Microstory 1795: Drudgery Clock

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It wasn’t really until the day I graduated from college that I realized I had no direction in life. I had this liberal arts degree that didn’t lend itself to a particular career, and while everyone said it opened doors for me, I didn’t believe them, and I would find out later that I was right to have my doubts. I spent years, unemployed off and on, only able to find temporary work, and just hoping someone would ask me to stick around. I became so disillusioned by the whole thing that I gave up trying to be what people told me I should. I began to be more honest in interviews, and for the most part, that didn’t work out. People don’t like honesty. They want you to pretend to be perfect so they can justify hiring you, and then when you make a mistake, they have a justification for getting pissed at you for being dishonest. Completely contradictory is the resting state of middle management, and I will die on that hill, if need be. Ha-ha. I never stopped trying. I kept applying until I told one interviewer that the reason I never last long in any position is because no one has given me a real chance. That seemed to speak to him, so he accepted me for a fulltime, permanent job. I was elated and relieved. There is no such thing as a hundred percent job security, but I felt safer than ever, and that was enough to keep me from stressing out over it so much. The months ticked by, and before I knew it, I had been there for two years, which was longer than I had ever been at one place before. It felt like a huge win, but it was also incredibly depressing. I started to realize that I didn’t like being the veteran. I didn’t like it when someone who had been there for one year told the person who had been there for a week that I was the one to help them. It made me feel weird. That’s when I got a promotion that moved me to a new facility.

Ah, it was like getting a fresh start. I was the new guy again. Sure, I was still working for the same company, but it was different enough to reset my internal drudgery clock. But then two years rolled around, and I got that feeling again. People came, and they went, and it always felt like they were moving on to better things while I just stayed here as a nobody. I saw one of them again once. He had the misfortune of delivering me a sandwich, which actually proved that he didn’t move onto something better, but at least he got out. At least he reset his drudgery clock. I needed that, and I needed to feel good about myself. I quit my job. It was the first time I had ever done that, and it felt amazing. I was the one in charge of my own fate; not someone else. That was incredible. Now I just needed to find something else. It was a little frustrating, going back to the beginning of the search, but it wasn’t too hard, and my drudgery clock was at zero. It stayed there for two more years, which was clearly my limit. I was smarter this time, and applied to something new before I quit the current job. So I just kept doing this a few times, staying in one place for two years, and then getting something else. It didn’t have to be better, it just had to be new. Over time, this technique became harder to sustain. As my résumé grew, I found the interviewers to be less enchanted with me. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I hold down a job? I couldn’t rightly tell them the truth, or it would make things worse. I couldn’t warn them that I didn’t care about their organization, and that I didn’t have any ambitions. So I didn’t. I went back to lying. It didn’t matter. I didn’t look very good on paper, and before I knew it, I retired after thirty years in the same crappy job. That delivery guy I met years before? He was my boss.

Microstory 1794: The Message

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For the most part, my life was boring, so I won’t get into everything that I did. I’ll just talk about the most traumatizing, and simultaneously most transformative, experience I had. I worked on the factory floor for about half of my career, and up in the offices for the other half. It wasn’t something I thought I would ever achieve, but I was a lot more comfortable sitting in a chair all day, pushing paper. It was safer, and had better climate control. My boss was a decent guy, who treated people fairly, and always listened to his employees. He wasn’t great at pay. Well, it wasn’t really his fault. It was company policy back then to not give people raises unless they asked for them. Even if you were promoted to a higher level, they kept you at the same rate unless you specifically pled your case, which made for awkward conversations that could have been avoided. Some managers were better at making this less awkward than others, but mine was clueless and difficult. He also liked everything to be really formal, so instead of talking to him directly about some change you felt needed to be made, or a grievance, you had to write a letter. I hated writing letters, but I learned to do them well, and that’s how I ended up at the desk in the first place. This one day, after thinking over why I thought I deserved to be paid more, and why I needed it, I wrote a letter too hastily, and ended up spelling my manager’s name wrong. I didn’t realize it until after I had sealed it and sent it. I guess I just took a mental photograph of it, but didn’t check the film until later. I was so upset, and so distracted as I was driving home from work, that I didn’t even realize that I had tried to make a U-turn, let alone that there was a pesky concrete barrier in the way. I hit that thing hard. I probably would have died instantly if the turn itself hadn’t slowed me down. I don’t remember feeling any pain, but an intense pressure on my legs. I do remember what I was thinking while I was sitting there, and it’s embarrassing.

