Tag: Science fiction

The Little Ones

He volunteered to be a Little One (trademarked) the day after his eighteenth birthday in May. He could have become one before that, but that decision would have required his parents’ approval. He didn’t want to talk to them about it. They still believed he had a normal future in a normal world.

Admittedly, he didn’t understand the Little technology, but he also didn’t understand television technology, so…? Being a little person, he could reduce his bioprint. They would feed him and ensure he had water. They’d give him a little bonus for volunteering to be a Little One. He’d live in a domed little city where “the air is the cleanest air in America.” Called little SF, the city that agreed to take him was a recreation of the 1950s era San Francisco, except it had modern cars and technology. The city was located on the enormous recreation of the Pacific Ocean that they’d carved out of Kansas farmland. He could still communicate with everyone through the Internet and social media so it wasn’t like he was really leaving anything behind.

Like all Little Ones, everything in Little Land surprised him. The little cars and houses were exactly to scale. Eating utensils, computers, corn on the cob, cheeseburgers, beer cans and bottles — everything — were proportionate to his little hands. So were grass, trees, and birds. Little cows and horses dotted the countryside, and neighbors had little cats and dogs. Big little freighters came into the Little SF Bay past Little Alcatraz, docking at the Little Piers. Little fish populated the Little Pacific and the little ponds, streams, and rivers. Living there, he constantly reminded himself, “This is real.” 

He found a job in a little office where they published several little local newspapers. Little was required of him there, but the structure helped him cope. His favorite activity was to take the Little Train to Little SFO out on the Little Peninsula, and watch the Little aircraft take off, flying to other Little Land locations, like Little Chicago, Little Miami, and Little New York. He could buy a ticket and go to one, but he was, he said to himself with a wry little private chuckle, a little afraid.

Still, even with all of the evidence and his experience, he struggled to accept it was real. He began to think he was in a computer simulation or a virtual reality. He began thinking that nothing he experienced was real, that his mind and perceptions were being manipulated and conned. He began thinking, maybe it was the other world that was fake, and this world was always his real existence. He began to think, I’m a little afraid I’m not going to make it. I’m afraid I’m going a little crazy. I’m going to be a little suicide.

Then he met Candy. Her first words to him were, “Hi, I’m Candy. I’m a little tart, and a little sweet. Want to have a little fun?”

That was how he became a little bank robber. It seemed as good a way as any to spend a little time.

0

Salazin – Three

Bandon said, “You ready to go, Dee?”

He always called me Dee. I liked it. Bandon was a good choice for the Nautilaus’ captain. He’d grown up around ships, had learned to fly, flew A-10s in the Air Force and then F-22s. A Stanford graduate, he was as all kind of amazing as I was below average.

I’d met him through his wife. She’d come to work for me as my personal assistant after she’d divorced Bandon and moved back to the Bay Area where I lived and worked. Now they were back together as crewmembers on my air ship.

“I am, Bee,” I said.

Bandon stood beside me. “I take it you haven’t seen nor heard from Salazin.”

I put my cell phone down. I was going to call Salazin again, but why?

“He said he wouldn’t be here,” Bandon said.

“I know.”

“He also said that we were to launch at ten.”

“I know.”

“And you know, it’s ten ten now.”

“Yes.”

“Salazin also said that if we launched too late, then we might as well not launch.”

I said nothing.

“Everything is green.”

I nodded.

“It’s your call, chief.”

I nodded.

Salazin had said all those things that Bandon said, but he’d never said why it was so important for us to launch at ten. He was an amazingly accurate and prescient forecaster, and the force behind the Nautilaus’ construction.

That’s why I believed he was an alien.

“Come on, chief. You’ve trusted him this far. He’s never been wrong. Why stop trusting him now?”

0

My New Body

“Beer o’clock,” I said.

