Microstory 1862: Full Sets

< > Table of Contents

It wasn’t that big of a deal when I got started. Back then, we only had three channels, right? So people had to find other ways to entertain themselves. I mean, that sounds like people wished there could be more channels, so they wouldn’t be so bored all the time, but obviously no one was really thinking about that. They took up hobbies that people before them had done. Maybe it was the same old, same old, or maybe it was updated, but nothing is ever really new. It’s always just some kind of new sort of way of doing something that we’ve always done. I got really into collecting things. Our parents traveled a lot, leaving us to be raised mostly by my uncles. It wasn’t weird in those times for rich people to place their children in the hands of others. They didn’t want me and my siblings to get in the way, so we never went with them. Even once we were older, and didn’t need constant attention, we didn’t go on family vacations. In retrospect, my parents were kind of assholes. They were the ones who sent me down the path towards my dark and inescapable habits. They thought they were great, and it was true, we were so excited to see them whenever they finally did show up that we accepted whatever we could get. Ancient Greek coins? Parisian stamps? I’ll take ‘em. A magazine in a language I’ve never heard of, and will never be able to read? Yes, please. Toys, toys, and more toys; sign me up, please and thank you. We loved all the gifts, because they were coming from them, but we would have rather they had just been around more. I wish they could have raised me right, but I doubt they would have done a better job. That brings us to where we are today. My siblings ended up okay, but I never recovered. I took those coins, and those stamps, and those novelty toys, and based my life around them. I began to collect on my own, and like I was saying, it wasn’t a problem until it was a problem.

The word you’re looking for is hoarder. Some people become as such by not being able to get rid of things. They don’t deliberately order magazines just to stack them. They subscribe to a given periodical, and then just keep each one. I’m not like that. I am a discerning hoarder. I have a very particular compulsion. I don’t just want a whole bunch of cats, or even a whole bunch of dead cats. I want sets. I want every size of every color of a given series of highly absorbent towels. I want one of every item in a line of kitchenware from a certain brand. I don’t buy junk at random, and drop it all somewhere in my house. Each one has to belong, so I end up with a comprehensive—and truthfully, beautiful—collection to put on display. Because that’s the whole point, to showcase my collections to others. It’s not my fault that I don’t have a big enough place to do it right. If I lived in a mansion, you wouldn’t think any of this was weird. No, you would walk into my classic English literature room, and see my copy of Tarmides of Egypt, as well as all of his other works, along with his contemporaries. That’s what belongs there. And there’s a room for the stamps, and one for sports balls, and another for a generic license plate from every single unique region in the world, and so on, and so forth. That last one has always been my dream, I don’t actually have a complete set. If I did, I wouldn’t have the space for it, because I can’t afford that mansion. My parents were the ones who were rich, not me. So here I am in my wee little flat, where I look like a crazy person who’s oblivious to the state of her world. Whatever, my great-niece was telling me about haters, and that’s all people are. I regret nothing.

Microstory 1861: The Tarmides of Tasmania

< > Table of Contents

In the late sixteenth century, a certain famous playwright wrote what would become perhaps his most obscure works. He was two years from death, and didn’t even get to see his final piece performed on stage. Once Tarmides of Egypt finally did make it to the theatre, opening night was riddled with such bad luck that it ruined the show’s future indefinitely. The lead forgot many of his lines, his co-star had to give birth halfway through, forcing them to switch to an understudy. The man who played the grandfather died of a heart attack near the end, and another was impaled when the stage collapsed due to all the weight of the people who ran up to tend to the old man. The injury resulted in death a day later. It was for these reasons that all further showings were cancelled. Years later, a different troupe tried to put on another production, but it went badly too. No one else died on the night, but set pieces fell apart, multiple actors flubbed their lines, and historians believe this to be the probable ground zero for what came to be known as the relatively shortlived Lurch Plague. The play was cursed, according to the superstitious majority of the time, and no one else so much as attempted to produce it again for at least a century. Since then, rumors of further unfortunate events have spread about more recent attempts, but most of these claims remain unsubstantiated. The fact of the matter is that the play has almost certainly been produced dozens of times without any issue, but that’s not a very good story, so most students are taught the melodramatically stretched truth that the curse always takes them in the end. The mystique of this whole thing is only fueled by the subject matter of the play itself.

