grew, their numbers increased, and they decided to stagger their births, so the world was never without at least a few. They maintained this dynamic, even after returning to the one Savior at a time thing, which causes these gaps in service.”

“Okay, so,” Paige began.

“Cheese,” Serif blurted out reflexively.”

Paige ignored this comment. “Leona, I would like to ask you a favor.”

“Go ahead,” Leona said.

“The gravity tower altered our schedule. We were meant to arrive during your interim, as you know. When you returned, you should have appeared on a ship already set on Durus.”

“But now that’s no longer the case?”

“It is, but Dar’cy had an idea.”

“I did?” Dar’cy asked.

“Yeah, remember, you said how it would be nice if Leona was here to help land the ship?”

“Yeah, I guess...”

“Well,” Paige said, “Brooke, Missy, and I all agree that this would be a good idea. So we’ve been gradually altering course even more, trying to make this happen. We think we’re almost there, but we could use your amazing brain to check our math.”

“You have an artificial intelligence,” Leona said, referring to The Warren itself.

“You have a superior intelligence,” Brooke returned.

“I mean, I’ll look at it. I must say that I would not have recommended this course of action. It was too risky.”

“I agree,” Paige said. “Still, we started it, and if we don’t finish it, and get it exactly right, it will have been a waste of time.”

“Very well.” Leona grabbed a meal bar, and headed for the cockpit. She spent the next two hours going over their calculations, consulting starcharts, and going over the calculations again. At this rate, they would arrive at Durus the day before Leona returned to the timestream. She would have to make one slight adjustment to push it back by only a few hours. If she pushed it too far, though, it would be late by one day, like Paige said, it will not have mattered. Before she actually changed heading, she decided to simulate it. “Computer, model our arrival now.” Wow, two days off. She pulled back a little. “Model again.” It was too close to midnight on the twenty-fourth. She needed to be there for whole thing. “Model again.” No, that was two close to midnight on the twenty-fifth, which was even worse. “Model one more time, please.” There. Without requesting permission, she dropped speed by a fraction of a fraction, and they were on the right track.

Bloop!

“What was that?” Brooke had returned.

Leona slid her chair over to the communications panel, which was built despite the fact that there was no one out here to communicate with. It was part of the original plans, so they included it, but never thought they would need it. Leona was confounded. “Uhh...looks like a ship.”

“Another ship?” Brooke asked. She came over, and literally pushed Leona out of the way, so she could investigate herself. “It’s another ship.”

“It’s within realtime comms range?” Leona asked.

“Computer, mauve alert,” Brooke ordered. The lights turned a shade of purple, and an alarm rang out.

“Is that necessary?” Leona asked.

“I don’t know,” Brooke said, “which always means yes.”

Paige ran in. “What is it?”

“A ship,” Brooke answered. “It’s...it’s following us.”

Bleep!

“It’s hailing us,” Brooke said.

Everyone just stood there.

“Well, answer it,” Leona suggested.

Paige closed her eyes in support. Brooke opened a channel. “Audio only.”

“Chaperone Vessel Warren,” came a voice from the speakers. “This is Failsafe Vessel González. Are you in trouble?”

“We are not,” Paige answered professionally. “Who are you?”

“This is The González. Are you having trouble reading me? You’re five by five.”

“No, just...what are you doing out here?”

“We’re following you. Why have you altered course?”

“New schedule better coincides with staffing arrangements.” Paige contorted her face, not knowing how to answer the question without saying something about Leona being a time traveler.”

After a beat, the voice responded, “what?” She went on, but it sounded like she was talking to someone else in the room, and had accidentally left the channel open. “Who?—Leona Matic, yes.—And when will that be?—That’s our scheduled arrival. We weren’t supposed to get there at the same time, that defeats the whole frelling purpose.—No, they didn’t know.—I know, but I had to find out what was wrong! They could see us anyway.—Okay, I’ll ask.” She cleared her throat, and then said nothing.

