Microstory 1752: Lyre

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I have no idea where I am. I suppose it doesn’t matter much, as long as I can find my way back to the place with the animals and the other things. There isn’t any stuff you eat here. At least I haven’t found anything yet. I just can’t help but try. I keep thinking that there’s a chance of coming across a stockpile in the next place you go into. My wandering partner used to call that the bingpot, and then he’d laugh, but he would never explain the reference. I’m old enough to remember the world as it was before, but I must have missed that joke, wherever it was. I would ask him again, but I don’t know where he is now either. We got separated a week ago when he decided to hunt on his own. I don’t think he abandoned me, I’m sure he just got lost too. Or maybe I did. Some people lost all of their memories when it happened, but not me. According to my friend, there are different types of memory. I can’t remember what they’re called, but one of them makes it harder to recall the stuff in the world. Instead of events, we’re talking cars and plates, and whatever this thing is in the corner. See? I couldn’t even tell you, but bring someone else in here who can’t remember how to walk, and I’m sure they know exactly what it’s for. They wouldn’t be able to operate it, if it’s even something that can be operated, but they could tell you all about it. Okay, I’ll open one more brown woody thing, and then that’s it; I’m getting out of here. Something is inside. It’s a harp, I think, or some other kind of musical instrument anyway. I suppose I shouldn’t guess, since I’m not a doctor. Of course, I impulsively strum it. It sounds beautiful, even though I have no idea how to play. I can’t mess up on this thing. It must be designed for beginners.

I keep playing for a little while, and before I know it, my friend walks into the room. He’s confused, like he doesn’t even know how he got here. I ask him where he’s been all this time, but he doesn’t know, which is weird. I know what you’re thinking, how can that be weird? This whole whatever is full of whatevers who can’t remember stuff, but this guy’s different. He does get disoriented a bit sometimes, but for the most part, his head insides are intact. He could say what that thing in the corner is, he could use it, and he could recount the first time he learned. He tells me that he was in a cave when he heard music, and when he followed it, he suddenly appeared here. No way there are any caves around here, so that doesn’t make any sense. He must have lost time. Some people lose time. They didn’t forget who they were before the attack, but they suddenly wake up every once in a while and can’t remember how they got to wherever it is they are. I think people have died because they don’t remember climbing up on one of those metal hanging things they put over water. Anyway, my companion and I catch up with each other. There is not much to tell, since life is so monotonous these days, and by the end of the night, we’re singing things of strawberries and that meat that looks like something else that you wrap in that flaky golden thing. I strum on the string instrument as well, and at first we think the music has attracted other travelers, but some are from the other side of the whatever. We realize that the instrument is magic, and can conjure anything we want, presumably as long as it’s something that exists somewhere. The other people covet it, so I have to conjure tall whatevers, and spiky you-know-what-I’m-thinking-ofs to protect us. Then we run for our lives.

Microstory 1751: Spirit of the Lynx

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When I was a boy, I had no identity. All of my classmates had some kind of online persona, which represented who they were, and what they enjoyed. Their usernames reflected these attributes, be it a love for football, or all things Star Wars. I didn’t care about anything in particular, or have any special way of setting myself apart from others. I suppose that’s what it really comes down to, that I was not special. Ya know, I liked watching the news, and not because I wanted to become a reporter when I was older, but I’ve always been more interested in the goingson of real life than fiction, or other forms of entertainment. But NewsBoy1994 seemed like a dumb and boring name that I didn’t want to use. One day, I was flipping through my favorite news and documentary channels, hoping to learn something new, when I came across a nature show about the lynx, and it gave me an idea. Maybe I am a lynx. And not because of the animal’s particular behavior, or the way that they look. Maybe it’s just arbitrary. I could call it my spirit animal, and claim to others that I just really like lynxes. I felt like a fraud, but no one else appeared to have any problem with it. He likes lynxes. Whatever, doesn’t matter to me. I didn’t get ridiculed or questioned, and everything went well. Over time, these creative online identities faded away. Social media allowed you to connect directly to your friends and contacts, but also just say things for the world to absorb at will. Real life has become trendy. People can read your posts if they want to, and on their own time. Many are using real identities now, because for most, it’s the closest we’ll get to fame, and we don’t want to hide ourselves under a layer of anonymity. Our friends can’t find us if they don’t know enough about us. Even then, is PermaLynx94 the guy you’re looking for, or some random stranger who also happens to like lynxes?

