Microstory 1821: Coulrophobia

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I’ll tell you about the worst period of my life, since it’s all I can think about right now. But first, a little backstory. When I was seven or eight years old, the circus came to town. Well, it wasn’t really in town; we had to drive an hour to get there, but it was worth it. I grew up poor, so it was a real treat to get some entertainment besides skipping rocks across the pond, or singing songs with my siblings. I loved everything about the show, but I especially loved the clowns. Even the sad ones looked like they were having the time of their lives. They were so energetic and fun, it was all I could do to resist the urge to jump out of my seat, and start dancing with them. Of course I never did, but I didn’t let go of that feeling either. Most kids my age were hoping to get into college, but I set my sights on something else. I wanted to go to clown school, which I could read about at my local library. Again, local is a strong word since it took two hours to get there on foot. My parents didn’t have the time to take me, but they encouraged me to learn, so they didn’t stop me from getting there on my own. It was a different time back then. Kids were regularly left alone to take care of themselves. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I raised myself, but I had to develop independence at a pretty young age to save my family the trouble. Anyway, clown college. They didn’t even have one in my country. The closest one was probably in France, but those were mostly mimes, so my best bet for a regular happy clown program was the U.S. Getting there wasn’t as hard as you might think, but finding my place there, and figuring out how to thrive in an alien environment, proved to be quite tricky. But I did it. I made it to the school, gave them my money, and began my education. In those days, it was a three-month program, rather than two.

I adored being a clown. It was everything I hoped it would be when I was young. I had a unique name, and a unique makeup pattern. I decided to stay in the country, because I was comfortable here by then, and there was plenty of work to be had. I was getting so many gigs, I couldn’t accept them all. We developed a network of clowns in the area—like a miniature union—where we would refer business to each other when we were too booked. We developed a set of rules too. We had to kick clowns out when they didn’t fulfill the spirit of the art, or match our moral standards. Then, several years ago, things got real bad for us. You probably heard about this; fake clowns started appearing all over the country, and into the next. They always showed up at night. It was always in the suburbs, or rural areas, presumably so they wouldn’t get caught by a dense city population. They didn’t do anything, but stand there, and look menacing. It scared everyone who saw one, and even those who had only heard about it on the news. As for me, it was really damaging to my business. Nobody wanted a clown at their birthday party anymore. We just could not be trusted. Some believed that it was some kind of publicity stunt for a horror film, but no one took responsibility for the phenomenon, and such a film never materialized, as far as I know. I didn’t exactly look into it, but I imagine I would have heard the truth. I was fortunate enough to have been old enough to retire, but many of my colleagues weren’t so lucky. They needed those jobs, and they needed the good reputations to get them. Sure, the sightings only lasted a few months, but the damage was ultimately permanent, and the industry never fully recovered. Business was hard enough already, but I fear—after I’m gone—all clowns will die.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 23, 2381

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They told Xerian everything—well, not everything—about who they were. They just told him enough for him to understand why they were going to disappear at the end of the day, and not return for another original Earthan year. They also told him about the reframe engine, which is significantly slower than the standard light year engine that these people were used to, but also not a useless waste of hydrogen. They explained as little about the cuffs as they could to get by, but after some probing questions, Xerian learned that their pattern wasn’t technically necessary. They ought to be able to switch it off whenever they pleased, and presumably forever. That made the team uncomfortable. They had to come to terms with the fact that everyone they met would always find it strange that they would elect to live this lifestyle. The way they looked at it, though, asking them to suppress the pattern would be exactly the same as asking a normal person to do it in reverse. This was how they perceived time, and even the newbies were used to it by now. It wasn’t out of the question, but perhaps it ought to be. Ramses figured he could modify the cuffs physically to remove the power/pattern suppression function. That would still leave them with the other useful features, like associated teleportation, and a handy computer they always had on them. Unfortunately, it was more complicated than it sounded. Olimpia would always need her time illness to be suppressed.

Xerian was patient, so he could stand to wait for the team to spend the rest of the day recovering from their ordeal, and then not be able to return to work for a year. The Denseterium was still decades away from realizing their dream of building a light year engine capable of traversing a whole galaxy across the observable universe in three thousand years or less. Theoretically, they could do it now, and in fact could have always done it. Their goal was to collect every star in the Milky Way, but they didn’t actually need to in order to demonstrate their might. Why, the whole reason they were at war with Andromeda was because they were so technologically advanced already. The Hyperdense galaxy was simultaneously already complete, and would never be complete. They could use it now, or continue to add at will They too were patient, because they had an objective in mind, and didn’t see Xerian as enough of a threat to alter those plans. Hell, they could have light year engined every star into place almost immediately, but they were using regular Class E stellar engines, because they required less energy.

