Microstory 1756: Bee of Paradise

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I’ve moved past the most traumatic experience of my life, and I’ve been able to reach some semblance of normalcy. I can’t say that it no longer affects me, but it at least no longer consumes me. I have prosthetic feet now, and while I can’t feel sensations down there anymore, I can walk just fine. I don’t even tell people my situation anymore, because it’s not relevant, and they can’t tell. I’m happy now. I have a better job than before, with better benefits. My boss calls me her busy bee, so she forced me to take a vacation, which is why I’ve agreed to this island getaway. I still find it rather difficult to trust others, which is one reason I’ve come alone, but I decided that I’m okay with that. This is about recharging my batteries, and remembering what I want out of life. It goes well at first, but then I start to get a bad feeling as I’m walking around the resort, and my excursions. I can’t point to an actual reason for my spidey senses sounding sirens, but I don’t think I’m imagining it. There is an evolutionary advantage to detecting the presence of a potential threat even when you can’t pin it down. Something or someone is out there who doesn’t want to be seen.  They’re watching me, and making me nervous. I keep telling myself that I might just be paranoid, but the sirens don’t go away. I really don’t think I’m making this up. I can’t ask for help, of course, because what is who going to do? The staff isn’t qualified to suss out a hypothetical stalker, and the police never help. I have no proof, just my instincts. I try to shrug it off, but the feeling grows worse, and I catch a glimpse of a shadow every once in a while. Finally, I cancel all of the activities I had planned for one day, and lock myself in the room. It’s not enough.

Presumably having decided he’s ready to show himself, my stalker breaks down the door, and enters my room. I didn’t come with pepper spray, or anything, so I’m helpless to fight him off. I head for the balcony, but I’m on the eleventh floor, so I don’t know where I thought I was going with that. It’s him. It’s the one who abducted me from my own home, and burned my feet so badly that they had to amputate both of them. They said they caught him, and he committed suicide by cop. How could they have been so wrong? Did they not look for evidence after the incident? Did they just assume they shot the right guy, and let it go? Who did they actually shoot? Obviously I shouldn’t be worrying about any of this right now; I just need to get away from him. I don’t know how he found me. I don’t even know what he wants with me, or how he knows me. But I know it’s the same man, and I know I can’t just run away. I won’t let him hurt me again, though. I’m going to fight back. I’m going to fight back hard. Not doing that before has been my greatest regret, and while I can’t go back in time and change it, I can do better this time. First, I scream. No one comes running before he manages to cover my mouth with his gloved hand, but that doesn’t mean they never will. It’s the off-season, but there are plenty of other guests here, and hopefully they’re not all at the bonfire. My attacker is stronger, so it’s not hard for him to overpower me, gag me, and start dragging me down the emergency stairs. My right foot gets caught on the edge of a step, and falls off, which gives me an idea. When we’re on a landing, I swing my left leg up, and take hold of my remaining foot. Hitting him once in the face is enough to get him to let go. Then I start bashing him over and over again until he stops moving. Only then does someone come to my rescue, but it’s too late. This time, I’m here to make sure he’s dead.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 10, 2368

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Hrockas and the Quantum Colony moderator, whose name was Sjualotl, were able to hang out in the quantum terminal in the Pluoraia system for a year without anyone getting suspicious, since disappearing for as long was not uncommon in this time period. They didn’t like it, but to them, it was less of a violation of their rights, and more of a medium-level inconvenience. Now, try to hold them for another year, and things could get dicey. Fortunately for them, the situation should be resolved by then. When the team returned to the timestream after their interim year, they immediately prepared to cast themselves to their next destination, which would hopefully give them answers as to what this whole rat maze immersion game was all about, and whether it was ends-justify-the-means understandable, or totally nefarious.