I shed my lynx identity, and moved on with my life. It was a lot easier for me than for others, I imagine. Some still probably weren’t too butthurt about it, since they were no longer so obsessed with the pastimes of their youth, and were glad to grow up. I didn’t care at all, because I never really cared about lynxes. It’s probably better now that people have to look deeper than my name if they want to know who I am. I got into hiking, which is something I never thought I would do. I probably would have tried to figure out some kind of clever walking pun back in the day if I had realized who I was at a younger age. I still like the news, and don’t care for fiction. I don’t have a problem with it on principle, but I watch Star Wars, and just don’t feel a damn thing for those people. This week, I’m backpacking alone in the woods, in the freezing cold of Canada. This is where I find my zen, away from people, and all of their noises. Things are going fine until I slip on a wet rock, and over the edge of the cliff. I hang onto a root, just hoping it doesn’t give. The drop is bout about six meters down, so I’ll live, but I’ll break bones, and not be able to leave. I have to find a way to lift myself up. Now I wish I had once identified as PullupDude69. As I’m hanging there, mere moments from a slow death, a lynx trots up and stares down at me. We study each other’s eyes, and don’t move a muscle. Suddenly, I’m no longer on the brink, but in some kind of tranquil and balanced serenityscape. We watch each other for an eternity, and then my spirit animal graciously provides me with the strength I need to pull myself up, and survive.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 9, 2367

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When they returned to the timestream, all the locals were confused about where they had been for the last nine and a half months, but they were also preoccupied with a second shocking development. Shortly after their departure, another alien came down to their world from the quantum terminal. He claimed to be from a planet called Teagarden, and during the interim year, Sasha had been trying to explain to him that this was all real, instead of a video game of some kind. She thought that maybe the humans would have better luck with the clarification, though it would be best if it took place back up on the outpost. The Pluoraians didn’t need to have anything to do with this. Fortunately, she had fixed the teleporter. They escaped the hellish winterscape, hoping never to return.

“What’s your name?” Mateo asked, deciding to take lead on this interrogation.

“Hrockas. Yours?”

“Mateo and Leona Matic, Ramses Abdulrashid, Angela Walton, Olimpia Sangster. And...Sasha.”

“Sasha, I’ve met.”

“What are you doing on this planet?” Mateo went on.

“This is my planet,” Hrockas said. “I laid claim to it thirty years ago. I don’t know how you broke through my quantum restrictions, but I want you gone.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Mateo asked Sasha.

“It wasn’t my place,” Sasha replied. “I didn’t want him to commandeer it. Besides, he wasn’t listening to reason. As soon as he found out I was an android, I stuck his fingers in his ears.”

That was probably the right call on Sasha’s part. Even now, Mateo didn’t know if he should explain how it was they arrived without casting their consciousnesses using the quantum terminal. “We came in a ship.”

“That’s impossible. No one has access to lightspeed ships in the game,” Hrockas insisted.

“What game are we talking about here?” Mateo pressed. They were going to have to clear this up by starting at the beginning.

Hrockas looked at him like he was a total moron. “Umm...Quantum Colony; the game we’re literally playing right now? Ever heard of it?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m more of an RPS-101 Plus guy.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, idiot! You’re in it! That’s how we’re even talking! I want answers to a few questions. Who are you? How did you get here? What did you do to the power a few years ago? Why did you bring it back? And when the hell are you gonna get the hell out of my star system? I found it; it’s mine. If you want it, you’ll have to start a war. I don’t like your chances. I have a pretty good army down there, and they’re all loyal to me!”

“The people down there never once mentioned a Hrockas,” Leona pointed out.

“Well, they don’t know me by name. The creators will kick me out of the game if I break First Contact protocols.”

“Why do they care if it’s just a game?” Mateo asked.

Hrockas shrugged. “I dunno, they have their reasons. Any player who finds an inhabited world has to follow more strict rules. Everybody knows this.”

This reminded Mateo of the time they had to convince a couple of scientists that The Parallel was a fully real reality, and not just an incredibly elaborate simulation. Something told him that Hrockas wasn’t going to be swayed by the same evidence. They needed help figuring that out, and to do that, they needed more information. “Sasha, could you please find out what this Quantum Colony thing is?”

“Accessing,” Sasha said.

“Anyone else heard of it?” No one had. “Leona?” He singled out specifically. “Ramses? No?”

They shook their heads again in confirmation.

Sasha began to regurgitate the information, “Quantum Colony is a stellar neighborhood-wide role-playing immersion game that takes place as far into the galaxy from Gatewood as any interstellar ship has been capable of reaching since the launch of Project Stargate in the year 2250. Players are expected to solve math equations to seek out new worlds that have been settled upon by quantum outposts. Once they cast their avatars to these systems, they are free to establish territory, build new structures, conduct research, initiate relations with other players and their worlds, and in a select few cases, carefully foster a native population of humans, aliens, or source variants.

“Leona?” he asked again simply.

“Well, I knew they were still trying to figure out what the hell they were going to do with all the data that Project Stargate and Project Topdown sent back, but we never found out the answer. There are hundreds of billions of star systems out there. I suppose one way to synthesize that data would be to...crowdsource it.”

“But they’re lying to the players,” Olimpia noted with airquotes. “They don’t think it’s real. That’s so unethical. I mean, what if a player starts a war, or something, thinking there are no consequences?”

