Extremus: Year 35

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Omega and Valencia decided that they needed some help. Fortunately, they potentially had that in the form of over a thousand of Omega’s clones. It’s their job to wake up in case something goes wrong with Project Stargate, and while they’re mostly expected to be responsible for things like transferring antimatter from a cracked pod to a replacement, this situation qualifies as a moment of need.

The modular quantum seeder ships were only made as large as they needed to be to get the job done. There are corridors, ventilation shafts, engine rooms, and a few interface consoles, but the majority of the space is taken up by three-meter tall seed capsules. There was simply not enough room for all current clones to convene for a meeting, and it was never the intention to hold such meetings at all anyway. To do this, they had to activate a special virtual construct. Anglo clones were meant to be asleep throughout their respective journeys, but the engineers wanted to be prepared for any eventuality. Bonus, they’ll get some time to wake up and stretch their legs.

Once their minds are all connected to the simulation, Omega and Valencia step on stage, and go over the bullet points.

“So, you think you’re, like, our leader, or something?” one of the Anglos asks.

“That’s not what I said,” Omega defends.

“You think you’re better than us because you have a name,” another guesses.

“No, he thinks he’s better than us because he has a life!” a third counters.

“Please, please,” Valencia says after taking the microphone. “This is not about what Omega did. You have lives, and you have purposes, and those are both under threat. We ask for your help with stopping this. The True Extremists are more powerful than we even know, and they’ve sent some kind of contingency to destroy you. We don’t even know what. We’re not saying he’s your leader. No one is. We have to fight against this together.”

“Are you a girl clone?” a fourth one questions.

“Don’t you worry about who I am.”

“That sounds suspicious.”

“I just mean...ugh.”

“Look,” Omega begins, “a lot has happened since I abandoned the program. Yes, I’ll admit that, I abandoned you. But I did a lot of growing up during all the happenings, and I’m back now to prevent catastrophe. Saxon made us for a reason, and we can’t let him down just because I was the weakest of the bunch.”

“Hey, he’s right!” one of them cries. “Why is this guy on stage! Saxon Parker is our creator! He’s our leader!”

Valencia takes the mic back again. ‘That’s enough with the interruptions! I understand that you’re confused, and I get that you’re mad. But Omega and I are the only ones who can explain to you what is going on, and why these people have to be stopped. I’m sure Saxon is a great guy, but he is not cognizant of the True Extremists. You’re here, and only you can end this.”

The crowd starts to murmur and argue. Who knew that a bunch of people with the same DNA, same basic neural makeup, and same purpose, would have so much to fight about? It’s hard to say what they’re so upset about, because they don’t have any life experience to draw upon, so they probably don’t know either. That must be what it is. They’re scared, because they don’t know what they’re doing. They’re not equipped to make such decisions. Valencia is wrong. As he listens, Omega realizes that this isn’t going to be good enough. These clones are clearly on the front lines, but it doesn’t only affect them. It affects the entire clone population, and they all have the right to decide what to do for themselves. He can’t say exactly why September directed them towards this particular voussoir, but this has to just be where it begins. “I propose a Town Hall.”

They all hush up as if they know what he’s referring to. Valencia wraps her hand around the microphone. “What is that?”

“What is that?” another one of the clones asks for all to hear.

“It’s like a...company-wide meeting. I’m suggesting we enter a joint virtual environment, where everyone can hear the problem, and contribute to the solution.”

“Will Saxon be there?”

“Yes, Saxon is in my pod, so he’ll be there,” Omega promises.

“I think that would be a good idea.” This clone is different. He walks with confidence and independence. Without asking, he climbs on stage, and approaches the duo. “Hi, I’m Anglo 83, and I believe that you stole my body.”

Yitro Moralez’ body is on fire, which is funny, because he’s entirely submerged in some kind of fluid. Oh yeah, it’s probably acid, and probably isn’t all that funny. It’s burning him, but not damaging or destroying his skin cells. It’s like it’s just bad enough to hurt, but not bad enough to call upon death’s comforting touch of painless oblivion. No, he can’t think like that. Death is not the answer to this problem. He just has to get out of this acid vat. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in here, screaming in agony. He can’t even tell which way is up. But even if he could, up doesn’t necessarily mean out.

What’s this in his mouth? Oh that likely helps him breathe. And this on his eyes? Goggles to breathe. And over there? That’s the framing of his pod. And that? Glass. Well, it’s clearness. Is there anything on the other side of the glassic clearness? Hazy figures meandering about, gawking at him, and monitoring his vitals. He doesn’t really know that, but there are definitely people out there, and they know he’s being tortured, whether they’re the ones in charge of the torturing, or not.

What if he pounds on the clearness? Pound. Nothing, it’s too strong. Okay, well what if he pounds again? Pound. No, it’s not gonna do him any good. He’s just wasting time and energy. What does he need energy for? He’s stuck in a vat of acid! The only thing he can do is try to get out of it. That’s true. Carry on. Pound, pound, pound. The figures on the other side of the clearness seem to be reacting to this now.  Yitro imagines that one is assuring the others that the clearness will hold, and can’t break, but after each pound, gulping, and wondering whether this is an accurate statement. He doesn’t want the others to see his doubt, but he wears his emotions on his sleeve, which is why the other guy is pissed off that he was promoted to Head Torturer when he clearly can’t handle his shit. Pound, pound, pound, pound, pound. They back up. The clearness may not be as strong as they originally thought. Maybe they should go run for help. But if they do that, all the other departments will know that the torture team is composed of incompetent people who skimped on the clearness budget so they could have a coffee maker in their breakroom, which they probably don’t even deserve a break room anyway, because they’re are only four people on the team, and they could have just shared with the bioweapon developers.