“Failsafe Vessel,” Brooke echoed through the silence, but just to everyone on The Warren. “I’ve heard of tho—”

The voice came back, “...how to do it, I just had the toggle switched. Goddammit. Warren, can you hear me?”

“This is The Warren,” Paige replied.

“I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” The González said. “We have been following you. In the event that you should be destroyed, or incapacitated, we were meant to complete the mission in your stead.”

“We always said we wanted redundancies,” Missy pointed out.

“Yes,” Paige agreed. “I suppose I’m most upset about being kept in the dark about it.” She nodded to Brooke, so she could address the other ship. “What is your name? How many are on your crew?”

“I am Captain Kestral McBride, pilot and engineer. My first officer is Lieutenant Ishida Caldwell, engineer and astrophysicist. Say hi, Ishida.”

“Hi.”

“You only have two crew members?”

“Do we require more?”

“I suppose not,” Paige answered. “And I suppose you don’t need us to introduce ourselves.”

“We have your manifest,” Kestral replied.

“How far away are they?” Paige asked Brooke.

“Three hundred and eighty thousand kilometers behind us...and change.”

Paige stood up straight to open her diaphragm. “González, please adjust your heading to arrive on Durus seventeen days after we do. If you would like, I can have my own astrophysicist perform the necessary calculations to accomplish this, and relay them to you.”

“Does she have to follow your commands?” Serif asked of her.

Paige shrugged.

“Seventeen days. Confirmed,” Kestral answered. “We can perform the calculations ourselves, but would welcome a third opinion.”

“Leona?” Paige requested.

“Yes, Captain. I’ll get right on that.”

As Leona was sitting down at a terminal, she saw Dar’cy pull Paige aside. They were whispering, but she could make out some of the words: trust, security, mission, safety, and weapons.”

Leona spent the next hour working with Missy, Brooke, and the two González crew members, to make sure everyone was on the same page with what was going to happen. They had to wait until later that night to make an course corrections, though, because that was just how the math worked out. They used this time to get to know each other better. Kestral and Ishida were just regular humans, who had gotten minimally involved with time travelers. They met when they were both assigned to help design the probe ships that would be sent to the most promising nearby star systems, and were still around to see the ones that left for Proxima Centauri and Rigil Kentaurus. At present technology, these vessels would not arrive at their destinations until the 2180s, but current trends suggested the nanofactory ships sent later would make the trips much faster, and the colony ships after them faster yet.

When the time came, The González broke formation, and set about on their own schedule. Eventually, they were so far away, the delay between messages made further communication impractical. It would be another two years before Leona and Serif encountered them again. But for now, they needed to focus on the task at hand. Come tomorrow, they would have to hit the ground running, and land this piece of machinery without killing everyone on board. It was time for some more sleep.

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Void: Doctor Who (Part IX)

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It was November of 2168. The salmon battalion was gone, back to some point in history on Earth, to fight in some other war. That was evidently all they did. Saga hoped they had some good mental health care. It was one thing to be a soldier, it was entirely different to alter one’s allegiances every time one is dropped into a new conflict. Did they have any role in the decisions, did they sometimes have to fight against those they once fought alongside? Did they receive any compensation?

Durus was doing exceptionally well since the battalion left. The government was strong, working under the guidance of a sensible Constitution, one written with the future in mind. The people were learning to start working for themselves, and with each other. Unemployment was coasting at a healthy low rate, and sponsored programs were supporting those in transitional periods. They still lived in separate cities, but none was isolated. They maintained relations with each other, sharing knowledge and resources, and operating under the global banner. It was kind of the first time that Saga and Andromeda felt like they could take a breath, and really focus on their private lives. No one was asking the latter to build them anything, because they realized that, though this would be easier, if they utilized human labor on a construction crew, they could pay those people, and support the economy. Paramounts were still around, and using their time powers when warranted, but the entire system didn’t rely on them. That was what the Mage Protectorate was lacking; self-sufficiency, and they knew they couldn’t make that mistake again.