I unplugged from the system, ending my day’s work as a virtual worker. The job description’s hype had sucked me in: “See the solar system! Work on Mars from the safety and comfort of your own home!” It was drudge work, but safe, and secure. Didn’t pay too bad — didn’t pay too good, neither — about the same that I used to earn as a teacher before they downsized and privatized me out of the education system. It was either fly drones with the military, stock boy, or vee dub. You see why I decided to be a vee dub. No, it wasn’t great but the job provides me with security and keeps me off the streets even if there was no chance to advance. Once a vee dub, always a vee dub. At least I’m employed.

Mail and marketing bees immediately swarmed me. One bennie of being a vee dub is that the system protects you from bees while you’re working. But unless you pay for the filters, they’ll get you as soon as the shields go down. I’d subscribe to filters, but I can’t afford them.

So I endured the bees as their messages were delivered for shit I can’t afford, like more health insurance, dinner on the moon for two, solar system cruises, and visiting Heaven Above Earth. Then the next to last bee said, “Congratulations. You’re a winner.”

Bullshit, of course, I thought, ready to say, “Trash.”

The bee said, “You’ve been selected to receive a new body.”

“Wait. What? Repeat that.”

The bee did. Just like I’d heard.

Jesus, a new body. A new body. I jumped and danced around my module. A new fucking body. I couldn’t believe it. I’d entered the lottery, of course, spent twenty on tickets (yeah, I know, not much, but I’m frugal), but I’d never expected to win.

A new body, just what I, a sixty-one year old man, could use, a new fucking body. My current body, the one I was born with (ha, ha), had become overweight and creaky. Its hair was thinning and graying, its spine was stooped, and its fucking eyes didn’t work right. There’s treatment for all this shit, but, hey, do I sound like a big earner? No, I think you’ll agree. Medical treatment for things like bad eyes is for the upper classes, not vee dubs.

Euphoria diminished, stage two of coping with unexpected happiness kicked in. I asked myself, was this real or a scam? What’s in the fine print? Is it a real new body, or somebody’s cast-off? Movie stars and the upper classes get new bodies all the time. I don’t know what happens to the old ones but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they’re recycled, right? Can’t you see that happening?

I didn’t know. Understanding that the means to buy a new body were waaay beyond my circumstances, I hadn’t bothered with such minutiae. It took enough of my brain power just to keep up with my carbon points. And, okay, my body had done me right until like three years ago. Then it was like the warranty expired, and it all started coming apart.

I listened to the bee’s full message, and queried it extensively. It linked my phone to multiple review sites along with the lottery’s web page. The systems all pointed to yes.  I’d won the lottery.

I was getting a new body.

###

The process took almost a year, almost a fucking year of completing forms, being scanned, selecting choices, and making arrangements. I hadn’t expected choices. I thought I’d be me at some young age again. The choices surprised. Taller, bigger (ahem, anywhere)? Everything was up.

Of course, I had to endure a lot of propaganda and make videos enthusing about how excited and grateful I was. Half the population knows the New Body Lottery is a tool to appease the desperate masses and keep the Revolution Clock from striking midnight. The rest believe NuBod (yeah, cheesy, right?) wants to share its largesse because it’s a kind corporation.

Bottom line with the choices, I stayed white and male (but not as pale as my natural genes made me). I’d be put in a twenty-two year old body, but I would be four inches taller. Sweet. Of course I had my vision fixed. I opted to change my eyes to blue and my hair to blond.

Yeah, I took the option for a bigger pecker, too. Can’t hurt, right?

###

I was pleased as fuck when I finally got my body. So weird to not grunt as I stood from a chair, run out of breath while doing some shit, or squeeze my belly into a pair of jeans. I could see like I’d never been able to before, and I heard better, too. I didn’t know how bad my hearing had become.

I thought it would take a few days to get used to the new body but I acclimated within hours. Several companies donated new clothes and shoes to go with my new body. All I had to do was let marketing bees hover around me to inform everyone what was I was wearing. Of course, I agreed. What’s a few more bees, right?