Tarmides was born in Greece, but the narrative is about him immigrating to Egypt to escape his past, only to find himself at the center of one disaster after another. The playwright was probably trying to demonstrate the futility of life, having become more nihilistic in his latter years, but this depressing lesson is lost to the more sensational idea that he was a prophet, who wrote it in order to prompt destruction in the real world. When I was a young man, a tyrant rose to power, and waged a war against the rural parts of my country. Villages were demolished under the weight of his superior technology. I probably wasn’t truly the only survivor, but again, that’s not sensational enough, so the media billed it that way. I became famous, and an international effort formed in order to relocate me to a safer region of the world. Most of the time, developed world nations fight over who has to take in refugees, but in my case, they fought for the honor. Tasmania won, so that’s where I moved. Shortly thereafter, an undersea earthquake in the Southern Ocean sent a tidal wave to the island, killing thousands of people, and destroying a great deal of the infrastructure. Once again, in order to sell papers, journalists began drawing connections between my arrival, and the completely unrelated and unpredictable natural disaster. Like most regular people, I hadn’t even heard of the play myself at the time, but I soon came to be known as The Tarmides of Tasmania. This nickname followed me for the rest of my life. Whenever an item fell off of the shelf at the grocery store, or I was around when it began to rain, I was blamed for it. There was always someone around who enjoyed pointing it out, especially if something even moderately inconvenient happened to someone else. I lived the rest of my life with this mark, and as much as I don’t want to die, I won’t miss it.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 31, 2389

« < » > Table of Contents

Mithridates couldn’t stop laughing when twelve-year-old lookin’ Leona reached out to him from the Suadona to prove that she had gone through with her promise. She just sat there with her emotionless face, waiting patiently for him to get ahold of himself. Finally, he was able to stop and apologize, explaining that it was just so funny, this little girl being so serious and jaded. He then reiterated his own promise to become an agent of peace in this reality. He was the fifth Preston she had met. One stayed an antagonist, though became a little more understated than he was in the beginning. The next ended up one of their greatest friends. The third’s true motivations were never clear, and if Leona was a therapist, she might have diagnosed her with bipolar disorder. The fourth was a much more obvious villain, who literally no one mourned after he was murdered twice.

Mithri appeared to be a villain from the beginning, but other than this body changing bargain, they didn’t really have any proof of anything he had ever done. His lonely planet was where some kind of automated transporter sent them once they entered the galaxy, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he was in charge, or really anything else about him. There was more than one original member of The Fifth Division, and in all this confusion, she had forgotten to ask after them. He smiled, and pretended like he was going to give her an answer, but then just didn’t. He wouldn’t even say anything more about how he grew up while he was in The Gallery dimension, or what his job there was, if anything. He simply thanked her for her cooperation, and ended the call.

Leona placed the Suadona in orbit, and just left it there for the next year. It was unlikely that Mithri would do anything to it, and he would surely protect it in his own way. Trust the devil you know, and all that. Come the next year, she logged herself into the simulation to check on her friends.

“Leona, why do you look like that?” Mateo asked.

“What are you talking about? It’s just...” She looked down at herself. “Oh.”

“Did you do what the Preston guy asked?” Ramses questioned.

This was a mistake. She thought the system would just use her normal avatar, but for some reason, it scanned her current substrate, and drew from that instead. “I had to. Unless he lied, he’s going to help end the conflict and hostility. I think it was worth it.”

“That’s not what we discussed,” Mateo insisted.

“My body, my choice.”

He sighed. “That’s an unfair spin.”

“I get it, you don’t wanna be married to a twelve-year-old.”

“You’re not twelve, you just look like you are. But yeah, it’s weird.”

“Well, it would have been weird if I were married to someone who looked fifteen!” she volleyed.

“Well,” Mateo began, stammering as he tried to continue, “yeah, that...makes sense! Ramses, did you figure out how to do it from your end?”

“Do what?” Leona asked.

“Yes, I have control over my own systems,” Ramses said.

“You’re gonna transfer your minds anyway? The whole point of me doing it is so you don’t have to,” Leona complained.

“We’re not going to let you look like this on your own,” Olimpia reasoned.

“As I’ve already explained, this was my choice.”

“And we respect that,” Marie said, “so respect ours. We’re tired of being in this simulation. It’s boring. Ramses was only allotted so much memory to construct with.”

“I can get you more memory,” Leona said.

“We want to be out in base reality,” Angela clarified. “That’s not something you can argue against.”

She was right. If they wanted to take on new bodies, it was their right to go through with the download. This wasn’t forever for any of them. They could always build even newer substrates, or find a proverter back in the main sequence to fix these ones. She had to concede to their wishes, and help them complete this task. “Fine. Just let me make sure that everything looks good on my end.” Before she could log out, she felt something jerk her whole body. There were different ways to connect to a virtual construct, but the best way to do it was to suppress the user’s physical movements, so that neural commands were sent to the avatar instead. That way one’s real legs didn’t start flailing about when they were really just supposed to be running inside of the program. Still, there was a failsafe to this technology, which allowed that user to feel someone trying to shake them awake, or stabbing them with a knife, or something. Something was what was happening to the ship in base reality, and Leona had to investigate.