For the last several months, the two of them had been discussing having children. Years ago, they couldn’t imagine bringing a child into this world, but now that things were going so well, it didn’t sound like such a bad idea. They were now fully ready for the commitment—excited for it, even. The only problem was that they were both women, and conceiving a child together would be a little complicated, especially since Durus was still an underdeveloped state. At the moment, Camden Voss was visiting from his new city of Jaydecott, to discuss their options.

“Why me?” he asked.

“You’re one of the few people here that we trust,” Andromeda replied.

“Don’t you think that makes it a little awkward?” he questioned.

“A little, yes,” Saga agreed, which is why we’ve decided that the child would be born of Andromeda. I imagine being with her would make it a little less awkward.”

“For who?”

“Whom,” Saga corrected.

Camden blinked, and repeated, “for who?”

“Everybody,” Andromeda put forth.

“I don’t know about that. Have you tried contacting a prostitute? They’re very professional, and the industry is heavily regulated. You can trust them, even though you won’t know the donor very well.”

“We want it to be you,” Andromeda said honestly.

He took a breath for the first time since sitting down with them. “I don’t know how I feel about fathering a child to whom I’m not allowed to be a father.”

Saga shook her head at that. “We wouldn’t cut you out of our lives. You would be a part of this. No, you wouldn’t be his or her father—maybe more like an uncle—but we would want your input. They would grow up knowing you, and loving you.”

He shook his own head, but out of hesitation, not complete opposition.

“If we were on Earth,” Saga continued, “we would go to a doctor for artificial insemination, but we would still ask you to donate the sperm.”

“If we were on Earth, in present day, you wouldn’t need sperm. You could have a two-parent child using your respective DNA samples.”

“Earth in 2002, then.”

He sat in thought for a moment, then a lightbulb clicked in his head. “You can have a doctor.”

“No one here can do anything like that. I mean, they might be able to, but like we were saying, it all comes down to trust.”

“No, I know of a real doctor. In 1997, I was on a mission in Tennessee when I was suddenly transported to the future, in a different person’s body. As it turns out, a choosing one was sending her consciousness back in time, into other people’s bodies, to complete her own missions.”

“She was a doctor?” Saga asked.

“No, but there was a doctor there. It was her job to help the people whose lives had been temporarily taken over not totally freak out. Of course, as a salmon myself, I didn’t need anyone to calm me down, but I benefited from some therapy, just the same. She was a brilliant psychiatrist. She’s like the choosing one version of Baxter Sarka.”

“And she can help us?” Andromeda asked. “I assume she’s on Earth.”

“She travels all over,” Camden explained.

“You can call her with your sheetphone?” Saga hoped.

“Well, I can page her. She is a doctor, afterall.” Camden’s phone had only been used once here, to contact The Officiant, yet he still carried it with him wherever he went. He took it out and dialed. Then they waited. “Could take a few decades,” he said after a beat. “She’s not going to get it for another negative a hundred and forty years.”

“What?” Andromeda squealed.

“I’m kidding.” His phone rang. “See?” He lifted the phone and pointed it away from them, like a remote control. Once he pressed Accept, a light appeared from the phone, and corporalized a body in the middle of the room.

“Mister Voss,” she said. “Nice to see you again...for the very first time.”

“Same to you. How are you, and Quivira, and the rest of the team?”

“Well, thank you,” the doctor replied.

Saga stood up and shook her hand. “Saga Einarsson. This is my wife, Andromeda.”

“Pleasure to meet you two. I’m Dr. Mallory Hammer.”

“We’ve heard of you,” Andromeda realized. “The Officiant mentioned you before our wedding.”

“Ah, yes,” Hammer said. “Couples often need a consult before they commit to marriage.”