Then it was so cool. I’d walk into places, and everyone would gawk. We’re a pretty small and intimate town, population about sixty thousand, mostly ex-educators who became vee dubs, so they all knew I was the guy who’d won the new body. I got coupons and discounts for the movies, filters, food, and travel. I still couldn’t afford most of it, but I was sure that was going to change. I was a new man. There were also a few guest appearances on talk shows and radio interviews. They were fun but they didn’t pay anything. Part of the fifteen minutes, yo?

I’d taken two weeks off in real time to get the new body and become acclimated to it. When I went back to work, all the others came by to check me out and bullshit with me. I felt like the king of the damn world.

I understood exactly why all those rich people get new bodies all the time. It changes everything.

4

Her Memory

She’d found herself forgetting everything. It was, she explained to friends and families (who didn’t seem interested), like a wall or chasm existed between the answer and the question. She knew the answer was on the other side, but she couldn’t reach it.

This infuriated her. She’d been a five-time champion on Jeopardy! Ask her anything about culture, politics, arts and literature, physics and chemistry, or geography and history, and she could give you a quick, correct answer. Or could. Now it was changing.

She would not accept this. She adapted, because that was her nature, first keeping copious notes on calendars and notebooks about everything that happened. Nothing was too mundane. Updating her calendars and notebooks took from fifteen minutes to an hour every day, and was done as part of her ritual of preparing to retire for the night. Memories of more personal matters were augmented via recordings. The first recordings were done with a small Sony tape recorder. She switched to digital as the technology matured and became cheaper and more reliable. Eventually, she started making digital video recordings and storing them on the cloud. Then she could see and hear herself, reassuring herself of who she was and who she’d been.

By then, she’d retired. By then, her hair was wispy and white, and she wore wigs, out of vanity. By then, she’d buried her third husband and second child, and her parents and siblings. By then, she’d gone through cancer in her cervix and successful treatment, and had a hip replaced after a fall, and was treated for glaucoma, and celebrated her ninetieth birthday. By then, many friends had died or moved away, or were in hospice, or couldn’t remember her. By then, new technology emerged for an augmented digital memory, something like Keanu Reeves’ character had in Johnny Mnemonic. She’d enjoyed the book (by William Gibson) (because she loved science fiction and fantasy), but didn’t like the movie. But then, she’d never been a huge Keanu Reeves fan, outside of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, although he wasn’t bad in the first Matrix film.

Technology improved. She gave her memory a name, George, after her first husband. George would chat with her about what she needed to know and do, and what had happened, who said what when.

A new product, “Your Best Friend,” emerged. Using smart technology embedded in phones, computers, cars, houses, and businesses, her memory could have a holographic presence and a voice outside her head, almost everywhere, almost all the time.

She loved this aspect. She named her new memory Jean, after a friend she’d lost in her past. She and Jean had shared many good times together, and she thought it would be better to have a dead girlfriend as a faux companion rather than a dead husband.

She and Jean went everywhere together. It was initially a little strange to others and she was self-conscious about it, because it was all new, and others didn’t have virtual holographic friends. Others thought it odd, or that she was weird, or demented, you know, delusional. She was on the cutting edge. If her husband(s) could see her now. Hah!

Technology improved and became cheaper and more prevalent. Soon, many people had such companions, nannies, guards, and mentors. Eventually, she forgot that this was her memory.

Her memory had become her best friend, which, if she thought about it, was how it should be.

 

2

New Boy

The words weren’t what he wanted to hear. “Your son was in a terrible accident,” the doctor said. “Steven has suffered extensive injuries.”

He stared at the woman, Indian and young, attempting to assess her abilities. Beside him, his wife was hiccuping with sobs. New tears ran down her face. He didn’t know where they came from. He was certain she was cried dry, but no, here were more.

“I’m afraid we’re declaring him medically challenged,” the doctor said next.

That drew his attention.

The doctor said, “I have no choice, Mister Ryan. Your insurance dictates it.”

“What’s that mean?” he said, as his wife echoed, “Medically challenged?”

