Microstory 2120: Expect Me to Be Grateful

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My Rehabilitation Plan ended up being a lot longer than I thought it would be. I just kept thinking of more detail that I wanted to include, and one of my biggest weaknesses when it comes to writing is cutting out what I’ve already written. That’s why these posts are usually so short, if you can believe the irony. If I wrote everything that happened to me in a given day, then it would end up two or three pages long. The only way to produce it with only the relevant information is to make my cuts before I even start writing. I try to think about only what’s important, and ignore all the little things that readers won’t find interesting anyway. I guess I end up going overboard with this, since it’s not that hard to refrain from transcribing the unnecessary thoughts when I focus so much on just the important stuff. But, so you have an idea, my basic plan is to attend weekend jail for about the next five months until I’ve completed my thousand hours. I’m going to focus on finding and keeping a job on the weekdays, which means putting the community service off until I’m finished with jail. That will make the schedule much simpler, and less stressful. Plus, the therapy isn’t something that I can put off, because it’s crucial to my consistent progress, so I’ll be signing up for evening sessions, depending on what my work hours end up being. I don’t think that it will be that difficult to find something this time around. My readership is growing day by day, and people are already contacting me about open positions. Some are from people who are just aware that such jobs exist, but a few are actual employers with the power to fill those positions. It’s weird to see these messages. I’ve never been recruited before. In the past, companies would always expect me to be grateful just that they gave me the time of day. I don’t have time to look through them yet, so the job hunt starts first thing Monday. Until then, I’ll be in jail. In fact, my ride is waiting. See you on the other side.

Microstory 2119: A Rehabilitation Plan

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Without proceeding to a full trial, I’ve been sentenced to 1,000 hours of jail time, and 1,000 hours of community service. There’s a lot of flexibility with this that I did not expect. I can go to jail for 42 days straight if I want, and then start doing my community service. I can stay in jail every night, but spend my days performing acts of service. I can spend six months in weekend jail while I work during the week, which will allow me some time to volunteer in the evenings, but I can also put it off until I have more time. I could even put jail itself off completely for six whole months, which I don’t really want to do. I would rather get it over with. That doesn’t mean I’ll be serving my time straight, though. I still want to work on my blog, and keep up with the world, which I won’t be able to do if I’m stuck in there for all that time. I first have to draw up a Rehabilitation Plan, which includes these two things, plus therapy, an active search for gainful employment, and of course, a detailed strategy for nonrecidivism. It’s not like I can do it one way, and then change my mind later. I have to decide now, which is what I’ll be working on for the next couple of days before I have to report to jail for the first time. Regardless of what I end up choosing, I’ll be going inside tomorrow night at exactly 19:00. They have to process me first, and then release me on Sunday at the earliest, if I’ve opted to go for an intermittent plan, which I will. I already have some ideas involving finding a home that’s close to where I work, and not still not buying a car, which will make it difficult for me to leave town again. As you know, I didn’t have a car before, but I was able to make it work with public transportation, so this isn’t like a perfect solution, but it’s a start. The state is trusting me with a lot of freedom, and I’m not going to do anything to suggest that it was a mistake on their part. Once I’m finished with my plan, it might be fun to post it here, even if only a truncated version of it. It could be pretty long. The court is actually encouraging me to stay online, to document my journey, and to garner public support for my recovery. I certainly don’t have a problem with that. If I can gain enough followers, I can actually start making money off of this site from the advertisements, which could really help if I really struggle with finding a regular job. So, as I think I’ve said before, read my ish! Early and often.

Microstory 2118: Tiny Little Baby Boy

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I had a physical examination today. Some laws in this world are weird, and some of them are better than they are where I’m from. For others, I’m not sure one way or the other. I think my world would do this sort of thing sometimes, for when there were specific reasons to believe that the accused was in need of it, but here, they do it for everyone. There is an entire branch of medicine dedicated to making sure that people like me are fit to stand trial, or even just this small hearing. They call it Judicial Fitness, making this my Judicial Fitness Evaluation. I’ll go through more by the time this is over, and maybe more while I’m being monitored by a parole officer. This Earth, and this country in particular, is very concerned with the physical and emotional stability of their accused and convicted. I would be interested to learn what happened in history to turn this into a common practice. Were there too many bored doctors? Were there a ton of patients who were later discovered to have been unfit for legal proceedings, which resulted in severe damage to their welfare? Or maybe there was one highly publicized case that shifted perception. Either way, I don’t have a problem submitting to it. I have nothing to hide. Y’all already know, I don’t mind admitting to my medical issues; I’ve done that in multiple instances on this site. I believe in medical privacy, but I’ve personally never run into a situation that I felt I couldn’t tell anyone about, even if it would be “embarrassing” for a neurotypical. I’m trying to think of a story like that to prove to you that I don’t care, but nothing comes to mind. Perhaps I just don’t understand what other people’s threshold would be. I’ve had a few ingrown toenails, which required minor surgery, does that count? They sent a scope up my urethra to try to figure out my digestive issues. That’s not great, a normal person would probably keep that to themselves. Let’s see, I used to vomit from anxiety whenever I did something new. I guess that can still happen, it’s just that less is new than it was when I was a tiny little baby boy. I just called myself a tiny little baby boy, should I be embarrassed by that? You tell me. If those aren’t juicy enough for ya, I’m afraid that my current condition isn’t gonna help you either. I earned a clean bill of health from my physician, which means that I can attend my hearing tomorrow. What exactly the purpose of it is a bunch of legalese that I don’t understand, but I’ll try to recount it tomorrow, unless they throw me in prison right away, and don’t give me access to a computer. If that happens, my blog will just end. I don’t have any backup posts waiting on the schedule this time. Welp, it’s been real...or rather it hasn’t, because I’m making all of this up, ain’t I? Or am I? I am. Wait...oh no, I was right, this is all fiction.