“Is that true?” Ramses asked. “Why couldn’t they just use a lot of little light year engines to consolidate the stars first? Sure, this uses a lot of energy all at once, but the stellar engines lose a lot of mass for thrust. I don’t think they’re saving themselves anything.”

“They are,” Xerian contended. “The stellar material expelled as thrust is collected and recycled afterwards. A light year engine disperses the material that it leaves behind so much that it’s pretty much actually wasted.”

“Who told you that?” Leona asked.

“Uhh, I dunno, that’s just the science.”

“I’m not convinced that it is,” Ramses disagreed. “A light year engine is incredibly efficient. Otherwise, our colleagues back home wouldn’t bother using it.”

“They’re just using it for a ship, though, right?” Xerian reminded him. “Entire star systems are different. They’re open, making it harder to contain waste.”

“I guess,” Ramses said, “but I can’t imagine the Shkadov thrusters are any less wasteful. I mean, it takes energy to collect that too. I would need to see the math.”

“A what thruster?” Xerian asked.

“That’s what we call them where we’re from.” What the team chose not to explain was that they were from a different reality. They instead said that they came to this part of the universe from a distant galaxy which Leona called 3C 295. It was five billion light years away, which would take a light year engine a century and a half to cross. This fabrication had the added benefit of justifying their fondness for their temporal pattern. For them, the fictional trip only took five months. They didn’t explain what happened to their capital ship after arriving, or who else came with them.

Xerian nodded in understanding.

They could sense his eagerness to finish breakfast, and get started. Ramses wiped his mouth with his napkin, and took out the reset button. “If everyone’s ready...”

“Hold on.” Leona tapped on her Cassidy cuff, and suddenly everyone else’s cuff fell off of their respective wrists. “Okay, now we’re ready.”

“Why did you just do that?” Mateo questioned.

“Oh, did we not tell you?” Leona asked. She looked around the room. No one knew what she was talking about, except apparently Xerian. “New plan. Once Ramses reconstitutes the AOC inside the matrioshka detachment, I will associate teleport there alone. I will then make my way to a different part of the detachment, drop one of the extra cuffs there, and hopefully get out in time, before Xerian integrates one of the other cuffs with the Suadona, using it to associate teleport his entire ship to that new location, basically blowing up that section of the detachment.”

No one responded for a moment. “What!” Mateo questioned.

“We’re turning the cruiseliner into a bomb,” Leona reiterated. “At that point, he’ll use whatever tactic he needs to wrest control of the detachment as a whole.”

“And what exactly are we doing during this time?” Olimpia asked.

“You’ll be safe on a lifeboat,” Leona answered. “This will all be done remotely. Only one of us needs to actually transport inside the matrioshka brain to physically move the extra cuff, so it can be a beacon for the bomb.”

They just stared at her.

“This makes the most sense,” Leona defended. “Why would we all go there? That’s stupid and pointless. Xerian has already told me the best place to plant the cuff beacon. It will do a significant amount of damage to cause panic and chaos, but not enough to blow the whole thing up, which would defeat the whole purpose of the mission to take over.”

“Are people going to die?” Mateo asked her.

“Maybe. I won’t be able to evacuate people from that section, because then they’ll know something’s about to happen.”

“You forget, love,” he said as he was replacing his cuff. “I’m still the one in charge here.” She may have had the ability to remove their cuffs without their permission, but his remained primary. This was going to have to happen fast. He tapped on the screen, dropping Leona’s cuff too. He then magnetized all of the cuffs into his lap. He stole Ramses’ reset button, and pressed it as he was literally running away with all of the devices. As he ran down the corridors, he kept his eye on the progress bar that illustrated how much of the AOC had been restored on the matrioshka detachment.

Ramses was upon him before the bar had reached a hundred percent. “Wait! I’m all right with you being the one to do this in Leona’s stead, but...we need one of those cuffs. The matrioshka brain has ways of blocking anyone from teleporting into their borders without authorization, but our technology is incompatible with theirs. They don’t know how to block the signal. So just give me one of them, and you can go off and execute the plan.”