“Computer, report!”

“Lightyear engine is offline. Fractional reactors are offline. Low impulse drives are offline. Maneuvering thrusters are offline.”

“I get it, everything’s offline!”

“Interior artificial gravity online. Life support online. Lights are online.” So sassy.

“Are we being attacked!”

“Not anymore.”

“Who was it, and what are they doing now?”

“The Warmaker Training Detachment is presently matching our orbit, and has done nothing since targeting and destroying our propulsion systems.”

“The lightyear engine is offline, but what about the standard teleporter?”

“The teleporter is located in a deep interior section of the ship, and is currently still operational.”

“Make a jump to the surface.”

“Hull integrity is at—”

“It doesn’t matter, we’ll be in the atmosphere by the time it’s ripped apart.”

And ripped apart it was. Though the detachment was obviously only trying to prevent them from escaping, damaging all means of propulsion necessarily meant causing destruction all over the vessel. The Suadona would have survived enough to be towed into the Warmaker, but will never go anywhere on its own without extensive repairs. The fact of the matter is that it was over, and it was time to abandon ship. Fortunately, they had no strong feelings for the cruiseliner.

Leona spun around, hoping to quickly explain the situation to the team, but they were already coming out of their pods. Ramses had transferred their consciousnesses to their replacement substrates. It was pretty creepy, this group of naked minors standing around together. They all sensed the awkwardness. “You’ll get dressed later. Let’s get to the AOC first.”

“Wait!” Ramses ordered.

“We don’t have any time,” Leona argued.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “You can teleport with your mind now. Let’s go.” He disappeared. Apparently, there was no learning curve to their new temporal abilities. They deliberately built Ramses’ lab far from the hull so as to protect it from an attack like this, and they did the same with the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, though they kept them far from each other for similar reasons.

It was a rush, transporting themselves from where they were, right to where they wanted to go. Obviously they had teleported before, but never by sheer force of will. Until now, they had always relied on technology, or other people, but now they were in control. Now they had the power. Ramses had done did good, even if they had to start using these bodies a little too early.

“Hey, we ended up taking some extra power resources, right?” Marie asked.

“Yeah, they’re in storage down in engineering,” Leona answered. “We have more than we ever have before. We won’t need to refuel for a long time now.” She looked up. “Computer!”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Execute escape program Leona-nine-one-one.”

“Initializing decoys,” the computer responded. The central hologram popped up to show them their progress. While Leona was alone in base reality, she didn’t spend that entire time doing nothing. She was busy preparing for this very eventuality. The Suadona was a beautiful thing. It was capable of getting them anywhere in the supercluster in only a few years—or from their perspective, three days. But alongside that, it was big and threatening, and while nowhere near as powerful as the detachments, it could competently hold its own against an enemy. This was why the Warmaker essentially destroyed it without any warning, and why they were far safer just leaving it behind, and returning to their true home. The AOC was small, inconsequential to these people, and easily underestimated. It was not undetectable, however, and the best way to avoid such detection was to confuse all sensors from being able to distinguish it from other things.

Leona designed and built decoys. They were watermelon-sized drones that only served one purpose: emit a hologram that made each one look like a copy of the AOC, and transmit a false signature that also made each appear to be the real AOC. The reframe engine was slow compared to the types of propulsion people in the Fifth Division were used to using, but these decoys should still distract the Warmaker long enough for the team to make their escape, and not be followed.

They watched on their own hologram as the drones teleported themselves to various points in the space surrounding the planet. At random intervals, they then darkbursted in all directions, shutting off their holograms and transmitters at the same time to make it harder for them to be found. While they were doing that, the real AOC was escaping at reframe speed, its crew hoping their opponents never figured out which one they ought to follow.

“Captain Matic?” the computer asked.

“Yes? Are they following us?”

“No, sir, but we picked up a data transmission. It’s a message from the Warmaker.”

“Can they detect us this way?”

“No. Anyone in the area with an antenna would have received it. It’s unencrypted.”

“Play it.”

