Microstory 1710: Everything But the Chisel

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My chisel is all that’s left. Ever since I moved into this house I’ve had a hard time remembering to close the garage. Everywhere I lived before, I would walk straight into the house, but this one is unattached. It’s right up against the house, mind you, and it’s even connected to the grid, but I have to walk outside to actually get into my home. It’s annoying, but I can deal. I just need to learn to make closing that door a habit by using the keypad, or maybe by buying an extra clicker to hang on the key hook. I guess it doesn’t matter much now. Everything is gone. Everything except my chisel. I don’t even have any use for a chisel. Just about everything I own I inherited from my family; in the case of the tools, my dad. He somewhat recently bought all new supplies, but the old ones were fine, and they were just sitting in his father’s father’s toolbox for years until it was time for me to move out. Now I’ve lost it all, except for the chisel. They took my car, naturally. I don’t know why I didn’t hear it start up, since the walls are so thin. They must have been professionals, who knew how to get in and out quickly and quietly. They didn’t want any chisels, though. Fortunately, the door to the inside of my house is always locked. I never forget to do that. In my old age, I can’t take off my shoes without holding onto something to steady myself, and the doorknob is pretty good for that. I suppose I could use a chair, but who has the time to remember that? Anyway, my hand’s already there, so before I grab all the way onto it, I turn the lock, and I’m safe. Or maybe they never wanted inside at all as there’s nothing of value in here, except for my life, and maybe not even that. My laptop is obsolete, my TV is a square. They would probably still want it anyway. After all, they took the trash can I keep in the garage for junk mail. They crave that 49 cents off a bag of carrots, but not a chisel, I guess.

I stand there staring at it, feeling like there must be some kind of message in this. If it were on the floor, I would assume they just dropped it on their way out. But it’s still up on this pegboard, right where I’m pretty sure I left. Well, I didn’t leave it there. My mom set this up for me secretly while I was at work one day. She likes to do things for me, because she knows how irresponsible I can be. Remember that I’m the one who never remembers to close his garage door. In all this time, I’ve probably only used a couple of these tools. The deck is old, so I have to smash down the screws and nails with a hammer so my dog doesn’t step on them. I would use the pocket knife to open packages. Those are really the only things here that I ever needed. I wonder if it’s possible to use the chisel for both of those tasks. I could hit the screws and nails with the handle, and stab into the boxes and bags. That would probably risk damaging the contents, but I believe I deserve it. Yeah, this must be a message, and it has nothing to do with online orders or hardware. The burglars are telling me that I’m not only a tool, but a useless one. Chisels are great when you’re the kind of person who uses chisels, but they’re not an everyday thing for most people. I’m not an everyday person. I’m only good under certain conditions, like when you want someone to steal all of your stuff without breaking a sweat, or if you need a mediocre file clerk who’s always making mistakes. This chisel represents me: alone, and not especially valuable. As I’m contemplating my sad life, one of the burglars returns and explains that he forgot something. He’s about to reach for the chisel, but I grab it first. And I stab him in the throat with it.

Microstory 1709: The Legend of Boots and Moonica

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They call me an Australian Cattle Dog, though I don’t know why. I don’t speak Australian. I’ve never even been there! I’ve lived my whole life in Wyoming, and that’s exactly how I like it. Hello, my name is Boots on account of the black fur I got on all four of my paws, and I’ll be your cow-herder today. These cows get into all sorts of mischief, and it’s my responsibility to muster them. They’re always goin’ off in the wrong direction. They’re so stupid, always followin’ a random line of grass, and not payin’ attention to where everybody else is headed. There goes another one. I got to go bring Moonica back so we can make it to our destination. It’s hard work, makin’ sure these grazers are where they’re supposed to be. If they spend too much time in one place, they run out of food, and they don’t know how to find more. It’s my job to lead the way. I mostly lead from the back. We still have a ways to go when I start gettin’ the sense that somethin’ ain’t right. I perk up, which immediately alerts my mom and dad to be on alert. I sniff the air, tryna figure out where it’s comin’ from. Is it over here? No, the scent grows fainter. What about this way? Fainter still. My dad asks me, what is it, boy, but I don’t know yet; give me some time. Gol-ly, he’s so impatient. If he just sniffed the air, he would know what I know. I don’t know why I got to tell him everything myself. I guess that’s why he’s the boss, so he don’t have to worry about it himself. Anyway, I catch the scent, and I know now it’s some kind of feline. I have some kitty cat friends back at the farmhouse, but this is somethin’ different. This individual I do not recognize, and I am not happy about it. I start yappin’ at my parents, because they’re obviously not as worried as me, and they always need me to hold their hands through this kind of thing.

