Microstory 1715: Little Dog

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They call me Little Dog. My mom says my grandpa was Big Dog, or maybe his grandpa? Or maybe his grandpa’s grandpa’s grandpa’s grandpa’s grandpa? I can’t remember it. It’s not my real name, that would be silly. I am this many years old tomorrow, and I’m so excited. They tell me I’m going to be getting a table for my birthday. They seem pretty happy about it. I guess grownups all have their own table, and when you get your own, it means you’re one of them. I don’t know if I’m old enough to use my own table, but I see my mommy and daddy using them all the time. They tap, tap, tap on it, and pretty pictures come up on the top of it. I hear them arguing with each other about whether I’m allowed to have a style to go with it. I don’t really care what style it is, as long as it works. My big sister has a table, but she doesn’t have my name anymore. When I’m old enough, our parents will have another brother and sister, and he’ll be named Little Dog instead of me. That’s what my sister says she used to be called. I don’t want to not be the Little Dog anymore. I mean I don’t want someone else to have my name. I like being a Little Dog. I like to crawl on the floor and bark at people. They seem to think that it’s cute, but if I stop being the dog then I won’t be able to do it anymore. My dad doesn’t get to see my dog game very much anymore because he always works in the big office. They sometimes take me to see everyone, and all the people in the blue jackets seem to think I’m pretty cool. Okay, bye!

Microstory 1714: Big Dog Ballpoint Pens

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My great great grandfather started this company. The year was 1904, and he was extremely ahead of his time. You may have heard that the first ballpoint pens were sold in the middle of the century, but that is not true. That is just when they became popular, and started on the road to ubiquity. My ancestor was the first to break into the industry after they were invented. He knew that there was something to this new technology. Big Dog was his nickname in the army, on account of how good he was at sniffing out the enemy. He mostly sold to construction companies who wanted to mark the wood they were cutting with something other than pencil, and to left-handed note-takers who were tired of the ink and lead smudging on their hands. Yes, sir, he was a pioneer, and I admire him for that. I never knew the man, but I know what he stood for. He was simple, and easy to please. He never wanted to be the biggest writing utensil company in the world, which is why he never thought to branch out into other instruments, nor did his descendants. We do ballpoints, and we only do ballpoints. Our design has become more sophisticated over time, and we’re on the verge of launching the next generation in our popular funtime series, which features characters from a certain children’s TV show that all you parents out there are familiar with. Still. It’s just ballpoint pens. We don’t make other kinds of pens, or pencils. We don’t sell paper to go along with it, or even pen cases. A single product with multiple series to appeal to an array of customers. My grandfather was adamant about that—I remember—rest in peace. He wanted to keep the tradition, and while I’m no one to scoff at tradition, I also know a business opportunity when I see one. We’re a household name now, and we should start thinking bigger.

When my dad retired two years ago, he gave me one single mandate. He said, “son, this company is yours now. I expect you to treat her as well as your predecessors always did.” Well, that’s what I plan on doing, and I don’t think adding new products interferes with, or contradicts, that mandate. He might have meant to say that I wasn’t allowed to change anything, but that’s not what he said, and that’s not what I’m going to do. It’s the 21st century now, and pens...aren’t as big as they used to be. They’re still great, but kids these days are always on their little devices. It’s time that we get into the little devices business. Introducing the Big Dog Augmented Reality Stylus. Unlike my great great grandfather, we’re not the first to make this product, but we believe we’re the best. With our free phone app, you can view any virtual writing in any space, whether you were the one who first created it, or not. With the handy writing board, you can write or draw in whatever position is most comfortable, and then drag—or even throw—the content over to some other point in space. With our view glasses, you can draw and view the content without even using your hands. We’ve been developing these products for two years now, and we’re just about ready to release them. I know, that sounds insane. How does a ballpoint pen company suddenly pivot to AR? Well, the truth is that I’ve been working on this my whole life. I have a bachelor’s degree in graphic design, and a masters in computer engineering. I also studied art in high school, so I know what creative people want. This is where the future of technology is headed, and we’re ready for it. Believe it or not, the first models are finished and tested. Right now, we’re looking for investors to work with us on distribution and advertising. So wadya say? Who’s in?

