Sigild V

Star Trek '12: 412 AD

2012-02-29T12:05:00.002-08:00

There’s a famous Picard family story about the time the Visigoths came to town. Jean-Luc particularly enjoyed hearing this one growing up, and his brother Robert constantly reminded him about it in later years, saying that it helped transform him into the arrogant man he became (or at least, in Robert’s estimation).

The story goes, in the years following the sack of Rome, when they were looking for something else to do, the Visigoths landed in Gaul, on the land that would one day become the Picard vineyards, and got drunk. That’s the joke, anyway, but young Jean-Luc used to imagine what exactly it meant for his heritage, his connection to a vivid moment in time, when so many things were possible, the possibility of cultures intersecting and interacting and generally coming together, adding to one another, even if sometimes it was a little messy, and that’s probably when he first looked to the stars, dreaming of life as an officer in Starfleet, and yes, perhaps one day a captain of his own ship, never knowing from day to day what the future would bring, except that it would be glorious.

Yes, Robert certainly had his version of the young Jean-Luc, and he would have said that the joke would continue that Jean-Luc had Visigoth blood in him, all right, certainly not in the way Jean-Luc would ever suggest, perhaps remembering how unruly and headstrong his younger brother could sometimes be, less so after that incident with the Nausicaans, surely, but nothing like the cool resolve it took to look after tradition, the family as it was for many, many centuries, feet firmly planted on the earth.

Who’s to say which brother got it right? Both could look to the same moment in time and see different interpretations. Well, that’s what family does, that’s what everyone does. With family it can just be a little more personal, and who knows what the effects will be?

The Adventures of Kentucky Joe in Space!

2012-02-28T08:32:00.000-08:00

One day Kentucky Joe was milking his cow Bessie, and the next, he was hurtling through space!

If he'd ever taken a close look at Bessie, he would have noticed that she was no ordinary cow. The fact is, however, that Kentucky Joe was always much like anyone else, in that he expected life to be pretty much to be a fairly predictable affair, and in fact it was, except it was predictable in all the ways he'd never even suspected.

Bessie was a cow, all right, but she was a cow from the distant reaches of the universe!

Stranded on Earth after a recon mission to find the lost dictator of the galaxy, Bessie settled into existence producing milk and munching on grass for years, waiting for the moment when she could exact her revenge on Kentucky Joe, who continued to baffle her in his inability to recognize anything past his own immediate airspace.

The moment finally came when a meteor streaked across the night sky one summer evening and struck Kentucky Joe clean on his head, knocking him unconscious for several minutes.

When he awoke, Kentucky Joe was inside a capsule barely large enough to contain him, with no perceptible propulsion system but a rocket seemingly pushing him along to some unknown destination.

He'd never seen the stars like this!

Also, his head was still spinning, and he suspected that he was suffering from a hangover, except he hadn't had a drink since high school graduation, when Susie May had rejected his marriage proposal on the grounds that, in all possible ironies, his father's farm had never had a cow in its pastures.

After a few minutes, Kentucky Joe was able to focus long enough to see that his ship was entering a wormhole, where he was startled to see an actual worm, or at least that's what he assumed it to be. He closed his eyes before he could give it much thought.

Kentucky Joe next felt a considerable shudder below the craft, the hatch popped open, and he tumbled out onto a surface that didn't seem to have enough gravity to keep him tethered. he floated for several minutes and saw what he took to be massive cucumbers, except they were waving at him. He blacked out again for a few minutes, and then saw a statue staring at him that looked remarkably like Bessie.

"Wooey!" was all Kentucky Joe could think to say.

And that's when things really got interesting.

Star Trek '12: 312 AD

2012-02-22T12:05:00.002-08:00

It was still whispered among a few of them, in the more remote quarters of the ships that comprised the convoy. There was the argument, or The Argument, as it had come to be known, when at last someone had dared challenge the teachings and reforms of Surak, who had so courageously chosen to mold the entirety of Vulcan under the trappings of Logic.

Ah, yes, Logic. That was another term that had earned the distinction of being almost a proper name. It, too, was scoffed at by those still of comparative good humor, who weren’t embittered by what they considered to be the end of civilization. Surak had presumed to give the Vulcans what he considered to be deliverance from barbarism, but he’d done so playing by the same rules everyone had always known, and the fools, the ridiculous fools, had assumed that it’d be best if everyone played along. Well, some of them hadn’t been willing. Hence The Argument. Hence the convoy. Hence exile. Hence the destination of the twin planets known as Romulus and Remus.

What awaited them? That was another popular subject in the bowels of the ships. Only those willing to speculate were willing to talk about it. Only those who still harbored a glimmer of hope, that life hadn’t been so bad, that the power of the mind needn’t be shackled by Logic, were willing to talk about it. The consensus was that there had already been too much talk. Maybe so.

It wasn’t easy, forsaking everything they’d known, but then, everything they’d known had just undergone an undesirable transformation. Change had been inevitable, and so some had chosen to embrace it on their own terms. It might take centuries, but they’d prove that they hadn’t been wrong, that they hadn’t made a mistake, that Surak alone couldn’t dictate the best destiny of his people.

So then, the future. There was a lot of talk about that, too. None of those who dared to talk cared to reflect on what they had already sacrificed, the loss of dignity, and that’s why they didn’t care about where they were free to talk, even in these circumstances, because they believed in the end result, in what they were doing. Some of them plotted redesigns to the very ships they currently inhabited, looking for the predator instincts they’d been told were no longer appropriate, creating still more distance from the Vulcans who were even then beginning to feel like an entirely separate people. They were hungry for the challenge. Would there even be indigenous peoples on those worlds? Would it even matter?

There was talk, too, of how they would be represented. There was talk of politics, of the best possible nominees for the Senate they were ready to believe in. What other choice did they have? The tyranny of Surak? They had already rejected that. So much would be different. But the truth was, they were ready to bring it all back to how it used to be. They would prove that it was possible. They would prove it to the entire universe.

Yes, this was just the beginning.

Star Trek '12: 212 AD

2012-02-15T12:24:00.001-08:00

In those days, Vulcan was an incredibly harsh place to live, not just because of the suns baking the surface of the planet, but because its inhabitants had not yet learned to master their intensely passionate natures.

This is not to say Vulcans in this time were a savage people, but that their descendents would surely, without hesitation, say so. They were more tribal in nature, more given to developing rivalries and grudges against neighbors competing for scarce resources, not yet comprehending that there was an abundance of it, still clinging to illusions and fantasies. Yet they were already a devout people, capable of great appreciation for the stubborn earth and all of nature around them, even if it proved more challenging than they were able to master to that point in their history.

It was in this environment that the ancestors of Spock claimed what would in time become ancient ceremonial ground. Those who knew them, even those who shared their beliefs, were baffled by their insistence on this claim, shook their heads, whispered behind their backs, even plotted against them. Yet Sallek and his family held true to themselves, even in the midst of a world gripped by apparent madness, convinced as it was that anyone who might know themselves was the real threat. Sallek was himself a humble man, and was loved by his wife for it, and he was already more than a century old when he made the decision, and he smiled at his own children when they, too, questioned him, and didn’t say a word. In later years, when he was no longer in control of himself, his youngest daughter, Sevek, took him into her home, which was not far from the ceremonial ground he had claimed, and sometimes took him to it, and only sometimes admitted that she now understood what he’d done for them.

Sallek was near the end of his life when Surak entered into his ministry of logic. Somehow, even though Sevek never said a word of it, he knew that she saw him in a different light, in the hour his eyes dimmed to nothing. A bright future was ahead for his people, and his daughter would be there to see it.

Coming Soon: Star Trek '12

2012-02-10T19:21:00.001-08:00

A series of short stories covering Star Trek centuries...

Flash Fiction

2012-02-10T19:10:00.001-08:00

Frankie met two alternate versions of himself in a single afternoon. The thing that frightened him the most was that initially he didn't recognize either of them.

Flash Fiction

2012-02-10T19:09:00.001-08:00

John had been described as a "mad scientist" since he attended middle school. It wasn't until he aligned himself with a third world dictator and actually held the world hostage that the distinction was referenced in the media.

Flash Fiction

2012-02-10T19:08:00.001-08:00

Anna walked across the street one evening, only to discover that she was no longer on the same continent. That was the moment she discovered her greatest talent.

Flash Fiction

2012-02-10T19:07:00.001-08:00

In the blink of an eye, the whole world changed. The only thing that remained the same was that Abner still had the same rotten luck, forced to witness every horrible accident in New York City.

Flash Fiction

2012-02-08T12:58:00.000-08:00

Billy had been raising his daughter alone ever since the alien invasion, but still he believed that one day they would be reunited with her mother, even though they had been abducted to another world. Humanity's resistance had prevailed, but could Billy ever forgive himself for falling in love with one of the invaders?

Flash Fiction

2012-02-08T12:56:00.000-08:00

Barry spoke as clearly as he could into his phone, hoping this time that it would understand what he was trying to say to it. The only reason he didn't give up on the voice recognition technology was that one day he hoped it would give him the one answer he sought more than any other, and that was where exactly he'd been stranded.

Flash Fiction

2012-02-08T12:53:00.000-08:00

Two decades after the fact, Sydney still had no idea what had happened to her. She could still vividly recall waking up in Hong Kong, and the events as she learned that'd played out to reach that point, but it was still a period of her life she'd probably be thinking about until the day she died, and not necessarily fondly.

Flash Fiction

2012-01-29T08:33:00.000-08:00

Nick realized he wasn't an ordinary boy when he skinned his knee and found out that there was metal there. When he asked his mom what he was, she just looked into his eyes and said, "You're my boy, silly."

Roadkill Cafe

2012-01-28T10:22:00.001-08:00

I can still remember meeting Ribsy for the first time. Still wish I hadn't, and it wasn't anything that Ribsy himself had done. Okay, let me just put him in context. I met him on the side of the road. He'd seen better days. To come out and say it, Ribsy was roadkill.

Somehow, he didn't let that define him, and maybe I need to get into some heavy metaphysics to explain how he was roadkill and that wasn't the end of our relationship, but suffice it to say, Ribsy changed my whole world.

I'm a walkin' dude, and so that's how I came across him in the first place, and so it was a shock the first time we met, to say the least. I immediately felt sympathy for him, and I couldn't tell you even now what breed of dog he had once been. Something in the medium-to-large build, mostly black with the white highlights. Maybe you know what I'm talking about and maybe you think you know Ribsy better than I do now, but I tell you, you don't know Ribsy until you know him personally.

The first thing I noted was that he didn't take his death personally. It was my first instinct to curse the one who'd done it, turned Ribsy into roadkill, but he was quick to tell me that his death was only the beginning. He said it was the first step toward his connection with the whole of the animal kingdom. He let me know that it didn't normally include humans, but he was perfectly willing to include me. Needless to say, but I was gratified.

We talked a lot, actually, I don't know for how long, but it didn't take long for me to feel as if I'd known Ribsy all my life, and turn around from the grief over his death to treating him like the best friend I'd never had. He made it easy. Ribsy took most things easy, really.

Anyway, it wasn't long before he brought me to the Roadkill Cafe, and that's how I met the rest of them, travelers of the road of life most of us never see, or are hard-pressed to acknowledge. Then again, Ribsy's pal Foxy I met much the same way I met Ribsy himself, but I'll get to that.

For the moment, let me just relish those earliest days in the company of my most peculiar acquaintance. I'm sure you'll catch up.

Flash Fiction

2012-01-22T12:42:00.000-08:00

The serpent and the rat were best of friends at the start of the day. It wasn't until later that one of them realized that they could eat the other, and it wasn't the serpent.

DC50

2012-01-03T11:32:00.001-08:00

We knew it was going to be a strange decade when the first big news was Superbaby. Thankfully Darwin Jones, who called himself the science detective and was the source for most of what we came to learn, didn’t look into that one too much. Instead, he claimed that the best way to understand our future was to examine the past, where he discovered the existence of the Tomahawk Rangers, who he said was responsible for much of the frontier justice some of the more notorious elements of the 19th century managed to obscure. Still, when pressed, he did look into the absurd claims that came out of Smallville, and interviewed Lana Lang, who he said only pretended ignorance on the subject, but again, he didn’t press the matter. Astra, the so-called “girl of the future,” briefly consumed his attention, but was another subject that quickly became an afterthought, even though she seemed to have quite a bit of valuable information, which he necessarily kept close to the vest.

Jones wasn’t the only magnet of the decade. The mysterious Batman in Gotham City was a continuous source of fascination. A pair of British heroes emerged, calling themselves Knight and Squire, and for all intents and purposes could pass for dead ringers of the Dark Knight and his sidekick Robin, who were themselves busy dealing with Killer Moth. Jones reported, however, on the Knights of the Galaxy, whom he said had been referenced by Astra and held a key to one of the great surprises that lay ahead. It wasn’t, however, Captain Comet, a galactic hero who worked alone. All Jones was willing to admit about what he knew was that he had his own partner in these matters, Johnny Peril, who necessarily handled the most difficult assignments. He did not, however, claim association with Rex the Wonder Dog. When asked about the Phantom Stranger, he admitted even he was ignorant.

In Metropolis, Jones had an extensive interview with Halk Kar, who had claimed to be Superman’s older brother, but the truth was even stranger than fiction, given that his true origins were from an entirely different alien world, but the exact details were matters he believed better kept hidden from the general public, lest anyone learn too much about Superman; the last thing he wanted was to adversely impact the life of the man Halk would still have proudly called family. Someone else associated with Superman also bowed out, the whiz known as Captain Marvel, who could also just as easily have been related to the Man of Steel. Jones didn’t have concrete information on another subject, either, reports of a strange new visitor possibly hailing from Mars, but he vowed to learn more soon. He was on the scene, however, when Superman and Batman shared an adventure, and he reported goosebumps, “as if it were history in the making.” He declined to say whether or not he’d been told about it by Astra.

Another associate of Mr. Jones was Congo Bill, who began making global headlines for his daring escapades. More reports of heroes inspired by Batman, meanwhile, continued to pour in, including the existence of Legionary, Man-of-Bats and Dark Ranger. Rex the Wonder Dog was seen romping across the countryside with Krypto, or maybe it was just a matter of someone’s imagination getting away from them, since even Jones couldn’t confirm whether or not “Superboy’s dog” actually existed, either in the strange Smallville past or our present. There was no denying Ace, the “Bat-hound,” however, because everyone saw those pictures.

Dipping back into history, and cryptically suggesting that he may be speaking of actual familial relations to Superman, Jones helped resurrect the adventures of Brian Kent, the Silent Knight, possibly to deflect any comments on reports that “Superboy” had decided to leave Smallville, but again, with so little confirmation on any of these youthful adventures of Superman, what was he to say? He was far more eager to introduce the world to the Martian Manhunter, who he said would be one of the most powerful superheroes ever. In Gotham, Batwoman appeared, while in Central City, The Flash came in a crimson burst, the first time a hero went by that name since the one who mysteriously vanished years earlier along with seemingly the rest of Keystone City. Perhaps the daredevil Challengers of the Unknown could explain his speed, but Barry Allen, who worked for police forensics, wouldn’t. At least, he was late for his interview with Jones, who grew impatient and left.

