Microstory 1770: Net Loss

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I’ve always been a terrible person, who treats others poorly, and only looks out for himself. I don’t like that about myself, but no one understands how hard it is to change. I keep trying to do better, but when I think of something nice to say, it gets stuck inside my head, while a bunch of malice comes out instead. One of my therapists and I worked out the metaphor. There’s a golden net on the top of my throat. It catches all the pretty things that people want to hear, and what I wish I could say to them. These pleasantries are larger, as they should be, but it means that they can’t escape. The smaller, meaner, bits of darkness can slip out easily. After deciding to look at it this way, we began to work on ways to make me easier to work with. Before I respond to someone about something, I’m meant to force myself to smile. This apparently should stretch out the golden net so much that it breaks, and lets out all the goodness I supposedly have inside me. Well, I’ve never been able to break it, but the stretching helps a little. It opens up the holes just a little more, allowing some of the smaller pretty words to get out sometimes. It’s not enough for the Catholic church to canonize me as a saint, but I guess I would call it a start. Sadly, that’s not my only problem anyway. My biggest issue is how I behave, not just what I say to people. Sociopaths and psychopaths say charming things all the time, but if they still act selfishly, or even hurt people, it’s not really good, is it? Altering my instincts to stop just taking what I want without regard to others is going to be the biggest thing I’ve ever tried, and I don’t think I can do it alone. So here I am at this spa, upon the recommendation of one of my therapist’s other patients. They can reportedly turn anyone into a nice person. I feel like I’ve seen this movie before.

I sit on the table in the exam room. The woman who ushered me in here ordered me to remove my clothes. She took them all with her, and never provided a gown. I thought maybe it was an oversight, but when the...I guess, doctor comes in, she’s not fazed, so I guess this is how it goes. She looks me over from the door, quite clinically; not sexually, nor critically. She reaches up, and turns a dial on her glasses, like she’s seeing me through multiple filtered lenses. Once she’s satisfied with her readings, she steps over to a computer terminal on the wall, and begins to input the data. I don’t say a word. She’s the one leading this hoedown, so I wait for her. When she’s finished, she walks back over to the door with a clicker, which she uses to retract the floor. I try not to freak out, but I’m rather confident that the exam table is safe. It stops short of it, like I figured, but I’m stuck up here. It’s a surprisingly large room. There’s no way I would be able to make the jump. The maybe-doctor gives me a choice. I can wait 30 seconds, and walk out of here on the floor with a full refund, or I can take a literal leap of faith, and fix my life. With no context, she leaves. I peer over the edge, and see a beautiful glow emanating from below. My eyes adjust and I realize it’s a net. It’s a golden net. Am I dreaming? Am I just living in the metaphor? This can’t be real, it doesn’t look real. So I jump. I jump belly first. My body lands in the net, and it gives just enough to keep it from hurting. I bounce a little before it returns to equilibrium, and then I’m just lying there. Not for long, though, before I begin to feel skin ooze off my bones. It’s like the net is melting me, except it doesn’t hurt, and I’m not scared. I fall all the way through; not all of me, though; just the best parts, leaving behind only the garbage that once weighed down my soul.

Microstory 1769: Pointed Pyxis

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Folks, there’s no doubt about it, this is the biggest find in archaeological history. I don’t know how it’s possible, but I’ve had it checked by a dozen of my colleagues, and we all agree on the results. This box before you dates back 16,000 years. It calls into question everything we know about pre-literary history. It breaks the laws of physics, and quite honestly, it’s driving me insane. I’m not here to talk about the science we used to date this artifact. You can read our paper at your leisure. Today, I’m going to be showing you the artwork on the box, and explaining just how impossible it is, just in case some of you aren’t surprised by it on your own. Now, we call this object a pointed pyxis, and the first of them rose up in Greek culture during the eleventh century BCE, which is a full 13,000 years after the artifact was made. That alone would be astonishing, to learn that people were making certain styles of art so much earlier than we once believed. That’s not the exciting part. If that was all there was, I suppose we could have just assumed it was a coincidence. Again, still remarkable, but not too crazy. Let me zoom in. In the first hexagon is a woolly mammoth. Nothing weird there; they weren’t extinct back then. But if you look closer, you’ll see that it’s not alone. There’s a human riding on top of it, and as far as we know, people never did that. We hunted and co-existed with them, but we did not domesticate them. Or maybe we did. In the next hexagon—and by the way, I’m not sure what to call this shape; curved hexagons on a sort of pointed cylinder—there is what appears to be a bird. This is not the kind of avian you would expect to find on something from this time period, or from any time period in human history. The pterosaur went extinct 66 million years ago, and was never seen by man. It’s possible the artist uncovered fossilized records, but unlikely they were intact enough for them to so accurately depict it’s living form. That’s your first clue to time travel, but not your last.