I should’ve thought, this is it. This is the day that I die. This is the way that I die. I’m never gonna see my family again. I’m never gonna have another nice steak dinner. But all my brain could focus on was that spelling mistake. I had to fix it. That was what kept me going, as absolutely insane and irrational as it was. Pretty much everyone dies with unfinished business, and it’s sad, and it’s not fair, but that’s the way life is. A normal person is driven to wake up the next day so they can make something of themselves. All I cared about was getting to my boss before he opened that envelope. It didn’t make any sense, but that’s me, I guess. I can’t be sure how much it played into it. Maybe if I had been thinking about how much I hated to be alive, I still would have survived, because my mind wasn’t powerful enough to have that much of an effect on my body, but I always attributed it to that letter. I held out long enough for rescue. I was in hospital, of course, so I never managed to intercept the letter, but also of course, he didn’t care. He wasn’t offended, and he even said that he almost didn’t notice. He just wanted me to get better, and that I did. I lived a good fifty years more. It truly was a good fifty years too, because I learned that day to try to relax, man. Everyone makes mistakes, and people tend to be more understanding if you give them a reason to. I worked hard to become more personable and likeable, and I found that people would generally give me the benefit of the doubt. I think that’s the most important lesson that I instilled in my kids, and I die in peace, knowing that this simple message remains my legacy.

Microstory 1793: Conversion

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I don’t want to talk about the final moments of my life. They aren’t important. I have always felt that way; not about myself, of course, but others. Death is a scary topic that I don’t like to think about. My best friend growing up was fascinated with it. He liked to read about real serial killers, and fiction that was specifically about murder and mayhem. He owned one book about crazy freak accidents, and another that listed famous people’s famous last words. He started to write a book of his own once, combining these two concepts. It was all made up, and it wasn’t very good, but he was a child, so that’s not surprising. It’s what drove us apart. I didn’t like thinking about all that violence and sadness. I didn’t hate him for it, but the older you get, the more important it is to find people you have things in common with. We were just too different. Years later, I found out that he had rewritten that book as an adult; transformed it into something decent and marketable. I didn’t read the signed copy he sent me. It wasn’t just signed, he also wrote a personalized note, saying how much he treasured those few years we spent as friends. He hoped to reconnect at some point, but I never reached out. Again, I didn’t dislike him, but you know how it is. We both had our own lives. Now he’s the only one with a life, and mine’s ending. Man, it’s hard not to think about it when you’re dying, isn’t it? No. Life. What about my life? Well, after we drifted apart, I started getting more interested in music. I didn’t create it myself, though. I couldn’t play worth a darn, and I could clear the room in ten seconds flat if I tried to sing. I just loved the culture. I liked to get backstage passes, and I wanted to learn how the lighting system worked. I liked to see the performers when they weren’t performing yet. I didn’t care for the drugs, though, so I knew that I could never be a roadie.

I ended up getting a job as a conversion crew member at a large performance and event venue. Different bands and events needed the layout to be particular to them. I moved chairs, and stages, and booths, and everything you can think of, to make a unique experience for each of our clients. It was hard work, but I got a great workout everyday, and I enjoyed it a lot more than some of my co-workers did. The pay wasn’t the best, but it was above minimum wage, and my wife made more than enough to support the family. She was the best pediatrician in the state, and she never made me feel bad about having no ambition. I would occasionally get free tickets too, so that was a perk she would never be able to compete with. We had two daughters. One moved up to become the editor of a well-respected magazine, and the other is a foreman for a construction crew. I couldn’t be prouder of both of them. We all took it hard when their mother died. I could barely take myself to work in the morning. What was I going to do without her? Suddenly, as if sensing my pain, my old friend called, and told me he was looking into doing a major presentation for his new book in the area, and he remembered what I did for a living. I helped set up the deal, and he obviously gave us free tickets. We watched him talk to the audience from backstage, and I felt something change in me. I started to see where he was coming from, and why he was so intrigued by the idea of death. He was so good at explaining how crucial accepting death is to helping us lead full and healthy lives. I read his books in one week, and became a convert. Now, as I lie here on the pavement, blood oozing from my head, I’m comforted by the fact that I was happy.

Microstory 1792: Reverse Karma

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I was a terrible human being, and I don’t regret anything I did, except maybe the choices I made on my last day on Earth. I learned to become the man I am from my father, but not in the way you’re probably assuming. Dad was the greatest guy ever, who literally wouldn’t hurt a fly. I had to take care of the pests myself, because he couldn’t bring himself to do it. I wish his parents had encouraged him to deal with things like that, if only to teach him how to stand up for himself. His wife—my father—cheated on him, chronically, and openly. She just kept doing it, but never left him, because he made good money, and she didn’t think the court would make him pay alimony if she was clearly the bad egg in the relationship. He continued to give her anything she wanted, and didn’t divorce her, because he was just too nice. He was fired for costing the company too much in accumulated raises, just before he would be able to receive full pension. He got shot in the gut once, trying to mediate a street fight. He survived the attack, only to die in his hospital room a few days later after a nurse screwed up his medication. It was an ongoing issue too; something that had to build up in his system. We’re all pretty sure that he noticed the mistake, but didn’t say anything, because he didn’t want to bother her. I knew that I couldn’t live my life like he did his. He was forced to do his best to hide how miserable he was, and I realized that the only way to be happy is to take what you need, and not worry about how it makes other people feel. People hated me, but never fought against my selfishness, because they were worried about how I would react if they called me out on my shit. I’m sure things would have worked out just fine, but I found that letting them be afraid of me served me better than being kind and honest.