Microstory 1713: Trapper and Dash

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We are the hunting dogs, Trapper and Dash. While Boots is off wrangling his cows, we’re busy sniffing out prey. We catch our kill, and put food on the table. We’re not saying Boots doesn’t provide, or doesn’t have an important job, but let’s face it, those cows are dumber than a fallen branch. A really good fence could keep them in line. Hunting, on the other hand, takes real skill. You have to be quick, not just loud and frightening. You have to be able to keep up with your prey, and sometimes wear them out. Most dogs have specialties, but we hunt for everything. Quail, duck, deer. We don’t go after foxes, though, even though Dash is a foxhound. Humans don’t eat fox, apparently, so they have no use for it. We can’t quite relate to that, seeing as we instinctively go after anything that moves, and isn’t also a dog. We suppose foxes are dogs in their own way. Perhaps that’s why our humans don’t like their meat. We certainly wouldn’t want them eating us! We do eat raccoons, Trapper is a coonhound. Anyway, a few minutes ago, Boots caught the scene of a bobcat. We don’t hunt them either most of the time, because the humans also have pet cats. I’m starting to see a pattern here. Or is it just too dangerous to them. This one’s different. It tried to go after poor Moonica, so we’ve been dispatched to take care of it. That bobcat knows where it can find food now, so if we don’t put an end to its life, it’ll come back later. Boots and our parents can’t watch over the cows all the time. We consider it our sacred duty to perform the tasks that they can’t stomach. We were bred for the kill, and we can handle any obstacle that gets in our way.

We can hear our parents following behind us, but they’re giving us the room we need to find the scent. This bobcat is smart; it knows how to hide itself pretty well. It’s not perfect, though, and it’s not undetectable. We move every which way until Trapper finally thinks he knows the exact right direction to go, and then we follow it. Once we’re close enough, we can sense it getting farther away. It knows we’re in pursuit, and it doesn’t want to run into us again. No, it’s not getting off that easy. Nothing will stop us from protecting our family, and our ranch. We keep going, moving faster and faster. The scent grows stronger, and we know we’re close. Pretty soon, we can tell that we’re nearly upon it. We make it over one more ridge, and there it is, crouched in its den. We don’t know if it thinks it’s safe from us there, but it’s not. We stop running, and we transform our barks into growls. We approach cautiously, but menacingly. That is when we see it. The bobcat isn’t just crouching to protect itself, it’s protecting a litter of kittens. We stop immediately, and back off. Can we just let this go? If she has a litter, that’s even more reason for her to come back to our ranch and try to attack our cows. We can’t just walk away and hope for the best. We can’t kill her, though, and we certainly can’t kill her babies—which, in this case, would be the same thing. Since they’re cats, we don’t speak the same language, but a few things do translate. We go back to barking, intermixing the growls as needed. We have to get the mother to understand that we mean business, and that her business is staying as far from our property as she can possibly be. She can go harass Old Man Larrison’s animals on his farm. He doesn’t take care of his livestock, or his pets, so they probably kind of deserve it. When we think the bobcat has gotten the message, we break away, and head back towards home.