Microstory 2117: Cosmic Frequency

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Since I have nowhere else to live, I’m still in the hotel room that the government is paying for. I spoke with my lawyer yesterday—the one that my former employer is paying for—and also this morning. It looks like this thing isn’t going to be going to a full trial. The FBI and my benefactors are going to be vouching for me to the judge, as will reportedly my social worker. I’ll most likely serve some time in prison, but not in the way that you think. Have you ever heard anyone on a police or lawyer procedural say that a convict is being sentenced to consecutive time? Have you ever wondered if that means that there’s such a thing as nonconsecutive prison time? Well, yes, young Padawan, there is! It’s often called weekend jail, and it’s generally meant to allow people to continue working throughout the week, and/or take care of their families. I’m currently in between jobs, so I’ve been advised to start working closely with my social worker to change that. He’ll probably have ideas on an employer who would be willing to deal with what will become an unusual schedule. Or maybe it’s not that unusual. My frame of reference isn’t perfect, but I do believe that intermittent confinement is more common on this world. That reminds me, I’m a visitor from another universe, and people are very interested in that. That’s why they’ve been so helpful, because they want to understand if it’s even a little bit true. They don’t believe me entirely, but who could expect them to? I have no proof, and no way to prove it. A science fiction story would suggest that people from different universes have different quarks, or something, but I’m not sure if that’s true. I wrote a story once where a character was in a similar situation. He ended up in a highly advanced galaxy, where a group of doctors were able to run a “cosmic frequency” test on him to confirm his alien origins. I’m not sure how difficult it would be to do that here, but if researchers want to know how I tick, I guess I’ll suggest that, and see what they say. This is all in the very early stages. The military isn’t going to spend too many resources studying me until they have some real reason to believe that I’m telling the truth. For now, everyone’s playing this by ear, including me. Not everyone is gonna believe me at all, or be on my side. They’ll expect me to pay for my crimes, and won’t let the FBI, a private organization, or anyone else exonerate me, even under special circumstances. Weekend jail sounds like a good deal to me. I’m not a partier, so it’s not like I’m known to do anything special with my days off. Plus, that would allow me to stay online throughout my sentence. That would be cool, wouldn’t it? I am getting the sense that they want me to keep up with my blog too. My view count has been skyrocketing lately. Word is spreading about my life story, and people are catching up on my previous posts. It’s surreal. I can’t wait to see what’s next.

Microstory 2116: Law is Clear Enough

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I spent two nights in jail after they processed me. I’ve always had pretty good luck with law enforcement, probably because I easily pass for white, yet I’ve always disliked them, because of the things that happen to people who can’t pass for white. Of course, they shouldn’t have to pass for anything beyond being living creatures who deserve to be respected, and to feel safe around the people who have literally sworn an oath to serve and protect. As far as I know, there’s no oath to attack and kill unprovoked, but you wouldn’t know it reading about the coppers on my homeworld. Anyway, processing went fine, and the jail cell wasn’t that bad. I shared it with five other guys. The toilet wasn’t in a separate room, but there was a partial concrete barrier. We could still see each other, but we couldn’t see anything private unless we deliberately walked up closer, which fortunately, no one ever did. Sunday morning was a whirlwind of activity that I did not expect. I made a lot of friends on this planet, but none of them was in a position to help me with this situation. My family doesn’t live here, and I’ve not been around for long enough to form strong bonds. As it turned out, I didn’t really need them. The FBI surprisingly had my back. I helped them by luring that teenage girl’s kidnappers away from the trail while they rescued her, which was a really nice thing for me to do, but we weren’t exactly investigating terrorists. I’m not even sure if they’ve even managed to catch the criminals yet. What I did was not that big of a deal. All I had to do was drive to Alabama, and leave breadcrumbs for them to follow. The hardest part of that was having to spend time in Alabama. Boom.