Teagarden was a terrestrial planet of comparable surface gravity to Earth. It orbited its red dwarf host star in a matter of days. Teegarden’s Star was named after one of its discoverers, and this obviously inspired the planet’s name too, like many other colony worlds in the stellar neighborhood. There was technically a second terrestrial planet in the same system, but it was far less hospitable than Teagarden, so it was reserved primarily for resource mining. Make no mistake, like nearly every other damn exoplanet in the neighborhood, Teagarden was not naturally habitable either; its Terrestrial Habitability Similarity Index rating being far below something that people called open sky standards, which was exactly as it sounded. If you couldn’t stand on the surface without a vacuum suit and breathe on your own, it didn’t have an open sky. Teagarden was a particularly poor candidate for geoengineering, which meant it would probably never have an open sky. As far as the neighborhood radius went, only Thālith al Naʽāmāt Bida fell into the first class, though with enormous caveats, while Bungula was the only one in the second. Planets like Pluoraia were far, few between, and coveted.

Teagarden’s population was complicated. It was not open for colonization, but limited to those selected, or approved, for very specific purposes. Colony was probably a strong word for it, and perhaps should have always been called an outpost. Notably, it was designated predominantly for military personnel. This military was unlike anything Earth had in previous eras. There were no more nation states, paramilitary operations, separatist radicals, or corporate security firms. There was the greater good, and there was the individual, and the only time any sort of authority was called to action was if one threatened the other, or themselves internally. As of yet, no two planets harbored any hostile sentiments towards each other, but that was not outside the realm of possibility. The Teagarden Fleet was created in order to be ready to quell any such eventuality, should it ever come to pass. That was why they built it on another planet; so that it did not appear to have any preference over any one world. Technically, soldiers were being trained to fight against some kind of alien threat as well, but a few of the higher ups had relationships with time travelers, who assured them that true aliens did not exist.

“Is that all?” Olimpia asked once the presentation was over.

“I hope not, this is fascinating,” Angela said.

“I think that’s all you need to know to get your answers,” Sjualotl said. She was being a cooperative hostage, and God willing, not lying.

“Well, we need to know how they’re going to react when we show up,” Leona said.

“I can help with that,” Ramses said.

“Something that Team Keshida told you in one of your secret correspondences, no doubt,” Mateo sort of joked.

“They weren’t secret, I just didn’t mention them,” Ramses defended himself. “I figured you weren’t telling me about your conversations either; not just that you weren’t having them. And no, not with Keshida. Hokusai and Loa, they also had relationships with Teagarden, and the Earthan government. There’s a protocol for making contact, which will allow us to jump the line, and speak directly to someone who knows what we are, and what we do.” He didn’t say anything else.

“Okay,” Leona urged. “What’s the protocol?”

“Oh, these three don’t need to know it.” Ramses gestured towards Sasha, Hrockas, and Sjualotl.

“Oh, honey, I was in charge of your communications, I know everything already,” Sasha said.

“Fine, those two.”

“Agreed,” Mateo said, defending Ramses too. “You’ll take point on this one.”

Angela took a half step towards Sjualotl. “This is all great..as long as she’s being honest with us, and people with guns don’t kill us as soon as we wake up in the pods on the other side.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Kivi revealed. “I’ve been there. Well...one of me has.”

“Anything to elaborate on?” Leona asked.

“Nah, I wasn’t there long,” Kivi answered.

“Anyway,” Ramses began, “if they do shoot us, our minds will just revert to our real bodies. There’s a difference between an avatar cast, and a full cast.”

“That’s, um—uhh,” Sjualotl said before regretting even making a peep.

“What?” Leona demanded. “Tell us.”

“A long time ago there was this movie called Surrogates,” Sjualotl continued, knowing that backpedaling now would just make things worse for her.

“I just watched that,” Olimpia said in excitement. “This will be the first time my consciousness has ever occupied another body, so it seemed fitting.”

Mateo looked over at Ramses, unsure whether he had ever done it either.

His friend picked up on his psychic message, and nodded his head. He was from what Mateo would call the future, but not this far down the timeline. He must have done it for some reason other than visiting another planet.

“Well, there’s a plot point in that movie where someone has a weapon that can kill casters. It doesn’t just kill the surrogate body, but the mind of the person who is occupying it at the time. Teagarden has that, and no one else knows, and I probably shouldn’t be telling you.”

Angela shook her head to dismiss the concern. “So, if we’re killed in the Matrix, we die in real life. How is that any worse than the risks we take every single day?”