I was right to be the way that I was, all the way up to the day that I died...but not through the day that I died. I suppose you would tell me that that’s proof my lifestyle didn’t work, but it was really just one fluke, and had I survived it, I doubt I would have changed my ways, and I doubt it would have come back to bite me in the ass later. My dad suffered from reverse karma. The more good he put into the universe, the more the universe took, and it never gave back. I, on the other hand, had a wonderful life, filled with booze, broads, and buttloads of money. I had a high-paying job, and I didn’t listen to people who told me I didn’t deserve to be happy. It was only this one time that I guess I should have opened my ears a little bit. So I was walking down into the subway, trying to enjoy my audiocast when this smug asshole wearing all hemp assaults my senses with his mediocre—but loud—rendition of some dumb pop song I didn’t care about. As I was walking by, I kicked his guitar case closed. I didn’t padlock it, or anything. All he had to do was reopen it, but suddenly I was attacked by a bunch of social justice workers who thought I was starting a war on the poor. I didn’t care that he was poor, I just didn’t want him to interrupt the latest episode of Sexy Serial Killers. I defended myself, as one does, but they just kept screaming at me for being a bad person. Whatever, it wasn’t like any of these people mattered. Except, apparently, they did. While I was trying to stand as far from the crowd as possible, I ended up slipping over the edge, and down onto the tracks, twisting my ankle, and possibly breaking my hand. The injuries turned out to be the least of my concerns when I realized that no one was going to help me back up. Death by subway train. At least you can’t say it was boring.

Microstory 1791: First Reflection

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I’ve always known that I was born a voldisil, but I’ve never had any special gift. For most of my life, I lived during a time when my kind could only be ourselves in secret. We didn’t tell anyone what we were, or what we could do. We weren’t out in the open until a man with the ability to heal felt he had to go public to save as many people as possible. Some of us weren’t happy about it, but I always admired his bravery. As I watched the news talk about him, and suggest there were others like him, I wondered whether I would finally find out what I could do. It didn’t happen. I lived the last couple years of my life without a purpose; at least in the voldisil way, that is. It’s only this last moment that I have finally figured out who I am. According to current statistics, about a hundred people die in the world every single minute of every single day. As I lay dying, the histories of each of these fallen strangers are flooding my brain. We’re not dead yet, but I just know that these are the people who are on their way out with me. If there is something on the other side of the death barrier, then the hundred of us will cross that threshold together. It is overwhelming and inspiring. Get something to record this, because I only have a couple of hours to live. I will be spending my last breaths on telling you these people’s stories in first person perspective. They’ve been through a lot. For some, their time has come, but for others, it is tragic and unfair. In the future, scientists will synthesize the healer’s abilities, and create a panacea, but until then, this is life. It always ends, and I am no exception. I shall begin this series with my own story.

Since I didn’t seemingly have any special abilities, my life was fairly normal and mundane. I really liked to paint, but I was never particularly good at it, and even if I had been, I don’t think I would have wanted to translate it into a career of any kind. I like for people to see my art, because I think it’s something that should be enjoyed, but I don’t need them to pay me, and I don’t need to become famous. I made a living working as a groundskeeper at a cemetery. You know, no one is really sure what makes a volidisil a voldisil. No one has been able to study them until recently, because we had not yet gone public. One of us that I met called us spirits, which evidently means our abilities come from our souls, as opposed to our minds or bodies. It appears that voldisil is merely one kind of these spirits, but I’ve never heard of any other, so perhaps she was mistaken, or they’re just straight synonyms. The point is, does my ability have to do with death because that’s what I dealt with my whole adult life, or was I drawn to the field because of my future ability? Is there any connection at all, or is it just a coincidence? After all, like I said, everyone dies, so maybe the link is just something that I’ve wrongly perceived. I suppose it doesn’t matter in the end, but it would be nice to understand where we come from, and how we are the way we are, and whether any reason is strong enough to combat the chaos. I’ll die happy and satisfied with the small way I contributed to the world, helping families move on despite the sadness. Others are not so lucky, like this next reflection, from the perspective of a man who couldn’t be nice to save his life.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 17, 2375