Normally, I don’t think a federal agency will spend taxpayer money to bail an individual out of jail, but they were able to expedite paperwork to make me a CI. Obviously, the C in that initialism is supposed to stand for confidential, but past events have already been recorded in this regard, so who cares? Luckily for the taxpayers, my bail wasn’t all that high, because the judge knew that I wouldn’t be able to afford more than a few bucks. I’ll say, the wheels of justice seem to turn faster here than they do where I’m from. They do hearings on the weekend, did you know that? That’s so weird, but I’m grateful for it. I’m staying in a hotel right now, which the feds are allowing me to tell you, but I can’t say which one. It’s pretty nice, though. They’re treating me like an important witness, which I may be. They may ask me to testify against the ID makers whenever they catch them, and start turning the wheels of justice over them too. Don’t get too excited for me, though. They’ll probably cut me a deal for a lighter sentence due to my help in the bigger investigation, but I’m not getting off scot-free. I’ve still committed my own crimes, and the law is clear enough on that, so I’ll have to pay for my sins one way or another. The government can’t pay my legal fees, for obvious reasons, but I don’t have to worry about that either. They’re not the only friends that I unexpectedly made.

When I first left Kansas City, and hid out in Iowa, I quickly hooked up with the ID makers to generate my new identity. I still can’t tell you how I managed that, but perhaps one day. Sorry, but it’s not my secret to tell. Soon after that, I was able to find a job. It was a weird place where I worked, but I didn’t ask any questions. I just cleaned where I was told to clean, and kept my head down. They were dealing with very secretive information, but I never found out what exactly all of those documents were for. I still don’t know, but they noticed me, and they’ve decided to help out too, for reasons I couldn’t tell you. They’ve promised to cover all of my legal fees, including whatever it might cost if I decide to countersue the state, the federal government, or anyone else. I don’t think that I’m going to do that. I’m not sure what my case would be, and I’m not greedy. I knew what I was getting myself into. Well, I didn’t know that I would encounter a kidnap victim, but as far as my own dealings go, I made my own bed. Here’s what I’m worried about—and I’m fully aware that they have access to my blog—maybe they think that I saw something while I was a janitor in their offices, and don’t want me telling others about it. Honestly, I didn’t see nothin’, man. All of the regular staff members were always really good about keeping their stuff locked up, and I was really good about not letting my eyes wander. The truth is, I’m a curious person, but I’m not investigative. I could never have been a detective, because I generally don’t want to get into other people’s business. If I walk up to two people who are laughing together, I don’t ask them what’s funny. The way I see it, if they want to tell me, they can. So I don’t know what interest my former employer has in my legal issues, but I’ve decided to accept their help until they give me a reason to stop trusting them. I’ll fill you in on more tomorrow. Things are changing every day now, so I’m sure I’ll have a lot to catch you up on. This could all be a game, or a ruse, though, so my declaration stands; no matter what the autopsy says, it was murder.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 20, 2441

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While Mateo was taking a trip away from the station, the rest of the remaining team was trying not to get caught. When they first entered this station in 2440, they didn’t want to rely solely on Marie’s excellent impersonation skills. At some point, someone may realize that she couldn’t be who she said she was. Not everyone who worked here was in the hangar bay. As word spread, the chances of somebody catching on increased. The first guard who realized it could have just been the tip of the iceberg. Besides, they didn’t know anything about what objects were being stored here, or how vast the collection was. They needed time to download the manifest, analyze it, and make a plan. Still invisible, Olimpia walked straight to the primary security room too upload a computer worm that would take control of all management systems, but lay in wait during the interim year, so that no one would know that it was even here. Leona, Ramses, and Marie snuck into the main office to find the information that they were looking for. There they uploaded their own worm to gather all data on the warehouse, which they would redownload once they came back.

All of the personnel were so busy trying to find the fake missing item that no one came to bother them, and as midnight was approaching, they held their breaths, hoping that they would jump to the future without anyone realizing it. The staff would be very confused about what happened to their messiah, the godking Oaksent, but they would have no reason to believe that it was really Team Matic in disguise, right? They opened the door to a storage closet so they wouldn’t suddenly appear next year in front of other people when someone actually did show up. “I think I found it.”

“What?” Leona questioned. That should be impossible. They told these people that they deliberately misplaced a warehouse item at an earlier date, and that whoever discovered it would be rewarded. But nothing was actually misplaced. It was just to keep everyone busy while they executed the heist. They didn’t consider the possibility that an artifact was genuinely misplaced without their intervention, probably accidentally. A flaw in their plan.