Pound. That one was weaker, and it took him a long time to try again. Yitro is losing his strength. He’ll have to give up eventually, even if the clearness was bound to break eventually. The acid is doing its job. He’s trapped and being tortured and he’ll never get out of it. Pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, crack! They jump back in unison. Oh yeah, there it is! Now they’re scared, but they’re too scared to do anything about it. It’s time for Yitro to get out of here, if it’s the last thing he does before he passes out. Sure, they may just throw him in another vat of acid, but at least he will have proven himself. At least he’ll have gotten out, and they will never be able to take that away from him. Plus, he’ll just break out of the next one, and the next, and the next. Give him a million vats, and he’ll give you a million broken vats. Pound, crack, pound, crack. Pound, crack, pound, crack, crack. Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, shatter!

Yitro tumbles out with the acid. He isn’t able to watch the hazy figures in the chaos, but he imagines they finally did run away for their lives. The glassic clearness rips into his legs, and while he can feel it, nothing compares to the anguish from burning acid that covers his whole body, and from which there is no escape. Except there was an escape, and he’s just illustrated that.

He recognizes that he can’t just lie here, because then he’s lying on a floor covered in acid, and the whole point is to stop doing that. He gets up, and stumbles around. Jesus, someone should really put a wet floor sign down here. He doesn’t mean to literally be asking Jesus to do that, but as he’s hunting for the exit, he can’t help but imagine an actual man named Jesus tossing things around in his little janitor closet, desperately trying to find the wet floor sign so no one else gets hurt. It’s a funny image, and it’s the only thing keeping Yitro from throwing in the towel. A towel! There’s a towel there. He grabs it, and starts drying the acid off his body, as well as he possibly can. It’s not a towel, but a lab coat, so it’s not very absorbent, but it’s better than nothing.

Lab coat spent, and acid dried mostly from his skin, Yitro keeps on running. Out of the lab, down the corridor, and through the first door he sees. Now a light burns his eyes like a vat of acid. He’s outside, and that’s the sun. Well, it’s a sun. He’s never seen a sun before. Stars, sure, of course. The doppler glow of relativistic travel? Every single day; filtered, obviously. But he’s never stood on the surface of a planet, and looked up at the blue sunlit sky. This. Is. A...time to leave. He can’t afford to stop and admire the beauty of a spherical world with a natural oxygenated, nitrogen-rich atmosphere. Still, he does have a second or two to breathe it in and be thankful that, amidst the torture and threat of death, he still got to see this. No one on Extremus can say as much. The few still alive who could recall Ansutah lived mostly in caves to avoid detection.

“Stop!” A woman is standing several meters away, but closing in. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just wanna make sure you’re okay. Are you on drugs? What did you take?”

“I didn’t take anything! I was tortured in a vat of acid!”

“Okay, okay. I believe you. What’s your name?” she asks.

“Yitro Moralez.”

“That’s an interesting name.”

“What planet am I on?” When she doesn’t answer, he repeats himself loudly.

“Earth. You’re on Earth, like everyone. Like always.”

“What year?” He sighs and has to repeat himself again, “please, what year?”

“It’s 2022. You’re in Kansas City. Well...Kansas City Metro. And you’re naked out in public, where a child could show up at any moment.”

Shit. Not about being naked, or being in Kansas City. That’s the one saving grace.

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Microstory 1840: Agreement

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Oh, I’ve known about voldisil for quite awhile now. I mean, I didn’t know they were called that, but I knew there were people out there with inhuman abilities. I mean, I didn’t know that there were multiple people, but I knew that there was at least one. If you had told me back then that there were others, I probably would have believed you without proof, but if you had told me that most—or even some—of them were good, I can’t promise I would have believed that. This is the story of a lawyer who wasn’t a lawyer anymore, a friend of a friend, and a race to save my own life. I practiced law for 20 years. I wasn’t a particularly great one, but my skills were enough to live on, and my clients didn’t complain. They knew that they were getting what they paid for, and I was always upfront about my limitations going into every business relationship. I won’t get into why I was disbarred, but while I definitely deserved punishment in some form or another, it should have been another, like maybe a fine. I didn’t have anything to fall back on, but a friend of mine suggested I become a certified nursing assistant like her. It wasn’t too much education, and when I factored in expenses and all the pro bono work I did, it ended up paying about as much as I was getting before. I met a lot more people in my new line of work, which I loved. I was even sad to see them go, even though it meant that they were better, and that was obviously a good thing. I had this one patient who was in it for the long-haul, though, so I got to know him pretty well. He eventually learned that I was educated in law, and asked if I would do him a favor. It wasn’t the first time I gave out free legal advice, and it wasn’t itself illegal. I just had to be clear about my situation. I couldn’t charge for it, and I couldn’t represent them. He said that it was perfect. All I needed to do was look over this extremely long contract for his brother.