“She has a good point,” Mateo said.

Sjualotl shrugged it off. “Okay.”

“All right, on that note, Sasha...?” She clapped her hands once. “Load the program.”

The six of them cast their consciousnesses to avatar substrates in one of Teagarden’s many quantum terminals. They normally wouldn’t be able to get past the access restrictions, but Ramses knew how to break through as part of that protocol Hokuloa taught him. When they woke up in the pods, just as Angela warned, people with guns had those guns trained on each one of their heads. They instinctively held up their hands to show themselves as a non-threat.

Ramses was coolest of all. “Dougnanimous Brintantalus,” he uttered with feeling. Mateo wasn’t sure why he could tell that it was Ramses, since they were all now wearing the exact same base model, but when he looked at him, he just knew that it couldn’t be anyone else.

“Oh my God,” Leona whispered to herself. Her influence upon the timeline stretched further than she ever considered possible.

Some of the soldiers twitched, and some of them didn’t, but they all fell down like they were dead.

“What did you do to them?” Olimpia asked. She knelt down and checked one’s pulse. “She’s dead.”

“The body is empty,” Ramses clarified. “She’s not dead. She’s just in her own body, and asleep.”

“I didn’t come up with that trust password with the intention of it being used as a weapon,” Leona argued.

“And it’s not a weapon,” Ramses retorted. “Did you notice some of them twitched? Those people were cast back to their bodies, and placed under a deep sleep, while the others were already in their own bodies, so they fell asleep right here. But everybody’s fine, and we’re not gonna get caught.”

“Why didn’t anything happen to us?” Olimpia questioned.

“Because I helped load the transfer program,” Ramses replied. “The six of us are immune.”

“Seven.” A seventh base model crawled out of a pod, and like everyone else, Mateo could just tell that it was Hrockas.

“What are you doing here?” Leona asked.

“I want answers too,” Hrockas claimed. “I’m not like Sjualotl, I didn’t know what was going on. If I had, I wouldn’t have played the game. Please, just let me help you figure this out.”

Leona was about to argue, but Mateo felt compelled to speak first. “We have a shorthand, and we trust each other, so just stay out of our way, and do everything we say. If any one of the six of us gives you an order, you just do it, okay?”

“I can do that,” Hrockas said.

“Now,” Mateo went on, “how long does it take for our DNA to change our new bodies to reflect what we actually look like?”

“If we had uploaded our genetic information to the program,” Ramses began, “a few days.”

“Okay, well...fine. Where to next?”

“I know who we should reach out to,” Kivi said. “Follow me, but allow me to get my bearings first as I was here physically before, and never had to visit the casting room.”

Kivi and Ramses consulted each other, and looked for the right path. They led the team in the wrong direction a few times, but eventually found the right place. It was the office of a nonbinary coordinator named Kennedy Avantan. Kivi knocked, and then whispered that she ought to do the talking. Kennedy opened it, and displayed no reaction to their arrival, because they looked like a set of identical septuplets. “I’m Kivi Bristol.”

“Wait here,” Kennedy said. They closed the door for a moment before returning with what looked strikingly like a noninvasive thermometer. They scanned Kivi’s eye with it, and assessed the results. “Okay, come on in.”

Their main office was not large enough for all of them, so Kennedy led them to another door, where a conference room sat empty. Everyone took their place around the table.

“What are you doing here in a base model?” Kennedy asked. “Where are you?”

“Pluoraia.”

Kennedy took a moment to think about it, but wasn’t sure they were familiar. They took out a tablet and searched for it. “Is one of you Hrockas Elindir?”

Hrockas raised his hand.

“So you’ve become aware of the program,” Kennedy rightly assumed.

“Kennedy,” Kivi started, “I came to you for help, because I thought you would be a good point of contact. I didn’t believe you would have anything to do with this Quantum Colony game that toys with people’s lives.”