This appears to be an illustration of a crucifixion, which didn’t start happening until about the 6th century BCE. This is a sea-faring vessel, of a design which the vikings used in the tenth century CE. This writing is Cuneiform, this is Kaqchikel, this is Cyrillic, and these are Neolithic Chinese characters. Over here is the number pi to 12 decimal places...converted to binary. Here’s the hex code for gunmetal gray, but we had to figure that out, because it’s written in a language that we have never seen before. Right next to it is a photorealistic picture of a cannon in said color. There’s a mushroom cloud, there’s the logo for a car company, and look at this and tell me it doesn’t look exactly like TV’s James Van Der Beek. I could go on and on, but you get the picture. Our best guess is that this is the work of some kind of time traveler, but why would they paint all this on a pointed pyxis? What was the purpose of the container at the time? We’ve tested the inside as well, of course, and found absolutely no residue; not even the paint they used on the outside. No dirt, no microbes, no nothing. We’ve even exposed it to modern air, and while we take every precaution to protect against contamination, at least a little always gets in. We don’t operate inside of a vacuum. I’m presenting this to you, because you are the brightest minds this planet has to offer. We’ve decided to crowdsource the mystery, but we’re not ready to reveal it to the world at large yet. If any of you can explain any aspect of this incredible fine, we encourage you to sign up for some time to examine it. Thank you very much.

Microstory 1768: Father Stern

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Turtle; beach. Fun; nothing. Money; drain. Father; stern. That’s interesting. I never really thought of my father as being stern. Is that really what my subconscious thinks of him? I take a moment to reflect on my life, completely ignoring whatever my therapist is saying now. He could be talking about the same thing, or he could be prompting me with more word associations, but I’m stuck in my own head. He should have thought about that before we started playing this game. The whole reason I’m in here is because I have trouble concentrating on the real world. I can tell the difference between what’s real, and what’s not, but I don’t much care for the former. It’s much easier to pretend I’m living in a fantasy; a world that I can shape to my needs. I don’t like to rely on others, because they’ll only disappoint me. Disappointing; mother. So now I’m just playing the game by myself. Has my mother been a disappointment? She’s certainly not my favorite person in the world, but I love her, and I appreciate everything she’s done for me. What was she supposed to do, order my father to stop making me practice the clarinet for four hours a day. She did the best she could with me and my brother, and so did my father. Brother; escape. Yeah, he was always smarter than me, so he was able to get a scholarship for a college on the other side of the country. I didn’t even bother applying, because the application fee would have been the same as flushing it down the toilet. Meanwhile, he stayed out there, and never has to come back. When the time comes—and it’s coming soon—I’ll be the one still here, having to take care of the parents. They’re going to resent me for it, and he’s going to act like sending a couple hundred dollars a month is contribution enough. He’s rich now, I don’t know why he doesn’t send more. No, this is a stupid stray thought. We don’t need anything from him.

Nothing; fun. That was a weird response too, don’t you think? Why don’t I find anything fun? It’s not even true. I love going...well, I guess I’m tired of that. What about...no, I was never very good. I guess it’s true that I don’t like to have fun. What kind of person feels that way? Suicidal, I suppose. I’ve never given it much thought, but am I secretly at risk of doing something to hurt myself? No, that can’t be right. A lot of people don’t have fun, but that doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy being alive. Fun is an interpretation of an experience, and is not a synonym for happiness. Still, I’m probably not really happy either, which I imagine, is why my wife left me. Wife; disappointed. Wow, how’s that for an Oedipus complex? I’m disappointed in my mother, and my ex-wife is disappointed in me. Does that mean I married myself, though? That doesn’t sound right. That would say more about her own poor choices, and she has her own psychology to deal with, with her own therapist. Therapist; uninspired. Whew, that’s rough. Why don’t you tell us how you really feel, self? It’s true, I don’t know about this guy yet. I feel like I read somewhere that said techniques like this word association game are basic, and ultimately don’t really improve a patient’s mental health. I don’t want to judge, but I’m paying him to help me, and if it’s not doing me any good, then there goes more cash down the toilet. Toilet; now. It’s not an emergency, but I could do with a break. Only then do I notice that we’ve both been silent for the past three minutes; me in my own head, and him waiting patiently for me to come back out of my shell, like a turtle; beach. “Are you ready to talk about your father?” he asks me. Father; stern. Stern; justified.