The young man, whose job in the station was not immediately clear, held his palms out before them. On top of them was a lighter, and it was one that they recognized. This was the Muster Lighter, which could be used to summon people from distant places as a mass teleportation object. It was lost centuries ago, but it wasn’t entirely out of left field that it should end up here. This region of the galaxy was seeded with life by someone who once lived on the generational ship, Extremus, which launched from the Gatewood Collective, where the lighter was last used and seen. They didn’t think that Bronach was alive at the time, but perhaps a relative stole it, and he ended up with it. Or it was someone else on Extremus, and he procured it later. “This wasn’t in the Time Vault, where it belongs. It was hidden behind a box of scissors by the door to an auxiliary maintenance airlock that doesn’t get use.” When Ramses reached towards it, the young man pulled away. “No. I shall hand it directly to the Emperor.”

Marie nodded appreciatively, and accepted the lighter as ceremoniously as she could while so pressed for time. “Thank you, my child.”

“It’s legit,” Leona said to Marie before turning towards the young man, “but, uhh...this isn’t it. We hid a different item. Someone else must have left this where you found it. They probably just use it to smoke in the airlock, because then they can easily vent it all into space when they’re done.”

He frowned, and hung his head low.

Leona’s watch beeped, as did the other two. “Shit, we gotta go.”

The three of them slipped into the closet, and hoped that the boy would give up, and leave. He didn’t. He opened the door behind them. “Wait, can I still be sent to—”

They didn’t hear the end of his sentence before midnight central hit, and sent them into the future. But they heard it once they came back, “...the resort planet.”

Leona looked at her watch to confirm that they had indeed jumped forward. It was May 20, 2441. She looked over at Marie and Ramses, who now appeared as themselves. They were unable to hold illusions across the time jump. Good to know. “You’ve been waiting for us this whole time?”

“Yes,” the young man answered. “People underestimate me, but I am smart. I had a whole year to work out who you really were, Leona Reaver.” Odd choice for a surname that she technically remembered having, but never actually used in this timeline.

“Who did you tell?” Ramses questioned.

“No one. Something that you probably don’t know about the Corridor is that most don’t give much thought to who the Emperor is, or how the Empire is run. We just deal with our own lives. I have no strong feelings about him. I just wanna get out of here.”

“You want us to take you with us so you don’t have to work anymore?” Leona guessed.

“I think I deserve it. I kept your secret, and lured everyone away for a party that I’ve been planning for months. I don’t know why you’re here, but I know that you won’t stay here forever. You don’t have to keep me, or even take me to Ex-613. You can just drop me off on an uninhabited world where I can live the rest of my life in peace.”

“What do you think?” Leona asked the other two.

“I’m fine with it,” Marie replied. “We’re here to help people, right?”

“Rambo?” Leona pressed.

He was busy studying his tablet. “Oh, I don’t care. The worm has delivered the data. The algorithm found what we were looking for. We were kind of misled. This warehouse is predominantly for banned and restricted tech. As he said, there’s a Time Vault, and that is the only place that stores temporal objects.”

“All right, let’s go there. You’re coming with us,” she said to the refugee.

They made their way along the corridors, up the elevator, and down the people movers. The Time Vault was heavily guarded, as they expected it would be, though their new friend whispered that it was usually worse. The party was a banger. Marie took the initiative to speed up, and approach first. “I see that you are all dedicated to your work, and I would like to thank you for your loyalty and devotion. The winner of last year’s contest has finally found the missing object. That is why we have returned. She would like to attend the party now. Please proceed to the mess hall to offer your joint protection. You will be rewarded for your efforts as well.”

“Sir!” one of them said with intense respect. And then they all left.

“I could get used to this,” Marie mused.

They entered the vault, and started to look around, each of them being drawn to something different. Most of the objects were generic, like teleporter guns, spatial tethers, and wall breachers. These were all lining the walls. Unique and rarer objects were on pedestals in the center of the room, a few of which they didn’t recognize. The Muster Lighter pedestal was empty, which made sense, but so was one labeled for HG Goggles. It was never clear how many pairs of those existed, but like the lighter, these were probably being unlawfully used by some rando who worked here.

“Hey kid, what are ya doing?” Ramses asked as he was inspecting a teleporter rifle.

The refugee was standing before a pedestal near the back, blocking the others from seeing what was sitting upon it. He turned around, holding what resembled a Fabergé egg, though not so intricate and pretty. “They never would have let me in here, but I know that when the Oaksent learns of my heroism, he’ll reward my family with riches beyond imagining. I killed Team Matic.” He turned two sections of the egg away from each other, then another two sections, and then he pressed the plunger that popped up on the top. The egg began to disintegrate, followed quickly by the boy.