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It was happening again. The ship just experienced a sudden loss of power. Fortunately, it wasn’t as bad as last time. Instead of returning to the timestream after a year, they were here when it happened, which meant there was still enough breathable air to keep them from dying within the next few minutes. The artificial gravity was gone, and the lights were off, but their Cassidy cuffs were still working, suggesting that they weren’t suffering from a direct impact of the Power Vacuum. Still, it was incredibly annoying. There should have been more than enough distance between them and the beam, even when accounting for the waves that go beyond the visible spectrum of light. Leona asked to gather all of the cuffs so they could try to siphon their fusion generators into the ship. Ramses said that wouldn’t be necessary. “Why not?” she asked.

He pushed himself off the wall, and floated down to his grave chamber. He opened it up, accessed a storage panel, and retrieved a box. “I was worried this would happen, so I came prepared.” He opened the box, and inside was another box. “The insulation worked. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but it’ll make it easier to open.” He casually tossed the outer box into the slowly thinning air.

“That’s some kind of power source?” Mateo asked.

“It’s a time battery,” Ramses said. “Or rather, it will be.” He set the inner box on the table, and activated the magnet to hold it in place. Then he flipped over just for fun, and got himself down to his seat, where he strapped in.

Everyone else did the same, though with less gymnastics. “You haven’t built it yet?” Angela questioned. “How are you going to charge it if we have no power to begin with?”

“Oh, it’s charged,” Ramses replied. “It just doesn’t exist right now. I programmed it to jump two hours into the future an hour before the Vacuum was scheduled to show up. When it returns, it will be more than enough to power up the reframe engine, and get us back to Earth.”

“You shouldn’t be able to store that much power in that small of a package,” Leona argued. “Now if it’s a fusion reactor, you might be onto something, but you called it a battery.”

“It is a battery, but it doesn’t store electricity. It’s not called a time battery because it travels through time. It stores temporal energy, which is the most powerful kind in the universe.”

“Where did you get it?” Leona pressed.

“I engineered it, obviously,” Ramses answered. “You don’t think I could do something like that?”

“No, I mean, where’d you get the energy? You usually spend more generating it than you get out of it, like fusion was back in ancient times.”

“I did spend more energy than I got out of it. But I used a stellaris collapsis, which is basically free. Two devices were attached to each other by a tether. I sent the collector through a portal, which exited close enough to the event horizon to create temporal dissonance. I then processed the energy using the device on my end, and charged the battery. And when I say I did these things, I barely did anything. I was too busy working on the limbo simulation. Ishida did most of the work. The Jameela Jamil has their own time battery. Actually, they have a battery of batteries, and they’re all larger than this one.”

“Could you have not just siphoned Hawking radiation, or rotational energy, from the black hole itself?” Olimpia asked.

Mateo was surprised she knew that a stellaris collapsis was another name for a black hole, since he had already forgotten learning that a while ago. What was Hawking radiation?

“Storing that would have been harder. Temporal energy works well in compact form, such as this thing right here.” He pointed to the still empty box.

Most of the team just nodded. “Do we have enough oxygen to last us until it shows up?” Mateo asked, feeling dumb.

“Plenty,” Leona answered. “That’s why we have microponics upstairs.” She looked at her watch. “We are coming up on midnight central, though. Did you not account for that?”

“When I said the battery was scheduled to return two hours after it disappeared, I really meant two hours and one year. We’ll just have to set the AOC to jump with us, instead of waiting for us. So I guess we will need to siphon some cuff fusion.”

“I see,” Leona said. “I suppose you already modified the ship to utilize our new power systems.”

Ramses smirked, and reached under the table. After a click, the center of the table popped up. He took hold of it, and pulled out a tube that Mateo never knew was there. “For those of you who don’t know, we use an antimatter drive for propulsion. Regular ol’ fusion isn’t good enough to reach the speeds we need, or power the reframe engine.” He kicked the base of the table with his foot. “That regular fusion, however, is more than enough to power internal systems. It’s always better to have redundancies. This will be our third redundancy. The battery goes in here, and can handle both propulsion, and the ship itself.”

“For how long?” Angela asked.

“That depends on how we use it, and how much loss the battery experienced from the time jump. Normally, we wouldn’t have to do that, but it obviously didn’t work as an emergency cache if the Power Vacuum drained it while it was still in the timestream.”

“This was a good call, Ramses,” Leona complimented. “I wish I had thought of it. I was just so concerned with Mateo, and the afterlife simulation.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Ramses said, dismissing her guilt. “That’s why we’re a team.”