They looked to Leona again, who still wasn’t sure what the solution would be. “I mean, I didn’t know anyone on Teagarden knew about Project Stargate, let alone had access to it. I can’t imagine that Team Keshida would have authorized something like this. They’re kind of all about secrecy. Ramses, you didn’t hear any whispers about the game?”

“They never said a word,” he answered honestly.

Leona looked at Hrockas. “Why do you think you’re in a simulation? How can you possibly not be able to tell that your consciousness is being actually cast to a base reality location?”

“They said it was designed to feel authentic,” Hrockas said, starting to get worried. “Are you being serious? We’re on a real planet?”

“Well, we’re on an asteroid,” Mateo said, “but yeah, it’s real. We came here in a real ship, and we’ve never heard of the game until now.”

Hrockas averted his gaze from the group, seeking guidance maybe from his god of choice. “I had sex with those people.”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought it was a simulation! Everybody does it. I flew down there in secret, blended in, and interacted with some of the people. Like my real one, this substrate is partially organic, so I still have needs. I mean, it was consensual, though, I didn’t claim to have any power over them. It was just two people, sometimes three or four—”

“Okay, we don’t need the details, thank you.”

Hrockas shook his head in utter despair. “Why would they do this? I guess it would be fine if they locked out all populated worlds, but...some of the others have life; they just don’t have evolved and intelligent life. That can’t be right either.”

“Far be it for any of us to successfully debate such nuanced ethical considerations,” Leona said.

“Who’s them that did this?” Olimpia questioned. “Who on Teagarden would we need to speak to? Is there, like, a company?”

“We don’t have companies anymore, but there is a governing organization,” Hrockas disclosed. “If not all of the members know the truth, at least a portion of them do. If I screw up, a moderator knows, and threatens my account. I bet my moderator is aware.”

“How do we contact them?” Mateo asked.

“Pretty easy,” Hrockas said as he was walking over to one of the base model pods. He reached behind it, and they could hear beeping noises. Then he physically separated the pod from its place, which revealed a second pod in a recess in the wall. It wasn’t a base model, but a unique individual. He flipped a switch from red to green.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, the body woke up, and opened the glass hatch. The apparent moderator climbed out, and oriented herself. She studied the crowd watching her intently. “Hrockas, what did you do?”

“They say this isn’t a game,” he said to her in an accusing tone. “They say this is a real planet, with real people on it.”

She took a beat before responding, surely trying to decide if there was some way for her to maintain the lie, even after all this. There wasn’t. The proverbial cat was out of the bag. She looked up at the clock in the corner of the room. “Time of veil removal, zero-sixteen on March 9, 2367 Earthan Standard. I’ll have to return to Teagarden to give them the news: Phase I is officially over.”

“Screw your return,” Mateo raised his voice a little. “We want answers. What ever gave you the right to treat these people like NPCs?”

The mod breathed in deeply, and fluttered her lips as she exhaled. “Are you kidding me right now? The whole purpose of Project Stargate and Operation Starseed is to run one giant interstellar social experiment. The fact that we’re observing our subjects should come as no surprise to anyone. We always knew the double blind study would end, and transition to a blind study, and then later end completely. We just didn’t know when. Your arrival in apparent physical form has made that day today. Now I have to go back to Teagarden to tell my superiors about this.”

“No, you’re not doing that at all,” Leona argued. “I know how this goes. Your bosses will decide that the experiment hasn’t actually ended, as long as no one here tells anybody else.”

“We’re not murderers,” the mod argued.

“Perhaps you would not see is as murder. Perhaps you wouldn’t have to kill, but exile us to an expendable planet, and destroy the terminal behind us.”

“Don’t give them any ideas, love,” Mateo warned.

“True.”

“Just so I’m understanding you right,” the mod began, “you’re refusing to allow me to return to Teagarden, and are instead holding me hostage.”

“You’re not a hostage,” Leona contended. “No, we can’t let you go, but we’re not going to use you as a bargaining chip. We don’t even know if they care about you. It’s entirely possible that they’ll scrub the entire solar system, including you, to cover this up. We just don’t have enough information about who you people are. We are close friends with the two individuals who oversaw the automated construction of the seeder ships. We know they did it for the Earthan government at the time, but also that not everyone was privy to the truth. Until we speak to them, no one is going anywhere.”

“I can’t imagine that they’re involved in this,” Mateo noted.

“I don’t understand how they could possibly not know,” Ramses negated.

“Sasha?” Leona asked. “Figure out how to get me into one of those pods, and cast my mind to Gatewood. I’m going to speak with them directly.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Ramses, I’m going to need you to stay here, so you can monitor systems from this end. Sasha, it’s not that I don’t trust you, but...”

“But you don’t trust me,” Sasha finished. “I understand. You can’t offend me, Aunt Leona.”