Microstory 1767: Piscis Austrinus

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I’ve been an honorary fish for a few months now, and I’ve loved almost all of it. There’s something missing in my life, though. I’m the only one of my kind. The other fish have accepted me into their school, but I’m not truly one of them. I’m a giant, and I still look human. Every other member is paired up. That’s how this species works. It’s hard to communicate with them, but I’ve been able to gather some information, like how their pairings are a defense mechanism. When they swim in their circles, they create a bunch of bubbles, which makes them difficult to pinpoint. It allows each pair to move off from the school, and hunt for food, or maybe find a little alone time. I don’t want to mate with a fish, or anything, but I do feel lonely. Like I said, they’ve accepted me, but that doesn’t mean one of them is going to circle with me. I don’t want that anyway. I want to find another human to transform into a fish. Unfortunately, that’s damn near impossible. The reason I discovered this species is because they live deeper than 600 meters below sea level. I’m the first person in history to scuba dive to that depth, and since I never came back up, I doubt anyone else is going to be trying it anytime soon. They wouldn’t likely survive; I was the best in the world before I became a fish. Submarines have come this far before, but not regularly, because there’s usually no point. The chances of finding a mate are just too low to hold out hope. I’ve tried encouraging the school to swim closer to the surface, but they won’t do it. They’ve never done it before, and it’s not how they evolved. I don’t know why they transformed me into someone who can breathe underwater, but they seem to consider that act their one favor, and they aren’t interested in going for another. I’m free to go up alone, but that won’t matter. I’m not capable of repeating the miracle myself. I need them to do it. There’s no other way.

I give up on pleading with them. I don’t think it’s gonna happen, even though the second generation seems to be a little more open-minded. I just surrender to the fact that I’ll live the rest of my life alone. It’s still a blessing to be down here. I’m setting records left and right. As it turns out, 600 meters is a little high for these fish. We spend most of our time at 800, which is a depth I never dreamed of seeing. It’s dark, but my eyes have adjusted accordingly, so it basically looks like tropical snorkeling to me. I don’t even think there’s a regular species with that kind of eyesight. Some have even lost their eyes to evolution, because it’s too dark for them to see. It’s a wonder, all the underground mountains, and other unique terrain. As I’m watching some kind of crustacean crawl around on the floor off the coast of Australia, the school suddenly shoots upwards, faster then they ever have before. I have to work hard to keep up. They gave me the ability to breathe water like air, and to withstand the pressure, but I didn’t grow fins. I’m still using the carbon fiber ones I came down here with. It’s not long before I see what all the fuss is about. It’s another diver. She’s only at 500 meters, but she’s descending quickly. Something is tied to her leg. My God, it’s a cement block. Someone is trying to kill her. I wonder why they left her with her scuba gear. Anyway, her attempted murderer is not going to succeed. The fish do to her what they once did for me. We bite off the rope, and swarm her, using magicks to keep her from dying. I smile, glad to finally have someone that I can relate to again. She does not feel the same way. The first thing she does is swim back up to confront her attacker. I feel compelled to follow. Maybe I can help.

Microstory 1766: Pisces

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I’m the best scuba diver in the world, which is saying a lot, because I was afraid of it when I was a kid, and I come from a family of masters. I’ve since surpassed all others in skills and experience. I can venture to the deepest parts of the ocean that are humanly possible to survive. I can use any kind of tank, and complete any task. Today, I’m about to set the record for the deepest dive ever, and cement myself as one of the absolute best in history. I’ve already passed the last record, but I’m not satisfied with that. I have to get to 600 meters. No one will try that depth after me without a submarine. I check my watch. I had to have it specially made to survive these pressures too, and so far, it’s done me well. I’m at 570 meters, and so pleased with myself. No one has ever seen what I’m seeing right now. Of course, like I said, submarines can descend this far, but they haven’t, not around here. My cousins are going to be so jealous, I can’t wait to run it in their faces. None of them thought that I would make it, and I’ve yet to prove them wrong. It’s not really the deepest dive if I die down here, is it? Maybe they’ll still count it, and sing songs of my brave and tragic end. I keep going: 580, 590, and...600 meters! I reached my goal. If I stay too long, I really will die, though, so I immediately prepare to ascend. Then something catches my eye. It’s a fish. No, it’s two fish. Wow, it’s an entire school. There’s something strange about this species, but I can’t put my finger on it. Oh, yeah, they’re swimming in pairs.

These fish are exhibiting behavior that I’ve never heard of. I’m no ichthyologist, but I know what species live around here, and this ain’t one of them. Every single fish is paired up with another, face to tail. They’re swimming in circles around each other, or more appropriately, around some mutual barycenter between them. Since they’re not going straight, the only reason they go anywhere is because the spin isn’t constant. They nudge themselves in one direction, like propellers. Why the heck are they doing that? Is there some sort of evolutionary advantage to spinning? Perhaps it has more to do with the pairs, and less to do with the way that they swim. I obviously have to take photographs and video of this phenomenon. If I’ve discovered a new species, it will only make me more famous, which is kind of what I’m going for here. I don’t even have to survive. The footage is being automatically beamed back up to the boat. There’s no way for me to communicate with them directly, but I can.imagine my mother urging me to begin the ascension process. It’s going to take an extremely long time, and the extra tanks they left hanging for me at my stop intervals won’t be enough if I don’t maintain my schedule, not to mention the risk of getting bent. I’m about to let it go, and save myself when the fish change behaviors. They stay in their paired circles, but also begin to circle me. They’re aware of me, but probably aren’t sure if I’m a predator. I’m amazed but frightened, but the latter grows faster once they start biting at my equipment. They tear off the straps, and cut the breathing tubes. Welp, I guess I really am gonna die. Except I don’t. I suddenly stop feeling the intense pressure, the freezing cold, and the need to breathe. They’ve somehow transformed me into one of them, and once I realize what an amazing gift this is, I all but forget about my past life as a human, and together...we dive deeper.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 12, 2370