He instead turned his attention to a fairly tall tale about Superman’s father, Jor-El, who was supposed to have gone into the heroic business years before his son. Again, however, Jones couldn’t confirm, since of course Jor-El is deceased, along with the rest of Superman’s alien countrymen from the world of Krypton. Captain Cold provided distractions for the Flash and everyone else when he made his chilling debut, at any rate. More unsubstantiated reports had Batman taking a journey into space, where he visited the world of Zur-En-Arrh. Perhaps at a loss for credibility, Jones spoke for the first time about the Legion of Super-Heroes, probably an association he’d heard about from Astra, though he said they’d been spotted in Smallville interacting with “Superboy,” but were actually from a thousand years in the future…Next he tried relating to whoever still wanted to listen the fantastic origin of Wonder Woman, the existence of Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, and even the Bottle City of Kandor, which he claimed came from Krypton but had been miniaturized by a villain named Brainiac. It was probably worth a shot. Maybe he could claim that the Space Ranger told him about it.

Batman’s efforts to capture the Calendar Man proved diverting for a while, but then Jones brought up Bizarro, an “imperfect duplicate of Superman.” Maybe he wanted to come off as a lunatic? Adam Strange was more convincing, claiming that he was having adventures on an alien world called Rann, and had the tech to prove it. Sympathy for Jones began to surface when his friend Congo Bill was turned into an ape, and started to refer to himself as Congorilla. The Blackhawks, longtime associates of Jones, meanwhile, helped balance his fortunes by admitting Zinda Blake, the first female to join their high-flying ranks. She was better off in the air than on the ground, where Mr. Freeze menaced Batman and Mirror Master plagued the Flash. Blake probably heard tales of Sgt. Rock and the Easy Company from her fellow Blackhawks, who no doubt coordinated missions with them during WWII. Maybe the Flash could have used them to fend off Gorilla Grodd and the Pied Piper.

Jones was happy to report that the appearance of Supergirl was no hoax, that Superman really had just discovered another survivor of Krypton, who just happened to be his cousin! Green Arrow’s sidekick Speedy, however, was reported to be experiencing anxiety, fear that he might be replaced, something his counterpart in Batman’s family, Robin, had successfully avoided., or maybe it was just Robin’s way of coping with Bat-Mite, by denying reality. Who knows? Jones avoided that one, too, but at least had Rip Hunter and the Time Masters to talk about, or even the grim story of Rick Flag, Jess Bright, Hugh Evans, and Karin Grace, the Suicide Squad.

But the time had finally come for him to reveal the greatest secret revealed to him by Astra, after test pilot Hal Jordan finally resurfaced after having gone missing for weeks. He and Jones helped reveal the existence of Green Lantern, who was just part of an intergalactic police corps that would no doubt make not just the universe but our world a safer and more stable place than it had been throughout the strange and unsettling decade. No one ever asked Jones why he’d seemed to so deliberately encourage all that nonsense himself…

Adapted from DC COMICS YEAR BY YEAR: A VISUAL CHRONICLE, based on entries from
SUPERBOY #8, 10, & 68
STRANGE ADVENTURES #1 & 9
TOMAHAWK #1
SENSATION COMICS #99 & 107
BATMAN #62, 63, 78, 92, 113, & 121
MYSTERY IN SPACE #1
THE ADVENTURES OF REX THE WONDER DOG #1
THE PHANTOM STRANGER #1
SUPERMAN #80 & 113
WHIZ COMICS #155
WORLD’S FINEST COMICS #71
CONGO BILL #1
DETECTIVE COMICS #215, 225, 233, 259, & 267
ADVENTURE COMICS #210, 217, 247, & 260
THE BRAVE AND THE BOLD #1 & 25
SHOWCASE #4, 6, 8, 15, 17, 20, & 22
WONDER WOMAN #98
ACTION COMICS #241, 242, 248, & 252
BLACKHAWK #133
THE FLASH #105 & 106
OUR ARMY AT WAR #81
(1950-59)

DC40

2011-12-28T12:57:00.001-08:00

Where were you when the superheroes came? It was a decade in which they seemed to explode onto the scene and disappear just as abruptly. It was the appearance of the Flash, whom sources later identified as Jay Garrick, that truly made everyone think of Greek myth, given that his distinctive helmet evoked the messenger god Hermes, and because they were both speedy it seemed to fit perfectly. It was antiquities collector Carter Hall, however, who really complicated things, convincing himself that he was the reincarnation of the Egyptian Prince Khufu, donning an elaborate costume to transform himself into Hawkman, babbling about his soul mate Shiera and the evil Hath-Set, whom he called his sworn enemy. We heard about a boy named Johnny Thunder, who was somehow able to summon a mystical being he called Thunderbolt, and then some newsboy called Billy Batson, who seemed to have the scoop on Captain Marvel, who everyone agreed had a striking resemblance to Superman, the truly iconic wonder operating out of Metropolis. Detective Jim Corrigan likewise had a suspect relationship with the Spectre, the so-called spirit of vengeance that seemed to have a knack for ironic justice. Hourman was probably more amusing to the general public, given that he was rumored to be powered only an hour at a time.

Some people seemed more interested in trying to do something about it than others. Lex Luthor was a brilliant scientist who struggled to make sense of the claims some of these heroes were presenting for the origins of their incredible abilities, including the so-called “hard water” that had given Jay Garrick his speed. It was clear, however, that Luthor was more concerned with Superman, who relied less on fantastic and preposterous gimmicks than the continuing claim that he was, in fact, an alien, which was a far more alarming prospect than any terrestrial matter, given that we were all in the thick of a world war, which was at least something Luthor could wrap his head around. As usual, though, if something stirred in Metropolis there was an equal yet opposite reaction in Gotham, and Batman introduced his “boy wonder” sidekick Robin, which was an incredible development that would have more lasting repercussions than any of the more colorful heroes still emerging onto the scene. As if to contrast this, the appearance of Doctor Fate was contrasted with the emerging threats of the Joker and Catwoman, two decidedly human individuals who were among the first of what the media dubbed “supervillains,” what was considered a direct result of the provocation someone like Batman actually represented. Noted film actor Basil Karlo transformed himself into Clayface as if to punctuate these claims.

It was the debut of Green Lantern, Alan Scott, that began to blur the edges still further. His powers were derived from a magic ring that gave him the ability to create whatever he could imagine, something many believed could only be possible if the ring had extra-terrestrial origins, which Scott himself was never able to confirm. Somewhat less speculative and certainly less concrete was Uncle Sam, who was dismissed as a delusional figure who actually believed he was the reincarnation of a Revolutionary War soldier, a sort of strictly American answer to Hawkman.

Given that there were suddenly so many of them, someone realized that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to team up, which is exactly what Spectre, Flash, Hawkman, the existing Sandman, and a couple of smaller-tier heroes like Biff Bronson, Ultra-Man, and Red White & Blue did, tenuously. It didn’t last very long, but it was at least a precedent. The Atom, Al Pratt, soon appeared, and then Red Tornado, a woman who said she was inspired by Green Lantern. Perry White, who had just become editor of the Daily Planet, devoted much of his paper to these heroes, though he put the spotlight thoroughly on Superman. The culmination of all this exposure, and certainly of the basic mutual awareness that they existed, led to the formal inductions into the Justice Society of America of Flash, Atom, Doctor Fate, Green Lantern, Hawkman, Hourman, Sandman, and Spectre, with the noted omission of Johnny Thunder, whose petulant behavior served both to advertise the team and its strict membership guidelines. The government soon took notice, and summoned the Justice Society to provide official service to the country. Still, it was Superman and Batman who received most of the attention, being more mysterious and extraordinary, and perhaps too necessary in their home territories of Metropolis and Gotham, the largest cities in America.

Like Green Lantern, Starman was aided by a special devise, which Ted Knight claimed he’d fashioned himself, while Doctor Mid-Nite fancied himself a superheroic medical professional. Both would end up serving in the Justice Society. The country received more direct support, though, from Blackhawk and Miss America, while Plastic Man, Firebrand, Human Bomb, Mouthpiece, and Phantom Lady all served their own interests. Some people were still thinking about the Flash, though, the first of the superheroes to appear, including Johnny Chambers, who announced that he’d discovered an equation that would give him the same speed as Jay Garrick, and took to calling himself Johnny Quick whenever he recited it. Are you curious? It was 3X2(9YZ)4A. Yeah, it never worked for me, either. I always assumed you had to know your math.

The Star-Spangled Kid and his sidekick Stripesy were easily the most patriotic superheroes to appear since the questionably-sane Uncle Sam, though they engaged in the useful activity of thwarting Nazi spies, months before the country entered the war thanks to Pearl Harbor. Perhaps inspired by them, and maybe Batman and Robin, Green Arrow and Speedy arrived on the scene, while Aquaman emerged from the oceans in what for him must have been convenient timing, since he couldn’t have known so many other gaudily-attired individuals were already fighting crime on dry land. Batman gained a new foe in the Penguin, the first new threat to appear in Gotham in more than a year, but still didn’t think to add to his allies, while that’s exactly what Green Arrow and the Star-Spangled Kid decided when they formed the Seven Soldiers of Victory with Shining Knight, Vigilante, and the Crimson Avenger, who had been engaged in these activities probably longer than anyone. Captain Marvel, meanwhile, welcomed who he called Captain Marvel, Jr. to his family, essentially a younger version of himself.

Perhaps the most sensational debut of the decade was Wonder Woman, who was said to be an ambassador from a tribe of Amazons, sent to “man’s world” to serve as an example for justice. She was greeted by Army captain Steve Trevor and Etta Candy, who agreed to help her make the transition. Terry Sloane and Ted Grant meanwhile, were a pair of athletes who donned costumes to transform into Mister Terrific and Wildcat, respectively; it was never confirmed that they were inspired by Wonder Woman, but once again, a strong Greek influence was hard to deny. Paul Kirk, perhaps by another amazing coincidence, soon turned himself into Manhunter.

In Metropolis, beat cop Jim Harper became the Guardian, and took on a group of orphans as his Newsboy Legion, perhaps as a criticism of the fact that Superman seemed to have overlooked Suicide Slum. There was also Robotman, who was said to have a human brain but otherwise robotic body, and who knows how that happened? Perhaps the street level was exactly where the Man of Steel should have been concentrating, because while he tangled with the Prankster, Batman was once more dealing with some very human threats of his own, including Two-Face and Boss Moroni. The war effort soon found itself supported by Brooklyn, Andre Chavard, Jan Haasen, Alfie Twidgett, and Captain Rip Carter, who formed the Boy Commandos.

Wonder Woman’s presence continued to have a sizable impact, as she soon found herself allied by Green Lantern and Flash, perhaps one of the more notable all-star combinations of the decade. Alfred Pennyworth was an amateur detective, meanwhile, who also happened to serve as a butler to Bruce Wayne, and many times suggested that he may have discovered Batman’s true identity. Maybe it was the distraction of Doctor Psycho, ably handled by Wonder Woman, that prevented his claims from being confirmed. Regardless, she continued to receive most of the attention, and action. While Superman handled another obvious nuisance in Toyman, Wonder Woman handled Cheetah. Green Lantern galvanized his fanbase by reciting what would soon become an iconic oath: “In brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight; let those who worship evil’s might beware my power, Green Lantern’s light!” Perhaps it was just the inspiration he needed to tackle Vandal Savage, who claimed he was immortal. Still, Wonder Woman stole the spotlight again when she battled Giganta. Hard to say how anyone noticed that one!

Perhaps with so much competition, even the best of them started to become frustrated. Superman insisted that he didn’t make up the existence of the transdimensional dwarf he called Mxyzptlk (but then, who would actually invent such an absurd name?), and Green Lantern reported the existence of Solomon Grundy (“born on a Mond’y”), the reanimated corpse of the murdered Cyrus Gold, though he gave most of the credit to hobos (as if that made it more believable). For some reason, Wonder Woman changed her allegiances to Hawkman and Flash. From the heartland, reports began to surface that Superman had been active in Smallville years before he surfaced in Metropolis, so youthful that he had in fact been known as Superboy at the time. As if to justify Wonder Woman’s newfound faith in him, Hawkman tackled Jonathan Cheval, who called himself the Monocle. Neptune Perkins joined Aquaman as a marine-based hero. Perhaps the least-wanted addition to anyone’s associates was Black Adam, who said he was a predecessor of Captain Marvel, but was more of a rival and adversary.

The beginning of the end was ushered by Sandman’s retirement, a move that caught many by surprise, since he seemed to have been around just about longer than anyone. Even Superman wasn’t immune, almost literally, given that he was involved in the first full-blown atomic incident since the end of the war. Maybe it was just a case of reality trying to set in, but it all still seemed too surreal, especially when Tommy Tomorrow became the first person to set foot on Mars, or when Robin shockingly went on his first adventure without Batman, both of which would have not only been unthinkable but considered impossible just a few years earlier. The Wizard and the Gentleman Ghost seemed to take advantage of these circumstances to join the supervillain racket. Maybe that’s why Wonder Woman introduced the world to Wonder Girl, because she sensed the world could use a little comfort, or why people were suddenly interested in Tomahawk, a hero who had been active in a different century. The hapless Johnny Thunder met Dinah Drake and Larry Lance, who were somehow connected to the alluring Black Canary, who took over his territory without much trouble.

Years after the formation of the Justice Society, Vandal Savage and Wizard gathered the Thinker, Gambler, Brain Wave and Per Degaton to form the “Injustice Society,” exactly the opposite of what everyone needed. The Flash also found himself targeted by Thorn, and perhaps it was no surprise that Wonder Woman and the Black Canary had to come to the aid of the Justice Society after all, while Flash again confronted new threats on his own in the form of the Fiddler and Star Sapphire. But he would soon face worse times still. His pal Green Lantern, meanwhile, took on a different kind of sidekick in Streak the Wonder Dog, which raised a lot of eyebrows, but was still better than Johnny Thunder once again being eclipsed, this time by another hero from a bygone era who happened to share the same name. As if sensing the trend, Superman publicly celebrated ten years protecting Metropolis, just to remind everyone of all the good he’d done. And then people started talking about yet another hero from the Old West, this time Nighthawk.

Batman tackled Riddler and the Mad Hatter, two villains who messed with his head, to say the very least, but everyone figured he was up to the challenge. What no one was expecting was the retirement of Jay Garrick; the Flash had apparently run his last race. His friend Alan Scott, the Green Lantern, soon followed him. From Smallville came stories of Supergirl, if anyone wanted some happy tales of times past, a companion for the so-called Superboy. Who knows what they were thinking? Roy Raymond, the “TV detective,” maybe. Even he wouldn’t have wanted to report on the retirement of the Boy Commandos, or the biggest story of the decade, the existence of a substance known as Kryptonite, which was said to have lethal side-effects for Superman. Even though the war was over, casualties continued to be the story of the 1940s, and perhaps all of us were the poorer for it. For a decade that had produced so much magic, the cost was more than anyone could have imagined. Was it all worth it?