“That was not my idea,” Kennedy insisted. “Only a handful of us are involved in the program. Only we know what the game really is. Many in the braintrust—I suppose you could call it—wanted QC to be limited to uninhabited planets. But there was this whole debate about what inhabited even means. If we find microbes, is that okay? What about vegetation? Where’s the line? I mean, most people understand that there’s a pretty big line between a planet with life on it, and a planet with intelligent and evolved life on it, but those were nuances that some of us were not willing to entertain. In the end, the other side won, and we decided to let players visit worlds that are part of Operation Starseed. They did agree to draw the line at truly alien populations, but...” They sort of stared into space with disappointment. “...we’ve not found any of those, as I’m sure you’re all aware. I imagine the rest of you are time travelers, like Kivi?”

“We are,” Leona replied. “Does everyone in this braintrust know about us?”

“No, just me and one other person,” Kennedy replied. “It’s rather a coincidence that the two secrets intersect in this office. There’s probably another time travel-aware person on this planet who also happens to be privy to military secrets that I know nothing about.”

“Okay,” Leona said. “Let’s get back to what matters. What’s the point of the program? Artificial intelligences were sent to all of the colonies to build quantum terminals, and other structures. Why do you need anyone to cast their consciousnesses to these worlds, be they aware of the truth, or not?”

“Why do we need any crew on colony ships? Why am I in the position I’m in? Why does any human, or descendant of humans, do anything ever? We don’t have to work anymore. AIs and robots could handle literally everything for us. But if we were to take that route, we wouldn’t be anything but children. We sent people to the colonies, because that’s what the colonies are for.”

“I thought they weren’t colonies,” Leona contended, “but outposts.”

“Again, what’s the point of an outpost if no one goes there. Look, let me try to explain it another way.” They considered their argument. “Every AI that we sent on a seed plate for Project Stargate had a singular directive. Land on an orbital, build certain structures, synthesize data, and then just go dormant. None of them is creative, none of them has an explorer’s spirit. They do the work they’re programmed to do, and can only overcome obstacles that get in the way of their goals. They don’t try new things, and come up with interesting ideas. The people in Quantum Colony have picked up where the AIs leave off. One player is constructing a Dyson swarm with a design that none of us would have thought of.” She indicated herself, plus all of her colleagues. “Another is altering the orbit of a super-terrestrial to both shed mass, and lower its surface gravity, and put it within its host star’s habitable zone. The game is a way to attract people to whom it never would have occurred to work in these fields. They’re figuring it out, because—aside from the Starseed worlds—there aren’t many consequences for their actions. If we had told them it was real, they would hold back, and not take risks.”

“Someone took a big risk, and it got people killed,” Leona said accusingly.

“What are you talking about?” Kennedy probably didn’t know what happened to Pluoraia. They only read the surface information about it on their tablet.

Before anyone could answer them, more people with guns burst into the conference room, and surrounded them. “I didn’t think they would catch us this quickly,” Ramses lamented.

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Extremus: Year 18

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It’s getting to be that time when the civilian government is preparing to elect the next administration of their civil servants. If tradition holds, Ovan Teleres will announce his intentions to run a third time for Passenger First Chair in about a week. Halan and Mercer decided to blitz him during this period, to give him enough time to not make such an announcement, but not so much time that others can talk him back into running. Here’s the deal. If Ovan joins the crew of the Extremus, he won’t be able to run for reëlection, because it would be a conflict of interest. He’ll technically be free to run for a civilian position after his shift ends, but only after a waiting period of five years, and by then, the electorate will have moved on. Now, Halan can’t guarantee that the following administrative changes will be any better than they are now, but his mother always told him, fight the monsters you can see before worrying about the ones you can’t.

The strategy for making this happen is simple, but it’s going to take both Halan and Mercer, and they’re going to have to be the best actors this ship has ever seen. They actually reached out to the Theatre Department Director for help. Yes, Extremus has a theatre department, so people have a little bit of entertainment while they’re waiting to die in a tin can in the middle of interstellar space. He was quite helpful, and while he doesn’t know everything about what’s going on, he’s politically unaligned with Ovan and his cronies, so he agreed to keep it hush-hush.