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Sasha had released another teleporter relay over the planet in question during their interim year, which was able to orbit undetected because it was quite small, and required little power when not in use, so it didn’t give off much energy. Leona walked around to make sure that everyone’s tactical equipment was secure, and they were as prepared as they could be. Then she ordered their android to send them on their way. Hrockas stayed behind so there would be four hands on deck, but everyone else went down to the installation.

Everyone was pointing their weapon in a different direction, like Charlie’s Angels times two. They were in the open area of a pressurized dome. Inside was only one structure, and it looked not unlike a castle; a rather old, but seemingly still stable, castle. Additive manufacturing was very good at constructing buildings out of concrete and carbon polymer, but stone was a different story. Though no human being would have had to lay them down one by one, it still would have taken robots a long time to build all this. Creating something this complex required patience, and probably a pretty unhealthy ego. Since it was so audacious and inefficient, seeing it gave them a little insight into who they were about to meet. Leona tried to lead the team towards their objective, but Angela insisted that she take point. She wasn’t the only one here with combat training, but she seemed worried that she wasn’t contributing enough, and while that wasn’t true, dismissing her perceptions would have been worse than letting her handle it.

If all of them knew what they were doing as a tactical unit, they could have spread out to cover more ground, but that wasn’t the smartest thing for this group to do. So they stuck together, and tried to move through the structure as quickly and quietly as possible. The inside looked like a castle as well, except for the advanced technology scattered throughout, like the computer interfaces, LED lights, and a fully-functional quantum terminal. They didn’t look out of place, though. They were designed to fit perfectly within their environment. It looked as it would if people on Earth had continued to live in castles as they progressed scientifically. Ramses got to work on the terminal so that they would have control over it against all others. Only then did they separate. Kivi stayed behind to protect him while everyone else continued the hunt. It wasn’t until they were down in the dungeons when they finally found actual people. In fact, they recognized them. It was Team Kesihda.

“Captain. Lieutenant,” Leona said respectfully. “Everyone’s been wondering where you went.”

“We came here, lookin’ for answers,” Kestral responded, “while you were meant to go to Pluoraia.”

“Went and saw, knew we had to come here next,” Leona clarified without wasting time on the minutia.

Olimpia calibrated her teleporter gun, and trained it on Kestral. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Olimpia shot her, and then shot Ishida, sending them both right outside the bars.

“Who did this?” Leona continued. “Who’s doing this?”

Ishida shook her head. “No idea. As soon as we arrived, a dalek, a cylon, and Arnold Schwarzenegger, forced us down here, and here we’ve been ever since. R2D2 rolls in to feed us twice a day, but no one else comes.” She accepts a drink of Mateo’s water. “We’ve not seen him in a week now, though. We don’t know why.”

“Great,” Leona said, “a scifi fan. Those are always fun.”

“The real question is where all those evil robots are now,” Mateo said, checking their surroundings for the umpteenth time.

“I’m not fighting R2D2,” Olimpia argued, though no one was arguing against.

“How is it going up there?” Leona asked into her Cassidy cuff.

“We have control of the terminal,” Ramses explained through the speaker, “so we can block access if we want, but I can’t find a single thing about the Power Vacuum, or whatever it is the people who created it call it.”

“Are we sure this is where it’s being controlle?” Olimpia suggested. “Maybe this is just a relay station.”

“She has a good point,” Kivi said through her own cuff. “luoriaia was the first in a line of systems we lost contact with, but it could have originated on an interstellar ship in the middle of empty space.”

“I don’t think so,” Ishida contended. “The amount of power it would take to make that happen can’t be put on a ship. I mean, you might, but why would you when you could just do it from a planet? The planet itself and its host star give you the resources you need, and nobody is even this far out if they didn’t come through the quantum terminal anyway.”

“It doesn’t look like anyone lives here,” Leona said. “We searched most of it, and there was a lot of dust. If someone else is still on the premises, they’re hiding.”

Angela checked her sonic disruptor. “Mateo and I will head for the rest of the rooms. The rest of you should rendezvous with Ramses and Kivi. If we can’t get back to the ship, casting ourselves somewhere else might be our only option.”