“Well, to be crude, Mister Ryan, Missus Ryan,” the doctor said, “and use a coarse analogy, if your son was a car, he’d be declared totaled, because it’s cheaper to write him off and give you a check to have him remade.”

Words exploded. He was talking. His wife was talking. The doctor was backtracking and attempting to explain and placate.

It didn’t seem like he heard anything, not even himself. He was saying, “My son is not a fucking car, my son is not a fucking car.” He didn’t know what was coming out.

Then he and his wife were holding one another, shaking and crying, a scene in the hospital. He held her warmth and tried pouring strength into her, but his strength was evaporating.

The doctor said, “It’s not as you think.”

He couldn’t believe she said that. He said, “What?”

Reacting with a speed she’d never exhibited before, his wife lunged for the doctor. Catching her, he held onto her. Her body felt like steel. She dragged him forward. She was saying something, but tear-filled and high-pitched, he couldn’t understand her.

“Heather, Heather,” he said. “Calm down, calm down.”

A foot shorter than him and fifty pounds lighter, Heather dragged him forward. He was forced to lift her until her feet were off the ground. That was the only way to stop her.

“Let me go,” Heather said, “let me go.”

Security showed up.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Ryan said.

The doctor waved security away. A young nurse beside the doctor held a folder out. The nurse looked Indian, too. Were there no white people in medicine any more?

The doctor said, “This package explains everything. You can contest your insurance company and keep your son alive, but unfortunately, not in this hospital. He will need to be moved to another facility. In the meantime, if we harvest his organs, you can make more than enough money to pay off the expected costs, and your policy permits you to keep all the profits.”

“You are sick,” he said. He put his wife down, but held onto her. “You’re all sick.”

“And if you start right away, your son can be done here in five days.”

His wife fell still. “Five days?” Heather said.

He let go of her. “What’s that mean, exactly?”

“You will be able to take your son home in five days,” the doctor said.

“That doesn’t explain anything,” he said. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s explained in these package we’ve prepared for you,” the doctor said.

“I’m asking you,” Ryan said. “What’s it mean?”

The doctor sighed. “It means we’ll grow you a fresh boy, Mister Ryan. He will look and act exactly like your son, Steve. He will be a new boy, for all purposes, but he will be Steve’s age.”

“Like a clone?” Heather said.

“Yes, basically,” the doctor said. “He will have Steve’s knowledge and memories, of course, and the skill levels, talents, and abilities that he exhibited before, but he will have a new body.”

“How?” Ryan said.

“He’s been monitored his entire life, and we have his DNA map,” the doctor said. “So we will grow it. Steven’s teachers have faithfully filled out all required quarterly reports, with videos, and all his test results. You’re lucky that your son is in such a good school system. We also have all his social media records. So we can fully analyze all aspects of his personality and life.”

As he was thinking about what the doctor was saying, and what it meant, his wife said, “Can you…change things?”

“Changes are possible,” the doctor said. “They’re extra, of course, and it depends on what you have in mind.”

“Well, he was always a little slow,” Heather said, with a glance at her husband.

“And can we make him taller?” he said. “Steve’s always been one of the shortest kids in his class. It’d be nice if he was a few inches taller.”

“Of course.” The doctor made a gesture. The nurse made a call. A man in a suit appeared. He was white.

“This is Gary,” the doctor said.

“Hi, Mister Ryan,” Gary boomed, putting his hand out. As Ryan and Gary vigorously shook, Gary said, “I’m sorry about your loss,” and the doctor said, “Gary is a medical sales technician. He’ll walk you through your options and costs.”

As Gary shook hands with Heather, Ryan said, “Thank you, doctor.”

Smiling, the doctor said, “You’re welcome.” She walked away as Gary said, “Let’s go to somewhere quiet. There’s a Starbucks in the hospital. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“I’d love some coffee,” Ryan said. “It’s been a long night.” His eyes were bright.

A new son. A new boy.

Science was fucking amazing.