Right now, the two of them are waiting in Ovan’s antechamber. His assistant is on her computer, acting like she’s working on something important. In all probability, Halan is willing to bet she’s just playing Quantum Colony. The whole population is addicted. He’s considering starting a support group for the few who don’t play, but have to overhear the conversations about it all the fuckin’ time. They booked this meeting a month ago without telling Ovan completely what it’s about. All he knows is that they want to discuss crew-passenger relations, and based on the way they framed it, he’s probably expecting them to walk in there with hats in hands. Thinking he has the home team advantage, and the higher ground, he’s chosen to make them wait for it. That’s fine, there isn’t anything else to do today. Each of them gets time off from their responsibilities, and their vacation days don’t usually coincide, but it’s allowed to happen once per year in case the captain and lieutenant want to do something together. This bylaw wasn’t written thinking that anyone would use it for subterfuge, but it didn’t exclude it either.

Finally, he opens his door electronically, and the assistant knows to wave them on in. “Captain, Lieutenant! What can I do for you on this, the day of my daughter’s wedding?”

“Pardon me?” Halan questions.

“It’s a reference, sir,” Mercer explains. He’s playing his part well already, ashamed of needing to ask for help, and scared that his superior officer will forever look down on him for it.

“I see.”

“Please, have a seat,” Ovan says. There’s a difference between politeness and niceness, and they’re both wildly different from kindness. He’s very good at the first one, but he has no ability to conceptualize the last one. The second one is reserved for his so-called friends, unless they’re very good friends, in which case he’s meaner to them than anybody, because he believes their behavior reflects on him too much to let them be themselves. “Seriously, how can I help you?”

Halan hopes he can act as well as Mercer, but the theatre department director didn’t give him as much praise. He nods, and directs his attention to Mercer. “This is your show.”

Mercer looks back with puppy dog eyes, then clears his throat. “I need help.”

“With what?” Ovan asks.

“My job.”

“Just, in general, your whole job?”

“Yes.”

“It’s too hard for ya?”

“Yes.”

Ovan nods, desperately trying to hide his great pleasure at hearing this. “I’m sorry to hear that, but as you know, I’m obligated to the passengers. If you’re asking me to take on some of your duties, I’m afraid I can’t.”

Now Halan needs to take over. “Look, everyone knows you’ve been doing a great job here. Not to speak ill of the retired, but I would say you’re at least twice the Chair Satyria was.”

He can’t hide his glee this time. “I’m happy to hear you say that. I’ve never thought of you as...a fan.”

“It’s not something that has been easy for me to admit. I must..confess that, while I don’t hate the civilians, I certainly have always considered you...other. We’re not better than you, but I’ve probably run this ship with a little more...divide than there should be.” Using slightly improper grammar, and stammering, indicates that you’re not confident in your own words. You believe them, they’re true, but you don’t feel comfortable expressing them, and you’re worried about how you’ll be received, and perceived. Ovan has to feel the power here, so Halan has to fake submission.

“That’s very big of you to say. I’m sad to tell you that I agree. We are far more separate than is healthy, or prosperous.” He’s lying. He loves it.

Halan looks down towards the desk, and compresses the air above it with his hands, pretending to be searching for the words he practiced well, and has perfectly memorized. “My Lieutenant needs help. The crew needs a firm hand, besides myself. The civilians need a leader who understands both them, and that crew. I can’t make you my new lieutenant—I can’t decommission him—that would look awful. Fortunately, there’s a loophole. The bylaws included a special rank known as Second Lieutenant.” Special rank, that was Mercer’s idea. “If we institute it, it will greatly unburden Eckhart’s shoulders, and help us better communicate with the passengers. We already know you can do that. You’ve been proving it for the last six years. If you agree to this, the ship will run even smoother than it was before now, because you still hold power over those passengers, but you also have rank within the crew.” Within the crew, not over the crew.

He seems open to this idea, and his body language suggests that he wants to hear more.

Halan goes on, “you see, I’ve always wanted to command both.” This implies—but doesn’t verify—his own narcissism, which doesn’t exist, but Ovan thinks it does. “I’ve not been able to, because that’s not how we’re structured. It’s obviously a way to protect us from falling under a single authority, which could be quite dangerous with the wrong leadership. Like I said, you’re the loophole, because as a member of the crew, you don’t technically have control over what the passengers do, but as former Chair, people can’t help but listen to you.” He’s deliberately using the present tense in order to subliminally make Ovan feel like he has already accepted the position, and that the choice only exists in the future as a formality. This should still help things, even if he ends up not taking the job, because he’s just been told that he doesn’t have control, but it was framed in a nice, noncombative way, so Ovan isn’t compelled to argue, allowing this idea to germinate in his mind regardless.