The battleground hologram disappeared to be replaced with an image of Xerian Oyana. “Crew of the Suadona. I’m sorry it has come to this. In your absence, power has reverted back to us. Against my advice, the others have decided to launch a full scale attack against the Denseterium, and the Fifth Division proper. We detected your presence in orbit over Earth, and I was unable to prevent them from including you in the first shots of this new war. I hope you find a way to survive, and I regret that our relationship deteriorated to a state of hostility. I’ve always admired you, and I appreciate all you did, and tried to do, for the supercluster. If we ever cross paths again, I promise not to be a driving force of opposition, but I can make no such promise when it comes to the other leaders, and their decisions. Please. Be careful, and just go away. Stay safe, and stay out of it. We are not your problem anymore.”

“Did he just say this is Earth?” Angela asked.

“Are we going to do that?” Marie asked at around the same time, barely registering that her alternate was also speaking. “Are we going to heed his advice?”

“Well,” Mateo began, “we’re going to be careful and safe, and we’re going to do our level best to stay out of it, but we can’t go away without getting back in it first. The only way out is through. As far as we know, Dilara Cassano, a.k.a. The Arborist is still on the SWD. If we want to go home, we have to retrieve her.”

“Can we even get to the other detachments?” Olimpia asked. “We’re so far away now, and we’ve lost our lightyear engine.”

Mateo looked over to his wife, who closed her eyes and sighed. “Computer, go back to the site of the attack. Once you’re there...initiate Pilot Fish protocol.”

« < » > Table of Contents

Extremus: Year 39

« < » > Table of Contents

“Good late night. My name is Taila March, streaming live from a secret section of the ship that you’re not allowed to go to. Pause of laughter. The time is midnight central according to the Earthan clock, on September 12, 2308, and you’re watching Extremus Measures. If you’re under sixteen, maybe you wanna shut your eyes, and cover your ears—or just go to bed—it’s about to get real.”

She walks up and over to her desk, forgoing her usual slew of topical jokes. It’s not the first time she’s done it. She alters the format when she’s going to be discussing some more serious topics. She sits patiently as the band completes its song, pretending to read through notecards and the show’s agenda. She goes on when the music stops, “tonight, we have two very special guests. The first is our very own Captain, Kaiora Leithe. This is a real treat, guys, I hope you’re tuning in. Traditionally, members of the executive crew don’t do civilian streaming, but she wants to clear the air on a few things, so she’s agreed to come talk with us. Second, former First Lieutenant Rita Suárez is here. She returned to the ship about two years ago after having been missing for over thirty years. She’s spoken up a little about what she went through in that time, and has suggested that she didn’t experience the same amount of time apart as we did, but tonight, she says she’s ready to provide us with a bit more information. I hope you all have, and will continue, to show her a warm and caring welcome. As always, this stream is live, and any form of recording is forbidden. We’re off the cuff here; unadulterated, unedited...and sometimes unprofessional, but always respectful.

“That all being said, please welcome my first guest, Captain Kaiora Leithe.”

The studio audience cheers.

Kaiora steps through the curtain, and waves to them as she approaches her chair. It’s true, being on this show is very unorthodox. But it’s not against the law, and as long as she doesn’t reveal any sensitive information, everything should be fine. She’s here to discuss her personal life. As the most famous person on the vessel, she doesn’t have the luxury of privacy. Sure, she has the right to keep some things to herself, but if the captain is going to be dividing her attention between the ship, and a love interest, it’s not outrageous for people to question her competence. She didn’t want to come on here and talk about it, but as the last nine months rolled by, it became clearer that the less she said, the more the public made up about her and Ima. It’s time to take control of the narrative. “Thanks for having me, Miss March.”

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with us, Captain, we’re all very excited.”

“Oh, please, we’ve known each other for over twenty years. Call me Kaiora.”

“Is that true? Do other people who happen to have known you for so long get to be on a first name basis with you?”

“That’s a good point. I suppose it will have to be more of just a you thing.”

“Hear that, kids.” Taila holds her cards to the side of her mouth. “Don’t call her by her name, or it’s off to the hock with ya! Oh, I joke, I joke. But seriously, Captain—Kaiora, you’re here to officially announce a personal romantic relationship, right?”

“Well, I think that ship has sailed,” Kaiora replied. “We’ve been open with everyone since day one. We didn’t hold a press conference, but it’s been out there.”

“But of course, this must have begun before. I mean, you didn’t just fall in love on day one. You had been working together for years.”

“No, it kind of was a sudden thing. The feelings were there, yes, and we exchanged some glances, but neither one of us had anything close to confirmation of mutual attraction. Then, one night, I had a hard conversation with someone else, and I just...felt like I had to take a chance. I raced over to Ima’s office, and we started talking. So it wasn’t love at first sight, but it wasn’t a long courtship either.”