“I’m going too,” Mateo decided. “I think I know the two of them better than you.”

“Indeed,” Leona admitted. “Sasha?”

“Two pods, coming right up.”

It was a lot more difficult than Sasha presumed. The pods themselves were easy, but locating the quantum signature for their target was a bit more involved. A ship traveling at relativistic speeds made the calculations exponentially more complex. Even a reframe engine would throw them off. The first step was figuring out that that was what was happening in the first place. Apparently, the centrifugal cylinders were no longer orbiting Barnard’s Star at all, but on the move to a new destination. In the end, however, she figured it out, and got it working. Leona and Mateo entered the pods, and cast their consciousnesses to Cylinder One, which was evidently somewhere in the middle of interstellar space.

A technician greeted them on the other side, and helped them acclimate to their new environment. This wasn’t the first time they switched substrates, but it was still a little jarring, since they were using a different technique, which maintained their connection to their real bodies. The time difference made it even weirder. Once they were ready, they demanded to see Team Keshida, but the tech shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. We’ve not seen either of them in almost ninety years.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Leona said. “Ramses spoke with them a couple of years ago.”

“Perhaps they were communicating across time,” the tech suggested.

“No, they made reference to something that occurred a couple of years prior.”

“Did they say they were still in the Collective? Because...we weren’t. We left Gatewood almost as long ago.”

“Where are you going?” Mateo asked.

“Torosia,” he answered.

“Never heard of it.”

“I have,” Mateo said. “They used to call it Durus.”

The tech nodded. “We’ve chosen to join forces, and develop a new society of human outcasts.”

“Have you ever heard of something called Quantum Colony?” Leona asked her.

“Is that a band, errr...?”

“All right. Well, thank you for your hospitality, but we’re going to have to cut this short.” She looked to her husband. “We’ll strategize with the team, but I’m pretty sure our next stop will have to be Teagarden.”

They only spent a few minutes on the cylinder, but almost the whole day passed for their team on the outpost, because the Gatewooders were traveling at relativistic speeds. Teagarden would have to wait until next year. It would be up to Sasha to make sure Hrockas or the moderator didn’t try any funny business in the meantime.

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Extremus: Year 17

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The ship has been running smoothly for the last two years, though they remain short one Omega, and one Valencia. One thing that Ovan never counted on was the fact that Halan would be onto his plans, and thwart him at every turn. What Ovan wants is to create a divide between the passengers and the crew, and not really because of any particular hatred he has for people who are in service of others, but because those are the two most obvious camps on the vessel. Had he grown up on Earth, he likely would have done the same thing between organic humans and mechs, and on Ansutah, he would have incited premature war against the Maramon. He wants to create a stir—but not chaos—inside of a complex dynamic that puts him at the center of everything. No matter what happens; no matter who wins this conflict, he’ll be recorded in the ship’s logs as the primary historical figure. He knows he won’t live long enough to reach the Extremus planet, but if students one day learn about him, it’ll be like he survived. That’s what he really wants out of life, to be remembered, and if Halan is going to come out on top, he has to find a way to make Ovan think he’s achieved that without actually giving anything up.

He’s back in Perran’s office. This is their pattern, apparently, where the Captain seeks guidance from the Admiral only every several years. In the meantime, he’s supposedly just been rotting down here. There’s no rule against him mingling with the rest of the crew, or the guests, but he rarely does. The now pretty old man is tapping on the rim of his glass. He doesn’t act like an alcoholic. He gives Halan the impression that he pours one glass in the morning, and sips on it throughout the entire day. “I do have an idea, but you’re not gonna like it.”

“I...would not expect to,” Halan replies.

“A long time ago, on Earth there was a politician. I don’t remember his name, I’m sure the history warped his story anyway. No one took books to Ansutah, so everything was word of mouth until our ancestors could write things down again. So forgive me if you’ve heard this one, and know more about it than I do. But here’s how it was told to me. There was a politician,” he repeats. “He didn’t care about other people. He helped pass laws that supported the rich people who gave money to his campaign.  He had a weirdly open philosophical stance. He, for whatever reason, hated people with disabilities. People in wheelchairs, seeing-eye dogs, and the like. He didn’t simply not worry about making sure they were okay. He actively worked against their best interests, always trying to take money from programs that would help them, and reallocating it to those rich friends. I don’t know how he kept getting elected since he was such a clearly repulsive person. I suppose it was all that money.

“Anyway, one day, this unnamed politician gets into a land vehicle accident. He’s paralyzed from the waist down; has to sit in a wheelchair. Oh, suddenly these public welfare programs don’t seem so ridiculous. He does a complete one-eighty, and starts trying to make his life easier by requiring ramps be installed at certain facilities, and demanding car companies do more research on accessible operating technologies. He didn’t become a saint overnight, mind you. His priorities changed, because his own circumstances changed. He remained the kind of politician whose only concern was himself. Still, even though the only reason he switched platforms was to help himself, the results were the same. Businesses had to install ramps to accommodate all of their customers, and hand-operated cars were better than they were before. Everyone benefited because this asshole became one of them. So, Captain, that’s what you’ll have to do if you want to stop Ovan Teleres from turning the passengers against you. To stop him from taking the ship from you, you have to give it to him.”