They spent pretty much all of their time together now, so there wasn’t much for them to talk about. They were relatively silent for the rest of the hour, but Angela and Olimpia had some stories, so that kept them occupied a little. A year later, the indicator light on the box turned green, prompting Ramses to open it, and check on his special battery. “Perfect condition, 83% capacity; not bad.” He installed it in its housing like it wasn’t any more complex than a USB drive, and powered up systems. The tube receded back into the table, and the fresh air came on.

“All right, it works,” Leona said, only a little surprised. “Plot a course to the exit portal. I’ll try to contact the Jamil.”

“Neither one of those things may be possible,” Ramses said, looking at his screen.

Leona pulled up her own screen to find out what he was talking about. “This doesn’t make any sense. Where the hell are we? Where’s the megaportal?”

“Did the Power Vacuum knock us off course?” Angela guessed.

“There are two things it could have done. One, left us to drift not too terribly far from where we were, or two, pulled us into the portal with it. Either way, we should have an inkling of where we are. I’m not seeing any stars at all, just distant galaxies. This is...”

“Bonkers?” Ramses finished for her.

“Bonkers,” Leona agreed.

“Maybe we traveled through time,” Olimpia suggested. “The stars are always moving.”

“I thought of that,” Ramses said. “Which is why I ran a program that checks the date based on stellar drift. A good time traveler always does that.” He gently pulled Leona over by the shoulder, and pointed to his screen. “What the shit is that?”

“A galaxy?” Leona offered, unconvinced herself.

“A galaxy?” Ramses questioned, like it was the stupidest thing he had ever heard.

“A...hyperdense? Galaxy?”

“What is it?” Mateo asked, not feeling dumb anymore, because they were just being cryptic.

“You’re not missing anything here,” Leona told him. “We’re just as confused as you.” She cast her screen to the central hologram, showing them a big blob of light. “Those are stars, and they are very close together. It’s not enough for them to have chaotic gravitational pull on one another, but it’s not natural either.”

“How could it not be natural?” Olimpia asked. “You’re saying that someone moved these stars?”

“It’s doable,” Ramses explained. “It would take a hell of a long time, though.”

“Time ain’t nothin’ but a thang,” Angela said. It was a common aphoroid for time travelers, but it sounded rather odd coming from her lips.

“If that’s where all the stars are,” Olimpia began, “then that’s where all the planets are. Earth may be somewhere in that blob.”

“It would be virtually impossible to find,” Leona said, “even if that’s The Blob, formerly known as The Milky Way. There’s no frame of reference. We can’t even tell where we are. All we know is that we’re about thousands of light years away from that thing.”

“Still, shouldn’t we go there?” Olimpia continued. “Maybe we’ll receive more data as we get closer, and be able to make more informed decisions.”

“Maybe,” Leona said, unconvinced. “It could take a month to get there, assuming we’re as far from it as I think. It’s impossible to tell from here. We would be drowning in radiation, I’m not sure anyone still lives there.”

“Were you able to contact the Jamil?” Mateo asked.

“Yes, but we’re not receiving anything,” Leona said. “I sent a message, but no one’s there to hear it. We could be billions of years in the past, or even trillions of years into the future. Who the hell knows?” She tensed up, and looked around like a paranoid racoon.

“What is it?” Mateo asked.

“Usually when we say things like that, someone appears and tells us they have the answer. It’s more often than not the villain.” She continued to look around, prompting the rest of the team to do the same.

No one was there.

“I think we’re safe,” Mateo decided.

Leona pointed to him. “They sometimes show up after someone says something like that.”

They looked around some more. Still no one.

“We may be the only people left in this universe,” Ramses lamented. “Trillions of years is a long time. They could have set the stellar engines on autopilot, and then died out.”

“We don’t know anything,” Mateo reminded them. “Let’s not despair just yet.”

“We better hope someone is still around. We need other people,” Ramses concluded. “We’re going to run out of hydropellets and antimatter pods sooner or later. The time battery is a quick fix, and I can’t recreate it in the span of a single day. This ship is not designed to be completely self-sufficient. If I had had more time back when—”

“No one is blaming you for this, Ramses,” Leona hoped he understood. “We all love this ship, and we’re grateful. The Power Vacuum does not discriminate. It seems to have been even more powerful than we knew. We can only hope that our plan to redirect the beam worked as intended, even if it was the last thing we did.”

“Still,” Ramses said, “I would feel much better near a star—a safe star, free from dangerous gravitational disturbances, and hot hot heat—than out here in the void.”

“Aren’t there stars and planets in the void?” Angela asked. “Someone once told me there were more isolated rogues, actually, than there are in galaxies.”