The humans pulls the cows back themselves while I pursue the threat down this-uh-way. I don’t have to go far before I’m face-to-face with a bobcat. Funny, I’ve never seen one before, but I know what it is. I know it’s dangerous, and I know it’s got to go. It don’t seem to feel the same way as I do, so I’m gonna have to make sure it figures it out. I tense up and growl so it understands that this is my territory, and I’m willing and able to protect it. It just gives me this look like it ain’t worried about a little thing like me. It seems to be failin’ to see my power, so I start barkin’, and keep growlin’. It moves a little, I guess to see if I’m an illusion, or somethin’ so I move with it. It still don’t seem too terribly concerned about it, and I get the impression that it’s under the impression that it’s gonna have somethin’ to eat out of this herd. That won’t happen on my watch, so I begin to lunge. I don’t attack, ‘cause to tell you the truth, I’m not so sure I can take it. I shouldn’t have to, though; it just need it to at least think that I can. My mama comes, and tries to pull me back. I s’pose she’s willin’ to let a cow die just to protect the three of us. That ain’t okay with me, I’m tellin’ you that right now. This bobcat can chew on a cactus, for all I care. It is not gettin’ past me. I’m not strong or heavy enough. Mama manages to get her arms under my belly, and picks me up. I kick and scream, but she won’t let me go. “The cows! The cows!” I cry, but she’s not smart enough for my language. Seeing an opportunity, the bobcat prepares to pounce on poor ol’ Moonica. But she sees it too, and she ain’t havin’ it. Before the bobcat can pounce, she lowers her head, and charges. That bobcat runs away, and doesn’t look back. I guess I’m not the only one who can protect the herd. This is the last time I underestimate these gals.

Microstory 1708: Auriga Itineraries

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When I graduated from college, the first thing I wanted to do was reward myself with a trip to Europe. I wanted the full experience; the hostels, the backpacking, the food. I wanted to be surprised, and have an adventure. It was one of the most expensive mistakes of my life. The hostel was disgusting, and I felt unsafe at every second. As it turns out, I’m not much of a hiker. And I seemed to always get bad advice about where to eat. I was listening to the wrong people, and making the wrong decisions. What I didn’t use better was the internet. I didn’t look up reviews of places, and find out where exactly I should go. I didn’t learn enough about customs and conventions, and I was totally lost the whole time. I never want that to happen to you, and while you could go off and look up all this information yourself, why bother? Hi, my name is Malone Lamb, and I would like to be your next trip planner. At Auriga Itineraries, we know that when you’re on vacation, all you want is to relax and have fun. You shouldn’t worry about being overcharged, underserviced, or mistreated. So, what is it we do here? Well, we help you get to where you’re going, and have the best experience possible...for your budget. You pick the place, we handle everything else. Want to go to Asia? We can do that. We’ll find the best flight with the best airline. Africa more your speed? We book flights there too. Europe? South America? Even Antarctica. For us, nothing is off the map. We know where all the happening spots are. We know where you can enjoy the most delectable local pleasures. (Or the usual tastes of home, if you just want a break.) So come on down to Auriga Itineraries, where we...roll you to your destiny.

How was that? No, I don’t think it’s racist to have African people doing their traditional dances behind me. Well, it’s a watermark, because I can’t afford to buy the stock footage. Do you have any idea how much that costs? If it were illegal, then they wouldn’t use a watermark at all, the video just wouldn’t be available until you click purchase. Obviously the idea was to shoot on location, but I’m just starting out, so I can only afford this green blanket. What do you mean, you don’t know what the business does? I told you the other day. I can’t fit all that in the commercial, it’s only thirty seconds long. I think I said everything that needs to be in there. We plan people’s vacations; booking flights and hotels, finding attractions and activities the client would like. We tailor every trip to their particular proclivities. I don’t know how we’ll find out, I suppose we’ll ask them questions. Yeah, I guess I could come up with a questionnaire, but I don’t know how to do that, do you? They should make a company that does what I do, except they help you write questionnaires and stuff. Look, I don’t pay you to poke holes in my advertisements. I pay you to get me on TV so I can start drumming up some business. Yeah, the check’s gonna bounce, because I don’t have any customers yet! That’s why I told you to wait a month! Of course other companies do what I do, I never claimed to have invented the industry. What sets me apart is that I handle every case personally. Yes, you’re right, I shouldn’t say that they’ll come down to us since we operate only online. See? This is good, these are good notes. I could do without the criticisms and judgments, though. I’m trying to do something with my life, and help people who might need it. If I could just get one client, I know that word will spread, and they’ll start showing up by the bucketful. Now help me tweak this commercial.