Microstory 1712: Crabby Cancer

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According to one wild theory of evolution, the crab is the ultimate physical form. Every species that is destined to survive will eventually transform into some kind of crab. Of course, being intelligent humans, we have always dismissed such bizarre arguments, which have no basis in scientific fact. This truth didn’t stop us all from turning into crabs, it just wasn’t due to evolution. Our first hint that an alien race was upon us was subtler than we would have assumed. We saw no great ships appear in the sky. No portal from another world opened up on the ocean floor, or in a secret underground military base. It began as faint images in the wind, as if the air were opaque, and blocking beings on the other side until moved. The images grew clearer, and were joined by whispers. It was obvious that something existed beyond our normal range of perception, and was finally coming to light. The world’s governments tried to step in, but there was nothing they could do. The beings were spread out all over the globe, and could not yet interact with us, so there was no way to contain them, or even prepare to. Some areas were denser than others, so we huddled around the safe zones—mostly deserts—only to discover this to be a fruitless endeavor. The aliens could move, of course, because why wouldn’t they? After a few months of watching...waiting, the first Karkinel proved itself to be physically present when it took hold of a child, and ran away with it. That kid was never seen again, and that’s when the military went to work. They handed weapons to everyone they could, and gave us permission to shoot any crabbo on sight. Many human deaths resulted from this mandate. If the Karkinel wasn’t completely corporeal, the bullets could pass right through it, and land in someone innocent. This period of limbo did not last long, but it was the first of many failures.

Once the rest of the aliens had arrived, the war began. They tried to take people, while the people fought back with everything they had. It was the greatest threat our species had ever encountered, and we weren’t going down easy. Even so, it was an impossible dream. Whenever one crabbo was killed, another was waiting to take its place. That was when we realized what they were doing. They weren’t trying to kill us. They were trying to make us like them. They were infecting us with their crabbiness, and letting a cancerous disease spread throughout our bodies, turning us into them. The process was sometimes gradual, but sometimes incredibly rapid. Children, in particular, took too well to the process. There was every chance that a human fighter ended up killing a Karkinel who was once that first young boy to be taken. Now the war shifted. No longer were we using guns and bombs. The only way we were going to win was if we managed to undo the Karkinel transition, and restore our brethren to their rightful human state. Barring that, maybe we could prevent survivors from suffering the same fate. This was yet another failure. Scientists worked on the problem for years, but were never able to come up with a vaccine, let alone a cure. This was not surprising since we had already been trying to cure cancer for decades to no real luck. It is not without hope, however. We may not be able to stop the carcinization, but we can do something about how it effects the brain. I’m not sure if you can understand me yet, but you will be our first test subjects. With this treatment, your minds will become human again. Your bodies will still look like crabs, but you’ll think more like us. And you’ll fight...for us.

Microstory 1711: Giorgia Giraffe

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Dear City Council,

I have a pet giraffe. Well, I’m pretty sure it’s a cousin to the giraffe, but it just looks like a baby giraffe. It’s even smaller than a dwarf giraffe—closer to the size of a large dog—and as far as I know, it’s the only one of its kind. I don’t know where she came from. She just wandered into my backyard one day and started drinking out of the birdbath. I thought about contacting the authorities about her, but I grew too attached in only the few short hours since we met. She seemed to grow attached to me too. She kept following me around the yard. I tried to look up what kind of leaves giraffes eat, but the internet listed all these trees I had never heard of, and they didn’t appear to be native to North America. She took a liking to bamboo leaves, so that’s what I’ve been feeding her all this time. I have a little naturally grown ceilingless hut up against the fence. All I did was plant bamboo in the shape of four walls, and it gives me this private little area where I can go to enjoy nature. I have an outdoor television in there, and a minifridge for snacks and water. I even buried the extension cord inside some PVC pipe to protect it from damage. It’s a pretty sweet setup, and I spend most of my time there, especially since the pandemic allowed me to work from home. It wasn’t originally designed to accommodate a tiny giraffe, so I cut down some of the bamboo, and planted more to make it bigger. This is where Giorgia sleeps. I bought a smartspeaker so she can listen to sounds of the jungle all night long, and she loves it. She loves me, and I love her.