“Probably,” Leona agreed, “but anyone powerful enough to consolidate a galaxy of stars is likely also capable of stealing intergalactic stars as well. Even if we could confirm that the blob was once the Milky Way, we don’t have the tools to measure its mass to figure that out. My estimate of how far we are is based on how far we were from the galactic core, but that operates under the assumption that we traveled through time, but not space.”

“Let’s scan the best we can,” Olimpia suggested, wincing with regret for letting it rhyme. “Maybe we’re parked ten light years from a Class-M planet, and we don’t even know.”

“Class-M planet,” Leona echoed with a laugh. “Thanks, I really needed that.”

“What did I say?” Olimpia asked.

Mateo patted her on the head like a puppy. “Welcome to the club.”

They did scan as best they could with the technology they had. They were able to detect a faint source of light that was anywhere between a few light years away to tens of thousands. The only way to measure its distance would be to compare its relative position to other celestial objects, of which there was none in that general direction. Furthermore, if it was being moved towards the blob like all the others, its location would be even more unpredictable, because they were seeing its light reach them from as far in the past as it was away from them in space. It was moving either way, but the stellar engines were almost certainly faster than natural stellar drift. Regardless, it was their only option, so they pointed the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez towards it, and took a leap of faith.

They left the timestream a day later, and returned to find themselves still in void space. They hadn’t reached the star, and in fact, couldn’t find it anymore. It could have been receding from them, for all they knew. They weren’t alone here, though. A massive ship was hovering above them. Oh boy.

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Extremus: Year 25

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Vice Admiral Perran Thatch stands at the podium. To his right is the newly appointed captain, Kaiora Leithe. To his left is the first lieutenant she chose, Corinna Seelen. Flanking them is Second Lieutenant Lars Callaghan, who will continue in this role until his 24-year shift is over. Also on stage is Kumara Bhasin. The crew voted on a new shift strategy for the head temporal engineer position. It is now scheduled to last 28 years. The education program is too long and difficult for them to have to worry about cycling a new person in every 12 years, and the additional four beyond the captain’s shift is there to allow for some continuity. It’s not technically the longest shift, though. The admiralty is a lifetime appointment, whether at the vice level, like Thatch and Belo, or full admirals, of which there is now none. Executive medical positions, like Dr. Holmes’ Chief Medical Officer, can last a lifetime as well. However, she is entitled to retire whenever she wants, as long as she secures a replacement. She is presently still active as the longest-serving member of the crew, and will probably die at her desk. She too is sitting on stage, next to Vice Admiral Olindse Belo, Former First Lieutenant Yitro Moralez, and the first two civilian Chairs.

The auditorium is full. Nearly every member of the crew is here, except for a skeleton crew left to monitor the ship. Some key civilians are here as well. The rest of the seats were filled by lottery. The whole ship can watch its broadcast, and only a handful of people are too busy, or don’t care enough to do so. It’s time for Thatch’s speech. “Normally, the previous captain will be where I am right now. In 24 years, a full admiral by the name of Leithe will pass the baton to her own replacement. Until then, I have been asked to introduce her to you. I’m sure it’s not necessary, as you already know her, because she’s been working on the crew for the last few years. Still, it’s my honor to officially acknowledge her role as the new Captain of the TGS Extremus. Hm. TG, transgalactic. We may need to change that name. Fortunately, that’s not up to me. Nor is it up to Captain Leithe.

“We are living in a democracy, run smoothly by a joint executive force of crew and government. Some of the latter are here today to witness the occasion. We welcome them, and recognize their authority...” He pauses to let the words soak in. It was the government that decided what to do about Former Admiral Halan Yenant’s actions. The crew was prepared to pardon him completely, but theirs was not the only voice of importance. He broke a shipwide rule, and for that, he has to suffer the consequences. Not everyone agreed with it. Thatch finally goes on, “as they recognize ours.” Subtle. “My point is that Captain Leithe is now your leader but she is not a dictator. Everyone has the right to their opinion, and the freedom to exercise it, within a set of acceptable parameters.” He gives Consul Keone Biskup a dirty look. He replaced former Consul—and True Extremist—Dvronen after he was sent to hock. He is not a terrorist, and no one thinks that, but Dvronen isn’t here to accept Thatch’s ire, so he’s misdirecting it. “Anyway, I have every confidence in Captain Leithe to fulfill her duties honorably, ethically...and justifiably. Members of the crew, citizens of the ship, I give you...Captain Kaiora Leithe, Third of Ten.”

The crowd claps and cheers. Kaiora and Thatch try to shake hands in the midst of it. Kaiora looks at her hand in confusion. “Just go with it,” he says quietly, before spinning around to shake Corinna’s. She’s equally confused. Before Kaiora can take the mic, he leans back over to it, “And don’t forget First Lieutenant Corinna Seelen!” The cheering had begun to die down, but now it returns to full volume.