Adapted from DC COMICS YEAR BY YEAR: A VISUAL CHRONICLE, based on entries from
FLASH COMICS #1, 64, 66, 86, 88, 89, & 104,
WHIZ COMICS #2 &25,
MORE FUN COMICS #52, 55, 71, 73, & 101,
ADVENTURE COMICS #48, 61, 73, & 103,
ACTION COMICS #23, 40, 51, 64, & 101,
DETECTIVE COMICS #38, 40, 58, 66, 140, & 153,
BATMAN #1, 16, & 49,
ALL-AMERICAN COMICS #16, 19, 20, 25, 61, & 100,
NATIONAL COMICS #1,
ALL STAR COMICS #1, 3, 34, 37, & 38,
SUPERMAN #7, 30, 53, & 61,
WORLD’S BEST COMICS #1,
MILITARY COMICS #1,
POLICE COMICS #1,
STAR SPANGLED COMICS #1, 7, 65, & 69,
LEADING COMICS #1,
SENSATION COMICS #1,
BOY COMMANDOS #1 & 36,
COMIC CAVALCADE #1,
WONDER WOMAN #5, 6, 9, & 23,
GREEN LANTERN #9, 10, 30, & 38,
THE BIG ALL-AMERICAN COMIC BOOK,
MARVEL FAMILY COMICS #1,
REAL FACT COMICS #6,
ALL-FLASH #32,
WESTERN COMICS #5, and
SUPERBOY #5;
(1940-49)

DC30

2011-12-15T10:58:00.001-08:00

It began at the highest levels of authority. I cannot breach confidentiality of names now, and otherwise, even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. Roosevelt was already President for two years when he was informed about the arrival of a strange visitor to Earth. Sandra, or so her codename identified her, was the first one assigned to the mission, strictly in the interests of national security. It was suggested that this individual, whatever it was, posed a direct threat to our government.

Sandra enlisted the services of Henri Duval, a soldier of fortune whose specialized skills she believed would benefit her mission, which originally led her to the figure of a man who became known as Dr. Occult. The Doctor claimed to be a “ghost detective,” and led Sandra and Henri Duval down a rabbit-hole that led to what they later claimed to be vampires, but this was never substantiated. Sandra’s services were soon after voluntarily relinquished, and given to Steve Carson and the Federal Men, a team considered to be better suited to the task. Their investigations somehow led back to Dr. Occult, who had adopted a curious red and blue costume he himself could not explain. Within a matter of months, the Federal Men, too, lost their credibility when they reported having taken an extraordinary trip to the year 3000, where they encountered self-professed “ace sleuth” Jor-L, who helped them overcome a band of space pirates.

Soon after, the mission was handed over to Speed Saunders, Bart Regan, and Slam Bradley, each of whom specialized in legitimate fields, and came recommended by various government officials. Saunders was a federal agent, while Regan worked as a spy, and Bradley a police investigator. Together they uncovered the strange visitor’s identity as “Superman,” though at first the story was so incredible that they weren’t believed. It took reporter Lois Lane’s dogged inquiries to land Superman in the national news, beginning in the papers of Metropolis.

As if the supernatural hadn’t already played its hand in these events, a stage magician called Zatara also revealed his incredible abilities, as if to confirm the existence and veracity of Superman. Private detective Larry Steele soon uncovered the activities of masked vigilante the Crimson Avenger, moreover, and newsroom office boy Jimmy Olsen was the first individual since Lois Lane to verify that Superman was no hoax. In Gotham, Commissioner Gordon refused to comment on the existence of Batman, but the rumors were already taking on a life of their own.

Lane landed the scoop of the year when Superman agreed to recount to her a modified version of his origins. By that time, it was impossible to stem the positive tide of public opinion. No matter what we believed, he was a sensation, and soon an organization known as the Supermen of America was formed. The odd appearance of the Sandman briefly caught attention, but the leader of a ruthless crime syndicate, a formerly paralyzed scientist who took to calling himself the Ultra-Humanite, forced Superman to perform his greatest feat when he actually flew in the air in order to intercept the villain’s airplane. The Man of Tomorrow was here to stay.

Adapted from DC COMICS YEAR BY YEAR: A VISUAL CHRONICLE, based on entries from
NEW FUN #1 & 6,
NEW COMICS #2,
MORE FUN COMICS #15,
NEW ADVENTURE COMICS #12,
DETECTIVE COMICS #1, 20 & 27,
ACTION COMICS #1, 6 & 13,
SUPERMAN #1, and
NEW YORK WORLD’S FAIR COMICS #1;
(1935-39)

Star Trek: Voyager - "Caretaker, Part 2"

2011-12-09T15:19:00.000-08:00

She died on a meaningless survey mission.

There's no other way for me to put it. I was heartbroken. I spent decades trying to get us home. At first, "us" meant a Starfleet crew, the crew I originally put together to track down a missing Maquis ship. I recruited Tom Paris personally, but Harry Kim's innocense was something I cherished from the first moment I met him. Few people know this, but I was involved in the program that saw the development of the Emergency Medical Hologram. I knew the Doctor before anyone else among my crew. It was part of my own development to learn to treat him as an individual. My dear friend Tuvok had gone undercover as a member of the Maquis crew. He was in fact the reason I chose the assignment.

When the Caretaker brought us to the Delta Quadrant, it quickly became apparent that the Maquis could no longer be considered an enemy, but rather allies, in a mutually beneficial pact that would help us to operate the one ship that would allow us to undertake our journey home. That was how I met B'Elanna Torres. And that was how I met Chakotay.

He had been the captain of the Maquis ship, and therefore had every reason to resent my decisions and lead a justifiable mutiny against my intentions and my assumption of command. Instead, he chose to put his personal feelings aside. He saw the wisdom of cooperation. He was the only one who truly understood what lay ahead. There were times I believed he understood it better than I did.

We took on a pair of passengers fairly quickly, natives of the Delta Quadrant, Kes and Neelix. In their own ways they proved valuable to our mission. The next passenger was Seven. She had been a member of the Borg Collective almost her whole life. A fluke severed her connection to the hive mind, and I made it a personal priority to oversee her rediscover her humanity.

I began to feel as if I were Seven's surrogate mother, nurturing her unsteady first steps back into an individual existence, one where she had to depend on her own instincts, trust others she couldn't immediately interpret, whose voices expressed opinions she herself couldn't immediately understand. For so long she had known only cool intellect, had mastered dozens of scientific principals, and knew her role beyond a shadow of a doubt. Her life had been intuitive.

And I marveled each day that she struggled to make progress, even when I was horrified by her actions, even when she took so many opportunities to betray my trust. Yet I never gave up. Like Harry Kim, I saw Seven to be an innocent, even if she found it difficult to define herself in such a vulnerable way. For every misstep, there was a moment when I could see past her veneer of defiance and see the vulnerable little girl whose life had been stolen from her, the woman who only wanted to crawl back into the protecting arms of her parents.

As the years advanced, she emerged more and more fully from the damaged drone into an individual who didn't need me anymore. She began to form her own relationships. She found romance, with Chakotay. A part of me looked on this with melancholy. I had dedicated so much of myself to the mission, to the singular goal of getting us all home, I had lost the very thing I helped give Seven.

Then one day she died. I couldn't process it then. I mourned for a few hours, spent perhaps more time than usual in my quarters. I was always prone to brooding. To some, it probably seemed natural behavior on my part. I was so lost in myself, I failed to realize the impact her death had on Chakotay.

If I displayed my customary reserve for such an occasion, Chakotay became a completely different person. Over the years, he had become a little more withdrawn, the longer our journey took and the less he was needed to mediate between Starfleet and former Maquis crewmembers. But suddenly he was cold even to his closest friends, even B'Elanna. We barely spoke. In hindsight I wonder if he blamed me, if he had finally gotten around to it.

We all grew older. Decades passed. He aged worst of all. He died on heart failure on the exact anniversary of Seven's death.

I suppose that's when I first started making my plans. Even after we completed our voyage, returned to the Alpha Quadrant, I wasn't satisfied. Because of Seven. Because of Chakotay. There were other reasons, but I won't try and kid myself.

I knew that I would have to go back in time and get us home sooner. This was to be my endgame.

The Trial as a Flashpoint #6

2011-12-08T09:45:00.000-08:00

The trial began. Barry Allen stood accused of murdering Eobard Thawne in cold blood. Peter Farley's defense was that Barry hadn't intended on breaking the Reverse-Flash's neck, that he had done so by accident, in a panic to stop the villain from replicating the very same murderous actions that had already claimed the life of Iris Allen, Barry's wife and soul mate.

As far as soul mates go, Barry had no idea...

In matters of time travel, the physical body becomes an approximation of itself the moment an individual breaches their own linear dimension; the only thing that truly undertakes the journey is the consciousness of the individual.

Iris came from the future. She was a child when her parents sent her to Barry's time. She already knew everything that would happen, but her specific age was chosen so that she would still have a chance of participating in her own decisions, so that she would grow into the role of Iris West and Iris Allen of her own accord.

The other individual who participated in these events, the mad magician of science, Abra Kadabra, took on a perverted view and understanding of this same principle, believing that he could finally achieve his life's dream by ensuring that Iris survived her own death and returned in time to prove Barry's innocence.

He had become a foe of Barry's well after the career and legacy of the most famous Flash had become history, believing that his intuitive knowledge of the Speed Force somehow made a mockery of Abra's efforts to master nature. If you ask me, the man was first and foremost a headcase.

But that's villainy for you. In this case, it actually worked in everyone's favor. By inserting himself into Iris's efforts to transplant her consciousness back into Barry's time, he gave her the body she needed and the exact moment she needed to appear, at the end of the trial, when all seemed lost, when all the court needed was an expert witness. Who better than Iris Allen?

The press had a field day with the ruling, but what was anyone to do about it? If they believed that Barry Allen, that the Flash was the fastest man alive, they had to accept the reality of time travel, and therefore everything Iris might have to say about it, how Eobard Thawne couldn't possibly be dead, that there were very real reasons to believe that he would be back, that above all else, Barry was innocent of the charges, thanks to sophisticated technology that in the future proved his innocence...

Actually, none of that really matters. The trial brought out the worst in everyone because it had to draw out greater truths, reveal that there was so much more going on than anyone realized, most of all what Barry Allen himself knew.

He was happy to see Iris, beyond relieved to see her alive, but he sensed that she was holding something back. She was reluctant, at first, but then she agreed that they had all experienced extraordinary events, and that she owed it to Barry to be as honest as possible.

So she told him. She told him about the Crisis, how he would sacrifice his life, so soon after learning how precious it really was, to save the universe, by running faster than he ever had before. He would be consumed by his own speed.

The only thing she didn't tell him was that this wouldn't be the end. She told me in later years that she decided to make this incredible concession to the integrity of the timeline because she owed it to Barry, for the inspiration he provided to her own history, to mine, to my children's, to the tradition of justice and superheroes, everything that we can sometimes take for granted.

My name is Wally West, and I'm the fasted man alive. Sometimes there are things more important than that.

The Trial as a Flashpoint #5

2011-12-08T09:15:00.000-08:00

To put it mildly, Big Sir mauled Barry, smashing and pummeling him beyond recognition. The only upside was that the Flash was able to dismantle the armor Duncan Ratchet had been given by the Rogues, thereby returning him to his innocent state.

Then he collapsed. Thanks to his increased metabolism, Barry was always capable of bouncing back from injuries quickly, and this was no exception, but his face didn't heal properly. This was later to have a bonus in that his lawyer Peter Farley would later convince him to unmask during the trial, so that his secret identity was safe from exposure, but the psychological effect was worse.

The sequence of events that had begun with preventive measures against his worst enemy had spiraled completely out of control. Barry could no longer trust or depend on anything. His moral character alone had kept him going, actively pursuing the role of superhero even in the midst of the buildup to the trial...but even Barry was only human.

Finally, enough was enough. He stopped running. For the first time since he had been granted his super speed, Barry Allen slowed to the pace of an ordinary man, permanently. He didn't just slow down, though, he found that he had actually lost the will to live.

If it hadn't been for the remarkable coincidence of finding Farley, who had himself been the victim of physical violence at the hands of the Rogues, perched at the same bridge he'd chosen, the one that linked Central and Keystone City, the one he had once crossed to meet his idol, Jay Garrick, the original Flash...Barry would have done the unthinkable.

But Farley had been there, too. Ironically, the last time attorney and client met before the trial was when they had both been driven to the brink of despair. As all the Flashes have learned over the years, it's far easier to embrace destiny when there are others who understand what that means.

Together, they chose life.

The Trial as a Flashpoint #4

2011-12-08T08:50:00.000-08:00

The trial of Barry Allen's life wasn't just in court, where he was to be tried for the murder of Eobard Thawne, the Reverse-Flash, but in the court of popular opinion, thanks not only to his infamous Rogues Gallery, but another, far more insidious foe, Gorilla Grodd.

While the Rogues staged a series of public pranks, notably led by the Pied Piper, Grodd took things to the next level, actively manipulating citizens on a wide scale, from the mayor of Central City to random pedestrians, runaway kids, respected businessmen, and church-going grannies into voicing opinions and otherwise denouncing the good name of the Flash.

None of them had any choice, since Grodd used his incredible mental abilities against them, and wiped their minds of any memories regarding their subsequent actions.

For years Grodd, who came from a tribe of highly evolved apes hidden deep in the heart of Africa, had tried to demonstrate his superiority to the race of men by crafting elaborate schemes of world domination, and each time he was thwarted by Barry, defeated like a common villain by a man whose only notable ability was to run really fast.

It vexed Grodd to no end. he would have been happy to damage the reputation of the Flash even if it weren't already on the verge of losing all credibility.

The Rogues somehow managed to be worse. In addition to their personal campaign, they recruited a man by the name of Duncan Ratchet, a mentally challenged individual with the intellectual capacity of a six-year-old, and gave him a technologically advanced suit of armor, transforming him into Big Sir.

Big Sir's only motivations were the same as Duncan Ratchet's, so once again the Rogues had to turn to manipulation, placing the gentle giant into a situation where he would view the Flash as an enemy.

The results, even in these circumstances, were catastrophic for Barry.

The Trial as a Flashpoint #3

2011-12-07T10:17:00.000-08:00

I guess I'll never understand Barry's Rogues Gallery, why he seemed to tolerate them...

The Rogues were a collection of foes Barry faced on a consistent basis, criminals who fashioned fantastic personas after the weapons they mastered.

There was Captain Boomerang, Heatwave, Captain Cold, the Mirror Master, Weather Wizard, Pied Piper...all of them completely self-explanatory by their chosen names.

The thing that always puzzled me is that none of them actually posed a direct threat to his incredible speed, only really causing momentary conundrums, no matter how clever, so that a man with his abilities should never have been concerned with any of them for very long.

Barry should always have been too fast to create lasting enemies, except for Eobard.

Instead, the Rogues remained in business for years, and eventually came to understand the concept "strength in numbers."