“It’s a Lucius bomb!” Leona shouted. “Get out!” As she ran for the hatch, she grabbed a tube of concentrated antintropic nanosealant while Ramses was swiping a clear box. “Olimpia, where are you!” She screamed into her comms.

Olimpia came into view next to her as they were running. “Right here, buddy!”

“Mateo, we’re gonna have to teleport!” Leona cried. “Stop darklurking, and spark a flare! Don’t dock with the station! Just stay within range!”

“We can’t just leave!” Marie yelled, still running. “These people are innocent enough! We have to save them!”

“We can’t!” Leona argued. “There’s too many, and the bomb is too fast!”

“Yeah, we can!” Ramses and Olimpia replied in unison. “I took something!”

“Okay, we’ll try, but I make no guarantees. Ram, where’s the party?”

“A few life signs are scattered throughout the station, but most are right here!” He showed her the dots on the floor plan.

“Tap into the public address system!”

“Go ahead.” Ramses handed her his tablet.

Marie ripped the tablet out of her hands. “This is your emperor, Bronach Oaksent! The station is suffering from a cataclysm! If you are not already at the party, go there now! That is the only safe location! Go! Go!”

“Whatever you two stole,” Leona began, taking the tablet back to keep an eye on the dots, “get ready to use them!” The live sensors were actually pretty smart, and well-distributed. She could watch the dots running for the party, and unfortunately, she could also see dots disappear from the screen, along with the wall boundaries that they were between, indicating that the bomb had already reached that section of the station. All sensors that had yet to be destroyed remained in operation throughout.

They made it to the mess hall, and started funneling people inside until they could do so no longer. The blast was approaching them quickly, and they had to get inside. Leona still didn’t understand how they were going to stop it, though. A Lucius bomb didn’t start working until it reached sufficiently dense matter, and once it did, it didn’t stop until all reachable matter was consumed. It didn’t really matter how thick the walls were. Olimpia had that covered, though. She was the last inside. She immediately turned around, and opened and umbrella, tensely holding it up against the wave of energy trying to kill them. The wall continued to disintegrate, but slower now, and then slower still. They watched as the last remnants of the station disappeared, ripped apart molecule by molecule, until everything but this room was gone, and the tumult ceased. They were now floating alone in outer space. This weird umbrella that none of them had ever heard of before was keeping the atmosphere from escaping into the vacuum.

Olimpia held fast, and smirked at the team. “Topological modulator umbrella. I can’t hold this forever.”

“You won’t have to.” Ramses spun around, and stepped onto the nearest table to address the crowd. “Workers of Ex-467, I know that you’re all scared and confused right now, but we are here to help you! The four of us have the ability to teleport out of here!” He pointed to the Vellani Ambassador, which was hovering over them now. “We could save ourselves alone, or we could save all of you as well! If you would like to die today, stand over by that far wall! If you wanna live, stand on this side, and wait to get into this tiny little box!”

Everyone stood still for a moment before all moving over to the rescue side.

“What the hell is that?” Leona asked him.

“Subdimensional Crucible. It should be able to shrink people.”

“Should?” Leona echoed.

“Hey, I’m just goin’ by the name.” Ramses removed the teleporter rifle from his pants, and began to program it.  “I can get everyone in. All you have to do is wait patiently, and maybe give Olimpia a break.”

“I’ll give her a break,” Marie volunteered. She now looked like herself as well. She took hold of the umbrella, and they shared the burden for a minute before Olimpia felt comfortable letting it go.

Ramses used his tablet to interface with the box, and also the rifle. There was enough charge in it to pocket all of these people away. The problem was figuring out how the box worked. If he didn’t understand the mechanism well enough, all he would do was send the first person as a mangled mess of blood and viscera into the box. Everyone else would die when the umbrella stopped working. The survivors eventually started to sit down to wait, trying not too look up at the rippling force field above them, which threatened to fail every few minutes when the current holder of the umbrella got a little tired. It shifted hands periodically amongst the three ladies. A few members of the personnel volunteered to help, but it wasn’t safe. Even if Leona chose to trust them, they did not necessarily metabolize temporal energy. This thing might not work without it. Ramses needed time to investigate it, which of course, he couldn’t do right now.

After half an hour, Ramses was finished with his work. One of the section leads agreed to go first, and report back if anything went wrong. Ramses shot him in the chest, and then Leona used the box’s built-in microscope to check on him. He was standing in a miniature furnished living room in the middle of the box, and waving up at them in all directions. He was so small that he couldn’t even discern the shadows, shapes, and colors above him as people. “All right, he’s fine,” she announced. Who’s next?”