Microstory 1707: Ram

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I hear a knock on the door, but I don’t get up. I can’t, I’m too out of it. They knock again, and announce themselves as the police. I would be grateful for their arrival if I didn’t know that the door is attached to something with a string. I don’t remember what the other end of the string is attached to, though. I just know it’s bad. They give me one more warning before deciding that I’m up to no good, and they’ll have to force their way in. On the monitor, I see two more officers appear with a large red object. They swing it back, and strike it against the door. I try to scream for them to stop, but they don’t hear. It’s not their fault. I don’t think I can get enough sound to come out of my body. I feel like I’ve been screaming this whole time, and nothing has happened. What did those guys give me, and how can I possibly power through its effects? The battering ram strikes the door again. The noise rings in my ears. I try to reach up to rub them, but my hands just end up falling off, and floating up into the air. I’m pretty sure that’s not actually happening, but it might as well be, because I still have no control over them. As far as I can tell, they’re not even mine anymore. Perhaps they were never really mine, but God’s. He was the one who put me on this Earth, and gave me this life. He decided who my parents were, and how I was raised. He chose the skills I would grow up having, which would inevitably lead me down this path. I’ve always disliked believing in such a God, as it shifts all blame away from people. If they are not responsible for their own actions, what right does anyone have to punish them? We should all be punishing God, shouldn’t we? The ram strikes a third time. A crack appears, but that’s about it, and I may even be imagining that. I can’t trust anything I see, or anything I think. Strike four.

I didn’t think someone could get more than three strikes, but there’s a strong possibility that we’re not playing baseball. When I was a boy, my neighbor down the street would take me to games. It took me a long time to realize how strange that was. He never did anything to me, mind you, but my mother didn’t know that. I don’t remember them ever talking to each other for an extended period of time, so she could get to know who he—what the hell was that sound? Is someone at the door? I look over, but don’t think that’s a door, because it’s all bulging and splintery. Doors are meant to be straight and flat. People are yelling on the other side. They sound pretty mad if you ask me, but I don’t know why, since everything is so okay. Sure, there’s a splodey thing attached to that door, but as long as they don’t open it, we should all be totally fine. They hit the door a sixth time, or was it seven? The bottom of it falls into the room, still partially attached to the top, which is staying surprisingly strong. A gigantic rat the size of a man scratches and punches at the door in order to break it off completely. He crawls in and scurries right towards me, then holds a gun to my chest. “Tom,” I say to the big rat. He doesn’t know what I’m talking about, probably because rats don’t speak English. “Rom,” I repeat. He shakes his head and argues, “ram.” He points back to the red thing they used to get through the door. It’s sitting on the threshold, right under another floating hand, which is trying to unlock the door. I shake my head. That’s not what I wanted to say. This isn’t about Tom, or rom, or the ram, or the bomb. Oh wait, no, it is about the bomb. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them. “Bomb.” The rat’s four eyes widen as he looks back at the door, and traces the string with his eyes. He’s too late, the door opens.

Microstory 1706: Upon Altar

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Arms and legs tied down, stretched across the altar, I don’t scream or cry. I get the feeling that these people consider the struggle to be part of the ritual, and I can’t give them the satisfaction. There are dozens of them, chanting and watching me. There is no escape, even if I were to have broken free of the two people who were leading me down the stone path in the first place. I don’t know where I am, so where could I even go? No, this is where I die, and if I can’t go out on my own terms, I at least can’t give my killers the satisfaction of knowing they were responsible for my last words. The last time I spoke was to my daughter as I headed into the fields for the day. They were loving and kind, and that is what the universe will remember of me; not this. The guy who seems to be in charge of the cult, or maybe just in charge of the ceremony, approaches from the steps on the other side. He’s holding a goblet with both hands, a knife placed precariously over the lips, threatening to slip off to the ground. No one would get hurt from this, but it would probably be pretty embarrassing for him. Hoping to make this happen, I jerk what little of my body I’m still able to move towards him, and sort of chirp. He’s startled, and almost loses the knife, but he manages to grab it in time. I return to my stoic nature, unfazed and quiet. The leader clears his throat, and recovers. He speaks in tongues, or perhaps just a language I don’t so much as recognize. He’s praying to his god, or the demonhorn, or some nonsense like that. I just lie there and reflect on my life until he seems ready to finalize the sacrifices. His minions lift up my torso and place the goblet under my back. Okay, I thought it was uncomfortable before, but this is insane. He’s obviously planning to stab me, and let the blood fill the goblet, but he doesn’t get a chance. An arrow suddenly pierces his neck, and he falls over.

I wiggle until the goblet tips over, but I can’t get it out from under my back. Still, it’s enough for me to face the action. Everyone in the death cult is fighting one solitary warrior. They manage to get in a few good hits, but he’s powerful and relentless. I get the sense that he’s not here to save me, but that he has some kind of personal vendetta against these people, and I just happen to be in the right place at the right time. They probably sacrificed his spouse or child exactly one year ago, just like this, and he’s finally getting his revenge. He’s nearly gotten it. Only he is left standing, but then the leader gets back up. He breaks the arrow apart, and then stabs it right into the lone warrior’s eye, twisting it with a fiery anger. Just for good measure, he pulls the arrowhead out—a little bit of the eye comes with it—and stabs it in the other. The lone warrior falls down, and begins to die. The leader takes a moment to catch his breath before returning to me. Even without his followers, the ritual must continue. He retrieves the goblet from under me, and restarts the chanting; or as much as he can without a voice. He’s more just moving his lips around, and wheezing. Blood from his own neck wound leaks out, and drips into the cup. Able to stand the blood loss no longer, he falls on top of his enemy, leaving the goblet at my side. Blood red smoke begins to rise from it, and swirls around above me. The particles coalesce into a form, and then a figure, and then a man. He’s straddling me and grimacing. He looks over at the carnage, pleased to see so much pain and death. He looks back at me. “You have freed me from the void. I am forever in your debt. What would you have me do for you first, master?”