The brother had applied for a new job, and it was evidently very hush-hush. They couldn’t even tell him what he was going to be doing until he signed the non-disclosure agreement. All they said was that his résumé came up, and that he was perfect for a new position. So I took the document home, and read over it very carefully. I didn’t want to miss a single word, because it was fascinating how long it was, and I wanted to figure out what this was all about. These days, the length would be standard, but in those days, it was weird. There wasn’t a lot about the company, or even what the job was like. It talked a lot about compensation, and the consequences of insubordination. There was one line near the end that caught my eye. I still remember the words: anyone who reads this contract is subject to its terms, with or without a final signature. Failure to sign after reading this paragraph will result in death. Well, that was me. I read it, and since it was so big, and my patient and his brother knew they wouldn’t understand it, I was the only one who read it. I brushed it off, even though it was really creepy, because all I had to do was pretend I never saw that paragraph. That was how I found out that the supernatural was real. A demon—as I called him, with no better comprehension of spirit powers—just knew that I had read the line, and he started coming after me. What followed were a series of near death experiences, blood sacrifices, and a ton of running. I hate running, and I think he knew that too. In the end, I signed, but my life did not get easier after that. The job was darker and more twisted than I ever could have imagined, and after 75 years of hell, I’m relieved to have finally reached the sweet release of death.

Microstory 1839: Bad Blood

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I donated whole blood every 56 days for decades before I had to stop. Back then, it was legal for a child of at least 14 years in my country to donate. They raised the age up to 16 while I was still 15, but they grandfathered me into it, because I was so dedicated. It was a girl I liked in school who got me into it. She was so pretty, she always wore this big black bow in her hair, and I would have done anything for her. She organized a blood drive, and I was one of the few kids who took her up on it, so we actually did become friends. I thought my tactic was working until she confided in me that she liked girls. We remained close, because I didn’t have a problem with it, and by then, I was already heavily invested in the blood donation thing. I scheduled classes around it, I scheduled my vacations around it. I made sure everyone who ever needed me for anything knew that I wouldn’t be able to help them on particular days. Over time, the donation process became faster and more efficient, so it was easier to schedule other things, but I still had to be careful. If I waited even one extra day for my next appointment, I would feel like I was letting someone down. I felt compelled to maximize my availability. I got to know the people at the clinic. They could count on me to always show up with clean blood. I knew their names, and even hung out with them outside of their work. Meanwhile, I was working in a factory. Do you know those little wheels in the center of computer mouses? You spin them, and it scrolls the elevator on the screen? Yeah, we make those. My boss is literally the one who invented them. Before that, we worked together to make other early computer parts, but she brought me on when she started her own company.

That was when the clinic moved locations. They didn’t move for me. I had inspired my boss to get involved in charity work. Donating a portion of our building to a brand new state-of-the-art clinic was a great way to get the word out about what we do. Everyone loves that kind of mouse, because it makes using a machine so much easier, and we all but monopolized it. Anyway, my life was good for a time. I was making great money, and never had to waver in my commitment to giving blood. One day, in the middle of my recovery cycle, the train I was on went off the rails. Dozens of people died, and the rest of us were very badly injured. We needed blood. We needed a lot of it. I remember thinking that this was going to screw up my schedule for the rest of my life, but as it turned out, that was the least of my problems. A few weeks later, I was doing fine, and eagerly awaiting the day I could get back to giving back. I had a lot to make up for. A lawyer showed up at my door to deliver me some bad news. Apparently, a mixup at a different clinic resulted in the transfusion of blood from a gay man. I’m like, “so the hell what?” Well, he explained that gay people transmitted STDs, so they weren’t allowed to donate blood. Okay, the guy lied on his form, but he didn’t even have a bloodborne disease! Now, you’ll remember that my best friend was a lesbian, and we grew up in the subculture together, because I was an ally. I had experimented a bit myself too, and I didn’t absolutely hate it. I was pissed. I knew that this was a law, but hadn’t thought much about it. I fought and protested, but nothing changed. So many people could die because of an outdated discriminatory law. So I did something foolish. I recorded myself having relations with a man, and sent it to the president of the national organization that ran my clinic. He was appalled, and decided to use his power to ban me for life.

Microstory 1838: Pics or it Didn’t Happen

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I’ve been a professional driver for the last fifty years. I built my career on a spotless record, but just because something isn’t on my record, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I don’t want to relive the worst night of my life, but it’s all I can think about right now as I’m riding in the back of this ambulance. Back in the day, driving was a bit of a man’s world. Women weren’t actively discouraged from such jobs, but they weren’t encouraged either. I didn’t have to fight my way into the industry, but I certainly found it rather difficult to relate to my contemporaries. I didn’t socialize very much with the other students while I was learning, and advancing. I focused on being the best driver I could be, and pretty soon, my hard work paid off. I don’t recall exactly how it happened—I think it was more of a gradual thing; a series of events—but I eventually became known as the professional truck driver with no accidents. I didn’t knock down one cone during my training, and I continued this winning streak over the years, which is when it really mattered, of course. I also didn’t make any such mistakes in my personal life. No speeding tickets, no parking tickets, not even a warning. I was a model citizen, and pretty soon, I was being paid to talk to other people about it. I didn’t think that going ten years without issue was that big of a deal, and I don’t think I was the only one. I wasn’t hired to speak at high schools because I was the only one, though, I guess, but because I lucked into it. In the 1980s, I started driving fewer hours so that driver’s ed teachers could book me to speak to their students. They wanted me to inspire them to become like me, and I knew the whole time that it was kind of a waste. Those kids weren’t planning to get in any accidents. It happens, and my talks weren’t going to stop it.