“Thank you very much! Thank you, thank you,” Kaiora says when it’s her turn to speak. “I’ll keep my speech short, so you can all get to the refreshments in the mess hall. I have a meeting immediately following this, so I won’t be able to attend, but I hear they made some very nice Glisnian delicacies. I’m not sure what Glisnians even eat, but I’m excited to find out, so save me some. I’m also excited to begin my work on this ship. We’ve had some pretty rough times, but I for one believe that we are past the worst. We are...free and clear, so to speak.” This is a reference to their recent unauthorized course correction. “To that end, I would like to address the rumors that I will be proposing a vote on returning to our old route, or something similar. This is a divisive issue, and I currently have no intention to make any further change to our new vector. I will continue to listen to the advice of my admirals.” She gestures towards Thatch and Olindse. “And I will listen to the wishes of the crew, and the people. I will not let anyone bully me into a decision; on this matter, or any other.” This is a reference to the current civilian government administration.

She continues, “I plan to be a fair captain, and a patient one, and I hope we can keep moving forward. To another two!” The crowd echoes her. This is a reference to the approximate number of light years the ship travels in the span of a day. Kaiora steps back from the mic so they can still hear her, but not well. “I-S-W-Y.” This is an acronym for I Stand with (Halan) Yenant, and has become a not-so-secret signal to indicate one’s support of Halan’s unilateral decision to reroute the Extremus under threat of annihilation. It’s a bold statement, and could cost her her own support from others, but she has decided to take a stand, because she believes it’s the right thing to do. She leans back in, and finishes with, “thank you again.” She steps away, and walks towards Vice Admiral Thatch. They suddenly teleport to the hock together, as planned. The audience is left to sit with whatever interpretation of their speeches that they’re formulating.

The hock watcher—which may be the funniest sounding job on the ship—smiles proudly. “Captain,” he says with a nod. “Admiral.”

“Turn off monitoring, please,” Kaiora orders.

“Sir,” the hock watcher replies respectfully as he follows through. He then unlocks the gate, and lets them in.

The hock is the most secure section of the ship, for obvious reasons. If seen as a cross section above, it resembles a hexagonal flower, with smaller hexagons inside of the petals. The central area is where the hock watcher works. It’s raised above the cells. Lift platforms lead down to the center of a block of six cells, which could potentially accommodate two people each. Hopefully they would never have more than 72 prisoners. There has never been much crime here. Only three cells are occupied. True Extremist, Dvronen Vatal is in one. Regular extremist, Ovan Teleres is in another. Disgraced former admiral, Halan Yenant is in the third. Kaiora looks back at the hock watcher. “Unlock his door, and double check the soundproofing.”

“Sir,” he repeats.

The cell is much smaller than where Halan was used to living before he was placed here, and he is never allowed to leave, but it has everything he needs. He has his own toilet, sink, and shower. He has a closet with a few choices, and a laundry terminal. He makes his own food with a synthesizer that is reloaded with cartridges by a robot on the other side of the wall. It’s programmed with all known recipes, which is a privilege that he enjoys, while the other two do not. Similarly, they are allowed to busy themselves with computer games, like RPS-101 Plus, but they don’t have access to the interstellar repository of knowledge, nor networked media. Halan can look up anything he wants, but information is one way, and is only updated weekly. It does not include current events on the Extremus, except for very key developments, such as the induction of a new captain. He has no means of reaching out to anyone on the ship, or anyone else, for that matter. He’s fine here, he’s fine. Kaiora, and pretty much everyone in the inner circle, are worried about him, but he’s fine. “Congratulations.”

“I ordered them to let you watch, were you able to watch?”

“Yes,” Halan says. “It was an interesting ceremony.”

“We’re with you,” Thatch explains. “Just say the word, and you’re on that time shuttle with Omega and Valencia.”

Halan smiles. “No. I’m where I belong. These are the rules that we set forth—”

“Don’t quote me the handbook, Hal, this is bullshit.”

“This is how it has to be. The ship had to go into the intergalactic void to avoid crashing into Feizi, but that choice was never going to come free. My new digs is the price we paid, and I pay it gladly. Better me than someone else, or worse, the mission. Please don’t try anything.” He looks now to Kaiora. “And don’t think that you’re going to be coming here for my advice, like Olindse did. I was an admiral back then, I’m not anymore.”

“No one has to know if we talk,” Kaiora argues.

“They’ll find out,” Halan contends. “Remember what I taught you?”

“Don’t let Callaghan near the PA system?”

“The other thing.”

“Three things cannot long be hidden,” she begins. “The sun—”

Halan says the second word with her, “the moon—”

“They all three say the third, “and the truth.”