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: February 14, 2020

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Now, it was cold back in February of 2013. It was colder than Mateo would have expected for Utah. But there was no precipitation, and no wind. In 2020, on whatever date, there was still no precipitation, but it was much, much colder, and the wind made it unbearable. All this time, Leona had tried to convince Mateo to sleep with his clothes on, because as time travelers, that was the safest way to do it. He attempted this multiple times, but never to any success. He often woke up completely naked without any recollection of removing his clothing sometime in the middle of the night. Other times, he could recall every time he peeled off another layer. It just wasn’t comfortable enough, so in the end, he had to make a conscious decision to not worry about it anymore. He would rather jump to a dangerous situation in the nude than jump there without at least a little rest. At the moment, he was only wearing his underwear, probably because going bare next to the unpredictable Past!Lowell could have been more hazardous to his health than a poor night’s rest.

The tent was gone, as was his pile of clothes. Anatol was nowhere to be seen. The shock of the freeze caused Mateo to just collapse right there on the frosty ground. He cuddled himself, trying to get warm. He struggled there for an indeterminate amount of time before he realized that his only chance of surviving this was to find shelter. Scared, he got himself back to his feet, and desperately looked around. He was in the middle of the woods, and it was still nighttime. “Leona,” he whispered, presumably worried about waking up a bear. Even the appearance of a raccoon would freak him out in his condition. Still, this was going to get him nowhere. “Leona,” he said in a louder voice. “Leona!” he shouted.

Only about ten meters away, Leona woke up to the sound of her husband’s pleas. She scurried out of the tent, immediately realizing that they were not in the same place they were before. “Mateo!”

“Leona!”

They rushed over to each other, and came into a hug, not just because they loved each other, but because it was well below freezing out here. “Come on,” she said. She helped him between the trees, and to the tent.

Jeremy was up by now, and watching them from the entrance. He backwalked deeper in to give them more space. He then turned his sleeping back around so it would open towards Leona’s. They all got into the double bag and created a Mateo sandwich, rubbing his arms to generate some heat. “Hand warmers,” Jeremy suggested. He flipped over and wrestled with his bag. He took out the three packs he still had left. “Shake these, and hold them in your hands. I’ll shake the other, and keep it on the back of your neck. It’s often overlooked.”

They lay there for about an hour. All three of them fell asleep again. They woke up to the sun at 7:15, glad that they were now warm enough to stay alive. As Mateo was putting on an extra set of Jeremy’s clothes, their Cassidy cuffs beeped. The mission was eleven miles away as the crow flies, and they had less than two hours to get there. The three of them left the tent standing, along with much of their supplies, and got on their way. Mateo didn’t even have any decent footwear. He insisted on wearing Jeremy’s water shoes—which had been put in his new pack by the sporting goods store, for whatever reason—because Jeremy’s boots wouldn’t fit him anyway. He wore two pairs of socks, and just suffered a little more than he should have through the hike to civilization. The rest of his body was fine as he was using the sleeping bag as a jacket, but he kind of wished he had saved the hand warmers. His feet needed them more now than his hands ever did.

Less than a mile into their trek, they were stepping onto Hutton Road when they saw a man about to drive out of his neighborhood, probably on his commute to work. He could see that they were in distress, so he pulled up next to them, and offered a ride. He cranked up the heat, and headed towards the city before asking them where they needed to go. They couldn’t quite tell, as the cuffs were still only showing them location and destination. But for now, this was the right direction.

“I live in Kansas, but work in downtown KCMO. I’m the boss, so I can be late, and my boss is beautiful and amazing.  Do you need to go to the hospital, or the police station?”

“Actually,” Mateo said, “the nearest shoe store would be great.”

“That’s probably in Legends,” the driver said as they were getting onto the highway. “Hey Thistle, what’s the nearest shoe store?” The AI assistant listed off a few options, but none of them was open until later. They had to get to the mission before then. “That’s okay. If you just need to get your feet wrapped up better, we can go to the retail store. It opens at 8:00, and I know that because I once accidentally left my coffee on the roof, and had to desperately look for a replacement before a meeting. But again, no meeting today, so I can take you anywhere you need to go, even multiple places. I used to do this for a living; drove for RideSauce.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mateo asked. “Me too.”

“Nice. What do you do now?”