Still, I kept doing it, because it was decent money, and I was starting a family at the time, so staying in place was better for my schedule anyway. Then one night in 1999, it happened. And this is my confession. I was driving back from a night class. It was geared towards adults who had never learned to drive, nor graduated from high school in the first place. So they were all going for their degree and license at the same time. It was so dark outside, as you might imagine, because not only did the students have to work during the day, but many of them had to take public transportation, so such a class necessitated that it be scheduled fairly late. I was tired, I admit, and looking back, I probably should have called a cab. But I wasn’t intoxicated, so I thought I would be okay. It was snowing and sleeting, so visibility was incredibly low. The windshield wipers may as well have been off for as helpful as they were being that night. I was about to just pull over, and call my husband for help when I heard it. I’ll never forget how far my heart dropped down in my chest when that thump whumped against my bumper. I felt it too, and now, every time I hear a similar sound, I nearly jump out of my seat. I couldn’t believe I did it. I was so stupid. It was my job to teach others to not be reckless, and now I would forever be a hypocrite, and a fraud. I got out of the car and inspected the damage. The grill of my car was fine, so I panicked and rationalized not reporting it. I just got back in, and drove off. No one would have to know. It was one little accident, and it wasn’t worth ruining my career. Even after I retired, I kept my secret, because I didn’t want it to destroy my legacy either. My kids are all accident free, and I would be too if I hadn’t knocked into that damn trash can that one fateful night.

Microstory 1837: Foreign Fighter

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In 1991, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics broke apart into fifteen distinct nations, which thrived independently of each other to varying degrees of success for three decades. Russia was the largest of these by far, and maintained strong political power over the rest of the world. The rest developed their own governmental bodies, and systems of law. In 1994, inspired by these developments, a district of Russia called Sakhaido declared its own independence. Sitting about 400 kilometers from the island of Sakhalin, as a sort of second peninsula branching from the Kamchatka Peninsula, Sakhaido always needed to maintain some level of autonomy in order to function. It once belonged to the Empire of Japan, and still consists of a significant population of Japanese people. The Japanese language is spoken by 24% of the population. Much of the leadership of Russia at the time did not want to let Sakhaido go, since they felt it shouldn’t be necessary, but the president himself did not want to cause any civil unrest, and had to admit that it wasn’t worth using up resources, and damaging their reputation. Sakhaido prospered after that, forming its own democracy, and becoming a hub of international trade amongst the other nations in and around the region. In 2016, a new president of Russia took office, having built his political platform upon strength against both enemies and allies. Russia was meant to be the dominant force in Europe, and he wasn’t happy with the direction his neighbors were going. A few months ago, he decided to attack Sakhaido, but had no intention of stopping there. The rest of the world was going to learn who called the shots, whether he was their official leader, or not. He didn’t need to take Sakhaido over, or any other country. He just needed to make sure that someone was in charge who would do what he wanted. The invasion began.

Nations of the free world condemned the Russian president for his cruel and unwarranted attack on Sakhaido. They made political and economical maneuvers against him, thinking that he would back down when it started causing his people harm. But he didn’t care about his people. They had suffered so much up until now, and they could continue to suffer, as long as he got what he wanted, which was pretty much everything under the sun. The Sakhaidoans held their ground, maintaining a nigh unassailable border between them and the Kamchatka Peninsula, but they could only do so much. They were not prepared for war, they did not have the resources, and they did not have the help. Refugees fled to other countries, nearly all welcomed by Japan, Alaska, and even Usonia, but that didn’t solve the problem of how to save their homeland. Their military force was only so great. They needed additional support. They needed—I believed—people like me. According to my country’s laws, it was not illegal for me to temporarily join the army of another country, as long as the actions I took there weren’t treasonous, and I wasn’t planning on defecting. So that’s what I did. I went across the sea, accepted the gun they put in my hands, and fought for a bunch of innocent people who had never done anything for me. Because I wasn’t just fighting for them. I was fighting for democracy all over the globe, and for justice as a whole. I was fighting for peace. Not everyone was happy with my choice, and I returned home to find no parade, no thanks, no welcome mat. But that was okay, because I know I did the right thing, and this assassin they sent to kill me knows it too, whether he can admit it or not.

Microstory 1836: Sleepkiller

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Sleep and I have always had a very volatile relationship. It’s constantly hiding from me, even though I try to be nice, and always treat it well. I’ve tried everything to connect with it, from not watching TV within a few hours of bedtime, to meditation, to of course pills. Nothing seemed to do me any good. The doctors I talked to said it was insomnia. No der, what do I do about it? Nothing I haven’t tried, just keep trying those things. But stay away from the pills, because they can really mess you up. So I did, and I kept failing. I was miserable, and insufferable. I was fired from my job, not just because they caught me sleeping a time or two, but because I was agitated and ill-mannered to my co-workers. I had had enough. Something had to be done, and I didn’t care any more what the consequences were. So I went back to the pills, but I’m not talking about melatonin, or a tiny little sedative. I went for the big stuff. I was going to fall unconscious every night, whether my body wanted to or not. And if that shaved time off my lifespan, then so be it. It wasn’t like I had much to live for anyway, especially if I couldn’t even function during the day. I knew it was going to be rough, particularly at the start, so I carefully prepared for it. I set three different alarms. My regular alarm clock was set to the highest volume. A friend of mine tinkered with it so it would play the noise and the radio at the same time. My smartwatch vibrated simultaneously, which I always found jarring and annoying. Five minutes later, the television in the living room was programmed to flip on, again at the highest volume. I knew this would piss off my neighbors, which would motivate me to actually get the hell out of bed to unplug it quickly before then. I thought it was a foolproof plan, but I was wrong.