Here’s the moment. Ovan’s first reaction can make or break this plan. If he so much as suspects that this is all just a way to get him out of power, it’s over. At that point, he could take the job, or leave it, but the ship would still end up pear-shaped. If he ever realizes what they’re doing, they’ll fail. He has to go on thinking that he’s won. They especially have to make it past the one-year mark, because if not, the government he leaves behind would likely allow him to forgo the five-year waiting period, and return to civil service. The bylaws are sketchy when it comes to who counts as a crewmember, and what happens if they quit before too long. He’s making them wait again.

Halan reaches down to the side of his knee on the sly, and gives Mercer a predetermined signal with his fingers, like a catcher at a baseball game.

Mercer knows what it means, and he begins to recite the contingent speech, “I can’t do this on my own anymore, and I don’t trust anybody else. I won’t lie to you, it’s a tough job, but you’re so much better with them. I thought I could learn, because I don’t have the natural talent. I can survive if you don’t want to do this, but...I would rather not.” This applauds Ovan for his skill as a leader without being obvious and brown-nosey. If it works, it will allow him to interpret Mercer’s perception of him just enough to push him off that fence.

Ovan sighs. “I won’t lie either, I’m leaning towards not doing this. I love my job, and I’m doing great things here.” What a douchebag. “I have seven more years in me no matter what. I imagine my shift would end when yours does.”

“That’s the thing,” Halan says, happy to have reached this part of the conversation. It’s a good sign. “It’s a standard 24-year shift, but it’s not attached to my rank, like his is. We didn’t start together, because Rita was with me first, but he’ll still have to retire when I do. You can just keep going under the new captain. To me, that’s even better than only having two more terms left.” This is actually the worst part about the whole thing, but if it doesn’t convince him to accept, probably nothing will.

“Wow, that’s pretty enticing; the chance to serve this ship longer than I ever thought possible.” That’s a step in the right direction, but it’s also sickening.

“This is good for everyone.” There’s that present tense again.

“Yes, Ovan agrees. He stares down into space, surely imagining what he’ll do with all his imaginary new power. “Okay,” he decides. Okay, what? “Okay,” he says louder.

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll do it.” Holy shit, it worked.

“Thank you,” Halan says. “Lieutenant?”

“Thank you,” Mercer echoes.

“Thank you, what?” Halan urges.

He smiles with feigned admiration. “Thank you...Second Lieutenant Teleres.”

This is the most excited Ovan has ever been in his life. “So, that’s it?” he asks. “No ceremony?”

“Oh, there’s a ceremony,” Halan says. There’s not supposed to be, but there can be. Hopefully it doesn’t set a precedent. Holding a celebration for every commission or promotion would become tedious.

“I would say more like a parade,” Mercer half jokes, half wants to blow his own brains out.

Ovan nods and grins, showing only the top row of his teeth. “Cool.”

“We don’t need to wait for the ceremony, though,” Halan promises. “You’re already Second Lieutenant, and can already start working. Your Second Chair takes over for you immediately. This gives us time to plan something special.” Gross.

“Cool,” he repeats.

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Microstory 1755: A Man Named Monoceros