Leona was the de facto leader here, but she conceded to Angela’s words without blinking. Olimpia asked to go with the hunting party, saying something about one of them dying, one of them fighting, and the third being able to run for help.

“Keep your head on a swivel,” Angela commanded, “and do everything I say.”

“Yes, sir,” Mateo promised.

It wasn’t long before they found what they were looking for. At the end of the corridor, on the next level below the dungeon, there was a room unlike anything else here. It was well-lit, clean, and chock full of technology, including a secondary quantum terminal. Now they wished that at least one smart person had come with them. A man was standing at the ready, surely having seen them coming a mile away.

“Who are you?” Angela asked impolitely.

“I am He Who Remains, and we are standing at the end of the universe.”

“Just for my own records,” Angela pressed, “are you going to be playing make believe the entire time, or will you at least eventually start taking this seriously?”

The man placed the sides of both index fingers along his bottom lip, then slowly slid them up. As he did so, his face transformed colors, leaving him looking like a creepy clown. “Why so serioussssuh!”

Angela rolled her eyes. “I guess that’s our answer.” And with that she shot him in the chest with the disruptor.

He fell to the ground, but wasn’t dead. By the time he woke up, the rest of the group had made their way down there. They wrapped two of the extra Cassidy cuffs around the man’s wrists. They didn’t know if he had time powers, but it was best to suppress them until they had a better idea of who they were dealing with. Powers or no, it was a good idea to keep him bound.

“My name is Vendelin Blackbourne, and I know why you’re all here.”

“You declared war on Pluoraia, and killed a lot of people,” Leona accused.

“That was not my intention,” Vendelin claimed. “I have no quarrel with the Pluoraians. That was only meant to be a weapons test, but my aim was way off. I was intending to sell it to Teagarden once I worked out all the kinks.”

“How did you end up in this system?” Leona continued, brushing past his idea to seek payment in a galaxy that gave up money centuries ago.

“Quantum Colony, just like everybody else,” he answered.

“Uhuh. And is that a game, or is it real life disguised as a game?”

He looked surprised by the question. “Both.”

“So you’ve always known that you weren’t ever just in a simulation?”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Vendelin said with a laugh. “The day I started playing, I was suspicious. I ejected from the simulation, and then pored over the data regarding this system from base reality. I noticed that this data kept changing, ever so slightly, every time I made a change in the game. I realized that I was making a real impact. Anyone else should have come to the same conclusion.”

“Yet you still chose to set off that weapon.”

“Again, it was an accident. I built an outpost on a planet that lies between the weapon and Pluoraia. I thought it would stop there, and only my own machines would be affected, but then the damn thing bounced off, and kept going. It didn’t even change directions too much. It’s still moving in about a straight line.”

“Okay, so stop it,” Leona demanded.

“I can’t, it’s over. Have you ever shot a gun, only to have entropy reverse, and the bullet come back into the magazine?”

“You could have at least told someone what you did, instead of erasing your outposts from the logs, and covering up your mistake. That thing is headed right for Earth. They need as much time as they can get to figure out how to survive it.”

“It’ll be fine,” Vendelin assured them unconvincingly. “The beam will dissipate long before then.”

“Are you sure about that?” Ramses questioned. It hasn’t started to diminish yet. Our readings indicate that it’s just as strong as it always was.”

“I don’t know what to tell ya, man,” Vendelin said with too much of a casual attitude. “I’m not worried about what’s happening on Earth. I’ve spent most of my life in the black.”

“Well, you’re going to start worrying about it now!” Olimpia shouted. “If you don’t figure out how to stop it before it even reaches Barnard’s Star, then we’ll kill you.” They would never do that, but no one seemed to be bothered by the hollow threat.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” He didn’t feel a modicum of remorse. “Based on my observations, Pluoraia is back up and running smoothly. Earth will do the same; probably even better, since they’re the most advanced.”

“How many Earthans will die in the process when planes fall out of the sky, and vactrains lose their levitation?” Kivi posed.

“You’re right,” Vendelin conceded, “I should have given them an anonymous tip. But now you’re here, and you can do it. In fact, why don’t you leave right now, so I can get back to my work?”

“We’re not going anywhere until you help us. Afterwards, we’ll drop you off at Teagarden, where the officials there can decide what to do with you,” Leona warned.

“You’re not giving me much of an incentive,” Vendelin said with a smile. “You’re also not holding any good cards.” He blinked deliberately, which prompted an uncomfortable sound in the hallway. It wasn’t long before creepy metal bugs crawled inside. They were on the floors, and the wall, and even the ceiling.

“Replicators,” Olimpia said in fear and awe.

“If you prefer, I can send in the Borg instead.” Vendelin was so pleased with himself for having co-opted intellectual property from ancient entertainment.