A new personality sometimes took over at night. At first, I didn’t know what was going on. Things were moved around, the refrigerator was open, the floor mat was upside down. I realized that I was sleepwalking. I had heard of that being a side effect, but never thought it would happen to me. Okay, that was okay, I could deal with it. Place a lock on the bedroom door, and line the floor against the walls with pillows. I could still hurt myself, but at least I would land softly if I fell. It didn’t work, as you might imagine. I still found weird things the next morning. Nothing truly bad had happened, though. I didn’t have any stairs, and I never once got in my car, or left the house. I would wake up feeling a little weird and dizzy, but I was otherwise better rested than ever in my life. So I kept taking the drugs, careful not to overdose, and kept just cleaning up my place when I came home from work. I did go through a lot of knives, though. My sleepwalking self had a habit of throwing them away, and always on trash pick-up day, like he periodically felt that it was time to refresh the collection. Again, fortunately, I never hurt myself with them. Then it happened. After all this goofiness, I did something truly terrible, and I still can’t explain it. I did get in my car, and I did leave the house, and I drove onto the highway. Evidently, I came across a horrible car accident, a victim of which I managed to pull from the wreckage. For whatever reason, I scooped her up, drove her to an industrial park, and threw her off the roof of a two-story building. I read about it in the paper the next day, and used my GPS history to put the pieces together. She didn’t die, but she was seriously hurt, and it was all my fault. I can’t live with myself anymore. So I’m back on that roof, but by myself this time, and completely awake. Goodbye forever.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 26, 2384

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The security doofus didn’t teleport them to the Asylum Sector, but a quick look at the realtime watch showed that they were at least no longer in the time bubble. Mateo glanced around and sighed. “All right, you can go now. I’ll find my own way there.”

“Get this thing off of my ankle first.”

“Have someone cut it off for you,” Mateo told him dismissively.

“What about the bomb?”

“What bomb?”

“I told you I would kill you if I found out you were lying.”

Mateo had killed before. Sometimes it was for good reasons, and sometimes there was probably a better way. For the most part, he believed in peace and nonviolence, and for any given problem, he always wanted to look for a diplomatic solution first. Regardless, this was an incredibly dangerous life. The worst people in history could potentially show up at any moment, and attack. Genghis Khan was long dead, but also not dead at all. They had yet to encounter a famous violent historical figure who had been temporally displaced, but it was always a possibility, and even if not, there were plenty of other violent people throughout the timeline. It was for this reason that Mateo asked his once-brother, Darko for a few defensive moves. He didn’t need to go through all the combat training that Leona did for three years on Flindekeldan, but he needed to be able to protect himself. He punched the guard in the stomach. When the guard was keeled over a bit, he pulled his fist up, and knocked right into his chin. Then he slammed him against the wall, placed his own heel against his opponent’s, and pushed him down by the shoulder.

“Goddammit!” the guard whispered as loud as he could with what little air was left in his lungs.

Mateo tore the man’s teleporter off of his chest. “I don’t really understand what your job is, but I am not your enemy. You can keep going after me, and find out how powerful my friends and I are, or you can just move on with your life. What will it be, sir?”

He coughed, and regained his voice while massaging his chin. “I don’t ever wanna see you again.”

“That can be arranged...” he dangled the teleporter in front of his face, “as long as this can’t be traced.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you teleport anywhere you want without anyone else knowing about it, or are your movements being tracked and logged?”

He sat up, and held himself aloft with one arm. “Why would they care where I go? You don’t understand how this place works. Nobody cares what anybody else does. I was not hired as a security guard here. I just wasn’t hired anywhere else. We don’t deal in material possessions, we deal in purpose, and I’m broke.”

“That’s a sad story, man.”

“You take my teleporter, I’ll just print a new one, because everything is free, and nothing matters. Why do you think this thing keeps jumping around the void, snatching up refugees? It’s not because there’s any benefit to doing so. It’s because they have nothing better to do with their time.”

Mateo put the teleporter around his chest. Then he reached down and helped the man up from the floor. “I’m trying to change that, brother. I am gonna take this from you, because I need to get back to my people. And you will not see me again. Unless you want to.” He pulled a card from his back pocket, and handed it to him. “Here’s how you can get a hold of me. I’m not from your reality, and the technology we use is not compatible with yours, which gives us an advantage that no one here predicted. Maybe there’s some purpose to that.” He calculated the coordinates to the only part of the matrioshka brain he knew would be safe. “Oh, and one more thing. I would get that anklet removed as soon as you can. If you don’t do it by the end of the day, you’ll have to wait a whole year.”