“New new plan,” Mateo said cryptically. “Nobody’s teleporting anywhere...except for me, I guess. But nobody’s killing anybody, period. There’s a peaceful way to do this, and I’m gonna find it. I’ll let you know where I am when it’s time.”

“What if you get caught before you can send us your location?” Ramses asked.

“If I get caught, and I’m not able to send a message, then it’s not time. Pretty simple.” Ramses’ reset device beeped. One hundred percent. They had their ship back.

“Wait!”

“Tell my wife, were I you.” Mateo locked onto the signal of one of the Cassidy cuffs that were being stored on the AOC, and transported himself right to it.

He looked around carefully, worried that it didn’t work, and he wasn’t where he expected to be. Everything appeared to be in working order, though, with the ship powered down, currently operating on dormant lighting. He was standing in engineering, which was a section he didn’t spend a lot of time in, since he didn’t know how anything worked down here. Even so, he knew where the cuffs were stored. He unlocked the secret safe, and counted. They were all here and accounted for; the four he brought with him, the one on his wrist, and the five extras. Leona and Xerian wanted to destroy one of these for the sake of the mission, but as far as they could tell, these here were the only ten such devices ever created, except for the one in Kestral’s possession. Half of them were designed by an unknown party—likely some version of Holly Blue—while the rest Ramses made after reverse engineering one. So he could probably make more, but it was still best to treasure them. Besides, there had to be a diplomatic solution to this. Mateo was no diplomat himself, so he—

“Hello?”

He jumped up, startled. This wasn’t super surprising, though, was it? A mysterious baby ship that disappeared five years ago suddenly reappearing right where it was  before? That was bound to raise some eyebrows. Winging it had gotten him this far so far, so he might as well try to ride that wave until it crashed down upon him. He quietly spun the safe back into the recess. Then he echoed the question, “hello?”

“Mateo?” Wait, was that Angela?

He ran through the numbers again. He definitely just left nine cuffs in that safe, and he was still wearing the primary. How had Angela come with him? “Angie?”

“Report!” she whispered back loudly.

“Uhh...report!”

“I asked you first!”

“I asked you second!”

She growled. Giving up, she climbed down the steps. “I came back in because I forgot to grab my multitool. As I was heading back for the upper level, the dormant lights turned on, but that seemed normal, and the hangar bay had plenty of lighting. And I could hear a flurry of activity outside. When I made it back up to the airlock, and looked outside, it was still lit up, and still noisy. Until it wasn’t. The lights all switched off at once, and the bay was completely empty. It felt just like it does when we jump to the future. I figured it was best not to open the outer door.”

“What is the date, according to the main sequence timeline, at least?”

She sighed. “March 18, 2376.”

Mateo checked his cuff. That wasn’t what it showed, and it should have adjusted accordingly if he had jumped back in time either way. “You jumped five years.”

“It felt like a blip.”

There wasn’t much seating in engineering, because it wasn’t necessary. There was one chair at an interface terminal, and a bench that was a tight fit for two. He sat down on one end, and tapped his hand on the other. She squeezed in next to him, and he placed his arm around her shoulders. “You’re a duplicate. You see, Ramses installed something that he didn’t tell us about. It was a reset button. Basically, he made a copy of the AOC, but sort of left it in the aether, so that if the real one was ever destroyed, we could get it back. I think the temporal battery has been drained.”

“The AOC was destroyed?” Angela guessed.

He nodded. “Huge antimatter-matter annihilation. Took out part of a city hundreds of kilometers away. Don’t worry, everyone who lived there was either already dead, or evacuated.”

“When does this happen?”

“It doesn’t matter, we can’t undo it. All we wanted was our ship back. I don’t know what went wrong exactly. I imagine the backup process had already begun when you slipped back in to retrieve your tool, and you were backed up as well. Way he tells it, that should not have occurred.”

“So I died?”

“Oh no,” Mateo assured her. “That’s what I mean, you’re a duplicate. The other Angela is safely on another ship, as is everyone else. It could be thousands of light years away, but I haven’t calculated our coordinates yet. I came here to retrieve the copy of our ship without putting the team at risk, and maybe—I dunno—end a war or two?”

“I see. This could get awkward.”

“Yeah.”

“No, you don’t understand. Olimpia...”

“We know.”

“Oh.”

“Angela, we’re gonna figure this out. You have every right to be in this timeline, and the next. It’ll be fine. In fact, I could certainly use your help. You used to be a counselor, after all. I mean, that is, if you want to. There’s a reason I tried to keep the other Angela out of it in the first place.”