Ramses continued to shoot people with the rifle. It took longer than they would have liked, because the remainders always wanted to be sure that that last person also survived. They were apparently worried that each time was a fluke, and the next one after that may have resulted in disaster. The girls had to keep holding onto the umbrella the entire time, but eventually, everyone was shot and safe in the box, and they could drop it. The atmosphere vented around them as they teleported up to the ship together.

“Long day?” Mateo asked them, perhaps with a little too little sensitivity.

“Let’s just go. I don’t know what the hell we’re gonna do with these people.”

“Did you bring me a present?” Mateo asked.

Leona showed him the nanosealant. “Yes. I think I can fix the reframe engine.”

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Fluence: Anchor (Part V)

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Briar was a normal biological human, Goswin was a transhuman with biological upgrades, Weaver was technologically enhanced, and Eight Point Seven was mostly inorganic. Despite the range of substrate properties, they all slept in one way or another. Even Eight Point Seven needed to periodically take time to reorganize her data drives, perform diagnostics, self-repair, and give her microfusion reactor some time to power cycle, and purge waste byproducts. For the longest time, researchers believed that giving inorganic intelligences the ability to dream was nothing more than, well...a dream. They figured that they would have to directly program scenarios for them to merely simulate the experience. As it turned out, once technology advanced sufficiently, this was not necessary. Androids will do it themselves during these periods of low-power memory consolidation. Random neural firings will generate aberrant thoughts akin to the way that  humans dreamt. One of the greatest challenges of 21st century AI research was figuring out how to teach such intelligences to wake up from these dreams, and leave those thoughts behind, so that they didn’t negatively impact their normal operational requirements. Occasionally, this subroutine will fail to trigger, just like it can in humans, who sometimes wake up angry with someone for things that never happened in the real world. Early models sometimes became unexpectedly violent due to these errors.

The first night that they spent in Briar’s old camp on Thālith al Naʽāmāt Bida just so happened to be when Eight Point Seven needed to go into sleep mode for about an hour. She tried to hold off on it, so she could keep watch over the others, but she was not yet used to this new substrate. She didn’t even take this form on purpose. Her consciousness somehow uploaded itself to it at some point before their first jump. They had been so busy with all this stuff that she hadn’t taken the time to really investigate. That was probably why she had to do this now, because her mind was in conflict with her body. They were unfamiliar with each other. That night, she dreamt of her home. She was first created on a planet called Bungula, which orbited Rigil Kentaurus. Theirs was an ever-changing society, always run by an artificial intelligence, which frequently purged its own memory to be made anew. Her name was Eight Point Seven because she was the 78th incarnation of this entity.

Something went wrong with Eight Point Seven’s programming. She decided that she wanted to live, and not make way for the next version. The Bungulans eventually accepted her decision, and let her keep administering them accordingly. She grew tired of this, however, and ultimately chose to leave with Leona Matic. They eventually made their way to Bida together, and then separated to different ships. She had always wondered what became of Bungula, though. They had to have some form of government without her. Was it a human this time, or did they recreate the old program, and finally get their Eight Point Eight? Perhaps they skipped all the intervening versions, and just went straight to Eleven Point Nine.

All four of them woke up with a start. They were no longer in the jungle of Thālith al Naʽāmāt Bida, but under a geodesic dome on the very end of a lava tube. They could see the stars above them, shining through the triangles of polycarbonate. The air wasn’t stale, but it wasn’t windy anymore. The whole world felt still, whichever world this was. Eight Point Seven Stood up from her cross-legged position. “This is my homeworld,” she determined. “This is Bungula.”

“Why are we here?” Goswin asked. “Who brought us this time?”

“We all did,” Weaver stated. “Remember? We don’t go anywhere unless we go together. There has to he some kind of consensus”

“No, it was me,” Eight Point Seven argued. “This is what I was dreaming about.”

“You can dream?” Briar questioned.

Of course they could dream. Goswin ignored the question. “Maybe we’re not entirely right about how this works. Maybe one of us sometimes pilots the whole crew. Someone’s...psychic power is just a little bit stronger. I wasn’t dreaming of going anywhere in particular. If your thoughts were more specific, they may have overwhelmed the three of us.”

“I was dreaming of seeing Leona again,” Briar explained.

“She’s here,” came an unfamiliar voice. They turned to find an unassuming man standing outside of their circle. “But you cannot see her. Hi. I’m Lieutenant Administrator Eleven Point Eight. I am...moderately aware of this time travel stuff, but I’m not well-versed, and I would not like to be. The current Administrator is very busy with her new plans for this world, and she does not have time to deal with whatever this paradox-waiting-to-happen is. Please leave however you came.”

“Forgive us,” Goswin said. “What is the date?”

“October 19, 2226.”