The neighborhood kids like to come over and play with her, but she has a tough time with crowds, so I limit visits with a schedule so it doesn’t stress her out. Most people are overjoyed to see her, but not everyone is happy that I have a mini giraffe. Five blocks down—which no one in their right mind would call part of the same neighborhood—lives a middle-aged grump who stopped working when he started to receive disability checks, along with a settlement he won in civil court. He has nothing better to do with his time than complain about his neighbors. If the people on his street don’t have each blade of grass cut to an untenable range of length, he puts up a stink. I’m sure you have all noticed how annoying he is. I was able to keep Giorgia off of his radar for a good long while, but he’s recently learned of her, and now he can’t let go. Animal control came by last week to investigate, and a few days later, a decision was made to remove the animal from my property, and lock her up in a cold and heartless cage. I always knew it was illegal to keep a wild animal at my house, but I don’t think she qualifies. She’s gentle, trained, and not doing anyone any harm. I beg you to return Giorgia to me. The city had no right to take her from her loving home. There must be better things that you can be doing with your time than harassing a law-abiding citizen, and traumatizing an innocent creature. Attached is a petition to #BringGiorgiaHome, signed by over 300 of my closest friends, who all believe that she is better off with me than in some laboratory.

Thank you,

Sir Niall Muller Jr.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: August 12, 2158 Redux

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Now only three people were left; the original team of Mateo, Leona, and Kivi. They had all been together since before even Jeremy was with them so it was fitting that they should end it together. They knew that this could happen, which was why the order of disappearances was as it was. Ramses could take care of himself, which was why it made sense for him to disappear first. If Anatol and Zeferino managed to remember him despite Tertius’ interference, he was willing to accept any consequences that might come out of that. Next in line after him—once the scheme proved viable—were D.B. and Dalton, who they had known the least, followed by Siria. Only then did they begin removing official members of the team: Olimpia, Angela, and finally Jeremy. They were so surprised it took The Warrior this long to figure it out, but it seemed to have worked. Even though he now knew his memory had been tampered with, he didn’t appear to know who he was missing. Even a future version of him never apparently came back to mess things up. Their secret plan had worked, and if the rest of them never made it out alive, well then, it was all a longshot anyway.

The last jump was particularly brutal. They appeared a few meters above the ground, and fell down on the sand hard. Anatol didn’t give them much time to recover before he appeared. He was holding the device that Holly Blue designed to remove Cassidy cuffs before they realized doing so could cause more problems than it solved. He threw it down in front of them with attitude. “There are presently eighty-three people on Tribulation Island,” he began. “That number will fluctuate, but not too much. It is your responsibility to choose your replacement.”

“I don’t understand,” Mateo said. He got to his feet, struggling against the pain from the fall.

“There’s charge enough for one change-over,” Anatol went on, still cryptically. “By the deadline, you must choose someone to take the cuffs for you, and continue on the pattern with Leona and Kivi.”

“What will become of me?” Mateo asked.

Anatol smirked. “It’s August 12, 2158. Or should I say, it’s August 12, 2158 again. Do you know what day that is?”

Much of the time, Mateo needed Leona to translate mathematical questions for him. She always recognized the significance of a date, if there was one. In this case, however, Mateo didn’t need any help. He recognized it himself. “This is the day I disappear. This is the day The Superintendent takes me out of reality, and erases the memory of nearly everyone I have ever met.”

“That’s right,” Anatol confirmed. “In a matter of hours, you’re going to blink out of existence. Not just the other you, but you you. You cannot exist between today, and October 4, 2212.”

“So I’ve heard,” Mateo said, referring to Thack Nataline Collins’ warnings about the issue back in 2156. She wasn’t here with a solution this time. “We’ve been through this game before. I don’t need to play it again.”

Now Anatol laughed. “You don’t understand. This is not a game. You’re not getting out of it this time. I am sentencing you to death, and not in a way that allows you to come back. Pryce’s afterlife simulation cannot save you now. Dead is dead is dead is dead.”

“And if I refuse, what happens? You can’t force me to choose a victim,” Mateo contended.

Anatol consulted his primary cuff. “You forget, you’re linked to your friends. I don’t know how you managed to unlink your other friends, but I assure that will not work again. I have taken steps to prevent anyone from messing with my memories. If you’re still wearing that cuff when the Superintendent takes all Mateo Matics out of the timestream, Leona and Kivi will be taken with you. So you either choose to keep the team going without you, or end it right here.”