“Why don’t you call me Marie, to distinguish us. And of course I’ll help you. Tell me everything you’ve learned in the last five days.”

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Extremus: Year 31

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It took a shockingly long time for Omega to realize who the photographer, September was, and what her weird cryptic messages meant. Her name was no random coincidence. There is a woman from Earth with the ability to travel through time—fittingly, through pictures. Sometimes when she does this, she will just be completing a loop of destiny. She hasn’t changed anything about the timeline; she stayed in one reality, and did everything she was destined to do. Other times, however, she’s able to change the past, and when that happens, it will generate a brand new timeline. The problem is, now there were two versions of her in this reality. It’s unclear how it occurs, but there are a few options to deal with this situation. Her method is for all the alternates to coexist in the same timeline. They usually avoid any confusion or complications by going off in different directions, and the traveler will give herself a different name to distinguish themselves. The original was and is named Paige. The second one is Dyad, the third Trinity, and so on. September is the seventh incarnation. How and why she ended up on Extremus, and how involved she is in its goingson, is something that Omega isn’t cognizant of. That’s not his concern right now, though. He’s on a mission of great importance, and the key to completing it lies in the comments that September made just before the detachment team left.

Omega was a clone. The original, Saxon Parker, was given his own mission, along with a few others. They were tasked with installing an outpost in every single star system in the galaxy. His superiors decided that they wanted a human touch to the automated ships. Thusly, the clones were grown. They were each given a number, Omega’s being the last, which inspired him to name himself accordingly. Omega also didn’t want to go through with the mission, so Saxon was forced to fill in for him. But this isn’t about Omega’s number. It’s about number 83. That’s what September offered them, so to the location of number 83 is where they’re going.

The team doesn’t want to travel through time, and Captain Leithe strongly suggested that they not anyway. Still, they needed to cover over 20,000 light years, and they needed to figure out how to do it in a matter of years. So instead of sending their whole ship back in time, they sent the original time shuttle on its own. Once there, it would take the long way around to finally reach the location of Anglo 83, which shouldn’t be too far from the border of what was deemed Earth’s stellar neighborhood. This neighborhood spans a radius of fifty light years in all directions, and the True Extremists have decided—without telling anyone, naturally—that everything beyond it belonged to them.

Surely they would claim that they were protecting fragile Earthans from the existence of their distant cousins by not actually telling them about the border, but this is a ridiculous stance. Sure, it’s fine for when the people of Earth were young and naïve, but when they began to try to spread out to the stars, the True Extremists should have made themselves known. As explained by famous futurist Isaac Arthur, if you don’t want people to come to your backyard, you don’t hide from them. You warn them that you’re there, and you do it loudly. No civilization capable of galactic colonization would ever dare trespass against a neighbor who has proven themselves strong enough to be seen for as long in years as they are far away in light years. That is, if the Earthans could witness the might of the True Extremists, they would know how powerful the aliens were based on their ability to be witnessed from 50 light years away at least 50 years ago. It’s even in the freakin’ handbook. According to protocols developed by Earthan scientists before they so much as passed the heliosphere, first contact with a superior alien force is to be made at those aliens’ discretion; not the other way around.

“Is it finally ready?” Captain Moralez asks.

“Yes, it’s arrived at the destination, currently pilot fishing Voussoir Splitter Seven,” Valencia answers.

“Any explanation for why it cut it so close? We have been ready to cast for over four years.”

Valencia shakes her head as she’s looking over the data. “Best guess, it went slow. It wasn’t traveling at maximum reframe. I’m not really seeing that in the logs, though.”

“Did you do this?” Yitro questions Omega.

“Why would I do that?”

“Your little riddle that the photographer had for you. She must have given you the impression that we shouldn’t arrive until now. So you programmed the shuttle to go just a little bit slower than it could have.”

“September told us to find clone 83. She didn’t say when. This had nothing to do with me, I don’t know what went wrong.”

The Captain isn’t convinced.

“He’s telling the truth,” Valencia argues. “Stop looking at him like that.”

“I’m still not convinced he should be here,” Yitro says to her. “It’s his brother out there on that ship. That could be a conflict of interest.”

Omega can’t help but laugh.

“What?”

“We don’t have the split schedule,” Omega tries to explain, “but we know that Anglo 83’s module hasn’t had time to split apart that much yet. There could be as many as 1100 people on that thing right now. They should all be asleep, but...we don’t know that.”