“Search and rescue,” Jeremy answered. It was a lie in that search and rescue was a real job, which people trained for extensively, but also the truth in that they often performed it in its most basic form.

The driver sounded impressed. “Really?”

“Well, we’re training,” Leona amended. She couldn’t backtrack the fib completely, so she decided to make it make sense. “That’s why we’re out here like this. My husband was playing the victim, while the two of us were sent to find him. The last part of the exercise is getting back to base.”

“Oh, am I interfering with that?” he asked as they were pulling into the outlet mall complex.

“Oh, no,” Mateo insisted. “The instructor said to get back by any means necessary. You’re a pretty good means. We really appreciate it. We’ll probably win the competition because of you.”

“I’m honored,” the driver said proudly.

They parked and got out. As they were walking towards the entrance, a woman was going for another door. Mateo did a double take, but it wasn’t necessary. He had seen this woman just yesterday from his perspective. It was almost seven years ago for her, so she wouldn’t recognize them, but he felt compelled to speak up. “Cecelia?”

She turned her head, leaving her hand on the door. “The Matics.”

“You remember us?” Leona questioned.

“You remember me.”

“How could anyone forget you?” Jeremy asked rhetorically, inching closer.

“Weren’t there four of you?” Cecelia asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Leona said dismissively, not wanting to alert Anatol to their little scheme.

“Do you still work in shoes?” Mateo asked. “I need shoes.”

“Yes, you do.” a confused Cecelia grinned, and looked at his feet. “Unfortunately for you, I’m outta the game. I went back to school, and now I’m a guidance counselor.”

Jeremy smiled at her. “Oh, good for you. That must be so rewarding.” He liked women, but since he grew up only existing during about twenty percent of the year, he had very little experience with them. When he saw someone he liked, he came on strong.

She smiled politely. “I see the packs are holding up quite nicely after all this time.” The driver didn’t say anything, but as nice as he was being, he couldn’t be trusted with their belongings. It looked weird for them to come into the store with them, but probably necessary. “That’s why I remember you; it was an odd request, fully supplied hiking packs. I found out later that the store didn’t really do that sort of thing, and I went above and beyond. I know what you’re thinking, but I didn’t get a raise. They said that the rise in expectations from their customers would cost them too much.”

“We didn’t tell anybody,” Leona insisted.

“Whatever, it was Utah.” She paused, but it was clear she had things to do. “Well, it was nice running into you again. I have to go pick up some things before school. I’m already running a bit late.”

“Oh no, sorry,” Jeremy apologized. “It’s fine, we’re late too.”

“Okay, great, bye,” she said, walking in.

Jeremy smiled and crossed his arms. It was then that he seemed to notice his cuff. “The mission. It’s gone. Y’all got dots?”

The other two checked theirs. No dots.

“You mean you don’t have to get back to base?” the driver guessed.

“Yeah, that means we can just go home.” It sounded sad, like they not only lost the competition, but also failed the training exercise. It didn’t matter, though, since it wasn’t the truth. The real sad thing was that they may have just failed their actual mission, even though they weren’t scheduled to be there until 9:00. What had changed while they were here? “Thank you for the ride,” Leona said to the driver. “I think we’re just gonna hang around here, and grab some breakfast. Then we’ll call a RideSauce car.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah, you’ve been a great help,” Mateo agreed.

“Before you go,” Jeremy stopped him, “what’s your name?” Oh yeah, they hadn’t bothered asking him that yet. How rude?

He smiled, unfazed by the delay. “Norberto. Norberto Pastore, at your service.” The name sounded familiar, but Mateo left his stuff in the past, including the little notebook where he kept track of all the people he met, or heard of.

They said their goodbyes, and parted ways. The search and rescuers walked into the store, and headed for the fast food restaurant inside. Once they had their food, they sat down at a table. Anatol Klugman walked up with his own food, and Mateo’s regular bag over his shoulders. He dropped it to the floor, and sat down to start eating. He didn’t speak right away, so the other three just began their own meal, and waited for something to change.

“So?” Anatol began. “Did you have fun?”

“It was cold,” Mateo said, mouth full.

“I bet. You didn’t have any clothes on.”

“Thanks for that,” Mateo said sarcastically.

“No problem.” He pretended that this was all genuine and serious.

“What was the point of that exercise, just to remind us that you’re in charge?” Leona asked.

“Absolutely not,” Anatol contended. “You saved someone’s life today?”

“Whose? Norberto’s? Was he about to get in a car accident on his way to work?” Jeremy guessed.

“No, not him,” Anatol disputed. “I mean, he has his role in the future, but I don’t actually care about him. No, there was a man...in the woods. He was very hurt, and as we’ve established, it was very cold. Not long after you left, he found the tent that you left behind, and he crawled inside. Your supplies are presently keeping him alive while he waits for help.”

“Who is he? Another one of your serial killer killers?” Mateo presumed.