“I have to make him one of the crew?” Halan asks, knowing the answer.

“You don’t have to do anything, but his platform will disappear from under him if he becomes one of the people he hates so much. He can’t convince others to rise up if he too lives on the top of the hill.”

Halan sighs, and can’t believe he’s actually considering this. “A member of the passenger government can’t be part of the crew.”

“Bonus,” Thatch says. “He can’t campaign for a third shift.”

“What role would I give him?” Halan presses. “I can’t give him power, because he’ll still do bad things with it, but if I make him a janitor, then he won’t really feel like he’s won.”

“What are your Lieutenant’s responsibilities?”

“I’m not making him my Lieutenant, that would be absurd. Mercer has been great, and Ovan certainly doesn’t deserve that. I just said he can’t have power.”

“I never said you should give him Mercer’s job. What are his responsibilities?”

“Well, he’s first line of defense for me. He responds to conflicts, and brings me in when they can’t resolve themselves.”

“He has power, right?”

“Yes, he can put people on suspension, or even in hock. He can alter work schedules, change a passenger’s living conditions, and give orders, to a certain degree.”

Thatch nods, pretending that this is all news to him. “Sounds like a busy man.”

“It’s the hardest job on the ship. Mine is considered more difficult because of the pressure of being in charge, but as far as day-to-day work goes, he definitely has more to do.”

Thatch nods again. “You know that I was on the committee that formed the structure of the ship’s crew, right?”

“Obviously. That’s why they selected you for this job.”

“What you may not know is that the original plan was to give you two people; one on your right, one on your left. The idea was to have a coordinator who responded to issues without being able to do anything about them themselves. If necessary, they would run it up the chain, and let the real Lieutenant make decisions. You were never meant to even be this involved, but in the end, we decided that this was unnecessary. It made the captain’s seat far too cushy, and kind of pointless. Still, we didn’t just make the lieutenant the captain, and the second lieutenant the only lieutenant. All of the second lieutenant’s duties were absorbed into the one lieutenant position, and the captain became more accessible to the crew, which is what has made your job busier.”

“Okay...” Halan says. “So you’re suggesting we vote to make a new second lieutenant rank?”

Thatch smiles and shakes his head. “You don’t have to vote. The framework for the second lieutenant is written into the bylaws. You can institute it whenever you want, unilaterally. You can give Ovan that rank without asking anybody for permission, and that rank will look like power, but not actually come with any power. Mercer would still have to be called in if the situation demanded disciplinary action, or some other decision.”

“How long is the second lieutenant shift?”

Thatch leans back, and acknowledges a problem. “Well, see, that’s the thing. It’s a sixteen year stint, designed to promote a little bit of continuity when the captain and first lieutenant both retire at the same time. That’s in the bylaws too, and you would not be able to change it without a crew vote. I wouldn’t recommend doing that, though, because then Ovan would sniff out your deceptive plan.”

“I just don’t know if I can bring myself to force Ovan Teleres upon the next captain.”

“You would still be there, to help them, like I’m helping you right now.”

“Well, if Second of Nine comes to me with their problems as infrequently as I come to you, then that probably won’t be good enough.”

Thatch takes the first sip he’s had since Halan came in. “Believe me, I know it, brother. There is a possible way to social engineer that problem away too, but you’re not gonna like it any more than my last idea.”

Halan chuckles and shakes his head. “What would that be?”

“Bring me into the light.”

“What does that mean?”

“An admiral can’t do anything without the captain’s invitation. If you put me on the bridge, and give me a fake job, it will set a precedent. Second of Nine will be more likely to do the same for you. Maybe even more so, since you have actual experience with their job.”

“Is this what you’ve been vying for, a job?”

“Yes it’s all part of my evil plan to assume control of the lights. You know that’s there, right? There’s a person on the bridge whose entire job is to make sure the internal lighting system doesn’t waste energy. That could all be automated with simple infrared sensors, but we chose to use a human. And do you know why we did that?”

“No, Perran, why?”

“So that you could assign that role to the dumbest person on the crew, which gives you one opportunity per shift to avoid firing someone without giving them any chance to fuck up anything important.”

“So you wanna be the lights guy?”

“It’s not for me, it’s for you.”

“Sure, yeah, sure.”

“The second captain won’t make you the lights guy. They’ll give you something meaningful, which keeps you in their ear, which is what you’re looking for. I know you don’t need much help from me, but your successor will quite likely need help from you. Isn’t giving me the lights worth the confidence you’ll have that you did everything you could to make yourself a real admiral?”