“Even more cause to be concerned about you going on this mission,” Yitro reasons.

“No offense to you, honey,” Omega says to the mother of his child before switching his attention back to the Captain, “but I’m the smartest person on this detachment. You need me.”

“Someone has to stay here anyway,” Yitro contends, knowing it to be a weak argument.

“Yes,” Omega says with a condescending nod, “the navigator, and the casting engineer, as well as the medic, and our amazing auxiliary crewmember. The rest of us are on the away team. This was decided long ago, why are you fighting it now?”

“I don’t know,” Yitro admits. “I’m just worried about what’s waiting for us on the other side of that quantum casting pod. I don’t like that we’re four years behind. But you’re right. Intelligence aside, having a clone on the team is an asset. Let’s go.”

“Not quite yet.” Kaiora wanted to send a doctor with them, but Extremus couldn’t afford to lose anyone right now. The crew was having a surprisingly hard time backfilling medical positions. Dechen Karma was the best medic currently licensed, so that was the compromise. “You need a fitness approval from me.”

“And I need to finish running diagnostics on these pods,” engineer Hardy Gibson adds.

“Oh, good,” Yitro says sarcastically. “Anyone else? Navigator Trimble?  Yeoman?”

They shake their heads, a little in fear.

“Great, then I think we’ll just be going. It’s been four months, there’s nothing wrong with the pods, or our bodies.” Yitro starts taking off his uniform.

“You don’t need to do that,” Gibson assures him. “It just hooks up to your brain.”

“I knew that, I’m just...getting comfortable.”

“Is he okay?” Omega whispers to Valencia.

“A lot can change about a person in four years,” she replies. “This is a small detachment ship. Cabin fever, if I had to guess.”

“Maybe he should be staying behind.”

The three of them climb into their respective pods. Gibson and Karma link them to the computer, and prepare to cast them thousands of light years away. “It’s just like playing Quantum Colony,” Gibson says, “except we’ll be sending your consciousness there intact, rather than having you pilot a surrogate.”

“Very well,” Yitro replies. “Do it.”

Omega tries to give Valencia another knowing look, but they can’t see each other from inside their pods. So he just closes his eyes, and lets himself go.”

Omega awakens in the destination pod, but it’s not what he expected. His new body ought to be tilted at a 135 degree angle, just like his real one. Instead, he’s fully flat, and fully encased. This looks less like a casting pod, and more like a stasis chamber. No, this doesn’t make sense at all. He slides the hatch above him open, and pulls himself up to look around. This doesn’t look like the time shuttle either, but it does look familiar. He tries to speak, but it’s always a little difficult at first, so he clears his throat profusely. “Computer, report.”

“It is February 12, 2300 at closest estimate to realtime. Cruising at point-nine-nine—”

“I get it,” Omega interrupts. “We shouldn’t be time dilating yet. We should still be at reframe speeds.”

“I’m afraid I do not understand,” the computer says.

“Hey, computer! I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Okay, well I’m sorry to have bothered you. Sorry, Anglo Eighty-Three. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

“What did you just call me?”

“I was programmed to recognize your designation as Anglo Eighty-Three. Would you like to provide me with a different name?”

“Where are we?”

“This is Voussoir Splitter Seven of the Project Stargate Quantum Seeder Program for the Milky Way Galaxy Colonization Initiative.”

That’s not right. He’s not supposed to be on the modular ship yet. He was just supposed to be cast to their time shuttle, where they would investigate from the outside, only intending to board the splitter if necessary. Omega has to work through this logic with the computer. “Why am I awake?”

“I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“Anglos are not meant to wake up unless something is wrong with the ship, so why am I awake?”

The computer took a moment to respond. “Unknown. Revival process triggered from inside the stasis chamber.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little odd to you, since I was asleep, and couldn’t have prompted said revival process myself?”

“Hmm.” That’s an interesting response.

“Computer, did you detect a quantum casting event prior to my awakening?”

“Checking logs. Yes, recent casting event detected.”

“Okay...”

“You’re not Anglo Eighty-Three, are you?”

“No, I’m a different Anglo.”

“This...is a problem.”

“Yeah. Do you detect any other vessels in this region of space?”

“One, traveling at incongruent relativistic speeds. Communication impossible.”