“I can handle them,” Angela said. She took out the same ball she used years ago to illustrate how skilled and coordinated she was. “I lied before. This thing is indeed magic. I call it my hyper-destructive happy fun bouncing ball.” She threw it at one of the replicators. It bounced off, only to make its way to one of the others. It just kept bouncing off each one, and sometimes a wall, but never losing momentum. In under a minute, every replicator replica in the room was destroyed. Once it was over, it flew back over to Angela’s hand, where she caught it, and placed it back safely in her bag.

“Touché,” Vendelin said. “I should have indeed gone with the Borg.”

It was then that Hrockas came into the room, surveying the mayhem, and watching his step. “This the guy?”

“We told you to wait in the ship,” Leona reminded him.

“We lost contact with you when you came down here,” Hrockas explained. “Sasha was worried.”

“I know who you are,” Vendelin said to him, still sporting his evil grin. “You own Pluoraia, you lucky bastard.”

“Yes, and you thoughtlessly murdered a lot of my friends.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

“I do,” Hrockas reiterated. He walked over, and pushed Vendelin into one of the casting pods. “I believe my people have the right to confront their enemies, and punish them as they see fit?”

They looked to Leona, who took a moment to consider the options. “He’s not going to help, and I already have an idea for how to stop the beam. It entails building something that no one ever has before. We don’t need him.”

“Thank you,” Hrockas said graciously.

Ramses helped him transfer Vendelin’s consciousness to Pluoraia, and then did the same for Hrockas. The rest of the team left to prevent his little accident from reaching any more inhabited planets.

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Extremus: Year 20

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While the bridge engineers drag the Captain and Lieutenant’s potentially lifeless bodies out of the bridge, Ovan does his best to make it look like he’s still in control. Admiral Thatch knows better. He’s losing it, and he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. There are things about this ship that few people are aware of. For instance, there’s a reason Thatch asked to be placed on lighting duty in the first place. This is the most powerful interface on the entire vessel. You don’t have to be the lighting technician in order to use it properly, but it makes it easier. After all, he’s already sitting here. He’s just lucky that this mutineer decided to keep him and him alone as hostage. That was his second mistake. While Ovan is preoccupied trying to figure out his next move, confident that his hostage has no cards to play, Thatch makes his move. He switches the interface over to the emergency desktop, and changes everything about the situation. Unfortunately, there’s not enough time to come up with a sophisticated strategy. As he’s pressing buttons, the murtherous hostage-taker is already on his way to putting a stop to it. Thatch activates emergency temporal displacement protocol, and sends the entire bridge to the future.

“What was that?” Ovan questions.

“I was trying to blind you with the lights,” Thatch lies. He doesn’t really know why he’s lying. It’s not like Ovan can do anything about it. He’s lost, and it can’t be undone. Getting back to the Extremus would take a level of engineering knowledge that neither of them has, certainly not Ovan. The emergency rations will keep them alive for maybe another year, and then this is where they will both die, in the middle of nowhere outer space.

“That doesn’t make any sense. You would have gone blind too.”

“I have experience moving around with my eyes closed. Had I had enough time to siphon enough power, it still would have just been temporary, and I could have reopened the hatch for the security team.” He’s just toying with him now.

Ovan sighs. “Sorry to disappoint. Fortunately, you have the chance to make it up to me.” He clears his throat, and straightens his vest. “Open a channel shipwide. I would like to address my people.”

Thatch strolls over, and does exactly as he was asked. He doesn’t say anything about how small this ship is at this point.

Ovan clears his throat again. “People of Extremus, this is your Captain speaking...Captain Ovan Teleres. You are, no doubt, confused about this development. Believe me, I would not have taken over had I not felt that it was absolutely necessary. Former Captain, Halan Yenant has failed us. He has been wasting his time watching other people play Quantum Colony when there is real work to be done. I had absolutely no choice but to assume responsibility. The transition will be difficult, I admit this. In order to make it go smoothly, I must enact martial law. For now—only for now—the civilian government is being suspended, and all decisions will be filtered directly through me. This is a trying time for everyone, but we are all Extremusians, and I am confident that, together, we can get through anything. I am your one true leader now, and I will not let you down. Please. Stay safe, and await further instructions.” He shuts his eyes and nods to Thatch, signifying that the channel should be closed.

“Wow. That was beautiful, sir,” Thatch jokes, barely able to contain himself.

Another throat-clearing. “Yes.”

“Too bad I’m the only one who heard it.”

“Goddammit. I knew you would pull some shit. Fine, I’ll do it again, and this time, make sure the comms are up myself. We’ll call that the rehearsal.” He stomps over, and reaches for the interface, tilting his lizard brain when he sees that the comms are open, and always were. The little timer in the corner is still going, indicating that it’s been open for the last ninety seconds. “What the hell?”