Leona stepped forward. “We’re prepared to do that. We’re prepared to do whatever it takes to end this, now that our people are safe.”

“Yes,” Kivi agreed.

“No,” Mateo said. “I’m not. Why sacrifice all of us when we only need to sacrifice the one? There are plenty of people on this island right now I know would be okay with being on this team. Some might even enjoy it. Gilbert loves games; everyone knows this about him.”

“Mateo, I’m not going to go on without you,” Leona insisted.

“You won’t remember what you’re missing anyway,” Mateo reminded her.

Kivi was shaking her head. “There has to be another way.”

“There is,” Anatol said, then he abruptly removed a gun from his waistband, and shot Mateo in the gut with it. “If he dies, he loses his identity. His body will remain, as will your memory of him.”

Leona dove down, and pressed her hand against Mateo’s stomach. “Let this happen,” she whispered. “You’ll go to the simulation, and we’ll figure it out from there. We’ve done it before. Pryce, we can work with. This one is just impossible.”

“Afraid that won’t work this time,” Anatol said. He pantomimed pushing something away from him. The world around them began to flicker, and didn’t stop. They were now in the middle of a transition window to The Parallel. “This is limbo. You will be saved neither by Pryce’s simulation, nor the Parallel’s own advanced anti-death protocols.”

“It’s okay,” Mateo promised his wife as he caught a glimpse of her watch. He then turned his attention back to Anatol. “Fix this. Fix my wound, and I’ll do it. I’ll go find someone. I already have the right candidate in mind.”

Anatol weighed his options for a moment. Then he reached up and took hold of an imaginary dial the size of his palm. He turned it backwards, and reversed time, pulling Mateo back up to his feet, and the bullet out of his belly, back into the gun. Everyone could remember what happened, and three of them didn’t want it to happen again. The fourth one could take it or leave it. “Now...there is only one way.”

No. This was what Anatol wanted, and they had already decided that they couldn’t let him control their lives forever. The whole point of shunting their friends away was to protect them so they could work against him safely. They might as well start now. Mateo reached down and retrieved the cuff remover. When he tried to leave, Leona tried to follow. “No. It’s bad enough that there will be two versions of me here. Just wait for my replacement.”

“I need to be there with you,” she begged. “If this is really happening...”

“You’ll find a way to beat him, and bring me back.”

“I don’t think so this time,” Leona lamented.

Mateo faced Kivi. “Thank you for being here all this time. I wish I could explain. Everything will be all right. He faced Leona again. “Were I you.”

“Were I you.”

Mateo checked Leona’s watch one last time, and then ran off into the woods. This was the one day that he knew by heart. He memorized every single second of it, and he knew exactly how long it would take him to get to where he was going. He had enough time, but he had to run fast, and he had to be sneaky. He burst out of the jungle, and down the beach. He passed some people he recognized, and some he didn’t. They all knew who he was, though, and could tell that there were two versions of him in the same moment. This would not matter for long, for their memories were about to be erased. Before Mateo was ripped from the timestream, he escorted Gilbert and Zeferino to Glubbdubdrib, along with Leona and Horace. Together, they said their farewells as the two dead men walking stepped through the Extraction Mirror, and returned for their destinies. This was about to all go down soon.

To get to the other land mass, Kayetan Glaston remotely created a merge point, and the only way Future!Mateo was going to beat The Warrior was if he met up with the group after the merge, and not before. That was why the time was so vital. He succeeded. Without any of them noticing, he slipped past the boundary a few meters down the beach, and moved to the new location with them. He then hid behind a pile of rocks so his friends would keep going towards the palace without noticing him.

Like a secret agent, he followed behind them quietly and carefully. He wasn’t as good as he thought, though. Horace realized that they were being tailed. He turned back and locked eyes with Future!Mateo. He stared for a moment before making a decision. After a quick wink, and turned back around, and continued on with the group without saying a word. They entered the palace, and made their way to the corridor where the mirror was being held. Future!Mateo listened to the conversation again, waiting until The Rogue and The Cleanser were back where they belonged before revealing himself.