“Not impossible, just a shorter time frame. I’m gonna teach you how to reframe your communication protocols. I absolutely must connect with my Captain, and my...Valencia.” They never really did fully define this relationship. They have the same last name now, but never married.

Valencia sits before the computer, staring at the camera. “Engineer’s log, February 14, 2300. It has been two days since I arrived alone on the time shuttle. Still no word from the Captain, or Omega. I cannot reach the Perran Thatch. I have been monitoring the progress of Voussoir Splitter Seven, which is traveling at maximum relativistic speeds. So far, nothing has gone wrong. I am detecting no other vessels in the vicinity, nor any reason to believe that the True Extremists are anywhere near here. I have been able to make short jumps to confirm this. If they’re planning to come here at all, they’ve not arrived yet, though I can’t rule out the possibility that the casting problem is the result of some kind of sabotage. I may end up becoming the victim of survivor’s guilt, with my two crewmembers lost to the quantum void.” She sighs.

A message pops up on the screen, reading turn off the reframe engine, love.

“Computer, turn off reframe. Match relativistic speed with the voussoir splitter.”

After the computer complies, another message arrives, but video this time. “Valencia, you made it.”

“You’re on the splitter. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“It’s only been a few minutes.”

“It’s been a couple days for me.”

He shrugs. “I’ve heard it both ways. Where’s Captain Moralez.”

She sighs again. “Shit. I was hoping he was with you.”

“No. Hopefully he’s just back on the Thatch.”

“Are we ever that lucky?”

“We found the source of the meteor chain.”

“That took us twenty years.”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

“We need to find him.”

“We will.”

Not too far away, but still out of sensor range, Yitro wakes up to find two weapons trained on him. They wait as he coughs profusely. “Oh, man, pardon me. Good day, I’m Captain Moralez of the Perran Thatch Detachment Ship. Got any water?”

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Microstory 1820: Sudden Death

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They’re wrong when they say that your whole life flashes before your eyes when you die. It’s true of some, but there’s usually no time for it. I know, the word flash implies rapidity, but really, if the thoughts are moving that fast through your brain, then you’re not really seeing anything. I know, some people do die slowly. Most people will just be awake one minute, and not awake the next. Now, when this happens, if they get the sense that their life is ending, something will cross their mind. It may be more of a general memory of who they were, or what they went through. It might be a defining moment in their lives. It could simply be about the circumstances that’s getting them killed. That’s what I’ve been relating to you for the last several weeks. All the people destined to be the first to die in 2022 are finishing this journey in different ways, and for different reasons. Most of them will have time to come up with one story that they can send to me a few hours in the past—to before it actually happens—but one of them didn’t make it. I’m not sure what happens to her, but it must have been incredibly sudden, with absolutely no warning. No sensation of danger, no concern for her life. I got the message; she’s going to die, but sadly, I don’t know how, and I don’t know who she was.

Microstory 1819: Biggest Mistake

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I could have had it all. A few years back, this random guy showed up at my door, and claimed to have the ability to heal any injury. He had heard that I was terminally ill, and also that I was rich. He knew that he could take care of cuts and bruises, but he wanted to see if it would work on something chronic. Obviously, I was skeptical. This dude just wanted some quick cash, and he was willing to play on my desperation. He gave me a demonstration by cutting his friend’s arm with a knife, and clearing it right up in a matter of minutes. I assumed that this was just some kind of special effect that I didn’t understand. It was close up magic. An illusion. It was nothing. And he wasn’t getting my money. I remember him saying I should give him a thousand dollars in case it worked, and then another 999,900 if it did end up working. He could apparently make quick work of a cut, but something like my issue might take longer to repair. Even if it turned out to be immediate, I would still have to verify it with my doctor. The down payment was for his troubles, and the rest of the money for the miracle. This guy wanted a million bucks, but he wasn’t getting a dime from me. No sirree, it was a trick, and a scam, and I wasn’t falling for it. I tossed him a nickel to show how much he was worth to me, and sent him on his way. A couple of months later, I’m watching the news, and I see one of my biggest rivals who also just so happened to be old and sick. He claimed to have been healed, and he presented the check to the healer on live television. Things started happening quickly after that. They set up a foundation together that was designed to heal as many as possible. Rich people pay, middle class people pay nothing, and the poor actually get paid. Can you believe that? It’s a nested charity; what an insane business model. Anyway, I’m the jackass for turning him down, because my rival is still alive, and more popular than any one-percenter I’ve ever heard of. I wish I had said yes. Not only would I not be dying today, but I would’ve been the first paying patient of his. I would have become famous for something good. Instead, I’ll go down in history as the biggest idiot ever. At least I don’t have to live with it. Here I go, into the great unknown!