No hero except Batman ever amassed such a regular contingent of opponents quite the way Barry did. I think it's because he believed in the concept of justice. He worked, after all, in the police department, even when he wasn't dressed in scarlet.

The reason it was so shocking, even if completely inadvertent, when Barry killed Eobard Thawne, was that he had always seemed to have removed himself from the equation, believing himself to be an impartial agent, clinical.

That's why he was always considered so aloof, even by his friends, why it was so easy for the Fasted Man Alive to exist at his own pace.

How he could still be late for personal appointments, even though he could outrun even Superman.

The Rogues, more than any other collection of enemies, exploited that, especially during the trial. They were vicious, most of all because they realized they finally had the advantage.

Barry's high school pal Peter Farley agreed to defend him in court. Any other lawyer probably deserves a fair amount of ribbing, but Peter was one of the good ones.

That made the attack on his life all the more heinous. But was it really so surprising that the Rogues would stoop to that level?

The Trial as a Flashpoint #2

2011-11-28T11:06:00.000-08:00

Barry didn't know it, but his whole world was crumbling around him.

Hal Jordan, who had been Green Lantern for almost as long as Barry had been The Flash, quit the intergalactic corps created by the Guardians of the Universe at the same time Barry endured his trial for the murder of Eobard Thawne.

It still kills me to think about it now, but I was at my own crossroads, having just made the difficult decision to relinquish the persona of Kid Flash, at the same time that Dick Grayson gave up being Robin, after he realized that he was no longer the Boy Wonder. We walked away from the Teen Titans, the only real home either of us had known in the last few years leading up to the Crisis.

For me, the walk took an eternity.

I still can't explain how it'd reached that point, how I had become so selfish, rejecting the one person who had defined my whole life, whom I'd modeled my superheroic career around, who had actually given me my powers!

At that point in my life, however, that's exactly how much regard I had for Barry, for the life he'd helped me create. It didn't hurt that I had Dick to legitimize my decision, the friend who could most identify with my thought process.

I only wish I had been a little more thoughtful, a little more grateful, that I hadn't so easily and so completely abandoned Barry.

Hindsight informs so much of what I know now, how Barry not only couldn't rely on me, but not even Hal, when he could have used both of us, not just for emotional support, but for so many more things, the fact that the Rogues chose that moment to plague him as they hadn't for half a decade, for starters, coming together as a unit as they had never done before, a united front that attacked him from every angle...

He was completely on his own. He'd lost his wife, and now he'd lost the favor of the public, and was facing the loss of his very freedom, the thing he'd fought for since before he became The Flash, a pioneer of forensic science in the guise of Barry Allen.

His private life was ruined, and his costumed identity became isolated, because of me, because of Hal, because that's the way the world works. You're surrounded by friends until you need them.

The Trial as a Flashpoint #1

2011-11-21T07:15:00.000-08:00

My name is Wally West, and I'm the fastest man alive.

When I was a boy, my aunt Iris dated Barry Allen. Neither of them really knew each other when it started out. For instance: Barry Allen was the Flash. For instance: Iris West was actually from the future, the 30th Century, to be exact.

I grew up idolizing Barry, becoming a charter member and president of one of the largest Flash fan clubs in the country (or at least in all of Blue Valley). One day, Iris invited me to Central City so I could meet her boyfriend. What she didn't know was that I would become involved in an exact replica of the accident that gave The Flash his powers.

And what Barry didn't know was that his future bride had been sent as a child to watch over him, her life essence transported over a millennium in order to watch over him.

Barry talked in his sleep; that's how Iris found out about his double life.

The Reverse-Flash murdered Iris; that's how she found out about hers.

The Reverse-Flash is Eobard Thawne, a nobody from the 25th Century, a janitor who worked at the Flash Museum, working day after day under the legacy of Barry Allen. Eventually, he became obsessed, found a way to give himself Barry's powers, and decided that the only way to step out of the shadow of his assumed nemesis was to destroy him.

He tried many times before finally succeeding, sending his vibrating hand through my aunt's skull, killing her instantly.

Or so we thought.

Barry wouldn't know it for years, but his life had already been ruined by Thawne. The Reverse-Flash killed Barry's mother when he was very young, a death that haunted him throughout his life, and motivated him to enter law enforcement, trying to solve a murder that had been pinned on his own father, Henry.

Thawne wasn't the only foe to tamper with Barry's life. There was also Abra Kadabra, who came from the 64th Century. But we wouldn't know that until Barry killed Thawne. And the trial of The Flash began.

Occupy Wall Street, Part 5

2011-11-04T11:33:00.000-07:00

The conventional interpretation of his occupation might have been investigator. Marty Marias was more accurately contracted as an observer, and therefore a consultant; he reported back to others what he saw, and as such was an interpreter.

Marty had recently been asked to talk about three particular individuals, all of whom who had been taken into police custody and had been subjected to interrogations. They were persons of interest in the assassination of Gabriel Bell. He wasn't given their complete identities, and in truth he preferred it that way.

The first of them was a woman known as Zinn, a transient and amnesiac who had been taken in by another of them. In her case, Marty was only interested in her details, her particulars, what her information told him about whether or not she would have been capable of killing a man. She had first been identified as homeless, but that quickly turned out not to be the case. She had been the victim of an assault, and so that was how she had ended up in the general area of the crime, disoriented and "rescued" by one of the others. She was a school teacher, in fact, and had only been missing a few days when she resurfaced and became intwined in the sequence of events that led to the death of Gabriel Bell. She taught first grade, children who had reached the age of dawning responsibility. Marty saw that she was not comfortable in her life, that she would have done anything to escape it, but not in conjunction with the assault, not with the loss of her self-control. If anything, she would have used the preceding events as a frantic means to rediscover herself, to a semblance of what she had once known about herself.

The second was a writer, whom Marty knew as Jake, no last name, just as the others had not come with given names, or so Marty had to assume. Jake was clearly unfulfilled in his life, possibly disgruntled in his frustrations to make a career out of his stories, and it was written all over his face. Given half a chance at even a suggestion of acceptance, he would have done anything, would have been capable of anything, would have rationalized any act, no matter how extreme, if the circumstances presented themselves. Marty could easily extrapolate from any of that Jake's ability to kill, especially someone who had achieved a measure of success and in a public way that he himself had been denied, or had denied himself (it was never easy to tell which one).

The third, and the man who had affected the "rescue" of Zinn, was called Swift, and he had come into the scenario under very ambiguous circumstances, and had not adequately reconciled them for himself even though he had taken great strides in the attemot. It was Swift who had mistakenly identified Zinn as homeless, and, intoxicated by her not-inconsiderable beauty, had taken it upon himself to free her from the sorry mess that had become her life. He was a businessman, who was already familiar with the allure of power, who would have relished whatever fantasies he had constructed around the figure of Zinn. Once the realities were made plain, he had attempted to redirect his efforts, so that he would not become impotent in her eyes, and would retain the illusion of control he had once enjoyed over her. Such a man would easily have been capable of switching this sense of identity into other, less wholesome, directions, if it had proved to be a waste of his time.

Marty considered the context these figures had found themselves in, the desperation they had all fallen into, and the atmosphere of despair and resolve that created such a dangerous situation, even before the murder of a prominent individual like Gabriel Bell. Although he had ruled out the woman already, he felt that anyone might have been driven to that point, even beyond their normal limitations, because they had been drawn to that place by a common desire, something that had previously been elusive for each of them, but had crystalized in a single movement, and now in a single death. Those others who had observed that place tended to remark that such individuals were hardly worth their pity, that if they had simply worked out their own problems, they wouldn't have had to blame someone else.

The death of Gabriel Bell had galvanized the entire movement, forced those observers to view the plight of the individuals who had gathered in a new light. Just as Marty was charged with scrutinizing three individuals, an entire nation was now forced to re-evaluate their judgments. Bell had been a charismatic victim, and that was all any such movement ultimately needed. Marty wondered if the solution to his problem were similar. It wasn't so much what any of them had to gain, but what the murder of another person would mean to them personally. The woman wouldn't gain anything, obviously, but a murder, even a misguided and misdirected one, would give her back the power she'd lost. The same would be true of the businessman. The writer could only be accused by way of a psychotic break. Although he would surely have had a kind of motive, his personality otherwise contradicted such an outcome. He was an introvert by choice, not by nature. Although he would have suffered from the misdiagnosed social reactions of others most of his life, he was ultimately an observer, much like Marty himself. To call the writer a killer would have been for Marty to call himself one. The woman was much the same; anyone who worked with children inherently considered life in their own way sacred. She couldn't have been the killer anymore than she could have killed the businessman for taking advantage of her, or at least having the appearance of having done so. The businessman, however, and not because he was a businessman or because business itself was inherently antisocial or that he would have had a personal grudge against Gabriel Bell as someone who had spoken out very publically against some of the very practices the businessman himself had depended on throughout his career, but because of the rejection of the woman, of the contradiction he couldn't reconcile, and so he took it out not on the woman, but Gabriel Bell, someone in whom the businessman could project his feelings of inadequacy.

So that was how Marty reported it to those who had asked his opinion.

Iger Wickstein

2011-11-02T08:37:00.000-07:00

It was my last chance.

It was my last chance and I tried not to show it. I had gone back to that moment so many times, I no longer had to pretend. I was trapped.

All the details, the rain falling like shards of glass, the screeching tires from the SUV, the streetlights blinking on and off, the bolt of lightning...they crashed through me just as surely as the thoughts that had run through my mind in that moment.

It was the end, the end of everything, and I was forced to relive it again and again. I should have died, but instead I became tethered to that moment. It was a simple question, whether or not I wanted a second chance, sometime after my death, in the in-between, after the light at the end of the tunnel. I said yes.

I had no idea what I was doing.

After the first time, I thought I could do it again and this time get it right. That's exactly what I thought. I went back again and experienced it all over again. And then I went back again. And again. And again.

I couldn't let go. It wasn't my life that flashed before my eyes, but my death, and it was of my own choosing. I couldn't let go.

It became almost like my life, a sequence of predictable, inevitable results, changed anew from new thoughts, new observations, new obsessions, new hopes, new delusions. The same thing happened again and again, I knew exactly what was coming, and I couldn't stop it, and I just kept repeating it.

What else was I supposed to do?

It was my life.

And my death.

Eventually it had to end, but not jus yet.

I persisted, I persevered, time and time again, until my last chance. I don't even know how I knew what it was, except that when it came around, that's exactly what I felt, as if it were my last chance. I was well past yearning for more. I was ready.

Everything repeated exactly as it had originally happened, all the details. I knew what would happen. It came. I died again, died for the last time.

After repeating it a thousand times, it was almost a relief, the end of everything, of all possible consequences, and the beginning of reflection, everything that I had denied myself in life. That's why I revisited my death so many times, because I was more afraid of my life than my death.

But then, aren't we all?

Occupy Wall Street, Part 4

2011-10-31T10:53:00.000-07:00

The year was 2014. Five years earlier, Gabriel Bell was just another citizen. His name meant nothing to anyone. In fact, you might say that he was anonymous by design. Five years earlier, he had been complicit in a system that preferred to keep the majority of citizens anonymous, enthralled by a handful of inconsequential but very famous names, but anonymous.

Of course, five years earlier, Gabriel Bell was also still alive.

He came upon the movement as a skeptic, as someone who didn't believe it would last, that it meant nothing but the absurd delusions of those who had screwed up their own lives, who were causing a disturbance that would be forgotten quickly, who had devoted themselves to a cause without reason, without resolution, without an ending. It had come several years into a recession, several years after corporate corruption had been exposed, not just corruption in the form of monopolies or crooked bosses, but a systematic corruption that had robbed entire companies of their profits, of their futures, of their intrinsic values, both to themselves and for those they had been intended to service. The exposure of this corruption led to the recession, which led to bailouts, which led to the movement. Those who stood the most the gain gained the most, and those who stood the most to lose kept on losing.

There had been many arguments on these last points. It was argued that more people in this country lived in greater prosperity than ever before, that the standard of living had so drastically risen in recent years, there could be no proper understanding of need. Gabriel had been among those who believed this was true. He had led a mostly comfortable existence. He had never gone hungry. He had always had a roof above his head. The arguments concerning this basic prosperity suggested that physical need was the only thing a person needed to survive. Gabriel had also attended schooling until graduation from college. Daily he was exposed to the highest ideals of humanity. Daily he was exposed to the American Dream, the belief that anyone could become anything. All that was needed was determination.

The movement sparked something within him. Gabriel realized that somewhere along the way, the American Dream had been regulated. It had been systematically isolated to the reach of a select few. Where it had not been deliberately calculated to benefit the already-fortunate, it had then been relegated to those who possessed innate but perfunctory skills; somewhere along the way, the Dream excluded the imagination, choked it out, said that the only thing worth rewarding was the obvious, that no one ever need think again. Somehow, even the midst of a great recession, this belief was tantamount to the vision of the future.

Gabriel considered the movement to be a rejection of this belief. At first, he had no interest in participating. He saw those who represented it, saw how easily they could be interpreted by observers to be easily ignored, just as they were before the movement began, just as so many others who weren't there, but who did represent it, embodied its spirit. He learned of a writer named Jake, who was denied his own dream because it was considered inconvenient, impractical. He learned of a woman named Zinn, rescued by a man named Swift, and neither of them knew what was truly happening to them.

Gabriel began to speak, to become the voice of this movement. This was how he kept tabs on Zinn, on Swift, on Jake. The person in the front doing the talking is not blind. They observe. They know the character of a situation better than anyone. They of all people ought to have perspective. Gabriel fought to keep his.

He saw what Zinn was immediately, someone who had lost their identity, their purpose, who could have been claimed by the first person to come along to try and rescue them. He saw how Swift had approached her from one direction, but had been overcome by Zinn's hidden power, her inner resolve, her sense of purpose even in the grip of helplessness. He read the words Jake wrote, feverishly, when he believed no one else was paying attention.

Gabriel also knew it couldn't last. He'd made himself a target, and the purpose of all targets is to be struck with a weapon. He was assassinated on a clear morning.

He knew what would happen, even without him, especially without him. That was why he had singled out the three of them, without their ever realizing it. Jake wrote about his life, about his message, his hopes, his dream. Zinn found to courage to find herself again, and because of that, Swift realized what he'd been doing with his life, how he'd been fooling himself about his selfish success. The three of them spread Gabriel's message. They didn't let him be forgotten.

In 2014, a movement that wasn't supposed to produce any tangible results changed a country, and then the world. It only cost one man his life, Gabriel Bell, the prophet, the man in the wilderness. His words continued to echo long after his death. To free his people, all people, he had occupied a little space, only to give it up, so that everyone could claim it, claim the world as its birthright.

Occupy Wall Street, Part 3

2011-10-30T21:08:00.000-07:00

Swift liked to consider himself a people person.

The fact was, as soon as he'd become successful, he'd preferred to distance himself from actual people as much as possible. It just seemed easier that way. It wasn't just physical contact, but emotional contact. He did what he needed to so he would maintain a healthy lifestyle, but other than that, the only person he answered to was himself.