1

A Pivotal Moment

Chapters finished, scenes drained out of me, I come to the next piece, the what happens next part of our show. This, for me, involves sipping coffee, reviewing notes, and staring fixedly at inanimate objects as I draw down the world, shut it out, and tune myself to the writers inside, waiting for one of them to clear their throat and begin telling me what happens next.

After review, I know where I stand, and where the novel stands, and where I’m next heading. I’m now pivoting to essentially part two of this section. This section begins with the genesis of this entire aspect of this volume. I’d created it August 4. I’d last modified it on August 8. It was a piece that came out of the darkness and rolled over me. As these things do, the piece created multiple questions about the setting, characters, plot, and situation.

To answer those questions, I began writing, and finished writing twenty-four chapters, one hundred eighty pages. Now, a little over two months later, I’m ready to pivot back to that first scene, and continue writing the story.

Of interest probably only to me, that first scene that I wrote has been deleted. It’s saved in another document. It was deleted because, within four days, I realized I was writing from the wrong character’s point of view. Another character had been created after that one, and they took over, demoting the original character to a minor role in the background. The original character didn’t put up a fight, but accepted the reduced role without a problem.

This is how I often work, not just in writing, but in almost every activity. My organization is strangely chaotic. Solutions and ideas leap at me, and I embrace them. But they usually reflect the end result desired, or some epiphany about what needs to happen within the project to enable the rest. Fortunately, generally, my mind works amazingly fast, especially when dealing with abstract matters. Yes, I’m being immodest, but it’s one of my favorite, and most dependable, traits. On the other end, it’s not unusual for people to write me off as a little crazy. I accept that, because I work with what I have, and what’s proven successful for me.

This is a pivotal moment. Action is moving the ship, the Epitome, and everything set up, down to the planet, Kyrios. The Kyrios action is grittier and darker. It’s complex. I’m intimidated with what’s planned for this section. As far as I know, it’s the second third of this volume. Parts of the end have already been written, serving as a light at the tunnel’s end.

Deep breath, and another gulp of coffee, and it’s time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

0

Slow Progress

I’m having fun with this novel. It’s grown into an epic. I’m trying to divide it into tasty volumes.

“Incomplete States” is science fiction. It features time travel, galactic alliances, others sentient life forms, and advanced Human cultures and technology. There’s lots of space travel on ships that sometimes carry several million people. New planets have been terra-formed. (It’s terraformed in the future; they’ve dropped the hyphen.)

Many diseases have been mastered. They’re not a threat. Aging isn’t a threat. Choose your age. Keep it as long as desired. Change it when you desire.

Death is not much of a threat. Resuscitation, regeneration, and resurrection (depending on the marketing and technology involved) have made it a side topic. One side-effect is that Humanity is dropping toward zero population growth. Children who are born are often incubated in artificial wombs. Nanosystems help the mother and child stay connected and develop that special bond.

Communication nets are introduced into their bodies at young ages. Phones are internal bio-devices; they’re constantly in touch with others, listening, filtering information, and contributing.

As noted, I have fun writing this, but I’m easily side-tracked, and my progress is slow. I barely write one thousand words a day. Editing and reviews for accuracy are extensive — and intensive. A large quantity of moving parts must be synchronized. For example, against this showcase of technology, Humans are faced with going to a planet where their technology not only fails, but is actively attacked. They don’t know why, but are going to live there without technology. Their mission is to track down four people who are believed to be on this planet.

That’s required a lot of brainstorming. What do you do, and how do you live, without technology, when technology is deeply embedded in all aspects of society? Aside from a few small fundamentalist sects, nobody knows what they’re doing or how to do it. They’re researching how to cook on stoves, burn wood, grow food, and process it. Their energy weapons won’t work; what about gunpowder? They’re learning to ride horses, exist without their augmented memories, and fight with swords, bows and arrows, and other more primitive weapons and methods.