“Wait, what?”

Mateo disappeared.

“Back so soon?” Dilara asked.

“Have you seen my friend, Marie?”

“No, I haven’t, and don’t call me Marie.”

Mateo laughed, realizing how long it had been since the last time he did that. “We got separated, and now I don’t know how to find her. She found out how to get to Asylum Sector, but I lost the map, and we ran into trouble in the first attempt, so I don’t know if I want to risk it again.”

“You got yourself a new toy, though, I see,” she pointed out.

He looked down at his chest. “Yeah, I stole it. Not my proudest moment.”

Dilara nodded nonjudgmentally.

“If she comes through, could you tell her that I returned to the ship? We should have come up with a rendezvous plan.”

“I got you covered, friend,” Dilara said.

“Thanks.” He was about to leave, but he thought more on it. “Do you have a past?”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you remember...being born...?”

She winced.

“Where were you born?” He thought he would start there.

“Over there, they tell me. I haven’t left this sector my entire life. I can’t even be a hundred percent sure that other places exist. I just trusted people who told me they do.”

“So you’ve only ever known this world.”

“Pretty much, yeah. Why? Are you gonna offer to show me the universe?”

Mateo smiled. “No, you’re gonna do that all on your own.” This appeared to be her reality of origin, rather than the main sequence, which meant that she was their way back there. The Traversa bracelet was meant to help them with that, but he left it on the other version of the AOC, which was destroyed in the antimatter explosion. This was all seemingly predestined. He gave her a wink, and then jumped to their ship, where he found exactly who he was looking for.

“You made it out,” Marie acknowledged.

“And I guess you never made it to the Asylum Sector?” Mateo figured.

“No, I did,” she clarified. “This is just where we sleep.”

“We?”

“Me,” came Leona’s voice from behind him. She was standing by the steps to engineering.

“Are we in a fight?” Mateo questioned.

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

“Were I you...” he said to her.

“Were I you...I probably would have done what you did.”

He smiled. “Report.”

They were awaiting Xerian’s response to a request for him to use main sequence temporal technology to sneak into the SWD without being detected or halted. He was hesitant to believe he would be surrounded by loyalists, and was concerned about the risks. His apprehension was not unwarranted, nor ridiculous.

“Can you patch me in to him, or whatever?”

Leona smirked, and pressed a few buttons on the table interface.

“Hello?” came Xerian’s voice.

“Hey, Xerian, buddy...”

“Mateo, they found you,” Xerian responded.

“Yeah. Listen, we’re all anxious to get this whole diplomatic solution...umm, solved. What do ya say about coming down here, and taking back your throne, or whatever it is you have to do?”

“I only get one shot at this,” Xerian explained. “If you’re wrong about who’s on the other side of the jump, that’s it for me. The supercluster is lost.”

“I understand that, buddy,” Mateo said, “but you gotta start somewhere, right?”

“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to get back to that thing, and now that I’m one step away, I don’t know if I can do it.”

“No, you can. I know you can.”

“You don’t know me that well.”

“You remember what I told you about how I exist only one day a year?”

Xerian just cleared his throat.

“Well, I’ve had to learn how to read people quickly because of my special situation. As soon as I saw you by that maintenance airlock, I knew you weren’t gonna hurt me. I knew you were a good person. I’ve met a few people on this sunship, and if there’s one thing they have in common it’s that they are all lost. They need direction. They need someone to tell them where to go, so they can stop wandering the void, and end the war. You’re not the only one who can do that, I’m sure...but you’re the only one on this phone call, so if you won’t at least try, it ain’t gettin’ done. Make sense?”

A pause. “Makes sense.” Xerian’s voice sounded different. He was no longer on the other side of the call, but standing behind them on the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.

They breathed their sighs of relief.

“Do you need to do anything to prepare?” Marie asked. “The Asylum Council eagerly awaits your highly anticipated return to power.”

“I have something that I would like to do to prepare him for it,” Leona jumped in. “I think you’ll find these contingency precautions will adequately ease your distress.”

“I would like to go to the Suadona,” Marie began, “if that’s at all possible. I don’t think my services are needed here anymore.”

“I feel like I have to keep my regular teleporter here,” Leona said, wrist lifted.

“I have one.” Mateo pointed to his new device. “I’m not sure about the range.”

“We’re actually pretty close,” Leona explained. “You’ll make it all the way.”

“Be careful,” Mateo told them. “Both of you.”

“You too,” she replied.

“Thanks,” Xerian said.

Olimpia was sitting at a console, reading something on a hologram. She looked up, and smiled. “Angela!” she shouted.

“What!” Angela’s voice came from the other room.

“We have visitors!” Olimpia returned.

Angela ran in with her arms raised defensively. “Who? Oh.”

“Angela Marie Walton, allow me to introduce...Marie Angela Walton.”

“That’s not my middle name,” Marie said at exactly the same time as her alternate self said, “that’s not her middle name.”

The two alts approached each other carefully.

“Is reality going to collapse if they touch each other?” Olimpia asked, half-jokingly, half thinking it could actually be the case.

“Never the selves shall meet,” the two alternates recited simultaneously again. They otherwise just continued to stare at each other, though.

Olimpia couldn’t handle the awkward silence. “Jinx, you owe me a coke.”