Still, he liked to consider himself a people person, even if he was a little out of practice. He would never have even noticed her if he hadn't taken a slight detour from his daily walk. He normally kept to a strict routine, to minimize digressions from the routine that had proven so beneficial to him, but on that particular day, and he couldn't even have explained it if pressed to explain, he ended up off his particular beaten path, and stumbled into Zinn.

He assumed immediately that she was homeless, but that wasn't the first thing he noticed. Simply put, she was breathtaking. The fact that she was unconscious or otherwise passed out in an alley was a detail he took in stride. She roused almost as soon as he saw her, and he saw that as a sign that he was meant to intervene.

"You look like you could use some help," he said, in his most charming tones.

She accepted gracefully, and he interpreted it as an apology for her situation, and found it endearing. She quickly corrected his assumptions, insisting that she wasn't homeless, but that she otherwise could not explain her situation, a disorienting event having otherwise obscured her memories. He took her word for it.

He only wanted to help her, felt compelled to help her, because of her beauty, which was so utterly foreign to the circumstances he'd found her in. He said he could help her, and he in fact did everything he could, but she made it difficult by insisting that she felt some kinship with the struggle in the street. Her insistence on this point almost made him sympathetic. He couldn't explain why, but he continued to help her, and that's how he came to know of Gabriel Bell.

Occupy Wall Street, Part 2

2011-10-25T21:12:00.000-07:00

He knew that he was going to be a writer from a very early age. When he was a child, he entertained other ideas, sure, like being an astronaut, but the older he got, the more sure he was that he would write for a living. In school, he met others who had the same idea. Some experienced writers might have agreed and identified with the belief he saw in others that writing early and writing often and working on apparent masterpieces was the way to go. Jake was never convinced. He never believed that a story could be forced out of a writer. He was sure that he'd struck on his masterpiece when he was eighteen. But he didn't start writing it then, and ten years later, still hadn't.

The more schooling he experienced, the more students, and teachers, he met who believed the same things, who believed any writing was important writing, that writing prompts meant something other than exercises (and even then, he wasn't sure exercises meant all that much to anyone but the writer, because he'd been doing that all his life, creating stories, creating worlds to amuse himself) the more he wondered just what writing meant to them. To him, it was a way of life. To them...he could only assume that they believed writing was a way to distinguish themselves. It could very well be that for some, that was true and it led to real success. But to him, writing was something more, and he saw that idea reflected in all the books he loved, the books he was asked to read in school, and the many he read for himself.

The problem was, very few people actively agreed with him. Very few people felt it was worth championing that belief. There was very little money and too many writers submitting material for someone like Jake to stand out, especially with ideas that would not stand out as bestseller material. The more he tried to make a living as a writer, the more he realized that for most people, writing really wasn't about ideas at all, it was about being a success in just another career, looking out for oneself, taking the easiest way out possible.

He had no idea how to survive on skills he wasn't sure he had. He had always been sure of writing, of ideas, of the stories he told himself, and eventually found a way to tell others. He wrote stories, all the time, writing the ideas that came to him, that helped him make sense of the world, and he believed might help others do the same. In the meantime, before he was allowed to make a living with these ideas, these stories, Jake became lost.

That was how he ended up there, how he observed as a man named Gabriel Bell slowly sacrificed everything he had for an intangible ideal, something greater than a status quo, even one that might in some sense be interpreted as comfortable even for those who struggled like him. He found a cause to believe in. He decided to write about it.

Occupy Wall Street, Part 1

2011-10-20T20:42:00.000-07:00

The year was...well, she didn't really remember. She remembered her name, Zinn, but that was pretty much it. She found herself under some cardboard in an alley one evening. She was sure she wasn't homeless, or at least that she hadn't been.

The commotion was what stirred her. She had no idea what was going on, only that, when she investigated, there was a considerable crowd gathered not far away. She didn't know exactly where that was, either, where she was, what city. She was at least reasonably sure of the country.

Someone, who did not appear to be homeless, and in fact was reasonably well-dressed, grabbed her arm, but not in a threatening way, simply to include her. It felt strange, but she was willing to play along. There was a lot of shouting, which was momentarily disconcerting, but again, she found that when she concentrated, it felt more welcoming than anything, inclusive.

Many of them were holding signs. Her vision was too clouded for her to read them, and she was unsteady on her feet, and if anyone had actually asked her to read the signs and she'd had to make the confession, she might have forgiven them for thinking she was drunk. Again, she wasn't sure about a lot of things, but she was sure she wasn't drunk. Reasonably sure.

The man who had offered her help was still nearby, and he kept looking at her, as if to check that she was okay, or reasonably okay. She trusted his sincerity. She wasn't sure she trusted herself. The evening was still young, and the crowd didn't seem like it was going anywhere soon. In time she'd figure it out.

The Department of Homeland Recruitment

2011-10-18T13:29:00.000-07:00

Boothroyd was homeless when he was recruited. He was homeless because that had become the easiest option for him, after a lifetime of hard choices pushed him away from the rest of the world.

The moment he was recruited, he sense a difference, a new and unfamiliar sense of purpose, belonging. All they asked was that he help them recruit others.

At first, he didn't understand their mission. You might even say he misunderstood it, suspected even in his belief that they were anything but what they represented, agents of change.

He was asked to recruit another. "Recruit for what?" he asked. "For yourself," was the answer. He had no idea what that meant.

He found someone, much like himself, and when they asked him the same question, he replied, "For the greater good."

This went on for months, Boothroyd recruiting for the office, without knowing why. Finally, those who had recruited him asked him a question: "What have you found about the people you recruited?"

He didn't know how to reply. "About them personally," it was clarified. He knew the people he'd recruited, many of them personally, if peripherally. Eventually he understood what they meant, what his relationship with those he'd recruited was. He knew them. The office asked him what he might think they could do. It had been a long time since anyone had been interested in his opinion. It caught him by surprise. He gave it some thought. He was able to expound on each of them, he reflected with amusement.

"What does the Department of Homeland Recruitment do?" he asked. "Who do you work for? The government?"

"We were a committee, originally," came the reply. "We discovered we could help people by recruiting them. By giving them purpose. And we have you, Boothroyd."

He thought about what that meant. "You want to help," he said.

Time passed. He continued to recruit, looking for people, looking for their purpose. He set up offices, as those he recruited in turn recruited others. They were all in the air, spinning like windmills, and they were all going in specific directions.

In the future, in the times that came, Boothroyd noticed that people were doing what they were meant to do, and everything worked better than he had ever known it to.

He had been recruited into a cult, but it was the cult of humanity.

Agents and Angels

2011-10-14T15:24:00.000-07:00

When he became an agent for Homeland Security, Jason Donovan no doubt had every reason to believe that he'd be assigned to perfectly human casework. Five years in, he learned that he had been wrong.

The woman he knew as Tara, whom the whole of DHS had been working on for as long as he'd been with it, whom he personally had been safeguarding for unknown reasons for most of that time, turned out to be an angel.

No, literally, an angel. He'd been told there was a threat to her personal safety, and that in turn her safety was the country's safety, and never for a moment questioned how or why. That wasn't his job. He spent years believing that he could have explained it to anyone, easily, if he'd needed to, if he'd been allowed.

He developed an interesting relationship with Tara. He knew romance was off-limits, but he could never shake for a minute, from the very first moment that he'd been introduced, that they somehow had an intense connection that went beyond any conventional understanding he'd ever had. He wrote it off for most of that time as a duty of his professionalism to overlook.

For months, though, before he found out who and what Tara actually was, Jason had been increasingly unable to succeed in that regard. He never crossed the line, was never inappropriate, but he began taking his duties to a whole new level. He was rarely anywhere but directly at her side, and he had no complaints at all about that. She didn't seem to mind, either, but then she seemed to be at peace with the world, at all times, no matter what happened.

When he finally learned the truth, Tara immediately changed tacks with him. She expressed to him in intimate terms how much his devotion had meant to her, how she could never say anything about her own feelings to him, and how much it'd hurt. She'd chosen him personally.

He was told that he would need to escort Tara out of the country, that she had become a target of terrorists who resented that the angel had come to America. She only trusted him, and now the people entrusted with her protection planned to put them in the most remote region on earth. Jason decided that it was an easy call to continue his service.

He found himself in a secret base, and an even more secret space shuttle, the last operational one under American control, and told that he'd be going with Tara into space, where they would all be safe, where Tara could continue her duties, and so could he. She kept the world safe, and he kept it safe for her, only now that would be on the moon.

It was many years before they finally acknowledged their love for each other. Jason Donovan discovered that he no longer aged. As long as he could remain at Tara's side, he was fine with that.

Just Imagine Tony Creating...The Amazing Spider-Man

2011-10-12T16:01:00.000-07:00

Sergei Kravinoff was the best hunter the world had ever known. He traveled the world, and proved it everywhere he went, against all conceivable game, both on land and in the sea. Many claimed to be his rival, but he bested them in every ill-conceived challenge. He was a man who kept to himself, otherwise, since in truth he understood animals better than people. If he had family, he himself hardly seemed to realize it, or would have cared if he did.

His morals were all the more curious. He viewed murder with disdain, since he didn't see a challenge in it, and had no use for the rewards, accolades, and wealth that seemed to motivate other men. He would have gladly carried on like this until his death, surely many years in the future, if by chance he hadn't made the trip to New York, and heard of Spider-Man...

Peter Parker has finally figured everything out. He has eluded his enemies, settled into a happy relationship with Mary Jane Watson, and has even won over J. Jonah Jameson at the Daily Bugle, though he has developed a website that better exploits the legacy of his alter ego. Peter believes his days as Spider-Man are behind him, until he receives a message on the site from Kraven the Hunter, who challenges him to a contest, and the victor walks away alive!

Kraven has reluctantly made this challenge, since it is not his custom to initiate such things. This behavior would have been beneath him, if Spider-Man had proven easier to find. The challenge was a last resort. Spider-Man finally accepts after much public prodding, even from Jameson in the most surprising editorial he's ever written.

At first meeting, Kraven proposes a chase through the city, which he considers as an advantage to Spider-Man, being a native, and Kraven a foreigner, even the most experienced one anyone has ever known. It is a matter of honor to Kraven that he succeed. Spider-Man, Peter Parker, can hardly understand, but is willing to play along. He, too, has only success on his mind.

The chase is a long and harrowing one, and to Peter's horror he learns that Kraven, in his increasing unease at possible failure, has chosen to use Mary Jane as bait, thus revealing that he has discovered Spider-Man's secret identity. Failure is no longer an option, and this is no longer fun.

Still, Spidey frees MJ and bests Kraven in the final confrontation, but not before Kraven poisons himself, shamed at this first defeat. Peter races for a cure, but it's too late.

Jameson once again praises Spider-Man in the papers, but Peter can't appreciate his victory. He decides to give up being Spider-Man, until Mary Jane convinces him that he's just proven to everyone but himself that he's exactly the hero that he always hoped he'd be. So she proposes to him, and he gladly accepts.

Just Imagine Tony Creating...Spider-Man 3

2011-09-27T11:46:00.000-07:00

Norman Osborn has survived his epic battle with Otto Octavius, which is not great news for Peter Parker. Though Osborn's activities have finally been diminished, his personal connections only grow more complicated. He hires Flash Thompson for another job, and that's to kill Mary Jane. Peter's gut reaction is to try and distance himself from her, hoping it'll put Flash and Osborn off of her.

He lands an apartment with the income he's been making at the Daily Bugle, and a new friend in Gwen Stacy, whom he grows closer and closer to, at the expence of his relationship with MJ, which he's been trying to maintain as much as possible. Peter goes after Flash directly, not just for what Flash has just been contracted to do, but for vengeance against the hitman who stole all the family Peter ever knew.

He actually succeeds to this effect, but as usual, the balance always evens itself, and soon Osborn himself is back in business, and targeting not MJ but Gwen Stacy. In a climactic encounter, Osborn succeeds in murdering Gwen, and Peter's botched rescue attempt obscures what actually killed her. Osborn gets away.

MJ tries to console Peter, who quits his job at the Daily Bugle thanks to further harassment from J. Jonah Jameson, who gleefully ran an editorial definitively blaming Spider-Man for Gwen Stacy's death. Peter reluctantly moves back in with MJ, and reveals his secret to her. She convinces him that he should make one last attempt to bring Osborn to justice.

Flash Thompson, meanwhile, has been arrested for some completely unrelated, and therefore ironic, felonious activities, and realizes during his trial that he can still turn his life around, if only he can make proper atonement. Miraculously, Flash is acquitted, and then he enlists in the army, but not before making a full confession to Peter, who doesn't exactly forgive him, but at least understands when he learns of the leverage Osborn used against Flash in the form of medical bills for his father.

Finally, Peter has one final confrontation with Osborn, and in the ultimate battle between Spider-Man and the Green Goblin, Goblin opts for death rather than rescue from Peter, who can only watch as this chapter of his life finally comes to an end.

Watching from a distance? Kraven the Hunter...

Peter and Mary Jane mend their fences and make a new commitment to each other. Peter decides to give up his activities as Spider-Man as they head toward graduation and college, together.

Just Imagine Tony Creating...Spider-Man 2

2011-09-26T10:36:00.000-07:00

Peter Parker quickly finds that working for the Daily Bugle means that he's got to work for J. Jonah Jameson, the tyranical editor-in-chief of the newspaper. Domineering, demanding, and just plain mean, Jameson quickly makes Peter's life a living hell (just in case it wasn't already). He assigns Peter, just for the heck of it, the plum assignment of covering eccentric scientist Otto Octavius' upcoming press conference.

Peter already knows a great deal about Octavius, having read a great deal about him, plus heard almost as much from the jealous Norman Osborn, whose path to madness continues unabated. Peter justifiably distances himself from Osborn, just as a chance encounter with Octavius during the press conference reveals to the doctor the extent of Peter's own scientific ambitions. Octavius agrees to make Peter his lab assistant as he makes the final preparations for the debut of his robotic arm apparatus.

It's not all fun and games, though. He's successfully gotten Jameson the pictures he wants, but Peter is no closer to figuring out his relationship with Mary Jane, the girl whose house he's still staying at while attending high school. His investigations of Flash Thompson, the classmate who may have been responsible for the deaths of Aunt May and Uncle Ben and who has been absent from school since the new year began four weeks ago, have given Peter ample excuses to use his Spider-Man costume, and he's discovered he has a flair for heroics, because he really loves the spotlight. Jameson loves the pictures Peter captures of him, too, so he can run his ranting editorials against the wise-cracking, anti-authoritarian vigilante...Well, you can't have it all.

Peter's work with Octavius, however, helps keep him happy, and that feeling is contagious. MJ doesn't mind spending time with him at school now, and even outside of it, where they attend local theater productions, while MJ hopes that she can score some tips on breaking in from the stars and stagehands. He almost forgets that everyone he's ever called family is dead.

Osborn's slide to madness continues, and a lab accident results in a suit he was working on virtually taking on a life of its own, thanks to an AI program he'd installed. At first, he participates in the bank heists the AI deems necessary to replenish coffers emptied when benefactors finally gave up on him, but soon enough Osborn realizes he's enjoying himself, and that his next target is his rival, Otto Octavius.