“Is love the right word to use, or no?”

“It’s what we use, but not in the beginning. We both felt it was our responsibility to be honest with the crew and passengers regarding our connection. Not only was it better for the health of the mission, but keeping it secret would have made it—I think—less real, like we weren’t fully committed. So you’ve all been with us as it’s evolved. Though, of course, we do keep some things to ourselves.”

“Of course, of course. Now, you said you had a hard conversation, which somehow inspired you to have this epiphany. Can you tell us anything about that?”

No. She definitely can’t drop Daud’s name, but she doesn’t even want to give the audience a hint about what might have gone down. This isn’t about him, and he deserves to remain anonymous. “That’s internal, and classified,” she states simply, hoping to imply it was just some kind of random crewmember behavioral issue.

“Very well.” Taila clears her throat to continue. “I understand that Dr. Holmes is here with you tonight, but she won’t be coming on stage?”

“No, she has chosen to let me take the reins on this one. She’s here for support, but she prefers to stay off camera. I’m the one who signed up for public scrutiny.”

“Well, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean you’re obligated to appear on screen like this. We all really appreciate the candor. Don’t we?”

The crowd claps at an appropriately subdued volume.

“Lovely. Perfect. Not to cut us off, but it’s time to bring out our second guest. We would like you to stay here, and keep talking, though. And obviously you’re always welcome to come back to the show anytime you want. Is that okay?”

“I blocked the time for it,” Kaiora replies with a half smile. “For tonight, that is.” She recognizes, however, that Taila is ending the interview before getting to the real questions, because it will prompt the audience to complain about it, forcing the Captain to return for a second interview. It’s just a coincidence that this will result in another ratings boost.

“Great, so that will be your new chair,” Taila says, pointing before turning back to the camera. “Crew and passengers of Extremus, please welcome Rita Suárez.”

The audience claps subdutifully again, giving Rita a standing ovation in deference to her. She comes out of the curtains unsmiling, and more slowly. Wearing a flowy, robey sort of outfit, she carefully climbs the two steps, and crawls into the chair like she’s worried it’s going to change shape on her. She had to notice Taila’s attempt to shake her hand, but acts like she doesn’t know what it means.

Truthfully, Kaiora hasn’t been keeping track of Rita’s life back on the ship. She’s really relied on the expertise of the people trained to handle this sort of thing. They never said she was a threat to the mission, so it wasn’t the Captain’s business. Rita hasn’t expressed a desire to be reinstated onto the crew, so the crew hasn’t needed to be involved. Even so, she seems different now, like she’s regressed. According to the limited psychological reports that Kaiora has received, she should have improved more by now. It’s been two and a half years, and nothing she’s heard would suggest she would behave like this.

Taila doesn’t seem to notice, though who knows how well she knew Rita before today? They don’t exactly run in the same circles. “Thank you for coming, Miss Suárez. How are you feeling?”

“I’m great,” Rita says unconvincingly.

“How have you been adjusting to life?”

“It’s been wonderful.” She’s saying the words, but she doesn’t seem to believe them. It feels like she’s reciting from a script.

Now Taila seems to be picking up on the same awkwardness that Kaiora is. “Care to elaborate?”

Rita runs her fingers through her hair as she looks up at the lights, as if she didn’t even hear the question. “No.”

“Okay,” Taila begins, hoping to salvage this interview. “Could you tell us what happened to you after you disappeared back in 2272?”

Rita smiles. “I saw the light.” She’s still literally looking at the lights, which is presumably why she finds her own answer amusing.

“You did? I was to understand that it was a harrowing ordeal, full of constant dangers, and even some near-death experiences.”

“Yeah,” Rita responds lazily. “That’s what happened, but it’s not what happened, ya know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t. I don’t understand.”

“I know.” Now she’s acting like a frustrated and sad child, but not angry. “No one understands. You haven’t seen the light.”

“Rita,” Kaiora steps in. “What’s going on?”

Rita jerks her face around to face the Captain, like she didn’t remember she was sitting next to her. “Everyone’s always calling me that. It’s dreadful, don’t you think? Rita Suárez,” she mocks. “It’s sooo...human.” She’s so disgusted by this.

Kaiora stands up. “Security,” she prompts rather quietly.

Rita stands up too. “Yeah,” Rita agrees. “The more the merrier, as you people would say.” She reaches up to her shoulders, and removes the outer layer of her clothing, revealing a suicide vest. Because of course there’s a suicide vest.