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Yes, Monoceros is my real name. Yes, it’s—more or less—the same as a unicorn, which is why that’s my twin sister’s name. No, my parents were not on drugs when they had us. No, I’ve never thought about changing it, and neither has my sister. It’s not even the most interesting thing about us, but it is related. Something went wrong while we were developing in the womb, which made both of us come out with slight protrusions on our heads, reminiscent of a one-horned animal. This protrusion lessened in my sister over time, which is kind of a ripoff, because hers is already a pretty name that people don’t make fun of very much. Mine is still here. In fact, I would say it’s larger, but my parents disagree, and say that my whole head is obviously just larger than it was when I was a baby. I’ve tried to wear an afro to cover it up, but that doesn’t look great on me, and kids would just make fun of that instead. The teasing and bullying got to be so bad that we left the area completely. The same people who gave us these unusual names actually packed everything up, and moved us across state lines just so I could start over with a new strategy. I can’t figure them out either. Perhaps they secretly regret giving us such insensitive names, and have since tried to become better people. This time, they spoke with the principal before the start of my sophomore year, and told her what my situation was. Not only did she have the advantage of being able to get ahead of the bullying before it ever happened, she proved herself to be kinder, and better equipped to handle someone like me. My sister was a little in love with her because of how good she was to me, but don’t worry. This isn’t a sad or disturbing story. I might even call it uplifting.

So what did I do to keep anyone from finding out what my head looked like? I wore a hat, and I claimed it was for religious purposes. My sister wore a variation of the same design to sell the lie. All of the faculty and staff were told this as well so that only the principal knew the whole truth. People get really skittish about religion, so they didn’t question me. Occasionally, a substitute teacher would take their opportunity to yell at me for it, but there was always at least one student in the class who defended me, and called them a bigot. That usually shut them down right quick. Even with those heroes, the kids at my new high school were generally about as mean to each other as they are anywhere. Some of them teased me anyway, because my name was still Monoceros, but a lot of them thought it sounded badass, so it evened out. One girl in particular said she liked it. On my first day, before everyone had learned about my fake religious hat, she called out a group of boys who were mocking me. She didn’t know anything about me, but she instantly showed compassion, and I think I fell in love in that very moment. She was so popular, but for all the right reasons, because she was nice, so people left me alone if they were worried about displeasing her. I know, this story sounds familiar. The awkward kid falls for the hottest girl in school, and they end up together, because they end up having a lot in common. Well, that’s not what happened. We went out on what turned out to be a platonic date, and I professed my feelings. She let me down easy, and told me that she just wanted to be friends. As you can see, we’ve stayed close all these years, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s married now, and so am I. She was the one who convinced me to take off my hat forever, and be confident in myself—to be confident as myself. So what about you? How do you two know each other?

Microstory 1754: Under the Microscope

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I slam the microscope down against his head. He doesn’t even apologize now, but smiles at me, and tells me that she belongs to him, and he’ll never let her go. I hold it over him, waiting for him to give me a reason to set it back down carefully. I pick it up. I look around the room for anything to use as a weapon, but only find a microscope. Now that I have the upperhand, I take my opportunity to place my heel against his, and force him to the ground by the chest. He gets one more good shot in, but it seems to wear him out, at least for a moment. We struggle with each other, neither one strong enough to gain some kind of advantage. He thinks that will be the end of it, but he just sent me into fight or flight mode, and I always choose fight. Deciding that he would rather make the first move, he punches me in the stomach with both fists, knocking the wind out of me. Both of us realize that this argument is going nowhere, and that it’s about to get violent. We continue to argue. He doesn’t care. He won’t even admit that what he did was wrong. He won’t apologize for what he’s done. We begin to argue. I accuse him of sexual assault, and he doesn’t seem concerned. I approach him with obvious aggression, but he just sits there calmly, confident that all will turn out okay. I walk up to his lab, and open the door without asking, glad that it’s Saturday and the place is empty except for him. I step out, and try to remember why I’m here, what I’m hoping to accomplish, and how I can avoid this all getting out of hand. I stay in the car for a few minutes, afraid to actually go up there, but knowing that it’s unavoidable. I arrive at the science building.