Now Thatch releases his maniacal laugh. It starts out small, but gets louder and louder, and more maniacal. It goes on for a little bit too long. “Did you have any sort of plan? Did you think that taking over the bridge would be as easy as killing two people? Even if you had been successful—and you had selected the right hostages, and I wasn’t one of them—it would have been short-lived. Engineering has full control over all systems. It’s compartmentalized for a reason! The bridge is primarily here so that the executive crew can see what’s going on in a more comfortable environment, and so the real engineers can curse and keep their uniforms partially unzipped while they work! This room is mostly for show, you unapologetic moron!”

Ovan is fuming. He wants to tear Thatch to shreds, but that’s not the smartest choice right now. If the solution is in engineering, then he’s going to go to engineering. He stomps over to the cabinet, carelessly shoots off the lock, and retrieves an authority zero teleporter band. With one of these, he can go wherever he wants with no restrictions.

“Whoa, you don’t wanna do that,” Thatch tries to warn him. He didn’t think this might happen; that he’s so stupid, he can’t even solve the puzzle by now.

Ovan straps the thing to his chest. “I can still take over this ship, because I’m a god, and you’re all worthless little ants!”

“Hold on.”

“No, asshole.”

“The ship’s gone!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh my God, think about it! The comms are open, but no one can hear you. Why might that be?”

“I’m sure engineering rerouted the signal to a single lavatory, or something.”

There might be no convincing him, but he has to try. “If you push that button, you’re going to end up in the cold vacuum of space. The ship is gone. I transported the whole bridge to the future. Extremus is now seven hundred and seven light years away. I don’t know if the Captain or Lieutenant survived, but that crew has just had an entire year to figure out their leadership, and neither one of us has been a part of it. Ya done. You were finished the second you stole that sidearm.”

Ovan looks down at the weapon in his hand as if he’s just remembered it’s there. He points it at Thatch’s head. “Prove it.”

Pound-pound-pound.

“What was that?” Ovan questions.

“Umm, that is the bridge airlock. It’s only to be used for bridge crew evacuation.”

Ovan cocks the gun. “So you are lying.”

“Computer, open airlock,” Thatch says quickly.

The hatch opens, and in walks Omega Parker and Valencia Raddle. The former sighs. “Report.”

Thatch explains what happened, and why he had to send them here. “If you came to this location, hoping to get back on Extremus, I’m afraid you’re a little behind.”

Valencia dismisses the notion. “No, this is near the access point for our mission. We were just trying to figure out how to get through the little meteor gauntlet our enemies set up for us when we picked up your signal. You have answered our prayers.”

“How so?”

“The bridge is exactly what we need. It’s equipped with weaponry, more powerful propulsion, a better teleporter. It’s just an overall better modular vessel. We would have built the time shuttle like this, but it would have taken too many resources, and too much space. We would have had to tell the people about it. I assume the Captain filled you in?”

“No,” Thatch replies, “but I’m not surprised. I’ve always been suspicious of the onslaught of meteorites.”

“I’m the Captain!” Ovan cries. “Stop talking about him like he matters! I make decisions now! If this small part of the ship is capable of getting us back to the ship, then that is what we’ll do! I am the one with the gun, so what I say goes! You hear me!?”

All three of them look at the pathetic approximation of a human being like he’s the one who doesn’t matter. Omega takes out a gun of some kind, and shoots the ungodlike ant with it. Ovan begins to freak out. They can’t hear him, but he starts moving around much faster than normal. He’s banging on an invisible wall, shaking his head, and screaming at the top of his lungs. But he can’t actually do anything.

“What’s that? Thatch questions. “What’s happening to him?”

“He’s in a timeout bubble. It’s a pocket temporal dimension, which makes time move six times faster than realtime. Have you ever walked behind someone who is incredibly slow?” Omega begins to walk towards the other side of the room in exaggerated slow motion to illustrate his point. “It’s profoundly frustrating, though ineffective as a disciplinary device. Denver hated it, but when we realized it wasn’t improving his behavior, we stopped using it.”

“Who’s Denver?”

“Our son,” Valencia answers.

“You’ve been gone awhile,” Thatch states the obvious.

“Yes, and now it’s time to finish this. We really need this bridge. With it, we can cross the threshold, and destroy the meteor chain once and for all,” Valencia explains.

“If our calculations are correct,” Omega says, “there’s a black hole on the other side of a highly advanced merge barrier. If we cross it at the right moment, using the right technology, we should be able to shut the whole thing down.”

“All right, let’s do it.”

“Unfortunately, you’ll have to be here for it,” Valencia tells him. “We need both the time shuttle, and the bridge module, for this to work.”

“I said let’s do it, I’m in. So is this guy.”

Ovan finally got tired, so he lay down in his little prison, and went to sleep.