This is where I become side-tracked: I research and write about much of their process of coping with these changes and their new needs. I put it all in the novel. I enjoy writing and reading about these things, but I suspect I’ll lose a lot of readers who don’t enjoy these sort of details. I’ve been thinking about it, though, debating whether it’s too much in that vein before concluding, screw those readers. I rationalize the easy way out: I’m writing for me, and for those who enjoy books like these.

Had to write this out, to think it out. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

2

Not A Movie Review

We watched a movie last night called, “What Happened to Monday?”

It’s a violent, dystopian science-fiction movie that we watched on Netflix. Netflix brought it to their streaming offerings in August of this year. The premise, about septuplets secretly coping and living in world where only one child is authorized per family. This draconian policy was instituted to stretch scarce resources. Resources are scarce due to climate change. The problems are complicated by war and unforeseen consequences of genetically modified organizations.

The seven girls are named for the days of the week. They assume one identity, using their deceased mother’s name. Only one is permitted out each day; they go out on the day of their name. The rest of the time, they live secret lives in their apartment.

Naturally, things go wrong.

Glenn Close, William Dafoe, and Noomi Rapace star, along with Marwan Kenzari and Christian Rubeck. Dafoe plays the father, and Close is the villain. Rapace plays the seven sisters. You get a lot more of her than the other two. There are plots holes, some cringing moments and predictability, but it was sufficiently intense and unique to draw our attention and focus. Several of the sisters are shadows of a full character. Rapace works with that, but she does a powerful job with the more fully developed sisters.

Give it a watch, just to say that you did.

0

The Nano Age

Has the Nano Age arrived?

Nanotechnology is a large part of my future scenarios, critically so in the area of human health. My future settings frequently include nanomeds residing in the body. Replenishing themselves, their tasks are to monitor people’s health and condition, and then address fixes. As part of their on-site services, they make continual adjustments to keep their human hosts comfortable and healthy. They address your heart rate, your nutrient, mineral and hormone levels, etc. Think of them in the same vein as modern cars’ electronic brains work to adjust spark and timing, air/fuel mixtures, and even acceleration and cruising levels to provide the optimum blends of power, responsiveness, and fuel economy, while minimizing air pollution.

I read today that Ohio State University researchers claim they’ve developed a device that utilizes Tissue Nanotransfection (TNT). They claim their device can heal organs with just a single touch in a procedure that takes less than a second.  This could be a big step toward my future settings. In the short term, I still think we’re due for a break through in using nanotechnology in clothing.

My future clothing incorporate nanotechnology. Since it’s in the future, it’s pretty impressive stuff. Self-cleaning, it adjusts to keep you comfortable, becoming hotter and cooler as necessary by changing its weave and density, or adding and removing layers. Of course, it can add a water proof layers, if needed. They’re not often needed, as people don’t go into precipitation. When they do encounter it, their personal energy cloaks keep the moisture off them. The personal energy cloaks also work with the nanotechnology — and both communicate and co-ordinate with your body’s nanomeds — to address your needs.

Styling can also be changed. You can switch from pants to shorts, but shorts are rarely worn, as pants can keep you cooler and more comfortable.

This doesn’t happen in a vacuum. An electronic personal assistant is embedded in you during your youth. This device coordinates activities, and keeps you wirelessly connected on multiple nets. You communicate on some of them, via nanoimplants in your brain as a sort of nano-empowered virtual telepathy.

Changing clothing styles and adding layers requires material, as do drugs, splints and sutures for your body. My future settings often include nano-compilers built into your body, which work with nano-transporters to bring almost instantaneously deliver whatever your body desires. Your clothing can look invisible while projecting a perfect body shape, according to your tastes for that day.

I like to think that we’ve moved past our fixation on body size and shapes by then. I also like to believe we’ve gone past concerns about the color of your skin, religion (which is waning by then), and your gender and sexual orientation. In fact, gender swapping negate many of the gender binary structure, and nanotechnology allows us to play with skin color.

As for religion, well that continues to rise as some people seek reassurances about their lives and direction. Unfortunately, discrimination, hatred, and prejudice sometimes still arise.