The three members of civilian security rightfully stop, and take a half step back in shocking unison. Without hesitating, Kaiora reaches for her teleporter, and tries to banish Rita off the ship, but she’s unable to. Something’s blocking her. She keeps pressing the button, but it still doesn’t work.

Rita turns around and smirks. “You think I didn’t prepare for that?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“This is exactly what I would do in this situation,” Rita contends. “You don’t even know me.”

“Rita,” Taila tries. “Please.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Okay, what do you want us to call you?”

“I...” Rita takes hold of what’s most likely the detonator. “...am Oblivion.” She presses the button with her thumb. Instead of her blowing up, though, she just disappears. Was that it? Was it not a bomb at all, but a bizarrely intricate transporter?

Kaiora looks over and sees Daud between cameras B and C. He’s holding a sort of tennis racket sort of thing towards the stage, and panting a little. “Did you do something?” she asks.

“Cut the feed,” Daud demands.

Taila swipes her fingers in front of her neck. The broadcast lights turn off.

“Report,” Kaiora says.

“You remember when we found her?” Daud asks as he approaches. “We finally figured out that she was in another dimension, which only made her appear to be a teeny tiny person?”

“Vividly,” Kaiora recalls. It was a traumatic experience.

He waves the weird racket thing around. “We also figured out how to replicate that.”

“Why? I didn’t give you authorization to conduct such research.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Kaiora says, changing her tune. “You just saved our lives.”

“Why did he need to do that?” Taila questions. “Why would Rita Suárez want to kill the two of us, and herself, and this randomly selected audience?”

It wasn’t her. It was just someone posing as her, so they could gain access to the ship, and move about at the lowest clearance level possible. And to what end? To assassinate the Captain? What would that accomplish, besides ushering in a new captain? If that’s the case, this secret organization—be it new, or still the same old True Extremists—would have to have a candidate in mind who would be more amenable to whatever insane agenda they have. Rita is presumably dead now, so they can’t ask her, but they will have to begin a formal investigation to make sure nothing like it ever happens again. People have always called Kaiora a peacetime captain, but now she’s starting to think that designation will have to be amended.

« < » > Table of Contents

Microstory 1860: Beater

< > Table of Contents

I still remember the day my dads bought the truck of my older brother’s dreams. It was a surprise, but papa had to be out of town for the week, so father needed my help to pull it off. I was too young to drive on my own, but we did it anyway, because we lived in a rural area, and nobody cared. Obviously, I drove the old beater from the dealership, not the new one. He then had me hide it behind the barn. When I pointed out that he ought to hide the new one, he just laughed. Of course, my brother was getting the hand-me-down, and father just bought himself a brand new luxury vehicle. But man, my brother took care of that ol’ thing. He scavenged for replacement parts, and installed them himself. He spent every free moment fixing it up until it looked so good, our dads almost wished they could switch. It wasn’t originally designed for off-roading, but by the time he was finished repairing it, it was capable of handling some of the worst terrain. I always admired my brother’s patience and determination, and I loved that truck about as much as he did, though for me, I imagine it had more to do with how much I loved him. He could have used it to drive away from us, but he never didn’t come back. We stayed best friends throughout our whole lives, even after he went to college, even after we met our husbands. We both left the farm, but stayed in town, and ended up at the same retirement home, though I never made it to assisted living, which is where he died. His kids didn’t have any strong feelings about the truck, which was good, because he left it to me in his will. It was good timing too, because everyone figured I had a few months of driving in me before I would have to give it up. But like I said, it won’t come to that.

To honor his memory, I’ve driven up the side of a mountain that most cars can’t survive. They just don’t come with the features they need to hold onto the ground at such steep angles. I believed my brother’s truck—my truck—was well-equipped, and I began to drive up here with no fear. They let me take a small portion of his ashes to spread at my own discretion. This is the perfect place to let a part of him rest. He loved to watch the sun rise and set. From here, he would be able to see both. Unfortunately, I was really more thinking of how good the truck was after it was first restored. It was already old back then, and now, it’s very worn out. Yeah, he kept working on it, but then he got old too, and at some point, there is nothing you can do anymore. It has almost a million miles on it; my God, I really should not be up here. Admittedly, I didn’t think it all the way through—because I’ve also gotten old, and I was never exactly an action hero—it just seemed like a beautiful gesture. I don't scream as I feel the truck tip back past the point of no return. I suppose I’ve been doing this whole life thing for so long that I just generally don’t fear dangerous situations anymore. Still, I don’t have a death wish, so as I’m hanging here, I try to strategize a way out. The problem is, it’s not over. I’ve triggered some kind of landslide that sends me tumbling down, and down, and down. This is when the real beating happens. Rocks fly in through the open window, and attack my face. I’m too weak to keep my arms close against my chest, so they bounce around the steering wheel, stick, and rearview mirror. I can feel my bones cracking, and blood filling up my mouth. I tell you all this, not to gross you out, but to assure you that I don’t interpret any of this as pain. If I had to go out some way, this is at least a funny, tragic story, and I think my brother would have gotten a kick out of it.