Microstory 1818: Grandfather Death

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About a year ago, the papers and the public began to call me Grandfather Death. Capital punishment has been abolished in every country in the developed world, and much of the developing world as well. Mine was the last holdout, and I fall into a special category. You see, my trial was going on at about the same time as the law was being debated, so once they finally settled on abolishment, they realized that I was in a bit of a gray area. Two others were executed once the new law was passed, but before it went into effect. No others were on death row with us at the time, so there was a question as to whether I should be grandfathered into the old law, or placed back in the normal prison system to carry out a life sentence. Being grandfathered into a prior law is often a good thing, like back in the day when I could drive a car at the age of 15 even after they suddenly upped the minimum age from 14 to 16. This time, it’s not so good, and the whole thing was all really complicated and over my head. Because of the way the proceedings happened, I didn’t technically have a life sentence. I was sentenced to death, so there was nothing for them to fall back on. It was a weird loophole that everyone missed, and as much as it would benefit me to go free, it was honestly a huge mistake that never should have occurred. They considered retrying me, and reconvicting me, so they could do it right this time, but I think there was a legal precedent issue with that. It was just easier if they went ahead with the plan, and assured the public that this would be the very last execution ever. There were a lot of protests that I remember seeing outside my window. That was a concession, I guess, or a consolation prize. Death row was built underground, but they moved me to luxury accommodations for the last several months of my life. I’m not using that word sarcastically either. I would have killed to live in a place like that before I went to prison, it was so nice. Even for white collar criminals, this seems like far too much creature comfort. Why does it exist at all?

I’m not going to lie here and try to tell you that I don’t belong in this room, with these straps around my body, and this needle in my arm. I did what they said I did, and I would do it again. People sometimes ask me if I truly had to beat him as hard as I did, and like, that was the whole point. I wasn’t actually trying to kill him; that was just what happened to him in the end, because he couldn’t survive his injuries. My intent was for him to feel pain like all his victims did. He got in trouble for taking people’s money, but he didn’t suffer. Meanwhile hundreds of families were still destitute, and unable to believe in the concept of justice. I had to right that wrong, and I have no regrets. I made no attempt to conceal my actions, and when the police came, I did not resist. I knew that things could get this bad for me, because that man had a lot of loyalists that were holding onto a lot of strings. But he finally suffered, and that’s what matters, even if it means I go down too. Because, you see, even though he had people honorbound to him because of how much money he made them, I’m the one with fans. I’m the one with a following. I’m not just talking about the victims and their families either, but people who agree with my solution, and only wish they could have done it themselves. That’s what I gave them; peace of mind that he can’t hurt anyone anymore, and that they aren’t responsible for stopping him. I’m sacrificing myself so that they can get on with their lives. Yes, I lie on this table fully at peace—smiling, even—because today...I die a martyr.

Microstory 1817: Vector

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A lot of people think I’m a dumb meathead, but just because I was good at sports doesn’t mean I didn’t exercise my brain. I’m actually really smart and well-read, but I chose not to go to an Ivy League school, because my family didn’t have the money for it. Of course now we know that I could have taken out loans, and had them paid off after my first vector season, but we couldn’t run that risk. Besides, I ended up becoming a professional vector player because of a series of events in my life, starting with birth, and being admitted to my state school somewhere in the middle. So no, I don’t walk around with that prestige, but I’m happy with my choices, and you can’t argue with the results. There was a reason that I did so well in sports. I possessed a naturally high degree of precision. I could hit or throw a ball exactly where I wanted it to go, at least as long as it was within an acceptable range. I didn’t have all that much strength, so yeah, I could throw it towards the moon, but it would never reach it. I did not exactly choose Vector so much as it chose me. I liked to play a lot of different sports, but when it became clear which one was on the path of least resistance, I took my opportunity. I worked really hard to show the scouts that I had what it took to do this for real. I could play every position, but I was mostly a grabber. For those who don’t know, the grabber is the one that’s blindfolded much of the time. I had to take direction from the caller, and find the balls scattered throughout the field. At that point, I could remove my blindfold, and pass it to the wielder. I did things a little differently, and built up a nice reputation.