On the eve of Otto's big triumph, Osborn, now calling himself the Green Goblin, attacks, forcing Octavius to activite his harness before he's made the final checks, and thus unleashing an entirely new menace. Peter arrives in the guise of Spider-Man, and finds that he can no longer distinguish between his one-time mentors.

In the ensuing battle, Octavius sacrifices himself so that Osborn can be defeated, leaving Peter with one final affirmation that the good fight will always be worth it, despite the cost.

Just Imagine Tony Creating...Spider-Man

2011-09-23T14:11:00.000-07:00

Peter Parker is five years old when his parents die. He doesn't know how they die, only that one day he's surrounded by their love and the next, he isn't. He knows that they've already left an indelible mark on his life, on his creative development. And that he's been left to live with his Aunt May and Uncle Ben. He's reminded daily of what he's lost, but that he still has infinitely far to go.

At school, Peter is constantly bullied by Flash Thompson, but school is also the only time he gets to interact with Mary Jane, the girl next door, and play with all the science equipment he wants. He never feels more alive, then. At home, even though Aunt May and Uncle Ben love him, they can't fill the void that was torn from him. He spends most of his time elsewhere. When he reaches high school, Peter is practically invisible, Mary Jane is unobtainable, Flash is incorrigible, and science all Peter knows. When he takes a field trip to a science museum, Peter is accidentally bitten by an irradiated spider, escaped from a nearby lab run by Norman Osborn, who works part-time at the museum.

Discovering that he has comparable abilities to the spider, Peter removes himself from his own head for the first time since he was five. He puts together a costume, and is promptly caught by his Uncle Ben, who violently disapproves. Angrily, he leaves and vows to never return. He sheepishly asks Mary Jane if he can stay at her place for a while, and she surprises him by saying yes! At school, Peter picks a fight with Flash, and gets a suspension. He wanders back to the museum, trying to figure everything out, when he comes across Norman Osborn, whom he confesses most of his problems to. Norman actually agrees to become Peter's mentor!

Things are looking up on average. Aunt May and Uncle Ben suffer an armed burglary in the meantime, which Uncle Ben is able to thwart, but the thief threatens revenge. He tries to talk to Peter about it, in the course of an intended reconciliation, but Peter will have none of it. Peter is, in fact, hanging out with Osborn when the thief makes good on his threat. Shellshocked by the news that his aunt and uncle have been murdered, Peter is even less prepared when he discovers that Osborn may have had something to do with it, thanks to an unlikely friendship with Flash Thompson, who envied Peter's time with Norman, who has always displayed an unstable psyche.

To figure it all out, Peter finally adopts the persona Uncle Ben tried to warn him about - with great power comes great responsibility - and becomes Spider-Man. Once again, life will never be the same.

Juggling his relationship with Mary Jane, his rivalry with Flash Thompson, life as Spider-Man, and the potential that Norman Osborn may be his greatest enemy, Peter Parker also attempts to secure an academic future, and now he'll have to support himself. Finding his father's old camera, he reports to the Daily Bugle as the staff's youngest photographer, armed with the knowledge that he's got New York's biggest story right under his own shirt.

Star Trek: Voyager - Banjo, Part 7 (conclusion)

2011-09-08T09:50:00.000-07:00

I suppose I’ve delayed long enough. This whole mess really started, I guess, when we encountered the second Caretaker, the one who was nothing like the one who brought us to the Delta Quadrant in the first place. This one didn’t play the banjo, I can assure you. I should know.

Originally, the Caretaker some of us have taken to calling Banjo Man introduced himself to the Starfleet crew with a simulation in which he attempted to hide among a bunch of country bumpkins as an old man playing, as you might assume, a banjo. While most of the crew, including Captain Janeway, only tangentially experienced him until he was ready to introduce himself, it was yours truly, Walter Baxter’s pleasure to be introduced earlier. I guess I was just in the right place at the right time. In fact, where everyone else was thrown for a loop by his simulation, I guess simply because I was more familiar with the scenario, I could sense that something was wrong, that it wasn’t as authentic as he might have guessed. Probably because it was my mind that he drew it from in the first place.

I can still hear the faint thoughts he must have inadvertently transmitted to me, mutterings, really. “Must put them at ease.” “Can’t let them suspect!” I only wish I could have known more of how exactly he was thinking, but he was so desperate at the time, I can’t imagine that he was really in control anymore. He’d spent four and a half millennia providing for the Ocampa after inadvertently wrecking their home world. He and his mate, the second Caretaker, had been explorers. I think a part of me, my dedication to Starfleet, imperfect as it was at the start of this crazy mission, must have touched a nerve with him. He’d found an unlikely kindred spirit. That’s the only way I can explain it. He never had to tell me what he was. I found myself drawn to him.

I could sense, as I said, that something was wrong from the start. The moment I arrived in that country farm, I guess I started looking around, until I caught the element that didn’t belong. Much as he tried to appear otherwise, Banjo Man didn’t belong. He’d tried too hard. Where the other elements of the situation were desperate for my attention, he attempted to be inconspicuous, but then, he’d taken the form based on my mentor, my friend, and my father. How would he not have guessed I’d figure him out? My father never approved of my decision to join Starfleet. He wanted me to be a gymnast (which is probably the reason I pushed myself so hard in the early months of our voyage home). He’d play his banjo as an accompaniment to my floor exercises, playing faster the more he thought I needed to concentrate. I’d constantly rebel. I’d literally bounce off the walls. He died of a heart attack the day I started at Starfleet Academy.

Banjo Man had a pained expression in his eyes, and that’s what gave him away. I’m not going to say he took the form of my father, but there was more than enough resemblance. I wanted to ask him so many questions, but I didn’t have the heart. The truth is, I didn’t have that much more experience with him than anyone else. It was the second Caretaker, Suspiria, who communicated more directly with me, has made me rethink all of this. The encounter with her was a little more routine for a seasoned Starfleet officer. It seems to be standard material for star voyagers to confront beings of terrible power who enjoy abusing it. They never seem to realize how human they’re being. Suspiria didn’t play the banjo, but she did understand that a link had been formed between me and her departed mate. She was slower to reveal her hand to the rest of the crew than Banjo Man had been, which left all the more time to torment me.

She accused me of killing the Caretaker. “Caretaker,” for the record, was never a term I used for Suspiria. She’d taken some Ocampa with her, helped them revisit the vast potential of their ancestors, but she was only using them. She wanted to find her own way home. I don’t think it exists anymore. I think she and Banjo Man were the last of their race, and that I inadvertently helped her realize it. She wasn’t very appreciative. I still don’t know how I came to learn it myself. I guess it became intuitive. If Banjo Man had had the power to contact his own people, he could have died happy. He had been anything but, and that’s, ultimately, what helped our crew overcome Suspiria.

But it didn’t help us get home, obviously. We’re only at the beginning of that journey, and I have no idea if I’m ever going to see home again. I stopped visiting the gymnasium. I should probably say now that Banjo Man left a gift behind for me, and I’ve been using it more and more lately, probably ever since I switched career fields. I find it soothes me, even though I’m not any good at it.

Well, you can’t have everything…

END

Star Trek: Voyager - Banjo, Part 6

2011-09-01T15:17:00.000-07:00

There was one particular event early in our so-called voyage home that stands out, mostly because, if everything had played out the way it seemed initially, we’d be home by now. I’m talking about the discovery of the wormhole. I’m talking about our unlikely discussions with a Romulan.

A lot of Starfleet officers have years of study about the Vulcan/Romulan dynamic, since it’s required study at the Academy, with the option for more advanced classes past the mandatory first-year lessons taught invariably by Saavik. I happen to have spent my whole tenure in one of her classrooms each semester. Vulcans are hot, so sue me! I hear she hooked up with Kirk’s kid, before he died in the Genesis incident. She likes humans. Always seemed to give me a little hope. But I was at least as interested in her lectures. When everyone eventually learned the truth about Tuvok, I had a little more respect for him. He seemed to blend a lot more of the Vulcan/Romulan personality than most people give him credit for; logical all the way, but also extremely pragmatic. I switched to the security field in part because I wanted to understand him better. I’m not sure I’ve managed it yet.

Anyway, I was especially curious about his reaction to our unlikely Romulan friend, but more than usual, he seemed to keep his reactions close to the vest, even for a Vulcan. Telek, that is to say the Romulan, eventually agreed to do all he could for us, which was unusual enough, because Romulans view the Federation at best as an impediment, and at worst, from the very beginning, as collaborators with their sworn enemies, their own cousins. I think it was because he himself was a scientist, like Janeway, first and foremost, that he held any sympathy for us at all. I should say, that’s how I thought initially. Later, when the truth was revealed, after we’d failed and after we learned he was from twenty years in the past, I suspect he must have known, or suspected his fate all along. That was the only reason he humored us at all. He was curious.

Maybe that’s not fair. I asked Tuvok about it, first chance I got, which was months later, after everyone seemed to have forgotten about it, but I knew he hadn’t. Tuvok doesn’t forget anything. It isn’t just about his long Vulcan life, or his discipline. He remembers, and he files everything away in that brilliant mind of his. He knows before anyone else the likely outcome of any given event, and it’s nothing to do with statistical probabilities. He’s a student of behavior. I suspect he knew we would all end up here long before anyone could have suspected a thing. I think he half-banked on it. He’s not your regular Vulcan. He rebels in small ways, and then again, sometimes in pretty large ways. Who’s to say he didn’t have any readings, or reports, about what might have awaited the Maquis ship in the Badlands? He punishes himself all the time, for all the ways he doesn’t fit in. Being stranded in the Delta Quadrant would be just another calculation in that regard. He’d still be young enough to enjoy his family when he got back…

I’m sorry, I think too much into things, sometimes. I admire him. Banjo Man, on the other hand, all the Caretakers…Maybe it’s time. Maybe I’m ready to talk about that now…

Star Trek: Voyager - Banjo, Part 5

2011-08-25T14:57:00.000-07:00

Even Starfleet officers tend to think of normal in exactly the kind of why you’d expect. “Normal” is exactly the firsthand experience you grew up with, and everything else is anything but. In theory we’re supposed to have dedicated our lives to exploring, to eradicate once and more all any meaningful definition of “normal”…but the truth is, we’re just as petty as the next guy. We want everything to be identifiable, to be interesting, sure, but in a word, safe. It’s an embarrassing admission, and by no means do I want you to assume it belongs exclusively to yours truly, Walter Baxter, but it’s as universal a truth as you’re likely to find within the ranks of the venerated Starfleet.

I try to look back at its history and try to discover where it all began, and I always fail. I know plenty of people who like to believe that Starfleet began with James T. Kirk, but that’s simply not true. He wasn’t even the original commander of the Enterprise, and I’d say its previous captain, Christopher Pike, had a far more interesting fate, voluntarily stranded amongst telepathic aliens who shaped Pike’s illusions to suit their own aims. Kirk died recently. It’s a little difficult to explain, but I kind of respect it. He gave up a similar delusion he never asked for, in order to save the universe, one last time. It’s probably the only real respectable act of his career, if you ask me. He was always about bravado. He owns the most cherished ego in Starfleet history, but maybe in another life, he was a better man. No, Kirk’s not the place to start. There’s also Jonathan Archer, captain of the original Enterprise, who stumbled his way to helping found the United Federation of Planets, the wider organization Starfleet ended up serving under, inadvertently setting one precedent after another, at a time when humans found very little respect among other cultures, least of all the Vulcans. I’d say maybe that’s when it all began. Vulcans hated us. We decided to like ourselves all the more in return. It’s true humans founded Starfleet, but that doesn’t necessarily explain why they still make up the bulk of the fleet.

No, “normal” means human, the human experience. In a lot of ways, Starfleet is about making everything feel a little more human, even the incredibly alien things. I’m as guilty as the rest of them. Hell, the Maquis were a bunch of Federation colonists who reacted so poorly to the Cardassian War, even though they had blatantly settled near Cardassian space, that they rejected their Federation membership, became rebels, and even managed to recruit from within Starfleet. Now that I’ve set the context, can you really find that so hard to believe? So in many ways, it really wasn’t such a difficult thing to accept those Maquis into the Voyager crew. They weren’t as different as they seemed.

A lot of Starfleet thought is dedicated to its own myth, that its core values interpret “normal” more liberally than most people. Truth is, Starfleet is a conservative organization disguised in liberal language, and I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, because it allows a lot of moderate thinkers to mistakenly embrace it, and thus blur those lines a little. I like to think I’m one of those people, even though I’m constantly battling with myself. Take, for instance, the Ocampan, Kes by name, we took aboard thanks to Mr. D.

Ocampans live for nine years. It’s such an absurdly brief lifespan many of us didn’t believe it when we were first told. That’s the whole point I’ve been trying to reach. I learned a great deal about why they die so young from Banjo Man, that they became so reliant on his assistance that they simply gave up actively participating in their own lives, giving up incredible telepathic abilities in the bargain. A risk-free life is apparently a short one (though a risk-filled one is, too). Some of the other members of the crew learned some of it on their own, and that only added to their dubiousness. I know when Kes actively defended the EMH to me, my first thought was to dismiss her beliefs, simply because her very existence seemed absurd to me.

As I think I’ve noted, a lot of the crew doesn’t entirely respect the holographic doctor we’d been forced to rely on, simply because, technically speaking, he doesn’t exist. He’s just a combination of programming and photons, a personality meant to give the appearance of consciousness. Kes was the first one to champion his existence on any other level. I believed she was spouting nonsense. I knew all about the android Data who’s been serving with Picard for years, but there are plenty of individuals in Starfleet who don’t acknowledge even his right to autonomy, even though he serves aboard the flagship (also called, conveniently enough, the Enterprise); by the time I took the Voyager assignment, life of that kind should have been old hat.

Some of the crew also likes to complain (as does Mr. D!) about all the excursions Janeway likes to take, exploring just like we’re on a regular cruise, which sometimes gets us into trouble, into all kinds of weird situations. We encounter aliens like the Vidiians, and some of us stop believing in an benevolent deity, at least those who believed in one to begin with. The longer I’ve been aboard this ship, the more the captain has me believing in the Starfleet ideal again. What can I say? It seems to be a veritable conspiracy. But then, I know plenty of others for whom the opposite is true. I call them reactionaries. Maybe I really am becoming a better person. I consider Kes “normal.” I’m accepting a lot of things as normal these days. I switched career tracks to security, not out of fear, or self-preservation, but in the hope that we’ll all survive this. I know what people think of me, what my reputation is. I hope to make good.

Star Trek: Voyager - Banjo, Part 4

2011-08-18T15:09:00.001-07:00

Being something of an outsider among outsiders, my regular friends aboard ship can be a little tricky to cultivate. I want to keep tabs of everything that’s going on, but I don’t want to seem as I’m just somewhere for the sake of being there. No one wants to be a busybody, and certainly not on a voyage like this. Things are stressful enough as they are. A lot of the crew tends to keep to itself. It doesn’t seem like that should be the case, because it’s a small crew, and we’ve demonstrated in the past that we’ve become quite dedicated to each other, despite certain opportunities that’ve come along that might have allowed those less satisfied than others to seek other opportunities. It might sound to some as I’m talking specifically about Mortimer Harren, here, but I’m actually thinking about Lyndsay Ballard.