Omega steps over to the primary terminal, and begins to interface it with the shuttle. “We know that it’s going to take us to 2293, but we don’t know where. It might be uncomfortably close to the Extremus, in which case we won’t have much time to get it done. We’re still not even certain how we’re going to do it.”

“I don’t know either of you very well, but I have faith you’ll figure something out,” Thatch says sincerely. I’ll be here as a little worker bee. So just give me orders, Captain.”

“I’m not the captain,” Omega says. “She is.”

Valencia smirks. “The Admiral is in charge of the bridge. So we’ll need his permission to link our AI with your systems.”

“Granted,” Thatch says. “I’m also relieving myself of duty, and placing you in charge. I never wanted the gig.”

“Accepted,” Valencia agrees.

“I do have one question, though,” Thatch admits. “What are we going to do with him? I feel bad leaving him in there indefinitely.”

“You said he may have killed Halan and Mercer?” Omega reiterates.

“Good point.”

Meanwhile, about seven hundred and seven light years away, the Extremus is still en route, having not missed a single beat. The new bridge has been built, and is ready to be commanded by its rightful executive crew. The incident with Ovan happened a year ago, but the passengers are still reeling. Many would have followed him to the ends of the galaxy, but not after the stunt he pulled. But for a few radicals who were smart enough to keep their dark thoughts to themselves, no one believed that what he did was the right call. They continued to accept the direction of their elected officials, while the crew did the same for their own interim leadership. After the deaths of the Captain and Lieutenant, The Bridgers had no choice but to assume command, but that changes today. It’s time to bring them back to life.

Dr. Holmes steps back, and makes sure everything looks right. Then she glances around the room to make sure the others have no objections. She would ignore them if they did, but she would need to know about them. She places a hand on each button, and presses them simultaneously.

Both bodies spring to life. They stare into empty space, and catch their breaths. Once he’s ready, Halan turns to the good doctor. “Report.”

“You both died. Old Man had a contingency for that, and I decided to enact it.”

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Microstory 1765: Easel

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I’ve never been good with emotion. I have them, sure, but they don’t ever move far from the middle. When someone does something that I don’t like, I get upset, but I don’t get mad. As the date of an event that I’m interested in attending approaches, I feel enthusiastic, but not excited. I never lash out, or cry, or squee, or anything like that. I don’t have a problem with other people doing all such things; their emotional reactions don’t annoy me, but I bother them with my lack thereof. My first girlfriend deliberately let herself get caught cheating on me with another guy. I wasn’t happy that she did it, but I easily let it go, and didn’t break up with her. Of course, she broke up with me, because I wasn’t passionate enough, and that’s when I realized that I needed to find someone who didn’t need too much attention. I was never able to, and I eventually decided that it wasn’t fair for me to lead my partners on, and make them feel like there was hope for the two of us. It’s mostly been fine, but unfortunately, it became a problem when my last ex-girlfriend reached out, and revealed that I had a nine-year-old daughter. She was with another man shortly after we were together, and the two of them had always assumed that he was the father. The girl even looked a little like him, so it didn’t occur to them to get a DNA test. They only did it recently when there was a medical issue that required some background information that didn’t match up right. So it was no one’s fault, and the mother felt comfortable breaking the news to me, because she knew that I would not take it poorly. The problem was I couldn’t ignore this new child, but I also couldn’t be a good father to her either. More than math and language skills, kids learn emotional intelligence from their caregivers. Even I know that. I decided to seek professional help. It went a little too well. It would even say it broke me.

I tried a few therapists, each one of them deciding that I needed to be referred to someone else. Again, it wasn’t anybody’s fault, but they had to dig a little deeper to find out what my problem was, and the next layer always fell beyond their expertise. I ended up with a world-renowned hypnotist, known for managing to get through even the most steadfast of skeptics. As far as the technique went in general, I wasn’t a skeptic, but hypnotism often involves latching onto some kind of emotional trigger, and as you know by now, there’s not much of that there with me. At least, I didn’t think that there was. It’s like there was a switch in my brain that accidentally got turned off when I was young, and never got turned back on. I saw a TV show about that once—three of them, actually—where it makes vampires worse than they usually are. I didn’t go on a killing spree, but I did go a bit crazy. I destroyed my hypnotist’s office. All of my emotions from the last 29 years of my life came flooding into my mind all at once. Everything I might have felt got locked away without me even realizing it, and now they were unleashed. After the initial shock wore off, and I paid for the damages, the hypnotist referred me to yet another psychologist, who could help me deal with my newfound feelings. She suggested I channel them into art, even though I’ve never been much into it, because I wasn’t capable of seeing the beauty. As it turns out, I’m not half-bad as a painter. I put everything I’m feeling onto the canvas, but it’s not about the fabric, the paint, or even the images. What I’m doing is unloading my burdens onto the easel...to ease my pain. It’s been working well, and I think I have a decent relationship with my daughter now.