“His name is Jabez Carpenter,” Anatol explained. “He’s an associate of Mercury Fletcher’s.”

“Why didn’t you just call emergency services, and tell them where he was? That would have been far easier.”

Anatol laughed. “He’s supposed to be in jail. No cops.” He could have also just left him the tent, but...whatever. Further arguing would have done them no good. “Anyway, I was—shall we say—listening in on your conversation with Cecelia, who has served her role a number of times, and can finally move on with her life. I noticed she mentioned there were four of you at the store seven years ago. What did she mean by that? You didn’t correct her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leona lied. She tried to ignore him and focus on her hash browns.

Anatol cleared his throat, and started tapping on the primary cuff. The conversation they had earlier with Cecelia played back to them. They could hear her clearly mention a fourth person.

“Shit,” Leona said. They had been caught. She held her hand in front of her, and moved them around in a very deliberate manner. They were finger tuts, and it was their way of secretly reaching out to someone who had been helping them for a while now.

Tertius Valerius appeared from a portal, holding onto a rope attached to the other side. He would not be able to stick around for long like this.

“Take him,” Leona ordered, gesturing towards Jeremy. “Now.”

“He’s sitting right there,” Tertius pointed out, indicating Anatol.

“I know, just do it.”

“Really,” Jeremy argued. “It’s fine, I can stay.”

“We promised we would get you all out, and we’re gonna get you all out. Now go.”

Tertius took Jeremy by the hand, then he tugged on the rope twice with his other. They were both pulled into the portal. A crowd had formed to witness it, but once the portal evaporated, all of their memories were erased. Only the three remaining time travelers could remember that anything had ever happened.

“I see,” Anatol said, possibly defeated. “This is going to make things surprisingly interesting. I don’t think you’re gonna like what I make you do, now that I know what you’ve been keeping from me.”

“Do your worst,” Mateo demanded. “Our friends are all safe now.”

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Extremus: Year 8

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It took Valencia, and the other smart people on this ship, nearly five months to double check the math, and draw up a flawless plan. While the micrometeoroid threat was indeed growing larger by the second, they couldn’t screw up the solution, and good solutions require time. The robots constructed extra physical shields to the front of Extremus to better deflect oncoming objects, and this proved to be effective for now. At the moment, they’re only about 18% of the way to the galactic core, where it’s most dense. They still don’t really know if it’s going to get worse than it already is, even worse than they ever imagined possible, or be all fine and dandy. Today is a new launch day. Under Valencia’s supervision, the engineering committee is going to be dispatching a series of mining automators to the nearest celestial bodies. The problem is a lack of data. They are literally in uncharted territory, which means they don’t know what kind of planets and asteroids are floating around out here, or what treasures they bear. So multiple automators have been built, hoping that at least one of them doesn’t fail, and encounters something good.

On a personal note, Omega has been doing all right. Medical tests turned up nothing unusual about his physiology, or neurology. He occasionally catches glimpses of the man who isn’t there, smiling down on him, but he no longer speaks. There is no apparent reason for Omega to be having these hallucinations, but as of yet, they have seen no evidence that they’re doing him any harm, besides causing him to doubt himself. He wants to be there for the launches, so while he isn’t in charge of the special project anymore, he’s being released for the day to witness. The nurse insists they keep him in the hoverchair so he doesn’t overexert himself, but it’s completely unnecessary. She doesn’t know what this project is, though, so she can’t stick around. Halan agrees to assume responsibility for his health while they watch the show.

The rest of the committee is already in the observation room that is overlooking the drones in the cargo bay. Omega regards with wonder, glad that they have been able to pull this off so far, and saddened that he wasn’t a part of it. Halan gets him some cheese and bread bites from the refreshments table while they wait to begin. When it’s time, Valencia moves to stand between the crowd and the windows. She has to gesture for August Voll to follow her. “Well, it’s finally ready. The project is about to begin. For those of you without the requisite education, I’ve asked my First Apprentice to explain to you what’s happening today, and why it’s necessary.”

August clears her throat. “When we first launched, we did so with finite resources, as I’m sure you know. Only so much mass can fit on this vessel. We had more than enough to make it through the entire 216-year journey without ever having to stop. We grow our own food, we make our repairs en route. Sadly, as it turns out, the repairs we had to make a few years ago have proven to be far more involved than we thought we would need. Had this happened near the end of the trip, we probably would have been fine, but now our reserves are too low, and it’s too risky. We need more materials, and for that, we need more time. In order to keep our dream of constant motion alive, we’re going to have to get creative. That means getting resources not just from nearby worlds, but from the past.