Marie extended her hand, and Angela reached out to accept it.

Mateo couldn’t help but make a sudden bzzz! sound. They immediately pulled away from each other. “Sorry, the gag was just sitting there. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Just don’t have any kids together, or they’ll become a serial bomber,” Olimpia joked again.

“I don’t know what that means,” they both said in unison for a third time.

“You gotta stop doing that,” Olimpia warned.

Ramses walked into the room, holding a mess of tools in his hands, instead of in a toolbox, or something else more practical. He just dropped them all on the floor when he saw them. “Mateo, you’re back!” He ran over for a hug.

“Hi, I’m Marie.” She held out a hand.

“Yeah, I know,” Ramses said. He brought her into the hug.

“We’re the only two left,” Olimpia said to Angela. They turned it into a near-full group hug. Though, they were still missing one member of the team.

I’ve been working on something,” Ramses said excitedly. “What I gave to Leona, that was just a rush job, but it gave me a better idea. It’s so cool, let me show you. I mean, they don’t have any Cassidy Long ability-sharing properties, but they’ll give us a nice power boost. And bonus, no one can take them away from you.” He pulled at Mateo’s arm, urging to accompany him to the surprise. “Come on!”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Mateo let himself be escorted off the bridge. “This guy,” he mused to the others.

Ramses led him down the corridors, and into his lab. Inside was the usual heap of tools, gizmos, parts, and equipment. Five gestational pods lined the walls, but there was nothing in them, except for the goo. He smiled and admired them like he had never seen them before either. “I suppose I’ll need to make a sixth one for Marie. Wadya think?”

“What do I think about what? What are they?”

Ramses shrugged, like it was obvious. “New bodies. Upgrades.”

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Extremus: Year 34

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Captain Kaiora Leithe of the Void Migration Ship Extremus wakes up with a throbbing headache. It’s unlike any she’s ever experienced before. It’s focused mostly around her eyes, which are red and maybe even a little misshapen? She goes over to her sink and flushes them out, which is an immediate relief. Her fingers feel smooth and oily now, like there was something in her eyes that’s coming out. That cannot be good. After drying off and taking another look in the mirror, she turns to teleport to the executive infirmary. A blinking blue light on her desktop device gives her pause. She’ll just take a quick look at the message, and if it’s not important, she’ll ignore it and leave, but if it’s really important, she’ll put off the self-care. Heck, it may even be about her eye problems. “Computer, play the message, please.”

An image of herself appears on screen. At first, present-day Kaiora believes the playback is frozen, but then the past version of her blinks. She’s just staring at the camera for a moment, seemingly waiting to find the words. “Good morning, Kaiora, it’s Kaiora. This is not a trick, I have something important to tell you. Authentication code shadow-schwa nine-eight-five-six-seven-three-oh. You may not be feeling great right now, but it’s going to be okay. According to the drug facts on the bottle, normal side effects include headaches, sensitivity to light, burning or itchy eyes, short-term confusion, irritability, and...”

“And what?” Kaiora questions.

“And fragmental phantom memories.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means that you’ll have flashes of the day that you lost, and while you’ll eventually also forget these fragments, you will remember that you had them, and that may cause the irritability.” Is this a recording, or is she actually responding to Kaiora’s questions?

“Did you eat all of the cookies?” present-day Kaiora asks, testing to find out whether there’s a real person on the other side of the screen.

“Anyway, it’s important that you don’t investigate, or try to remember anything that happened yesterday.” Okay, probably a recording. Probably. “You did this to yourself. You consented to the procedure, and no one else knows about it. I obviously can’t tell you why you erased your memories, but it was the right thing to do, and extremely necessary. On an unrelated note, do not look for Admiral Olindse Belo’s second disappearance. Make up a story about why and how she left the ship. The fact that it’s classified works to your advantage. You’re the Captain, you don’t have to tell anyone anything.” The recording of Kaiora breathes in deeply. “I think that’s it. I just wanna reiterate that everything’s gonna be okay. I have to go actually do the thing that you’ve already done, but...happy new year!” She smiles, and the picture freezes.

Kaiora frowns, and looks over at the clock. It’s not the new year. It’s February 2, 2303. She looks back to the screen, and sees the blue light blinking again. There’s a second message. She selects it.

Another recording of herself comes up. This one looks sad and nervous. “Captain’s log, January 2, 2303. I just woke up to find a message to myself. I was obviously meant to watch it yesterday. I don’t...I don’t know if it wiped more days than I realized it would, or if it, uhh...if I just didn’t wake up until now, or what. I can’t imagine it’s the second option. I mean, someone would have noticed the captain was missing for a day. I still don’t want to tell anyone that anything happened. I don’t know what happened, so there wouldn’t be much to tell. Past!Me didn’t want anyone to know about it, so I don’t either. I’m just gonna go through my day, and hope that no one asks me about yesterday. Ya know, if I agreed to—I dunno—release Halan from prison, or officiate someone’s wedding, I’m not gonna remember what they’re talking about. Hopefully, it will resolve itself by tomorrow morning, but I’m recording this in case something else goes wrong.”