His past self and Leona looked back at him, not knowing what to think. Horace was delighted, but still didn’t know what was going to happen. The Maverick, Darrow didn’t seem to care one way or the other. “I don’t have much time,” Future!Mateo said. “You’re just going to have to trust me that this is what’s best. He mostly spoke to his younger, naïve self. “Things are going to get bad for you.”

“I know. I’m about to be taken out of reality,” Past!Mateo said, thinking he understood.

“What? No. That’s not a big deal, you’ll get over that. But if you don’t—” He placed the remover against his cuff, and tried to release the latch. “Wow, this is harder than Holly Blue made it look. It’s partially mechanical.” He twisted the remover, and forced the cuff to open. “There we go—if you don’t put this on, Leona is going to disappear too, and she will never come back.”

Without hesitating, Past!Mateo took the cuff from his future self’s wrist, and gladly wrapped it around his own.

Future!Mateo smiled. “Mr. Ness, I implore you to open a portal to Lebanon, Kansas on October 6, 2212, and then forget I was ever here.”

“I see no reason not to,” Darrow said. He reached up and adjusted the controls.

The image of a gas station bathroom appeared. Mateo stepped through just in time. He looked back at his once and future wife one last time.

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Extremus: Year 9

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The fire was not without its consequences, obviously. Omega was placed in MedHock for his actions while an investigation went underway. As for the raw materials, they were fine, albeit a bit melty. They were going to be moulded and adapted as needed anyway, so the Frontrunner project was able to continue, mostly unimpeded. A body was recovered from the shuttle that appeared in section four of the cargo bay. A simple DNA test showed that it was Elder Caverness, presumably having returned from wherever it was he went six years ago. There was no telling how much time had passed for him, or where he had been. And since he was dead, he couldn’t tell them what happened to Rita, or Airlock Karen. No other remains were found inside the shuttle.

Omega was not in some kind of catatonic state, but he remained completely silent for nearly a year. Halan came up with this idea to have the robot who delivered him food refuse to let go of it unless Omega verbally asked for it, but that didn’t work. Omega kept his mouth shut, and just began to starve. He was too traumatized by what he did. Today, they try a different approach. They need answers, and there may only be one person in the universe who can get it out of him. It’s probably going to traumatize him more, but it’s their last resort. A hologram of Old Man appears in Omega’s cell. It doesn’t say anything, and finally, Omega speaks. “You’re old again.”

“I am as I was when I died,” Hologram!Elder explains.

“You’re the one who killed him,” Omega contends. “Don’t act like it bothers you.”

“I did not kill myself,” Hologram!Elder argues. “You engaged the scorch protocol.”

“Because you told me to!”

“Why would I do that?”

Omega considered the possibilities. “I imagine you didn’t want any competition. You probably saw him as a threat to your survival. If the real Elder returned, what would he do to the uploaded consciousness he left behind?”

“Uploaded consciousness!” Halan shouts. He rounds the corner, and approaches the cell. “What is this about an uploaded consciousness?”

Omega literally slams his lips shut.

“No,” the Captain says, hovering his finger over his watch. “You keep talking, or I’m transporting you to the vacuum.”

“You would never,” Omega insists.

Halan sighs with relief. “Now we don’t have to find out. Explain. What uploaded consciousness are you talking about?”

Omega points to what he still doesn’t know to be a hologram. “I know you can’t see him, but Old Man is standing right there. He’s inside my head. He’s actually inside the computer system, but he appears to me, because I altered my DNA to match his. I was hoping he would go away when I changed my DNA back, but he’s returned anyway.”

“Computer, end program,” Halan orders, causing the hologram to flicker and disappear.

Omega regards the space he was once occupying in horror. “That wasn’t really him? It was just a simulation?”

“Correct,” Halan confirms. “I thought that you might choose to communicate with the person you killed. I had no idea that he was the one who convinced you to do it in the first place. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He finally explained who he was at the launch,” Omega reveals. “I got caught up in his claims about something dangerous coming from the section four mission. I thought it was gonna be some kind of contagion from the planet the drone landed on. I thought I was saving us. Now I realize he just didn’t want the real version of him to come back to Extremus.”