I know that if I don’t, no one else will. I take the scenic route back, because I’m still not sure that I want to do this. Not really, but it feels like I could. I almost tear the car door off its hinges, I’m so mad. I walk out of the police station, having just been proven that justice isn’t simply blind, but actively hides from the truth. That would be ironic. I turn away in a huff, worried that I’ll be the one behind bars if I say what I really want to say to them. They say that can’t compel her. They keep their voices low, explaining that she’s old enough to answer for herself. I’m nearly at a scream now, begging them to see that she’s too young to make her own decisions. They tell me they’ll look into it if anything changes, but until then, this is how it has to be. They ignore the conjecture, and tell me that there’s nothing they can do. I tell them it shouldn’t matter; that she’s obviously just too scared of him. They tell me she’s changed her statement, and that she had every right to do so. I relay what she said to me, but they’ve already heard it. I walk in and ask to speak to someone important. I walk out of the dorm, and drive to the police station, feeling useless to do anything else. I respect her wishes, and leave her room. She asks me to leave, and I realize it’s because I’m a man, and she doesn’t need that kind of energy right now. I assure her it is, and she did the right thing. She says she wasn’t even going to tell anybody, because she isn’t certain it’s illegal. She says he didn’t touch her once. She says it was over quickly. She says she didn’t feel safe trying to get away. She says he made her watch. She says he touched himself. She says her much older ex-boyfriend came by yesterday, and locked the door behind him. She breaks down crying, not wanting to tell me, but needing to unburden herself. She doesn’t seem okay. She says she’s okay. I ask her if she’s okay. Something seems off. I drive out to visit my seventeen-year-old cousin, who is at a weeklong music camp at the college.

Microstory 1753: Mountain Table

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I have to stop and take another break. I know that I only have a few more steps to go, but I’ll topple over if I don’t take a few seconds to catch my breath. I don’t hear my master up on the mountaintop. He’s probably on the far side of it, peeing over the edge, or laughing to himself about his accomplishments, of which there are many. Technically, everything he ever did was actually done by someone else; someone like me. Don’t tell him I’m complaining, though. A single word of slight displeasure with work conditions, and he’s sending me back down this mountain the quick route, if you know what I mean. It’s what he does. He’ll take any reason he can find to kill his servant, and move on to the next one. There always is another candidate waiting, so it’s not like he has to worry about doing any actual work on his own. I wish I could thank the ones who came before me, who learned his quirks and pet peeves, so the rest of us know what to expect. I just hope the guy just before me was the last to ever make a mistake. My sister tells me it doesn’t matter, that it’s not worth it. She thinks he’ll always find a reason, but I know that he has in mind the perfect life, and if I can give that to him, he’ll reward me. He’ll reward my entire family if I go above and beyond above and beyond, and that’s why there is always someone ready to take his servant’s place. If I get this right, he won’t need another servant until I’m dead. Then maybe my grandson will take over for me. That would be a dream come true. Okay, I can keep going now. Then I’ll assemble the pieces, and be finished with this once and for all. I’m grateful he didn’t demand that I bring the whole thing up here at once. That would have been impossible, and I would have become the first in an infinite series of servants to die on our respective first days.

I keep walking, and make it all the way to the top. Then I approach the pile of parts, and carefully set the last one down next to it. It’s the largest and heaviest one. When it’s finished, this will be the largest table in all the lands. Kings, warriors, and sorcerers from all over will one day hold meetings here. Dozens of sections will fit together on top of four times as many legs. Those were the easiest to do in the grand scheme of things. He let me take as much, or as little, as I wanted, and as much time as I needed. Unfortunately, the central leg structure was custom made by a follower of his, and it was constructed as a single piece, so I couldn’t take it apart, but that’s done now, and I’m ready to move on to the next phase. I begin to fit legs under leaves, and connect them all together. It goes quite fast, and I don’t need any more breaks. I suppose what I went through to get here has made me so strong that I feel invincible. Perhaps it’s a taste of my ultimate reward. I’m so proud of myself once it’s completely complete. I didn’t make any mistakes, or have to redo anything. It’s perfect, if I do say so myself. As if he knows it’s ready, my master appears from the other side of the ridge. He takes a long time to inspect my work, making me nervous, probably on purpose. He smiles and places a warm hand on my shoulder. “You have done well. It is a magnificent table.” I smile back and thank him for the praise. He continues, “now drag it over to that side, and flip it over the edge. Follow it down, as carefully as you would like, but be at the bottom by the end of the day. If you survive, commission the carpenter to make another one just like it, and then do it all over again.” He begins the trek down the steps, and I do as I’m told. After the fourth table, I don’t make it down the mountain in time, and he kills me for it.

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.