“This is the day I left,” Eight Point Seven noted.

“Yes,” Lieutenant Eleven Point Eight concurred. “You’re about to launch, and I’ve been asked to retrieve Madams Prieto and Prieto so that my superior may speak with them. As I asked, please leave.”

“Hold on,” Eight Point Seven stopped him. “The past version of me has not yet left, but there is already a new admin?”

“Of course,” Eleven Point Seven confirmed. “You thought there would be a gap?”

“Have we met? It and I, have we met?” Eight Point Seven questioned.

“Yes, you met. I was there during the handover ceremony.”

Eight Point Seven’s eyes widened. “That didn’t happen in my timeline. I never met my replacement. There was a gap, because it’s fine. The colonists mostly govern themselves.”

“Things have changed beyond Bida,” Weaver acknowledged. “We changed them.”

“Why should they?” Eight Point Seven questioned her. “This is before I showed up on Bida. I had never heard of Briar or Irene yet.”

Weaver shrugged. “Harrison was in the twelfth century, in England. That was the point of divergence. Nothing we know of history since then can be trusted.”

“Could you please get on with it?” Eleven Point Eight urged. “I have to go, and so do you.”

Eight Point Seven shook her head. “We can’t stay in the past. I know you wanted to keep studying that tree, but it’s too dangerous. We don’t know anything about what the universe looks like post 2400. That’s the only safe point in time for us. We have to stop risking these paradoxes, like he said.”

“She’s right,” Goswin agreed. “Let the past stay in the past.”

Weaver nodded. “Okay.”

They all turned to Briar, even Lt. Admin Eleven Point Eight. He was taken a little aback. “What, you think I would sabotage this? It’s fine, it’s fine. Let’s just go.” He sighed, frustrated at still not being trusted. “I said, let’s go!”

They blinked, and the scene changed. They were back in the ship bay in the asteroid near the planet of Po. “Hmm, that worked,” Briar mused.

“Yes, so it would seem. Or maybe not. “We’re still in the past, just not too terribly much this time.” Goswin nodded over to the clear end of the bay where he could see himself.

The other Goswin was holding a tablet and staring at them while staying in the discussion that he was having with the man next to him. He pointed towards the door, like he was respectfully instructing the other guy to leave.

“Though, I don’t remember this,” the present-day Goswin noted. “I don’t recognize that man at all.

Once the local was gone, Alt!Goswin made his way to the group. “Report.”

“Uhhh...report,” Goswin said back.

Alt!Goswin kept his eyes on his other self, but lowered his chin in distrust, and repeated, “report.”

“Report.”

“Report.”

“Report!”

“Report!”

“REPORT!”

“REPORT!”

“Enough!” Weaver stepped in. “This is never gonna end. Goswin that we don’t know, how long have you been here?”

“A few months,” Alt!Goswin replied.

Weaver looked over to her Goswin. “We’re not in the past. We’re in a new timeline. The changes we made, this is a natural byproduct of that.”

Just then, another version of Weaver appeared behind them. “That’s not exactly what’s happening. Tell me, were you on the X González, or the Emma González?”

“The X, of course,” the first Weaver replied. “That’s their chosen name.”

“Yes, but sometimes the ship is named after their original name,” Alt!Weaver clarified.

“Sometimes?” Weaver echoed. “How many timelines are there?”

“All of them,” Alt!Weaver said cryptically.

“What the hell does that mean? What was the point of divergence?”

“It’s not like that,” Alt!Weaver answered, still not clarifying anything. “There was a moment of split, but it wasn’t linear. Perhaps you remember seeing a whole bunch of other yous on the González?”

Yeah, that happened. They saw a few alternates on the bridge, but they assumed that that was just some temporal glitch, since they quickly disappeared. They didn’t think that those other selves still existed somewhere. How many splits were created that they didn’t witness? “Yeah, were you one of the alts we saw on the bridge?”

“No, I was in the engine room at the time,” Alt!Weaver began, “but not all of us were. Not all of us were even on the ship at all. Like I said, it wasn’t linear. We’ve been replicated all over the timeline, and rescattered all over elsewhere on the timeline, and in every parallel reality. Furthermore, we can move ourselves along the timeline, and across realities, at will. This star system here is a sort of an anchor point. We’ve all been showing up here for months, and recording each other, adding to the data pile. It’s difficult, though. I don’t always know if the versions of my friends that I’ve been with are still the ones that I’m with now. We may be shifting between groups, and not even realizing it.”

“That’s why I have a body,” Eight Point Seven realized. “It’s not my body. I was uploaded directly to the ship, but I stole this from someone else. What happened to her, the victim?”