Microstory 1859: Life Coach

< > Table of Contents

When you were a kid, did anyone ask you what you wanted to be when you grew up? I’m sure at least one person did, it’s such a common question. This world is so obsessed with placing value on people based on what they do for work, how hard they work at it, and how far they go because of it. I never put much stock into this, to use a relevant metaphor. If the idea behind it is to make the money you need to live a happy life, then I get it, but work itself has no value. And what should it matter what your actual job is, as long as it’s positive, and you’re generally satisfied with your life—because, or in spite of, it? I was first asked this question when I was pretty young. Most of the kids answered with the usual suspects; astronaut, rockstar, professional athlete. A few others wanted to own their own businesses, but even those were predictable, like an ice cream shop, or a dance studio. I guess that second one’s pretty cool, and if I recall correctly, he actually went on to do that. Me, I had trouble giving my answer. Back then, the phrase life coach wasn’t a thing, so even if I had come up with the term myself, my teacher wouldn’t have been able to understand. It was my dream to help others realize their own dreams, in whatever form that might take. Fortunately, this wasn’t a graded assignment, for if it had been, I surely would have failed, because I just could not explain the idea. Of course now, it’s really easy. You may not garner anyone’s respect if you tell them that’s what you do, but at least they’ll grasp the concept. I’ll tell you, though, that I’m not one of those new age, meditate into the universe, and it will return what you want kind of people. I require my clients to have realistic and clearly defined goals in mind. I can’t promise fame and fortune, but I guarantee reasonable results.

Starting out was really tough, and I relied on my parents’ help to survive while I was getting off the ground. They were more supportive of me than they should have been, but also not blindly accepting. They helped me make it a reality by setting clear expectations for myself. People sometimes say that I was the first life coach, but my mom would have to assume that title, because she coached me on how to coach others. As I said, people back then didn’t know what I was selling, so word of mouth was the only way it got going. My first few clients were women who were looking for a nice man to marry. I didn’t explicitly spurn the idea of just being a matchmaker, but I didn’t want to let that become my whole business. I wanted a diversity of clients. Then I met a guy who changed everything. All he wanted to do was be better at communicating with people. I imagine he would have been diagnosed with a social disorder had he been born later in the timeline. He found it quite difficult to socialize with other people, and to sit for job interviews. He needed to learn basic skills that other people take for granted, and that was perfect, because I had no trouble with those, and I knew I could teach him. He ended up being so good at these things—because he really just needed to slip out of his shell—that he created more and more business for me. I shed my potentially dangerous identity as a matchmaker, and started pulling in all sorts of clients. One of them wanted help finding a trustworthy math tutor for her son. Another needed to raise funds for a guitar, so he could learn to play. I did a lot with education. Back then, you couldn’t just search the internet for a teacher. There’s no end to this story; this is just what I did with my life, and I can go to the big sleep now, fulfilled and grateful to the world.

Microstory 1858: God’s Eye View

< > Table of Contents

I wasn’t paying attention when I was diagnosed with a terminal disease. That’s really all I caught when the doctor was trying to explain it to me. I wasn’t in shock, or anything, I just didn’t care. I’m going to die in prison, and that’s true whether it happens tomorrow, or ten years from now. If you had asked me yesterday what went wrong with my life, I would have blamed it on the world. I have a mental list of people who have wronged me throughout the years, and to be sure, some of those people deserve to be on it. Maybe even all of them, to some degree, but there’s one name I forgot to include, and it actually ought to be at the top. Me. I should have taken responsibility for my own actions. I should be on it both for the things that I did, and also because I’ve lived in denial of my culpability. Let me explain where this sudden realization is coming from. Government scientists have developed a drug that they hope will help restore the memories and general faculties of people with age-related diseases that cause those kinds of problems. I have no such disease, but they needed a control group, so I’m part of that. As an incarcerated terminal patient, I was the perfect candidate. I didn’t even wait to hear the whole pitch before agreeing to sign the documents. If the experimental medicine they gave me resulted in my death, then as I explained before, it didn’t really matter. I wasn’t sure what to expect as I sat down. I suppose I figured I would get a flood of memories that I had either suppressed, or had just forgotten, because they weren’t very important. If it should work on dementia patients, why wouldn’t it work on me too? That’s not what happened, though. As I’ve said, my memories were fine; probably about as intact as any normal person’s. I didn’t remember anything special, but I got some new perspective.