“What you see in each of the five designated sections of the cargo bay are five space-capable drones. They’re small, I know, but they’re each fitted with a mini-fusion reactor, and an AI program capable of finding a suitable celestial body, landing, and extracting resources. We have enough power to safely send the drones about thirty years into the past. This should be enough time for them to travel to their star system, mine the resources, and return to the rendezvous position. We could send them back further, but it would cost more. We don’t presently have the materials we would need to fit them with reframe engines either, so relativistic speeds are going to have to do. Slow relativistic speeds, in fact. They max out at point-six-c. If they have to travel five light years away, and five back, that leaves them around thirteen years to mine. They should be able to handle that, but it could be tight, which is why we’ve programmed them to extract the materials, but not build the Frontrunners themselves. We don’t really know how far they’ll have to travel in their search.”

While Valencia is talking, Omega notices a figure in the corner of his eye. Other people are standing there, but this person stands out. He’s afraid to look, because he knows who it is. It’s that hallucination again. He appears to just be enjoying the presentation with everyone else. Omega leans over to Captain Yenant, and whispers, “I’m going to get some water.”

“I’ll get it,” Halan says.

“No, I know all this. You should stay with your people.” Omega flies the chair to the back, and heads for the water. The hallucination man follows him. Omega waits behind the table, ready to start actually getting the water if someone were to look back curiously.

“Are you feeling okay?” the hallucination has the audacity to ask.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Omega demands to know.

“I’m a program, and I’m here to make sure the ship runs smoothly.”

“If you were a hologram, other people would be able to see you, and I don’t have any neuro-tech enhancements. I receive life extension treatments, and I have some musculo-skeletal implants. How are we communicating?”

“As a clone, you have advanced neurological capabilities, including techno-psychic communication. You can’t interface with any bit of technology you want, but you’re connected to me, because...”

“Because what? Why are you hesitating?” Omega asks that a little too loud, prompting Head of Security Gideon to look back. Now he reaches for the water.

“Because you are, in terms of security protocols, Elder Caverness.”

“What are you going on about?”

“You altered your DNA to make Old Man’s safe think that you were him, so you could open it.”

“That was temporary.”

The hallucination shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

Omega has some control over his own physiology, and even his genetic code, which is what allowed him to break into the DNA safe in the first place. Still, there is only so much he can do, and only so much information about his health status that he can gather in realtime. He looks down at himself like that alone could confirm or refute what the hallucination is claiming.

“Don’t be afraid, it’s a good thing. Now you have me, and I can help with things, like showing you the solution to the micrometeoroid problem, and telling you that one of these drones is about to land on an inhabited planet.”

“So your creator, he knows the future. There is no other way you could possibly know that. Or you’re just lying.”

“My creator, me...what exactly is the difference?”

“Stop speaking in half-explanations, forcing me to ask more questions. Just give me all the answers.” Gideon looks back again, so Omega has to reach over and sample one of the deserts, even though it’s not time for that yet.

“I wasn’t created by Elder Caverness. I am Elder Caverness. I designed a perimortem consciousness transference device.”

“Those are illegal on this ship,” Omega protests.

Up until this point, since no one else can see or hear him, the hallucination has been speaking in an inside voice. He drops to a whisper to mock him. “Then I suppose we won’t want to tell anyone about it, will we? Shh. Hush-hush.”

“What is your purpose?”

“I designed it primarily for the Captain, so this boat can enjoy a little bit of damn continuity. Why hand over power when you can just stay alive throughout the whole journey?”

“That doesn’t make any sense. You were the one who tried to give the Captain the device that would have sent him off to a death in the void.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the program says. “Obviously I had to test the technology first. The last version of me was uploaded into the computer a few months before the incident. I couldn’t tell you why Corporeal!Me tried to kill Captain Yenant, but I had nothing to do with it. We were two separate people by then.”

The conversation has to end as the speech before them does. The people begin to crowd around the windows. The part that Omega missed was about how the successful missions will appear pretty much instantaneously. Years will have passed for them—though it’s impossible to know how many without first knowing how far they’ll have to travel at relativistic speeds. But they won’t even be the same drones anyway. In order to transport the materials they mine, they’ll also use part of the material to build their own replacements. Those will be the ships that will appear in the cargo bay with the payloads. They’ll be extremely bare, and not even vacuum sealed. They’ll be more like only the framing, with enough space to hold what they need, along with the engines. They call it a gridship.

Omega flies over towards the window, and the crowd separates so he can see better. As August is counting down to the first launch, Omega notices AI!Elder, or whatever it is they should call him, standing in the fourth section. He’s wearing an old timey airport marshaller’s uniform, and making random arm movements, demonstrating the importance of this particular section. He opens his mouth, and rolls his eyes to the back of his head as he pulls at his shirt collar. He’s pantomiming dying. He’s pantomiming dying in section four. For whatever reason, when the gridship rendezvouses with Extremus, people are going to die. And apparently, Omega is the only one who can stop it.

“Go for One!” August declares. The drone disappears. A minute passes, but nothing returns.

“Aww,” the crowd groans, displeased and disappointed.