“Just to recap, you want to be the Lighting Technician, and you want one of the greatest threats to the prosperity of this ship to be Second Lieutenant of the crew?”

“Well, when you say it in that voice, it makes me sound like an ass.”

“It’s not the voice.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I’m gonna talk to Mercer about this.”

“I would hope so.”

“I’ll also be consulting with the Consul to make sure everything is legal.”

“Seems reasonable.”

“If this is some trick...”

Thatch looks genuinely offended by the accusation. “One day, Captain.” He stands up, and downs the rest of his drink. “One day you’ll see that you can trust me. And that will be the day that I died.” He then walks out of the office, and into his cabin.

Halan isn’t going to do anything if his real lieutenant, Eckhart Mercer isn’t okay with it. Like he was saying, his is the hardest job, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like it, or doesn’t want to keep it the way it is. He won’t force anything upon him, but he will still try to convince him that this is the right call. They’ve been dealing with Ovan for the last five years, and haven’t come up with any better ideas in that time. He sits his best friend down, and lays out the plan.

Mercer widens his eyes, and breathes in deeply, but it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. “Oh my God, yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes! Why didn’t we think of this before? He can’t turn people against us if he’s one of us, of course! Plus, it will give me more time to play Quantum Colony.”

“Is that a band, errr?”

“It’s a role-playing video game that’s based on the whole galaxy. You start out on Teagarden, where your avatar has been given access to a quantum terminal, which will allow you to cast your consciousness to any world that has a Project Stargate outpost on it already. At this point in history, that’s only thirty-six light years from Gatewood, but it’s always expanding. Everyone on the ship is playing it, you’ve never heard of it?”

“What do you do when you get to these planets?”

“You explore, and you build structures, and sometimes you even have a population to take care of. But that’s pretty rare, and players who find those worlds are pretty protective of them. It operates in realtime, so not much has happened yet, but you can communicate with other planets, and establish diplomatic relations. Theoretically, you could also start a war, but I’ve never heard of any interstellar wars.”

“Hm. I don’t think that’s my kind of thing.”

“Well, I’m obsessed with it. Don’t worry, it doesn’t eat into my responsibilities, but honestly, I could do with a little more downtime. I think the second lieutenant rank is a great idea, whether we give it to our enemy, or not.”

“If you’re cool, then I’m gonna talk to Legal.”

“Definitely. Do you want me to come with you?”

Halan squints at him with suspicion. “I feel like you really just want to play Quantum Colony instead?”

“Not gonna lie, Captain.”

“Very well. At ease.”

Now they have a goal, but they don’t have a real plan. In order to pull this off, they’re going to have to strategize. That will take time.

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Microstory 1750: Wolves in the Woods

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Every night it’s the same thing. I’m creeping through the forest, trying to find a safe place to hide. Even though I dream of the same place every time, I don’t always remember at first what it is I’m running from. Sometimes I’m not even running from anything, but towards something good. Only later do I learn that there are wolves all around me. One is angry, one is sad. Another is guilty, and yet another is hateful. Some of them try to attack me, but mostly they just attack each other, fighting over prey. I try to keep them apart, but that usually only makes things worse. They battle it out, and whoever wins is how I’ll feel in the morning. The wolves do not merely have these feelings themselves, but represent them. It’s not just an angry wolf, but the wolf of anger, and every time it wins, I wake up angry. Of course, the wolves aren’t real, this is just my subconscious preparing me for the day ahead, upon a foundation of the days behind. I’m not angry because my anger wolf won. The anger wolf won because I’m angry. Presumably, I heard The Tale of Two Wolves when I was young, and it stuck with me in a profound way. Everyone supposedly has two wolves inside of them, fighting each other, which determine your personality. The one who wins is the one you feed. I don’t feed any of my wolves. I guess I’ve always considered that their problem. None of them has died yet, I’ll tell you that much, but honestly, the wolf of contentment hasn’t been looking too good these days. I dream of nothing but my wolves. One of my many therapists once suggested I keep a dream journal, because he figured I actually was having other dreams, but I was just so focused on the one that I never remembered the other symbolic stories. He was wrong. It is only the wolves in the woods.