I was a piece of shit. I treated strangers poorly, and my friends even worse. I alienated everyone who ever cared about me, and I didn’t even realize it. Because they didn’t truly ever leave; our relationships just never totally recovered. I had some pretty crazy ideas about the world too. I made political and economical claims that—now that I think about it—didn’t make any sense. The truth is that I was super uneducated, and to no one’s fault but my own. I went to class, and I took the tests, but I didn’t really care about the material, I didn’t retain it, and I was entirely incapable of drawing reasonable conclusions for new problems. I just didn’t understand a damn thing, but I thought I was so smart. Do you remember saying something stupid when you were a kid, like how the older boys who stole your lunch money would be sorry when you grew up, and were older than them? Or maybe you lied to everyone about climbing up the side of a building. This is what it feels like to look back at my past. I feel like a God, my hindsight is so much better than 20/20 right now. I was so wrong about everything, and I’m incredibly embarrassed of myself. It’s unfair, having this perspective so late in life. I don’t have any time to go back and correct my mistakes. Plus I’m still stuck in here. I won’t go over every epiphany I had while I was on this drug, but I’ll say that the old me wouldn’t care about it. I’m smiling, because even if it doesn’t technically do what it’s meant to, it should still be able to help people. I just need to figure out how to convey this data to the researchers. I’m about to die, I know this much. I don’t think that should stop their research, and I’m worried they will if I don’t manage to explain the results to them before I fade away. I have to get back to the real world. I have to wake up befo—

Microstory 1857: Bad One

< > Table of Contents

I moved to a new school for fifth grade. My family didn’t move homes, but the district built a brand new primary school, and the zones had to be redrawn, meaning kids were pulled from the surrounding areas who hadn’t been studying together until now. Looking back, I don’t know how my new teacher could not know about our situation ahead of time, but I remember sitting in that classroom—nervous as all hell—and becoming the center of attention without ever wanting to. I’ve never liked crowds, and I don’t like people to stare at me. I feel more comfortable with a small group of friends, so I was already feeling rather uncomfortable, because all of those friends were still at my old school. There I was in the back corner, looking around for any clue as to who might become my friend, when I heard my name being called. Estera Nowicki. I acknowledged my attendance at the same time as another girl. We each turned our head to look at the other. She kindly explained that hers was the name that was called, and I had to explain that that was my name. The teacher looked down at the sheet. There were two of us, which she had apparently assumed to be some kind of typographical error. That was a little funny, but the names weren’t exactly rare. We had a laugh, and then one classmate suggested that one of us go by our middle name, which I said was Aleksandra. The other Estera scoffed. That was her middle name too, I had to be lying. I don’t know how I could have known as much about her without social media to look it up, like some kind of private detective, but she was convinced. It took some questions to the main office to confirm that yes, there were two Estera Aleksandra Nowickis in the same class.

Something had to be done to avoid the confusion. I mean, some of the kids were already confused, and there was probably nothing we could do about that. One boy suggested that we were long lost sisters, which was obviously dumb, because that would mean that our shared parents gave their sororal twins the same exact first and middle names, and then gave one of us away to a couple with the same surname. It was a coincidence, but again, we couldn’t move on without making sure there wouldn’t be any further ambiguity. I would have been perfectly fine going as Aleksandra. Honestly, I always thought it was a bit prettier. Sure, it was hers too, but as long as only I actually used it as my main name, it should’ve been fine. She wasn’t okay with that. As soon as I expressed my idea, she decided that she wanted to use it instead. Annoying, but whatever, I could be the Estera. No, she didn’t like that either. No matter what I said, she just wanted to be difficult, and pretty soon, we all realized that we had spent almost the entire morning on this, and hadn’t learned a single thing yet. I even recommended I go by Dosia, after a famous scientist named Dosia Zajac who I came to admire after presenting a report on her the previous year. The other Estera claimed to like her too, so now she wanted to be known as Dosia. I’m certain that she hadn’t even heard of her until that day, this was getting to be so ridiculous. The teacher—bless her heart—found it impossible to keep control of the classroom. Lines were being drawn. Some favored me, while a few were on her side. But they eventually swayed over to me when they realized how insolent she was being. So the rest of the students came together, and decided that it was no longer our choice what either of us was going to be called. She was given a nickname that probably haunted her for the rest of the life, while I came to be forever known as Good Estera.