Blue light again, a third message. This version of Kaiora is the most upset yet. “Captain’s log, January 3, 2303. I just watched two videos I evidently made for myself. I don’t remember December 31, I don’t remember January 1. I don’t remember January 2. In case you’re watching this on January 4, there’s a weird, silky, film on my eyeballs.” She lifts a little green bottle of eyedrops, and shakes it in front of the camera. “It’s probably memory-erasing stuff, but it’s empty now!” She throws it across the room. “So if you’re still feeling that tomorrow, something fishy is going on. I’m going to record another video at the end of the night, giving you a rundown of everything I did today. Like I said, I don’t recall the last few days, and that led to some awkward moments that made me look like an idiot. I don’t want Future!Me to go through that again. I’m still choosing to not tell anyone that I erased my memories, or that it apparently can’t wear off at some point. January 4!Me, January 5!Me, January 6!Me, and so on, you’re going to have to decide that for yourselves. I can’t make that decision for you, but I don’t think anyone should know about it, because it would really put Olindse in danger. Okay, so that’s it for now. As previously mentioned, I’ll record another one so you’re not lost tomorrow. Today. Your today, my tomorrow. ARGH!”

The blue light comes on again, but Kaiora ignores it, and navigates to the folder where the clips are being stored. There are 33 video files in there. Past!Her has made one for every day, presumably to catch the spotless minded new versions up on the goingson of the ship. Each one is several minutes long. It’s going to take, like, three hours to watch all of the rest. What captain has that kind of time? Wait, some of them are tagged obsolete. She must have rendered those ones redundant with further updates. Even so, this is not a sustainable solution. The memory wiper chemicals must be severely corrupted, or maybe just old and expired. If only she could find the bottle, it may provide some answers. Kaiora gets on her hands and knees by the dresser, and looks around on the floor, hoping it’s still there somewhere. No luck, but that’s not super surprising. A different past version of her probably grabbed it at some point, and may have decided to throw it away. Or one of them found it, and a different one threw it away, because the whole point is she can’t remember any of this!

Something has to change. This version of Kaiora has to break the cycle, or no one will. So she calls Dr. Holmes. “Hey, are you busy right now?”

“I’ve been expecting your call,” Dr. Holmes replies. “Come on down.”

Kaiora cleans herself up, and gets dressed. Then she teleports to the infirmary.

“Glad you could make it,” Dr. Holmes says. “Have a seat.”

Kaiora hops up onto the table.

The doctor begins a cursory examination; ears, nose, and throat. “Did you watch Episode 33?”

Oh, so she knows. “I stopped after the first three. So you’ve known about this the entire time?”

“No at all,” Dr. Holmes promises. She feels Kaiora’s lymph nodes. “You came to me yesterday, and said that something had to be done about this.” She finishes the exam, and begins to pull off her gloves.

“And...?”

Dr. Holmes takes off a necklace with a key on it. She unlocks a cabinet with it, and takes out a bottle, which she hands to her patient. “And I concocted this.”

“This doesn’t look like a very pleasant way to squirt something in my eyes.”

“That’s because it doesn’t go in your eyes. It’s a nose spray. One shot in each nostril before you go to bed. When you wake up, you should have your memories back.”

“You’re sure it’ll work?” Kaiora rolls the bottle in her hand.

“Only one way to find out.” Dr. Holmes takes a burnbag out of her pocket, and hands it to Kaiora too. Most of the waste on this ship is recycled, to the best of their ability. In fact, everything that can possibly be constructed out of aluminum is as such, because it has 100% recycle potential. There is no limit to how many times it can be reused, which makes it an invaluable resource in a closed system. Of course, they can mine raw materials from nearby planets by using a form of time travel, but that demands energy, and isn’t the best option in most cases. Still, there are some things that need to be destroyed, either because the waste is a health hazard, or because it contains sensitive information. A bottle of memory restoration solution is a little bit of both, because it could be used as leverage, or to gain knowledge of things that not even the original user wanted to keep. The best way to get rid of it is to place it in this bag, and teleport it to the stern of the ship, where the powerful force from charged relativistic plasma melts pretty much anything.

“You’ve not been able to test it?”

“Not in a day. You can wait, but...”

“No.” Kaiora takes the bag. “I’ll try it. I trust you. I don’t want to remember what happened, but it seems there is no other way.”

“Make a 34th video, just in case it doesn’t work,” Dr. Holmes advises.

“Thanks doctor, and...”

“And I already have this programmed to delete from my own memory tonight. It’s easy to target memories when you know they’re coming.”

“Thanks again.” After making a pitstop to drop her goodies off in her cabin, Kaiora heads for the bridge, where Lieutenant Seelen is waiting to go through the morning briefing. Once that’s done, she goes about her day, and doesn’t run into any awkward situations, even though she never did watch those latter highlight videos. No one seems to suspect a thing. It is a pretty big day, though, with a lot of running around, putting out fires. It feels like she’s busier than she has been lately, though that doesn’t mean much, because even with the videos, she wouldn’t have much idea what the past month has been like. At the end of the night, she is so exhausted that she jumps back to her cabin, and literally falls faceforward on the bed. She completely forgets to take the nose spray that the doctor gave her.

That night she dreams of Olindse Belo, jumping into a portal to the future. That’s it. That’s what she was so afraid to remember. They risk deconstructing the timeline if anybody knows even a little bit of what’s coming.

When she awakens, she remembers asking Dr. Holmes for help on Day 11, and that she has received the so-called memory restoring nose spray 22 times since then.

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