Despite being a close personal friend of Harry Kim, Lyndsay is about as visible as the Delaney sisters among the general population. The Delaneys are at least notorious, not just because of Harry and Tom Paris, but because they have the most obvious and personal relationship onboard, and truth be told, more than a few of us have been jealous at various times. Lyndsay, however, is crazy, and I mean that as nicely as possible. She’s the only crew member I know who actually seems to like the Talaxian’s cooking. If you tasted it you’d share my alarm! She’s one of Torres’s many engineers, and is in constant competition with Joe Carey, Vorik, and I don’t know how many others, even Hogan and Jonas, I guess, to somehow impress her, as if they don’t care about Captain Janeway’s opinion. In any other ship, it’s always the captain everyone cares about. Not this one. I can’t figure it out myself.

Lyndsay spends so much time in the Talaxian’s mess hall, we all think she’s in competition with Chell to take it over. I’ve tasted Chell’s cooking. I’d rather take my chances with Lyndsay. We’ve shared replicator rations a few times, and we both prefer an athlete’s diet. What could we possibly lose? Then again, she’s one of the most disorganized people I know, and maybe that’s why her profile is so low, because hardly anyone can stand to be around her long enough to appreciate her potential. She’s so brimming with energy, and has such a positive attitude, I wish she could better understand what she’s capable of accomplishing. I think she would easily fit in with some random alien crew, if any of us ever found ourselves in such a scenario. She could adapt. Here she’s just stifled. Here you either find a specific role, or you risk getting left behind, which again is a little irony that’s lost on few of us.

I might as well spend some time talking about the Talaxian. What an annoying creature! Almost from the moment we were stranded in the Delta Quadrant, we found ourselves saddled with this appalling little alien, who took it upon himself to join our crew and insinuate himself into every conceivable role not previously assigned by regular Starfleet regulations. Thanks a lot, buddy! His name is Neelix, but it should really be Mr. D. I have many things “D” stands for, and none of them are pleasant, and I like to amuse myself by cycling through as many of them as he manages to make apparent during any particular encounter. He’s not really too bad, though. He’s a lot more useful than most of the crew gives him credit for, especially in a predicament like this. He’s a guide where we obviously needed one, even if he’s not the guide anyone would have selected given any real options. I actually kind of like him, to be honest. He’s fearless, not in the ways you ordinarily think about, but in the sense that he doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks about him. On occasion, we’ve gotten to see a more vulnerable side to him. Let me rephrase that: On very rare occasions…But seriously, I’d like to spend more time with him. I’d also like to see what an airlock looks like on the other side.

Just kidding! Love you, Mr. D.! The plus side is the Ocampan he brought with him, but I will probably talk about her next time. She brings up a lot of complicated matters, not the least of which I’m pretty sure I saw her during my encounter with the Caretaker. Didn’t know anything about that one, did you?

Star Trek: Voyager - Banjo, Part 3

2011-08-11T14:42:00.000-07:00

I have to confess I had no real context on how to react to the Maquis when we were first forced together, as many of the Starfleet officers initially considered it. While their own captain gladly acquiesced to Janeway’s ideas, there were others, like Kurt Bendera, who seemed to relish every opportunity at the slightest sign of differences. I knew many of the Maquis had served in Starfleet, either in attending the Academy, or in Chakotay’s case a considerable amount of time in the regular fleet, but like a lot of the people I tended to talk with, I knew them best as the rebels who’d been making Federation policy extremely difficult for the last few years.

Bendera wasn’t an instigator so much as the perfect accomplice. He was more than willing to join in on any fight that might break out. He actively cheered when B’Elanna Torres struck Joe Carey, something that would have led to court martial in a heartbeat, if only we’d been several dozen lightyears closer to home. The one thing I can say about Kurt was that he was a good hand in the Talaxian’s mess hall. Joe had nothing nice to say about him, but I was surprised when Harry Kim of all people came to his defense. Harry had been tangled up in the Caretaker affair a little more directly than most of us, and he shared that experience with Torres, the half-Klingon hothead Janeway made chief engineer. I thought that was it, the only reason Harry would care to be sympathetic, but then I found out he was more experienced with Maquis history than I’d previously suspected. When he was attending the Academy, Harry wrote an editorial for the school paper about the budding Maquis rebellion, something no one else in Starfleet had dared do, or would have been aware of. I’d only heard about them a few months before the Voyager assignment. Like I said, I assumed like everyone else our real mission would be against the Dominion. Voyager itself was more a combat ship than a research vessel. It seems weird to say that now, but I came to appreciate that fact more and more, especially with every clash against the Kazon, the Vidiians, even the weird alien phenomena we seem destined to find at every turn.

Harry knew about all the unrest in the colony worlds. Plenty of us in Starfleet knew all about Cardassians already, with the almost-constant conflict we enjoyed for decades, but few of us could actually be considered veterans with real experience. Harry didn’t have that experience either, obviously, but he was a keen student in almost every regard, and he was a great observer, apparently right from the start. He was probably the first voice to say anything positive about the Maquis, which isn’t to say he was any more comfortable, on the whole, with them aboard his own ship than the rest of us. He was always able to handle it better.

Joe and I, even Hogan, we all had our problems. If it wasn’t Bendera, it was Michael Jonas, or creepy Suder. Seska, ironically, was someone we thought we could trust. How to even begin with her? For starters, she was like to opposite of Tuvok. Neither of them were what they seemed to be, among Chakotay’s Maquis crew. Tuvok was a Starfleet spy. Seska was a Cardassian spy who’d disguised herself as a Bajoran. Try to figure that one out! If anyone has a problem with Chakotay, it’s that he still lets Seska get under his skin. This is a bad thing, because she defected to the Kazon months ago. As if anyone needed another reason to dislike the Kazon! Go wash your hair! Oh, right, those thugs consider water to be a luxury. Figures.

Sometimes I try to imagine how the Maquis considered the Caretaker. Did they find him disguised as a Banjo Man, too? Were they transported to the same illusion as we were? Sometimes I wish I’d gotten Tuvok’s assignment. He couldn’t possibly have enjoyed it. What am I saying! Actually, the more Maquis stories I hear, the more I wish I could have enjoyed it, I really do. Sometimes I think this whole experience is the aftermath of an even greater story, and we’re all just getting a lot of time to process it. How do we even manage? Hardly anyone talks about the Caretaker, except in relation to his mate. Talk about your nightmares! I actually had quite a few of them, but again, I can’t rush into all of that. I’ve got a lot to process myself. Most people take me for something of a goof, the guy who keeps injuring himself in the gymnasium, who’s always up for every challenge, restless, careless, ideally suited for this predicament. I don’t honestly know how much of that’s changed, or if it’s even accurate. The truth is, I’m leery of admitting much. Janeway is a little like that. She doesn’t trust that holographic doctor any more than I do. She’s just better at pretending otherwise. The Ocampan keeps trying to get me to feel otherwise about the EMH, but I saw that program in its development stage. I know what I’m dealing with. Why should I humor it? I know plenty of people on this ship who could transfer to the medical staff, and who I’d trust a great deal more.

I’ve got to end this entry, though. I’ve got some holodeck time. Where did I put that banjo?

Star Trek: Voyager - Banjo, Part 2

2011-08-02T15:27:00.000-07:00

One of the first things we all did when we got here, aside from a third of us dying, was be transported to the Caretaker’s array. Most of the crew was thrown for a loop by what we found when we got there, but believe it or not, I’d attended one of those country festivals in my hometown before reporting to Voyager. It was the last “normal” thing I ever did, in fact, normal to me as a regular event in my hometown, anyway, something I always looked forward to, even after enlisting in Starfleet. No matter my assignment, I always managed to make it back home for the Cornhusker’s Rodeo. Most of my family couldn’t muster the same kind of excitement, especially after twenty years living there and experiencing it annually, like clockwork, but I came to accept it as part of my residential identity, which became more important when I found myself surrounded more by stars than farmland.

I entered Starfleet bent on making that kind of impact. Most captains aren’t all that well-known beyond the crews they command, but if I was able to obtain even that kind of profile, I figured I would have been satisfied, and never thought twice about it, until Voyager. It wasn’t until the botched attempt to integrate the Sikarian space-folding trajector that I realized I wanted to switch career fields. Subsequent encounters with the Kazon didn’t help, either. I quickly traded ego for security.

A lot of that thought process had to do with Captain Janeway. I haven’t been too kind to her so far, but there’s a lot to be said for someone who was able to keep this crew together even this long, the fact that she was able to convince a bunch of Maquis to obey her, or rather work with her, when she had no one to support her. A lot of what defines who I am would never have believed any of this was possible, and most of it is because of Janeway.

To start with, she quickly realized that this was an extraordinary mission, even before any of us realized it was anything but ordinary. Her security chief had been placed deep undercover with the Maquis, and her one goal was originally to retrieve him. She chose to facilitate its success by relying on Tom Paris, a Starfleet and Maquis failure who happened to be the son of her mentor. I should have known she’d be uniquely capable of figuring out this situation when she began placing the emphasis on family long before it was necessary. That security chief I just mentioned was a Vulcan named Tuvok, and he just happened to be a longtime friend of Janeway’s. She somehow is able to be objective and subjective at the same time. She still saw potential in Paris. Most of us only saw a bad echo of Nick Locarno, one of the most infamous cadets in Starfleet history.

I’m going to end up sounding like I’m contradicting myself, the more I continue this log, but I guess that’s how we normally experience things. The more I think about it, the more it all makes sense.

I do want to get back to the reception we received at the Caretaker’s array, but there’s so much to say about the family Janeway helped shape. Paris had started on the road to redemption by befriending a green ensign by the name of Harry Kim while awaiting final transport on Deep Space Nine. I had just been talking with the late Lt. Stadi, who had the privilege of escorting Paris to the ship. She told me all about Tom’s more lecherous impulses. She also told me about Harry Kim’s budding career, how he’d graduated top of his class in ship design. He probably knew Voyager better than I did, even though I had several months head start on him.

It’s true that I got to know Joe Carey pretty well, but I could see why Janeway would tend to go with another option for chief engineer given the opportunity. He was a competent engineer, but he was rarely up for a challenge. I should know. I used to care about challenges, before I was overwhelmed by them, before I became a member of the Voyager crew. It takes a special breed to thrive in the way a ship in this position needs. There came a point where everyone was given the chance to leave ship, to settle in a human colony, and word got around to me that a lot of people expected that I would take that chance. And in many ways, I would have done so, in a heartbeat, if only it had been five years earlier, five weeks earlier, five days. I began rethinking everything, you could say, the moment the new crew came together, with its singular mission, to get back home. It sapped my greater instincts, you could say. Where’s the challenge when the most you want out of life is to get back to the familiar?

I know, it sounds ridiculous. We have a long journey ahead of us, with plenty of possibility and danger inherent in that journey. That’s plenty challenge right there. But there’s a difference, I learned, between someone who sets a long-term goal and another person dedicated to the short-term. I’m a short-term kind of guy. I think that’s the difference. Janeway realized her kind of people were long-term. She had that friendship with the Vulcan, the project that was Tom Paris, and even the task of integrating crews that until recently hadn’t seen eye-to-eye in years. We realized we’d need to operate the short-term Emergency Medical Hologram long-term, too! How much metaphorical can you get? To say nothing about the Ocampan girl we took on with the Talaxian. Do you know Ocampans only typically live nine years? What am I saying? Of course you don’t. We’re the first ones to have ever heard of Ocampans, Talaxians, Kazon, Vidiians, Sikarians…In a short time, we’ve already made intimate contact with a record number of new alien races. You’d need a whole set of Xindi to match our record!

The Caretaker though…I think I was among the first to actually encounter him. He appeared as an old man playing a banjo. He reminded me of my own mentor, someone I left behind years ago. To be more accurate, my own Banjo Man died ten years ago, to the day. I suppose that’s why I’m writing this now. I owe it to him, to his memory.

Star Trek: Voyager - Banjo, Part 1

2011-07-25T12:32:00.000-07:00

…

I’m sorry, it continues like that for some time My name is Walter Baxter. It’s been suggested to me that I begin a personal log. It’s not something I’ve felt compelled to do previously, even though it’s pretty standard for Starfleet officers, and I’ve served for almost a half dozen years. I accidentally intercepted one of the captain’s efforts to transmit a letter home, which she’s done as far as I can tell since we landed in the Delta Quadrant. She will never admit it, but I think she went with the Maquis for chief engineer because she thought she had a better chance at succeeding with a slightly more unorthodox mind running the ship than Joe, or if we’re being formal Lt. Carey, whom I’ve known since the Academy. If I’m going to keep this log, then I might as well be as forthright as possible. Joe would have been the better choice.

Things’ve been weird since we got here, but it’s not like they were any more by-the-book before. Unlike most of the original crew, I boarded ship at its launch. I interacted a lot more with the late Commander Taylor, while Captain Janeway was off retrieving Tom Paris. There’s a lot I could say about Paris, and I’ll probably get around to it, but not right now. Taylor was a consummate professional. I trusted his instincts. It took time before I could say the same about Janeway. None of us knew our orders, and I know for a fact that this included Taylor, since I worked closely with him in the early days. He’d promised me a lot of things for that kind of loyalty. Priority transmissions, for instance, so I could keep up with events back on Earth, so I could keep up with the teammates I’d left behind. Everyone used to tell me that I would’ve excelled at the Olympics. I never had the chance. I was supposed to be back in a matter of months. So much for that.

I never could make sense of what we were originally supposed to accomplish. The Federation had just made contact with the Dominion in the Gamma Quadrant, and that’s what everyone thought we were being deployed to investigate. We’d all heard about the battleship assigned to Deep Space Nine, but hardly anyone knew much more about it. We all assumed that we were bound for a little reconnaissance. When the news spread about Paris, about Janeway’s apparent vested interest in him, some of us started to investigate. Paris had been a member of the Maquis, for a few weeks. I’d known a few people who’d ended up with that bunch. One of them had been a friend, Jarvin. I hadn’t heard anything about him in several years, though. Little did I know that I was hurtling toward a reunion.

If I had to count the number of times I grew frustrated aboard this ship, once it became clear that almost nothing was the way it seemed, I would probably have been able to trade the resulting tally for enough latinum to buy my own ship, maybe even buy my way home, if that were possible. It took being transported halfway across the galaxy to learn we were always intended to retrieve another of Janeway’s friends, the chief of security, Tuvok. If I had to pick a Vulcan to count on, I would’ve gone with Vorik. He’s more fun. I don’t expect that everyone shares that opinion, but then, I don’t think most of the crew knows him the way I do. At least not yet.