I’m seeing a new therapist today who specializes in hypnosis. I’m hoping she can get into my head, and perhaps take the wolves out. It would be nice if I could dream about something not so bloody on the nose. I mean, the wolves are a metaphor, but it’s so obvious, it makes me feel like such a basic person. My subconscious mind can’t come up with something more clever—maybe something slightly more difficult to interpret? Really? Hell, I’ll take walking into school with no clothes on, or my teeth falling out, just to get some variety, even though those are still basic. The hypnotist sits me down in a chair, but after we get to talking, she decides that hypnosis is not for me. She doesn’t think it’s going to help, but she thinks maybe I can handle the problem on my own. My issue is that I have no control over the dreams, so they consume me. It’s like the wolves are deciding who I am without giving me any say. If I want to interact with them, I have to assume control. I have to learn how to have lucid dreams. She says to restart the dream journal, that it will help me, but also gives me some books which spell out some other techniques. Not all methods work on everybody, so I need to find what fits me. I read the books cover to cover, and formulate a plan. Then I go to sleep, and enter the woods. All of the wolves are in one place this time, sitting quietly in a pack, apparently waiting for my instructions. “All right, wolves,” I say. “We’re gonna do this in an orderly fashion. No more fighting for scraps. We hunt together, we dine together. Everyone gets their fair share.” From then on, I continue to have the same dream, but I’m in charge now. The wolf who wins is the one I feed? If that’s true, then I’m going to try to stay balanced, not even bothering to kill the negative wolves. I’m going to feed them all.

Microstory 1749: Balance Board

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Life is all about balance, ya know? Don’t eat too much fat, but don’t eat none at all. Playing video games is fine as long as that’s not all you do. We don’t ever stand on one leg, or keep one eye shut while we’re driving. A lot of people like the cold, and a lot prefer the heat, but just about everyone is at least fine in mild temperatures, right in the middle. That’s really what it is, isn’t it? When in doubt, stay in the middle, and be ready to move to either side as new information comes along, metaphorically speaking. Balance has been no more important to me in my life than it is today. I actually am standing on one leg. My right eye is closed, I’m playing a driving simulation—not a racing game, but one that simulates following the rules within typical traffic scenarios—and I’m expected to finish something they call a lard shake with a crazy straw. To make matters worse, the room goes from scalding hot to near freezing in a matter of minutes. If I pass this last challenge, I’ll win the million dollars, but if I don’t I’ll have to pay as much. That’s why they call this show Balance Board. Right now, the board is at plus or minus a million. By the end of the contest, that number has to go back to zero, whether it comes out of my pocket, or the show’s budget. What I’m doing is betting on myself. In the first challenge, I was only asked to bet a hundred dollars that I could walk on a straight line of tape on the floor. No big deal, right? If I had lost, it would have been over, and I would have owed, but I would have been all right. Believe it or not, people have lost that challenge, and nobody wants to be that contestant. It’s so embarrassing, and those people usually never get over their tainted reputation.

The second challenge is the same thing, except instead of tape, it’s a balance beam; just as narrow, but with a smaller margin of error. You’re still only betting 200 bucks at that point, but obviously the bets get higher, and the challenges get harder. You can stop anytime you want, of course, as long as you’ve not already begun the next stage, and that happens all the time. It’s a risk in more ways than one. Betting on yourself again shows that you have confidence in yourself, but if you fail, it can have a negative impact on your life. And I don’t just mean socially. Employers look at your Balance Board record, and take it into consideration when deciding whether you would be a good fit for the organization. Giving up is worse than going for it and losing in most people’s minds, but not everyone’s. The only way to truly be safe is to win the whole darn thing. It’s rarer to get this far, and even rarer to succeed, but if you do, it pretty much sets you up for life. It’s a national phenomenon, but most contests aren’t broadcast nationwide. Every city has its own local programming. They only put you on the national circuit if they think you’re gonna go far, or if they want the attention you’ll receive to make things even more stressful for you. For me, I’m sure it’s the latter reason. I’m sure I looked like an underdog to them. They lucked out, because I’m just about to do it. Five more seconds, and...there! I’ve done it! I can’t believe it, I’ve actually won! One million bucks, baby, tax free! “Congratulations!” the announcer shouts. “And now, something we’ve never done before: an extra challenge! For the two million dollars, complete the next level in the traffic game, just as you did it before, but in the center of a wooden plank that’s laid between two high-rises, with no net below. As always, the choice is yours, but once you’ve made it—say it with me, folks!” The audience joins in, “ALL! BETS! ARE! OFF!”

Microstory 1748: My Future as a Hare

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Everyone in the galaxy has a right to immortality, unless they lose it by committing a severe enough crime, but not all forms of immortality are created equal. We’re all ageless, but how old you look—and feel—when you stop aging, is dependent upon a number of factors. You can be awarded lagomorphic status, as they call it, upon your own merits. Good people lead infinite lives, unless they become bad, in which case their lagomorphicity can be removed from them. Some buy their way into status, often worried that they won’t be worthy of achieving it on their own, or because they’re children whose parents don’t have confidence in them. But again, just because you’ve been accepted into the program, doesn’t mean you’re going to be young and healthy forever. There are three primary classes of lagomorphic immortals. Pikas appear as children, which could mean they were children when they underwent the procedure, or because their age was sufficiently reversed. They may not have been the one to make this choice. The most common of the lagomorphs are Rabbits, who look like adults. The last class are the Hares, which is what I have recently become. They’re not constantly on the brink of death, but they’re not super healthy either. I suppose I should be saying we at this point. I would rather be a Rabbit. Pikas are often not taken seriously, because they look so young, but at least they’re healthy. Hares, like me now, apparently, are riddled with general aging problems, which can’t really be treated. We suffer for eternity. There is one upside in that we’re the ones who run the government. We make decisions about who receives the gift, and what kind. We can even transition people at will. I know what you’re thinking, but no, we can’t later choose to change ourselves into Rabbits or Pikas. That would be a conflict of interest, and a gross abuse of power.