“Go for Two!” It’s only eight billion miles away from the first one, but it’s heading on a completely different vector, so it should have different candidate objects. It returns with a nice payload of various building materials, which will help them complete their project. The crowd cheers. It’s only about half of what they need to dispatch the Frontrunners, so hopefully one of the others also succeeds.

August waits another five minutes, which gives the third drone about forty billion miles to find something else. “Go for Three!” It comes back with more than enough of what they will need. The crowd cheers again, this time much louder.

The Elder program is still in section four of the main cargo bay. He’s shaking his head. Nothing has changed. This will still end badly. Omega doesn’t know how he knows this, especially with so many variables, but he can’t take the chance. They have the raw materials they need right now. There is no reason to continue. They could always send more missions later on, now that they know it’s possible.

Now the Elder program is pointing at the scorch station. Should a contaminate be loaded into the cargo bay—which is what this program appears to be suggesting will happen—the scorch station is capable of destroying any organic substance in the entire cargo bay. Since this is obviously so dangerous, it’s not like anyone is allowed to just walk up to it, and turn it on. They need authorization. Fortunately for Omega, he is more than qualified to break into it, especially if the Elder program is there to help him out. First, he hacks his chair, and teleports into what’s generally a time power-free zone. He won’t be able to trick the system into believing he’s a senior officer, but he can make it think he’s the cargomaster, who is also authorized to perform this action.

He checks his watch as he’s working, acutely aware that the next scheduled launch is in less than two minutes. He doesn’t absolutely have to get this done before the contaminant shows up. Either the fire prevents the launch from taking place, or it kills what’s already come through. Either way, everyone remains safe. It looks like it’s going to be the second possibility. Just when he’s cracked it, Omega sees the drone disappear, only to be immediately replaced by another vessel, but it’s not a gridship. It’s sealed up with a hull, and the hatchway is opening, which suggests that someone alive is inside. It’s too late. Scorch protocol engages, and overwhelms the cargo bay.

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Microstory 1705: Aquila

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I sit in the darkness, head in hand, muttering to myself. I have no sense of direction, and no clue how to get out of here. I’ve been in the dark before, but not like this. I can feel it seeping into my eyes, like it’s made of something, like it’s alive. It’s the pressure of being underground so deep, I imagine, or maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. I’m exhausted, but if I want to survive, I have to get back to finding a way out of here. As I get down on the floor of the cave, ready to start feeling my way to some kind of corridor again, it hits me. I fell pretty far to get down to this spot. I’m not too badly hurt, but the drop still must have been a few meters. It’s possible that the only way out is up, which actually means it’s impossible, because there is no way I’m getting back up that high. I don’t know why I agreed to go on this trip to Dark Eagle Caverns, or how I let myself get separated from the group. I suppose I’ve always been lost, and this pit of despair is just a metaphor come to life. Is it even life? That fall could have been farther than I remember. Or I could have landed on my neck. Or I died long ago from something else, and everything I’ve experienced since then has been my own personal hell. I may have never been alive at all, and everything I’ve seen has been an illusion to make me feel small, sad, and alone. This then would simply be a deeper level of the hopelessness that I have never not felt. I realize that it doesn’t really matter. Hell, real life; I still have to do everything I can to get out of here. If that means confirming that the pit is all there is, and my only option is to climb, then so be it. No one is going to find me down here, and even if they did, they would probably become trapped too, so I best just get on with it.

I carefully crawl in one random direction, feeling myself around the rock and moss. Can I eat this moss? Can you eat moss? I’m not that desperate yet, but I tear off as much as I can, and stick in my pocket in case I can’t find it again later when my situation does indeed become that dire. I’ve finally reached the wall again. I am so disoriented that I can’t tell if I’ve already checked for openings here. Irrelevant. I continue around the circle, if it even is a circle. I have no clue what shape this cave is, or how big it is, or how far it goes. I keep feeling the wall, hoping that something will give. I pray for that moment when my hand escapes me and swings forward. It does happen once, but it’s literally a misdirection. It doesn’t lead to a corridor, but a cranny, or something. I’m still feeling around on the wall with my right hand when my left hand runs into something. Apparently, for as slow as I was moving, it wasn’t slow enough. My ring finger isn’t broken, but it doesn’t feel great. I feel around on my left, and realize it’s another wall. I’ve run into another dead end; just a larger one than before. Tired and disappointed, I roll over to my back, and try to sprawl out. My right foot hits a wall too. Did I get that much turned around? No, my left foot hits the main wall. My God, it’s a spiral. I’ve been in a corridor for who knows how long. I could have already gone in a circle a few times for all I know. I guess nothing has really changed. This is as good of a place as any to die. Because of the darkness, it doesn’t really feel any more claustrophobic than it did in the bigger room. The future looks bleak, but I won’t give up. I just need to rest again, and then I’ll keep trying. I fall asleep for an unknowable amount of time. When I awaken, I find it dire enough to try the moss. A few minutes after I eat it, something in my body changes. I begin to glow, and the path before me becomes clear.