Here’s the thing, the opposing team’s jacker is watching you at all times, and as soon as they see your eyes, they know you have a ball, and they come after you. If they reach you before you can pass the ball, you lose that ball, and have to find it all over again, and good hiders do not make that easy. That’s why I just never took my blindfold off. It’s a strategy that had never been employed until then, and one that no player replicated quite as well after I started it. Man, I knew where my wielder was, and the jackers, and even the shielders, even though I didn’t need to know that information. I kept my ear on the whole game, and could give you the play-by-play later even though my eyes were covered the whole time, and I was busy with my own job. I could covertly pick up that ball, and toss it over before anyone could stop me. I was sneaky about it too, sometimes pretending to have a ball when I didn’t. If a jacker tags you, and your pocket is empty, they incur a penalty, so they better be right. They learned to be real careful when I was on the other side, but it still didn’t usually do them any good. Yeah, I was a great player, but like all good things, it was destined to come to an end. My game partner, the caller, was my best friend. We had to have a good relationship, and a secret language, in order to communicate effectively without anyone else knowing what was going on. One night, he took me to dinner to tell me that I ought to think about stepping down, and letting a new generation take over. It was tough, being told that it was time for me to leave. I felt like I had a few good years in me. I chose to go through with it, and I think my fans respected my decision. Looking back, I'm grateful for the honesty, and wish I had told him as much. I loved being the star of the show, but he was right. There were so many great kids whose chances I was stealing just by sticking around. I kept enough money to live comfortably, then gave the rest to charity. I never married, nor had kids.

Microstory 1816: Right to Die

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My children want me to get myself cured. We don’t live too far away from the foundation, and they’re sure that I’ll be able to make an appointment, but I’ve decided not to, and I’ll explain why. I had a very happy, but very tiring, life. I ended up having more children than we planned, and much more than I wanted. My husband—God rest his soul—was loving and caring, but he never did quite understand how taxing it was to carry, deliver, and raise eight entire people, mostly on my own. I didn’t have any multiples, which would have been hell in its own right. I went through all that eight times, and it exhausted me. Anyone who says that being a homemaker isn’t a real job should try to step into my worn out shoes. That’s not to say I don’t love them all to death, or that I regret a single second of it. I just mean that it’s over, and I’m done. Even though they’re all grown up, and I don’t technically have to raise them anymore, it’s not like they stopped coming to me with their problems. There are 24 hours in a day, so that’s...well, I didn’t go to college, so you tell me the chances of getting a call from one of them at any given moment. Again, I love them all more than anything in the world, but I could use a break. I’ve always believed in God, and the afterlife. My parents didn’t drill it into my brain. They were pretty progressive for the time period. They let me make my own choices, but also showed me my options. I decided that there had to be something else out there than just we lowly humans. There has to be someone with a grand design, or else what’s the point of it all? And there has to be some kind of outcome, otherwise what’s the point of it all for me? I’m not saying people shouldn’t take the cure, or that it’s somehow blasphemy. It’s just not for me, and I’ll thank you to respect my wishes.

This was hard for my children to hear. They lamented the fact that their father passed before the cure became available. They don’t want to go through that again, but the cure didn’t always exist, of course, so they should have wrapped their head around the concept by now. I keep calling it a cure, but that may not be the right word for it. It is no pill, nor even an injection. It’s a man. It’s a man with the power to heal, and if he had come to us with claims of righteous divinity, I might have believed that he was the second coming of Christ. Instead, he told us that he was just a person who had been in the right place at the right time, and would be using his gifts to help as many people as possible. Some worship him anyway, but I prefer to take his word for it. The real Messiah would not say that he’s not. Regardless of who he truly is, the proof is in the results. Unlike the faith healers of yesteryear, Landis Tipton never erected a tent in a field, trying to get a few naïve people here and there. He set up a foundation, and healed famously sick people. Every day, he proved himself worthy of our belief in him, and this only fueled my children’s insistence that I go to him myself. They actually tried to seek some kind of legal avenue to force me to try to extend my life, but there was no precedent for it, and I am in my right mind, so there was nothing they could do. The judge nearly laughed. The Tipton cure was so new back then. I have a terminal disease, and I accepted that years ago when I was first diagnosed. I made peace with God, and I trust in his plan. Again, I don’t mean to say than it’s not other people’s fates to be cured, but I’m not one of those people, and I don’t want him to waste his time with me when there are so many other sick people out there who actually want it. Goodbye.