Most of the time, a Hare has become that way because they have spent a lifetime proving themselves to be up to the challenge, and have kept themselves on track. They have usually refused to be turned into Rabbits specifically so they might one day be entrusted with the ongoing prosperity of our culture. Occasionally—and it is incredibly rare, according to everything I have ever heard about Hares—someone will be aged forward so that they become an elder after having only lived a relatively low number of mortal years. Why this happens is a closely guarded secret. It’s happened to me, and I still don’t know whether someone did it on purpose, or if my body reacted to the treatment in a unique way. I don’t know why I’m like this. As I said, I’ve always just wanted to be a normal Rabbit. I have no interest in making decisions, or in wearing a diaper until the end of time. I don’t think all Hares have to do that, but it’s not unheard of, and no thank you. Right now, I’m waiting in The Great Hall for someone to retrieve me, and give me some sort of assignment. I’m sure most people understand the process at this point, but I don’t pay much attention to politics, so I don’t know how the distribution of power works. It’s been two hours. I would complain about them making an old man wait this long, but they’re old too, so they’re probably pretty slow. Finally, the gargantuan doors open, and I just get the feeling that I’m meant to step in. I walk up to the Grand Council, and stand before them patiently. I have never even seen their faces before. Honestly, it’s a huge honor. “Welcome. The sad news is that a member of our council has chosen to die after centuries of service. The bad news is...you were selected to replace her.”

Microstory 1747: Little Lion

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I’m a nomadic lion, which means that I don’t belong to a pride. This is not by choice, as it is for most of my kind. I was the runt of the family, so my mother rejected and abandoned me. I should have died in the wild, having never learned how to survive, but I figured it out. I figured out what to eat, and what not to. I taught myself how to hunt, and where to find water. If only my mom could see me now. I’m full-grown, but not much larger than I was before, relatively speaking. You might think that makes it harder on me, but I have found it to be an advantage. Prey animals think of me as a baby, and while they are worried about mama being around here somewhere, they always underestimate me. Yes, it’s harder for me to run and pounce, but I don’t have to when my meal doesn’t consider me too much of a threat, and lets me get close before becoming worried about it. Yes, I’m doing okay, all things considered. I wouldn’t say this is a great life, and I doubt I’ll ever find a suitable mate, but at least I’m alive, and I understand how to keep myself that way. I will say that I’m fairly sick of it, wandering around without the protection or companionship of others. I’ve made a few attempts to join other prides, but they always run me off. They would kill me if, again, they thought I was any real threat. They don’t think I deserve to share in the food we would catch together. They don’t think I can contribute, and that’s not fair. They have no idea what I have to offer. I’ve decided to give up, and focus on being the best version of my lonesome self. If no one else can appreciate me, then I guess I have to work extra hard to make sure I appreciate myself, and maintain my self-esteem. It’s their loss.

One day, I’m walking over the grasslands, trying to pick up the scent of a sounder of warthogs. They’re pretty mean and rowdy, but they’re smaller than giraffes, so they’re kind of all I can handle on my own. My nose picks up something. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s not a warthog. I keep going, and pretty quickly realize it to be the blood of my own kind. Another lion is hurt nearby, and I feel compelled to go investigate. I really shouldn’t. It’s none of my business, I don’t know how I could help them, and it’s not like they would try if our roles were reversed. I can’t help it, though. I have to find out what happened. Perhaps some super predator has shown up, and I’m in danger here. That is a good enough reason for me to follow the trail, right? As I draw nearer, I imagine the horrific crime scene I’m about to encounter. Blood and guts everywhere, I don’t know which parts connect to which other parts. Vultures feasting on the remains. But that’s not what it is. It’s a female, probably around my age. She’s injured enough to not be able to move on her own, but she’s not drenched in her own blood. I instinctively begin to lick her wounds. When the vultures actually do come, I scare them off with my pathetic excuse for a roar. It wouldn’t be good enough to impress another lion, but the birds are sufficiently disturbed. I continue to watch over the lioness as her cuts heal on their own. She won’t tell me what happened to her, but I get the impression that she too had some kind of falling out with her pride. Once she’s well enough, we walk together to a safer location, where I can leave her to hunt. I drag carcasses back to our den to keep her fed. It’s a lot of work for a little guy like me, but I make it work. One day, she runs off without even a thank you, and I figure that I’ll never see her again. But then she comes back with a carcass of her own as what she calls the thank you. Then we start our family.