That’s the fun of playing with future settings. You can attempt to extrapolate current trends to protect future directions. It’s a hugely flawed process, of course, but fun. For example, even when developing nano-applications such as nanomeds and clothing nanotechnology, political, cultural, and economic issues arise as to why some people will not employ such things. Best of all is having my peoples dependent on such technologies and then having them fail. That’s why I’m at today, in one of my settings.

Time to go write like crazy, at least one more time.

0

Gone, Man

I, Juancho, finished my first blackberry margarita of the day. It was so refreshing, but I drank it so fast, and I was anxious, that I clutched my handgun and ordered another, to drink more slowly.

The man had not returned to the break room. I thought he’d be back by now. The Coronado is not large. There is the quarters car, and the community car, where I sit in the break room, also called the social club, because there is a break room in the biz car, and another in the ops car. I don’t believe the utility car has a break room. I may be mistaken. I’ve visited it, because that’s where the utility vehicles are housed, and because Madi used to spend her time there. I watched her on the security camera. There was nothing else to do. I was waiting to see who would be last, and I worried that she might be a killer. I don’t know why I wished to stay alive, in this terrible situation.

Holding the gun in my left hand, and my drink in my right, I visited the security post in the room’s corner. From there, I can set down my drink, or my gun, and change monitors and look for people. The system has said that Roger Lancey is dead, so I don’t know if it’ll find him on the ship. I have no idea how he entered the car. No alarms went off. He entered the break room as though he’d been onboard all along. This, I know, is impossible. I, Juancho, have been on the Coronado for four years. The last six months have been alone. Before then, it was Madi and me. We were the last little Indians.

He’d been asking questions about his Uncle Vaughn. Yes, his Uncle was an important man. Apparently, he disappeared before the Beagle’s explosion. I don’t know what that’s about. Perhaps it’s meaningful; a number of the Coronado’s survivors disappeared without apparent reason. It scares me, Juancho, to contemplate the meaning behind these disappearances, and whether they can be connected.

The system does not find Roger Lancey. I, Juancho, am not surprised. I use the manual features to check the cameras, going from place to place. The engineer was looking for Commander Alves, so I look where he should look, at her quarters, and her office in the ops car. Roger Lancey isn’t at either location. I look in the control deck. He’s an engineer, and this seems likely as a location for him to go. He can attempt to contact the Beagle from there. It seems strange that he does not know about the Beagle. But, then, if he is onboard, and it exploded, he was killed. This is why the system calls him deceased.

Yet, he is here.

This begins me on a new tour of my private circle of hell. He is either a zombie, or I am insane. If I’m insane, I could be imagining him, or I could be imagining this entire story. In that regard, as I said to Ricardo before his disappearance, we could be in a virtual simulation or game, couldn’t we? We wouldn’t know. That seemed to greatly upset Ricardo. He disappeared within two days of our conversation. Deceased, the systems say.

I can’t find Roger Lancey anywhere. I think, perhaps he’s gone to the utility car to take one of the remaining vessels and leave. I, Juancho, can’t conceive of where he would go, but other engineers on the Coronado discussed that as an option before their disappearances. The cameras don’t find him there. The vehicles remain.

I, Juancho, am disturbed. He is gone, as he came, without clues or warnings. This seems too much for my personal systems. That cannot happen.

That cannot happen.

He must be on the Coronado.

Yes, I, Juancho, realized. He was hiding, waiting for me to come look for him, so that he can kill me.

That can be the only explanation of events.

Well, I, Juancho, laugh at that. I am a bureaucrat. We are conditioned to wait. We must be patient. Everything takes time. The systems, decisions, and events, cannot be hurried. We understand that better than others. I, Juancho, decided I will have another margarita, and wait for Roger Lancey to give up on his ambush and return to this room to find me.

And I, Juancho, will have my gun, and will be ready for him.

He’ll be sorry that he plotted to ambush me. 

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