“Why do we still say that?” Kaiora questions. “We don’t have a sun, or a moon. I’ve never even seen a moon.”

“Because we still have the truth,” Halan answers. “One day, our descendants will understand why I did what I did, and many will be grateful. Others won’t agree, but they’ll all. Know. The truth. That’s what’s important. This job is often about secrets. We withhold information from the public, from the crew, even those closest to us. You won’t get through the next 24 years with radical honesty. But you can certainly live with genuine honesty. Always remember that. Your second duty is to the mission, but your first is to the people. They’re the only reason we’re doing this.”

Kaiora inhales deeply, and exhales abruptly. She nods in acknowledgement, but not in full agreement. She was the first baby born on this ship, and she grew up with this man as her hero. Seeing him in this room is sickening, and she can’t promise she won’t eventually find a way to pardon him, and bring him back into the braintrust. The current First Chair of the civilian government isn’t going to be sitting down forever. That’s the whole point of the uneven shift schedule. As the old saying goes, if you don’t like the people in charge, wait five minutes.

“Very well,” Halan says, accepting her concession. “I would like to speak with Admiral Thatch in private, if that’s all right with you, Captain.”

“Of course,” Kaiora says, bowing out of the room.

Halan goes on, “you once told me that I would one day learn to trust you, but that it wouldn’t happen until after your death. You were wrong. I realized I should have trusted you all along when I saw you make that speech.”

“That’s not what I said,” Thatch disputes. “I said that it would be the day that I died.”

“You’re not dead yet,” Halan says, smirking.

Thatch smiles back. He waves his arm out, and lets it pass right through the door, as if it weren’t there at all. “Yes, I am.”

“Thatch...”

He tips an invisible hat. “Have a drink for me, won’t ya, kid?”

Back in Thatch’s stateroom, his nurse turns off the virtual hologram projector, and then she turns off her patient’s life support.

« < » > Table of Contents

Microstory 1790: Mateo Daily

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First off, I probably could have figured out how to squeeze in one more constellation to round out the year, but I wanted to take this opportunity to talk about my plans for next year. I’m going to be doing something wildly different with my macroseries, The Advancement of Mateo Matic. So far, I’ve mostly been writing one installment per week. The first one didn’t come out until the middle of March in my first year, so it only has 42 installments. In fact, I actually doubled up on one day, because I hate the number 41. The next year was pretty normal, but the third year, while there were 53 Sundays, I still only did 52 installments, because I skipped a week for narrative reasons. Ever since then, though, I’ve been able to keep to a steady routine of 52 installments per year. That is all about to change, but not permanently. Everything will hold to convention for the first 24 weeks. Mateo’s story will continue as you would expect, year by year. So too will my current Saturday mezzofiction series, Extremus. I have two microfiction series lined up as well. The first is a return to my Vantage Points multiseries, which will give way to 14 original sonnets. I’m scared about that last one, but hopefully I’ll come up with some good stuff by then. The last sonnet will post on June 10. The last entry in the second volume of Extremus will post on June 11. A new installment for TAMM will be on June 12, but I’m not yet sure how long it’s going to be, or whether the official changeover will happen the following day, where you will find...another installment of The Advancement of Mateo Matic. The next day, there will be another, and then another, and so on.

Throughout the rest of the year, I’ll only be posting TAMM stories. No mezzofiction, and no microfiction. Though, because expecting myself to write 2,000 words—give or take—every day is unreasonable, they will be shorter than usual. I’ll probably do at least 600 words, but I’m not sure yet. I’m not holding myself to anything that restrictive. Each one will take place a day after the last, as we follow Mateo and the team through their latest adventures. They’ll probably be more subdued, and less intense. They’ll probably be family-oriented, with less action. They might read like diary entries. Again, I don’t know yet. I have to get to that point before I really know where the story is going. I serve the story, not the other way around. There is a reason why the team will fall off their pattern, and a reason why it will last them a full year, but I’ve decided to not give that away just yet. If I had chosen to start this in January, I might have said something, but since it’s so far out, I call that a spoiler. This new posting method will continue until the middle of July 2023 when I start a new microfiction series called Conversations, and begin volume 3 of Extremus. I will also get back to the weekly installments of TAMM, and while the story will continue to evolve, I presently have no intentions of altering the posting schedule further. I think I messed up the math, so we’ll see what it looks like when I finish working on the calendar, but I’m sure it will be fine. Speaking of math, I came up with this in my first year, before I had tampered with Mateo’s pattern, so this felt like a much more dramatic change. Since then, he and Leona haven’t always jumped forwards each day anyway. Still, I’m excited, and I hope you are too. This started as a working title, but it’s the best I’ve come up with. I’m obviously calling it...Mateo Daily.