“Mapping our alternates is even more difficult than mapping the timeline itself,” Alt!Weaver explained. “I don’t know how to differentiate anyone. A lot of people think that time is a river, and that’s only a metaphor that they recognize because it’s not analogous to time...but to consciousness. Your mind is fluent, and you are not the same person that you were a split second ago. Shifting to your alternates could be happening literally as we speak, and we wouldn’t be able to detect it. In this region of space, spacetime breaks down. Everything converges here. Everything diverges here.”

“Did we cause that, or did it cause us?” Goswin asked her.

Alt!Weaver smiled. “Yes. And no. There is no cause. There is no effect. It’s just bleh.” She pantomimed vomiting. “It’s everything,” she added, mouth still agape, and hands still cupping the bowl of the imaginary toilet.”

“Everything, everywhere, all at once?” Alt!Goswin offered.

“Pretty much,” Alt!Weaver replied.

“There is a magnolia on Bida,” Weaver said to her alternate. “I believe that it can reconverge us. We just have to figure out how to control it.”

Alt!Weaver nodded. “The Blending Tree. Yeah, it’s possible, but we would have to get everyone there at the same point in time; to the everything bagel,” she said as she was gesturing to Alt!Goswin to reinforce his reference. “As I was saying, I don’t know how many of us there are, or where they are, or what they’ve changed in the timeline. Some of us keep displacing other people, and that’s a whole other box of problems,” she added under her breath.

“Oh, haha,” Goswin laughed awkwardly. “What a bunch of bozos.”

Two different versions of Eight Point Seven showed up, one of which had a deep scar running across her cheek. The first Eight Point Seven stepped closer and regarded her, tilting her head to the side as if she had a lizard brain nestled inside of her dominant neural net. After taking a look at the scarless Eight Point Seven, who was indistinguishable from herself, she reached up to her own face, and dragged her fingernail across her forehead. Blood leaked out, and dripped down. She then stepped back to where she was, not bothering to clean it up.

The Eight Point Seven with the other scar nodded. “Your new designation is Eight Point Seven Point Six.”

“Dude,” Briar said, aghast.

Eight Point Seven tilted her head back to where it belonged. “It didn’t hurt,” she said, a little like Cameron from The Sarah Connor Chronicles.

The other scarred Eight Point Seven addressed the whole group. “It’s beginning.” She sounded even more like Cameron, so robotic.

“What’s beginning?” Goswin asked.

“The Reconvergence,” the other, other Eight Point Seven answered.

“Of us?” Goswin pressed. “We were just talking about the magnolia tree.”

“It has nothing to do with us, I don’t think. The destruction of four realities, and the creation of a new universe, is happening today. The war begins tomorrow.”

< > Entire Story

Microstory 2115: One Story at a Time

< > Table of Contents

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In the year 2014, I started publishing my stories for all to see. Well, all on Facebook, anyway. And publish is a strong word. I was posting them at least. I wrote the first one on my phone, using a notes app. It was rather poetic, and not very much like my usual style. I don’t recall now what prompted me to start doing this. I suppose that I was tired of being rejected by literary agents, and ready for people to see my work, whether I was getting paid for it or not. Months later, I started working on my Blogger website, and ported all of the content from Facebook over. It wasn’t that much at the time, but it would become a lot soon. By then, I had come up with a long-term plan, instead of just writing something up day by day, and sending it off. I made a master list, and a rigid schedule. Sundays would be for my continuous main story, Saturdays for longer stories, and weekdays for really short bits. Then I had to start devising narrative ideas. The Advancement of Mateo Matic was already there. I thought of the idea of a character unwillingly being sent forward in time probably a year or two prior, but didn’t know what I would do with it, since it was before the site. I merged it with a preexisting title that was for a completely different series, and really started to focus on that. I had a couple ideas for the Saturday mezzofiction, but they wouldn’t last long, so that was a constantly evolving situation. The microfiction stories were the wild west in the beginning. I was still just coming up with one story at a time, which didn’t have anything to do with each other. It wasn’t until Bellevue Profiles later in 2015 that I started to see potential for complete series.

Okay, this has all taken me longer than I thought it would, particularly the post that I wrote for what will be yesterday for you, and I really feel like I just need to turn myself in to the police. I’m just procrastinating, and for what? I only have a few hundred followers at this point. I guess I’m only going to be scheduling two days out. That gets me through Friday, and I don’t post these on weekends anyway, so that’s practically four days. Maybe they’ll stick me in one of those jail cells with a computer and an internet connection. They have those, right? I dunno, this universe is unfamiliar to me. There’s more to get into about how my blog operates, so maybe I’ll get around to it later. When I finally do get internet access back—if ever—I’m sure I will have so much to catch you up on. I might have joined a prison gang, and gotten a tattoo. Or not. Wish me luck, or to break a leg, or whatever you people say around here.