“Do you have any idea why we’ve asked you here?” Saga asked. She wasn’t sure, because sometimes time travelers knew everything about the outcome of events before they arrived. Knowing who knows how much, and when, can make communication a little difficult, which was why you kind of had to keep a laid-back attitude towards what would normally be treated as dumb questions.

She shifted her gaze between the three of them. “If I could hazard a guess, you two are looking to spice up your relationship?”

“No.”

“No?” she asked rhetorically. “Then my second guess would be that you’re trying to have a child, and you would like me to perform the procedure.” That was likely her first guess, and the other was just her attempt at humor.

“That’s the one,” Camden said.

“I am from the twenty-twenties. Under these conditions, I will need sperm. I don’t know if you were expecting same-sex conception, or...”

“Camden is meant to be involved,” Saga said, then she turned towards him. “That is, if you’ve agreed.”

He took a reverent pause. “I would be honored.”

“Sounds great,” Hammer said. “Do both parents want to be related to the child? Camden is obviously the sperm donor. One of you can supply the egg, and the other the uterus. Or the bearer can provide the egg as well.”

The others hadn’t thought about it yet, but Saga had. She wanted the child to be part of her, but she would not be able to carry it. She requested to speak with the doctor in private. “I can’t carry a child.”

She nodded understandingly. “Okay.”

“I’m much older than I look. I’ve been thrown throughout time, and de-aged, and torn out of reality. I was considering raising a child when I was stranded on Earth a few years back, and learned then of my infertility. My eggs, on the other hand, should still be fine.”

She nodded more. “Yes, the de-aging process has been known to produce a sort of...resupply of eggs. However, it can also cause spontaneous endometrial thinning. I wrote my thesis on the effects that time travel can have on reproductive organs.”

“Wrote your thesis where? What school would understand what you’re talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She set the conversation back on track, “does your wife know?”

“She does. We told Camden it would be less awkward for him to impregnate her, rather than me, but really, she’s our only option. But if I can provide the egg, I would love to.”

She nodded a third time. “That can be done. Easy.”

“Thank you.”

They went back to the other two. “All right, we’ve set initial plans.” She looked at the time on her pager. “I’m going to be back in two days.”

“Why?”

“If you still want to do it in two days,” she said, “you still want to do it. Never make a major change on the same day you decide to do it. It’s like going to the grocery store hungry. You’ll buy the wrong things. Let this sink in. In two days, we’ll iron out the details. Two days later, we’ll go over the details again. After another two days, assuming everyone understands the ramifications of what we’re doing here, we’ll begin the actual procedure.”

They didn’t say anything. They just had to concede to her expertise.

“I’ll need a sterile environment anyway, so if you could put me in touch with the hospital, or clinic, or whatever you have here, I’ll get going on my own process. Is everyone okay with how we’re proceeding?”

“I am,” Saga agreed.

“I’m going to need a verbal agreement from all of you.”

“I am.”

“I’m in.”

Hammer smiled. “Get used to making your intentions abundantly clear. I do nothing without consent.”

On November 22, 2168—one day after the report came out of Camden’s sister’s death—they made a baby.