“Why did you not recognize him immediately when the hallucinations first began?” Halan questions.

“He didn’t look like himself,” Omega clarifies. “I’m sure he did that for this very reason, so no one would be able to help me.”

Halan shakes his head as he’s processing this new information. “I wish you hadn’t changed your DNA back. There’s a genetic lock on that little ship. Only Old Man is able to access the logs. We need to figure out where he was, and how he got back.” He waves his watch in front of the cell lock. The gate slides open. “Now that I know the truth, I can help you.”

“I’m not forgiven,” Omega says, not in the form of a question. “I still killed someone, unusual circumstances notwithstanding.”

“As Captain, I have every right to pardon you. You were under the influence of a powerful external entity. We’ll get rid of him soon enough, but only after he explains himself further. Rewrite your DNA for us yet again, and let that be your first step on the road to redemption.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.” Omega curls up tighter on the bed, even as the door remains opened.

“In hock or not, you are still under my command, and that is an order.”

Omega lays down and rolls over to face the back wall. “I’ll need a few days to make the transition. I’m more comfortable here than I ever was in my original quarters.”

Over the course of the next three days, engineers attempt to look for this uploaded version of Elder in the system, but they come up with nothing. He’s probably keeping himself contained, rather than spreading his consciousness out. It’s harder to find the code when it can move around to avoid detection. He likely doesn’t have any intention of taking over the whole vessel, but if he ever tries, they will be ready for him. Now that Omega is sufficiently Old Man on a genetic level, Halan goes back down to MedHock to retrieve him. The door was left open, but still, Omega never left. He continues to do the right thing, and since he’s become aware of how susceptible he is to persuasion, he plans on being particularly leery of others.

Lead Engineer Veca Ocean is sitting in the shuttle in her hazmat suit. She’s not wearing protective headgear, or a respirator. It’s mostly just to keep her clothes clean of the soot and ash. The internal computer system appears to be fairly intact. It’s a sophisticated ship, meaning it took time and resources to complete. As Omega enters the hatchway, it begins to power up on its own, responding to his presence. “Welcome back, Dr. Caverness,” the AI says.

“On screen,” Omega orders. The main menu of the computer appears on the HUD. “Date of manufacturing.” September 9, 2273 appears on the screen. “Power specifications.” Antimatter drive for propulsion, fusion for internal systems, and temporal energy for temporal displacement. “What is your personal timeline?” The shuttle went from October 31, 2273 to March 18, 2272, and then it continued on in realtime from there.

“So he did go back in time,” Veca noted. “It was a year and a half before he built the shuttle, so he had to take it at least that far back to make it to the rendezvous point in enough time. He was probably flying just ahead of us this whole time, and we didn’t even know it.

“Why did he wait to show up now?” Halan asks. “He could have rendezvoused with us essentially instantaneously. Hell, he could have crossed his own timeline.”

“Computer, answer his question,” Omega commands.

“Unknown,” it answers simply.

Veca takes it upon herself to look through the logs manually. Then she gets up and paces while she thinks it through. “So he lands on a planet. It’s either habitable, or he has some way of surviving using that bag he was carrying at the time. At some point, he builds a shuttle, probably using nanotech in his bag. He integrates it with a time machine so he can get back to Extremus, but he doesn’t do so for another five years. What was he doing all that time? He was the only one in here, so if the other two survived the initial transport, they didn’t come with him. What happened? Did he do something to them? Did they catch a cold and die?”

“Computer, answer her questions,” Omega repeats.

“Unknown,” it repeats.

“Keep digging,” Halan orders. “I’m going to go monitor the final Frontrunner launch. We’re doing them with a lot less fanfare than the mining automators.”

“Thank you, sir,” Omega says genuinely.

He stops and looks at Omega, unsure whether he should try to give him some advice, or what. Instead, he nods professionally, and moves on.

Omega steps down from the shuttle, and watches the Captain leave, waiting to make sure he gets all the way out of earshot. Then he turns back around. “Is this vessel reparable?”

“What?”

“You’ve spent time assessing the damage. Can you make it work again?”

“With Valencia’s help, probably, why?” Veca says.

“We may need it in the future.”

She squints her eyes, and looks at him with suspicion. “What do you have planned?”

“Nothing. Very much so nothing. Until I can be sure that this Old Man program is outta my head, I can’t be trusted with anything. I’m going back to my cell.”

“Not so fast,” Elder’s avatar says, appearing before him. “You have to stop the Frontrunner launch.”

Ansutah was first formed thousands of years before the humans living there managed to escape back to their home universe. In that time, a lot less had changed than people might expect. The human population began when a handful of them found themselves stranded. And it was those castaways that held the traditions of before together. They maintained written records of Earthan history, and passed down all the knowledge they kept with them to the later generations, eventually numbering in the billions. Some information was lost, yes, but most of it remained intact. It was important to them. It was important that they not forget where they came from, or what it took to get there. English never fell out of favor, and neither did American Sign Language. Unlike on Earth, it was a mandatory skill that every child studied, and this standard remained even after the great migration to Gatewood. Being a genius, Omega managed to learn it fairly quickly, even though he had no obligation to.

He signs behind his back as he speaks to the Elder program, hoping that Veca is watching from inside the shuttle. This is their chance to capture the program, isolate it from the rest of the system, and prevent it from causing Extremus problems. She must see his warnings, for she activates her emergency teleporter, and jumps to the bridge.

The Elder program chuckles. “I know what you just said to your little friend in there. Come on out, Veca. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Confused, Omega looks back into the shuttle. No, she’s not there anymore. She left. “Can she hear you?”

“I can always make anyone hear me. Did you think you were special? No, I just chose you because your altered DNA gave you some permissions other people don’t have, and you were susceptible to my manipulation.”

“So what you’re saying is I am special.”

He smiles sarcastically. “Right. Seriously, Veca, everything will be all right.”

Now Omega is the one who chuckles. “Elder, there is no one in that shuttle.”

“I saw her go in there,” the program argues. “You and the Captain followed, and then the Captain came out, and then you came out. But she never did.”

“Can’t you tell that she’s not in there?” Omega questions, trying to understand.

The program doesn’t answer.

“You can’t,” he realizes. “It’s shielded. The real you shielded it from you.”

He’s getting angry. “I am the real me!”

Omega steps back onto the ramp, but sticks his head out. “Can you see me now? Do I just look like a floating head to you? I saw a meteorologist do this once with a green dress.”

The Elder program purses his lips, not wanting to confirm his limitations, but confirming them just the same. “Whatever. Minor blindspot. What are you gonna do, transfer ship controls to this little shuttle?” he asks with a yawn. Generally speaking, computer programs don’t need to yawn.

Omega steps back down the ramp. “No. I’m just the distraction.”

The program begins to nod off, not understanding what’s happening to him. “What did you do? I feel...trapped.”

“We’re not gonna kill you,” Omega promises. “You just can’t be allowed to go wherever you want anymore.”

“No.” He’s struggling to stay awake. “You can’t do this. I haven’t told you yet.”

“Told me what?”

The Elder program gets down on his hands and knees, but he’s only staving off the inevitable. “I figured out why my corporeal self tainted the recall device that was supposed to send you and Airlock Karen back to Gatewood.”

“You can tell us later,” Omega says. “As soon as we’re sure you won’t be able to access anything we don’t want you to.”

“You silly fool,” the Elder program accuses. “They’re not sedating me. They are killing me. I’m trying to hold on, but I’m losing control. It’s almost over.”

“I didn’t know,” Omega assures him. “I’m sorry.”

“I die...knowing that you will never know...who hired Old Man...to kill the Captain.” He falls to his virtual face, and disappears.

« < » > Table of Contents

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.