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Microstory 790: Monarch

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There have been many civilizations, on many worlds, in many universes, across all of time and space. Most were created by humans, or some subspecies thereof. Unfortunately, the chances of any one of these surviving for any period of time is nearly negligible. People often wonder why they have not been visited by aliens, and though the truth is that there could be—and indeed are—many reasons, one of them is how difficult it is to reaching civilization milestones. Most fall before they advance enough to venture beyond their own little section of reality, and those that do will find it nearly impossible to meet any other civilization, for life is few and far between. Intelligent life is even rarer. When a major civilization ends—major being the operative word—there is one entity who is always present. A time traveler and immortal, he has adopted it as his responsibility to ease the transitional period when a culture dies, even if no life survives beyond it. When the Simmer Flood overwhelmed the first united shell, he was there. When Babylon was conquered, he was there. And when Adversary, and his demon army spoiled the lands of the living realm, he was there. He’s always there, taking on new forms, as necessary. He goes by many names, his preference being Deliverer. But others will call him First and Last, Beginning and End, and King of Kings. He is no ruler, though, nor does he have any interest in holding power over a peoples. He is there to help, and relies on a series of Bearers to know when and where he should be to be the most useful. For most transitions, he is around as true witness for a brief period of time. He may save as many as he can at the last minute, but he does not stick around for too long, fearing undue influence on the survivors. But there was one world whose fall was taking longer than usual, and required a little more help than others had. Society succumbed to chaos, leaving a great deal of people with far more arduous lives than they deserved. They grew angry, and began executing apocalyptic attacks against each other. But it would not end there. The misfortune just kept coming, in the form of domestic violence, and external threats. And so Deliverer endured through a long extension, acting as hero and friend to every decent individual that he encountered. He found himself liking this life, and it made him start rethinking his approach to his job.

Microstory 789: Walking Stick

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So I was thinking about how often I gravitate towards nonfiction when I’m trying to write fiction. Sometimes a topic speaks to my personal life, and I feel I need to be real in that moment, rather than leaving myself out of it, which is what fiction writers are meant to do. If you’re writing something, you need to choose one side or the other; made up, or real life. It shouldn’t be both. Only so many people can get away with writing themselves into a story, and I’m not sure I’m one of them. My Creative License doesn’t say I’m not allowed to, but it doesn’t say I am either, and I don’t keep good enough records to know whether I’ve paid enough of my dues. On the other hand, this is my website, and my book, and I can damn well do whatever I want. I don’t answer to a publisher, or an agent—though I wish I did, so if you know anyone, hook me up. When I was working on the plan for this series, I decided I wanted them all to take place in my recursiverse canon. But certain titles seemed to suggest this was not practical. Before I got too deep in it, though, I realized they could still all be canonical, but that any story could take place in any universe. I made a spreadsheet of each universe that I own, so I can keep track of it, which has made me realize that my universe is on that list. Now, I know that sounds like I think I own the real universe, but here’s the thing...I do. So when I was thinking about what story I could tell that involves a walking stick, I realized I know no better story than mine.

I come from a family of walkers. Not all of us have always done it, more specifically, so passionately, but we all do it now. During the summer before high school, I went to New Mexico with a small group of boys and their fathers in my Boy Scout troop. There’s a huge camp there for backpacking. I believe we went about fifty miles, but you would have to ask my father for confirmation. One time, we were sitting with our guide, who would only be with us for part of the trip. He asked us to go around the circle and tell the group why we wanted to do this. When they got to me, I started tearing up, and said that I just wanted to prove that I could. A few days later, I was having trouble keeping up, and my then-undiagnosed autism was making it hard for me to vocalize my feelings. I ended up flying into a rage, and throwing the walking stick my father had given me to the ground, where it broke apart. I eventually had to acknowledge that this meant I had failed in my goal. I was unable to prove that I “could do it”. Because though my fight with my father didn’t last forever, and I made it to the end, I had done it with an albatross of my own shortcomings. I’ve continued to carry around these character flaws my whole life, when I would really be better off replacing them with a walking stick. A few years later, just under the wire, I achieved the rank of Eagle, which many believe to be the greatest achievement a man can make. I do not believe that, for reasons including the fact that their sociopolitical positions stunted the exploration of my sexuality, and prevented me from finding out who I was. But still, scouting was something my father and I did together, and I do not regret it. To commemorate this milestone, he made me a brand new walking stick. A decorative one. A beautiful one. One that must not be used. One that you can see in the picture above. Though not likely his intention, his gift to me is a symbol, that no matter how many things I break, how many mistakes I make, we can always make another stick. It also symbolizes to me the most important lesson I’ve ever learned; that I can’t do this alone...that I will always need a little helping standing up...and that I deserve it.