There were a lot of complaints from a great many of the people I called friends, when Janeway made her decision to destroy the array. I’d already lost friends. I didn’t have a lot more to lose. There were even more when we realized she’d agreed to accept the remaining Maquis as part of the crew. I understood that we needed their numbers to keep the ship operational. I’m a pragmatic kind of guy. I like a challenge. Most of it was though to accept, but life aboard Voyager actually became a lot more fun for me, the more circumstances started to solidify. I’m okay admitting that now.

That’s to say nothing about the Talaxian. What’s to say about Talaxians? What’s to say about strange aliens, for that matter, who pretend to be human, and play you banjo music? All these months later, and that’s the part I’m still trying to make sense of. Give me a moment to compose my thoughts…

Star Trek: Voyager - Banjo prologue

2011-07-18T12:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Mark,
It’s been more than a year now, since my ship became stranded in the Delta Quadrant. I have to believe that someday you’ll read this, and that if I’m very lucky, you’ll even understand, and we might even be able to salvage our relationship. I have to be reasonable, though. I fully expect that in time, if this situation persists for as long as I suspect it will, you’ll have moved on. I want to assure you that I haven’t come to this conclusion lightly. You have been my rock, and without you, I really have gone floating into space, just as you always used to joke.

I have struggled throughout this year with the decision I felt was of absolute necessity, mandated by all my principles, and the duty I swore to uphold as a Starfleet officer, the destruction of the array that originally brought Voyager more than 70,000 lightyears away from home. I wish I could express to you how I came to make the decision to destroy the array without calling on Starfleet ideals, that I did it somehow to protect you, everyone we’ve ever known and loved. But it was never that simple, and my life has grown only more complicated since.

Coming soon - "Banjo" from Star Trek: Voyager

2011-07-15T11:51:00.000-07:00

I've been known to write my fair share of Star Trek fiction in the past, and continuing that tradition here at Sigild V has been an ambition from the start. So it's finally going to happen...

Yoti's Dream, Part IV

2011-06-28T11:31:00.000-07:00

Friends, it only got worse from there!

I don't know how to begin, but after a number of years in this predicament, I ended up working in a bookstore, which at first seemed to be a perfectly ideal scenario. The reality of it, the reality of working in a bookstore, of the 21st century, however, bit me once more!

You would not even begin to believe the horrors possible in a 21st century bookstore. To give you an idea, a bookstore, and apparently these people took great pride in distinguishing between larger and smaller ones, independently-owned and national establishments, was operated and patroned by the very opposite species of man you would previously have imagined. I can't describe it any differently and not cause you to fall into convulsions!

Those who worked in them didn't care about books, and those who shopped in them couldn't seem to have bothered learning anything about books! It was as if these bookstores had been completely abandoned by anyone who might have found them useful, and left to those who could only fidget around, bumping into one another and demanding instant gratification, ignoring all reason, all semblance of intellect, and generally behaving as if the bookstore were anything but a place of general enlightenment!

How exactly does a bookstore become so removed from the basest of concepts one might associate with academia? When academia itself has failed the population, and when that has happened, the blind masses abandon all hope and revert to their worst impulses, even, yes, in a bookstore. I cannot say how this was allowed to happen! But all the same, friends, I assure you that this was my authentic experience, not some wild dream or hallucination, despite what others have told you.

I can't remember how exactly I escaped, only that I did, or perhaps it might be said that indeed I did wake up. I don't mean to confuse you, but I beg you, don't ever repeat my mistakes! Learn! Keep learning! If this whole episode how sounded curious to you, I hope it only spurs your curiosity!

Yoti's Dream, Part III

2011-06-27T12:40:00.000-07:00

One of the many rituals of this society was the acquiring of a license to drive what they routinely used for personal transportation, what they called an automobile in so many words.

One would suspect that this would be a fairly routine matter, but friends, one would be wrong! They created all manner of rules and regulations, to the point where it was almost easier to avoid the whole mess entirely, except that in many ways, you would most certainly been an outcast without one of these cars at your disposal.

This license was something you were expected to study for, incredibly, at the very same time you were attending classes. If you didn't get it then, you would probably be very sorry. I cannot begin to explain, without lengthy details that will only bore you beyond comprehension. As if I were not straining credulity already!

The short version of the process for obtaining this license is that you were to study all the rules you would be expected to follow, and then take a road test, where you were to demonstrate your ability to just that. I will not repeat that. This was the way it was really done! There were many people on the road who blatantly ignored all those rules, who nonetheless had gotten their licenses, presumably by faking their normal behavior for the purposes of passing the test. Can you imagine! The only way these people were then corrected was by random and very seldomly-administered citations. I am not making it up!

Those who weren't so good at taking tests, well, it was very hard for them indeed!

I can't dwell on this subject for too long, and doubtless you prefer it that way. How did these people survive so long? Ironically enough, I would suggest by sheer accident!

Yoti's Dream, Part II

2011-06-25T13:36:00.000-07:00

Scarcely had I arrived, and in a far younger body than I would previously have guessed, but friends, I found myself remanded to an academic academy. I will spare you all the details about the foster homes, the foster families, the indignity of not being accepted for the independent individual I knew I was. It was in the school where I suffered the worst horrors.

Can you imagine...! Each class seemed to demand greater and greater amounts of my time, not simply what could be experienced with the teacher actually present, but assignments meant to strengthen the knowledge I was supposed to gain. This would have been excellent, if the teacher attempted to teach any of their subject at all, rather than fixate on the same details day after day, repeating what we were supposed to do at home, and then punishing us if we failed to understand how any of it was supposed to matter. There were plenty of subjects with required reading, the memorizing of material needed to pass tests and graduate at the end of the year.

Friends, I tell you the worst of it was the literature classes! Somehow these teachers had gotten it into their heads that their books were just the same as the textbooks in History or Science, that if we simply read at the established pace and listened to all the required interpretations, not only would we end up appreciating these books, we would eagerly invite the same experience on our personal time. As if there were such a thing! This was not a time to use our free moments repeating the dreaded exercises of the classroom, but for rebellion!

Rebellion! What else is youth for! Except to learn the drudgery that awaits us in maturity! Books had always been a refuge for me, before this trip through time, and yet, experiencing this notion of how one was supposed to appreciate them, made books less friends and more a source of endless misery. There was no sense of universal understanding in these stories, unless that sense was defiance! Burn all the books!

For years and years I was caught in this loop. I thought it would never end!

Yoti's Dream, Part I

2011-06-10T11:42:00.001-07:00

I swear to you friends, I have not fabricated a thing about the tale I'm about to unfold, unbelievable though most of it will be. They did warn you about time travel in school, though, so you'll have to at least keep that in mind. The only thing is, they never warned you about this...

Again, I must urge caution. This is not a dream, though in years to come you will no doubt tell your kids it was. I would rather believe that myself, and perhaps in time, I'll believe it exactly that way. For now, though, know that it's all real, it's all true.

You see, I traveled back to the 21st century. I know! They warned about that time period plenty of times, quite specifically! But like the ignorant snot I was, I never believed them. Couldn't be true. Exactly what I'm trying to tell you now. I found out the hard way.

Now, I don't know how many of you have ever taken a time trip, but one of the first things you'll learn when you do is that it will definitely play tricks on you. The you that you find at your destination won't exactly be the one you were when you left. I mean, specifically, that you'll seem younger. I was thirty years old when I left, but I found that, physically, I was a great deal younger on the other side. I was a boy of thirteen! Can you believe it? Those of you who have never done it, of course you won't. It sounds like nonsense!

But it was true all the same, and believe me, being thirteen in the 21st century was not exactly the ideal. I don't want to get into it too quickly, the grim details will come soon enough, so I don't want to outright shock you. There's no need. It's better this way, trust me.

But it was shock enough, just me finding myself that age again! I was well past it when I'd left, enough that it was a distant memory, but a more or less clear one all the same. I hadn't been eager to revisit it! But then, I didn't have much say in the matter. There I was, just emerged, and already struggling to adjust!

It would only get worse from there.

Coming soon!

2011-06-02T13:52:00.000-07:00

Yoti's Dream, a tale of a time traveler from the future in our modern world...

Forbidden History

2011-05-31T11:25:00.000-07:00

Even though he had every gift he possibly wanted, Sterling Castro found himself to be a cursed man. He had the ability to travel backward and forward in time, as well as visit parallel realities. It was nothing he had to exert any real effort to achieve, it was just something he could do, traverse the fourth dimension, as naturally as you cross a street.

That being said, there were rules and restrictions that he had to follow, and even though by nature these things meant nothing to him (it was very rare for a person to have such ready access to 4D; usually special training equipment and training were required, and barring that, the right connections), Sterling found himself bound by them. He found himself frequently depressed, suicidal. It wasn't the ability that was denied him, but rather the full potential of it. Yes, he could be happy taking small trips, stealing away for moments at a time. That was not the issue. He saw that there was so much he could do if he was simply allowed to, things most people could not even begin to imagine. Even explaining in some tiny example would be useless. People had plenty of examples. They had more reasons to retain their apathy toward others.

He considered the ironies, sometimes. Suppose someone might one day vist him, except if he were dead, they couldn't, could they? They might choose an earlier moment, or simply choose an alternate Sterling Castro, but he himself would never know, would he? Suppose, if he held out, he might find his way made easier, whether through his own efforts, or if the current regime was ever finally overturned, not just questioned or sidetracked or rivaled, but really, completely rebuked, not by some worse entity, but for the better.

For the better...It could happen. That was the gift of tomorrow, and the curse. It was the future, which Sterling knew, but could not embrace. The past was one long example of the oppression he faced every day. What could he possibly do? Who really cared? More and more, he found himself spending his time with these thoughts. Wasting it?

Facts in the Disappearance of Elmer Haskell

2011-05-27T14:00:00.000-07:00

1. Elmer was in high school.

2. Elmer wrote for the school paper.

3. Elmer had been in the midst of the scoop of his young life.

4. Elmer hadn't told anyone what that scoop entailed.

5. Elmer believed that he could see ghosts.

Tony's publishing news!

2011-05-26T13:18:00.001-07:00

That's the cover for Villainy, the new anthology from Hall Bros. Entertainment. It's being released on June 9th. This is relevant because I've got a short story included, "Last Ride Out of Liberation," a sort of hard-boiled noir, which should be fun to read. And when I say "short" story, I really do mean "short." But still, should be fun.

The other bit of relevance is that HBE and I have just signed a contract for Yoshimi, a book that will be released next summer. It's the story of a girl thrust into the world of maturity, with samurai swords, a tale of vengeance, a mad dash around the world, and a love story, too. But it does not have robots. Yet.

Switch

2011-05-20T14:34:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to sit here and lie to you. Back in my day, and from my own experiences, it's not as if everything was perfect. When I was good at something, I not only took pride in it, but I felt comfortable saying that in a small way, that ability defined me. When I wasn't good at something, I could become embarrassed. The thing was, I became good at the things I took the time to learn. Anything else, all the little random things, I either picked up or just never found the time to master. Then there were, of course, some that I absolutely didn't care about, plain and simple, but I would never dismiss those things out of hand, but after thorough reflection, which I might have shared with anyone, if they'd bothered to ask.

Lots of people around me seemed to choose other means to conduct themselves. How I like to consider it now is this: most people aren't very social, but the way they get around this is by tangentially surrounding themselves with those who share their interests, so they can talk and not worry what the others will think. It's an alienation that's self-perpetuating, and so confusing that very people people realize that it's happening. It's why any social group is prone to growing and shrinking for arbitrary reasons. Not many of the members are all that invested in that group. How could they be?

But the problem today is that our children are being wired to switch these impulses on and off on a whim. They have a bracelet that receives and gives signals in direct connection with the brain. They have anything in mind that they simply are not interested in, or suspect that this might be the case, they can block their synapses from even processing it. Complete efficiency. No more doubt, no more chance to wonder if they might actually find that thing useful, or even interesting. It makes school so much easier, when a teacher can just see who is switched on and who isn't. What're they gonna do? It's considered a civil liberty.

Plenty of studies have called the switch into question, and charts have been made and percentages calculated, relative to the cognitive development and prospects and trends for the future, but no one seems to care. Call me crazy, but I can see what's wrong fairly easily, and I'm just not in favor of the switch. My grandkids, should they ever appear, they won't have it, if I have any say in the matter. Maybe we'll become a sort of hermit clan, the modern Amish. Most people consider the switch to be so routine, they don't even bother thinking about it. Maybe they have the idea of the switch itself blocked.

It's a giant leap back, or maybe just another inevitability. I don't blame technology. I blame people who adopt it simply as a matter of course. I blame the social pressure to conform. I blame people already being inherently stupid enough, without anything needed to reinforce it. But what do I know? I've always been in the minority, and maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. Maybe in the grand scheme, my kind does win. I'd like to see the sociohistorians take a crack at that.

The Uncluttered Lime

2011-05-18T13:53:00.000-07:00

He found that he could rarely predict what a human might be thinking. Most of the time, he simply performed what was required of him, and since it take very little to accomplish, he retreated back into the recesses of his inner processors to round out the rest of it. He was very used to this by now.

Since he weighed very little, even though he had been built into the approximation of a typical human, he could perform the tricks very easily, especially when the pilot got the crop duster swooping in exactly the loop necessary to not only give the crowd the show it expected, but what he himself needed to make contact again with the wing, which he would leap off of and perform a somersault, or whatever else might look interesting. He did this with tedious repetition, and that's all his owner could think of to do with him. At least he had the understanding that other robots were treated much the same, though there weren't as many as someone from the distant past might have thought, when the idea of his existence had seemed so exotic.

He was aware that he had not been the originator of this routine, that when mistakes happened, it was the robot who was scrapped, if an accident hadn't already irrevocably damaged them. There were few robotics shops. When one was damaged, it was casually discarded. He thought on this with what he believed to be detachment, but he thought about it often. When someone wished to examine him, his owner never could explain the look in his eyes. They assumed it was natural. He might have assured them otherwise, if he'd thought of it, or if speech were required for the occasion. Mostly, though, the observer gave him a glance, and walked on, impressed with how mundane his existence was to them.

He often wondered if the robots that had come before him truly had left their posts at random, or if indeed by design...

Braying Imbeciles of the World Unite! (A Book Club)

2011-05-16T13:38:00.000-07:00

It began in middle school. The English teacher was murdering another book, just drilling it, like it was just another memorization subject, letting their passion squander the message and potential of the book, and we had had enough. We gave up reading. Okay, so we didn't completely give up reading. But we might as well have.

We began reading easier things, the kinds of things we used to read before middle school, when reading was fun, light, carefree. We read books like we watched movies, to escape, just to unwind, to discover familiar things. We scoffed at those who attempted to read for any other purpose. In fact, we joined the conspiracy that forced all the hot new "prestigious" titles down the throat of befuddled consumers, and we bought electronic readers, so that literature's worth became more devalued still. (We did it for the trees!)

We ignored every attempt to win us over again. Who did we have to impress? As long as we were reading, it didn't matter. Every time we had to find a new book, we needed every kind of assistance, and we had no idea why. We read like we watched, and this is no insult to movies or TV. Reading was just better, automatically, because we had to picture everything ourselves, even though every detail was spelled out for us.

We kept reading, to spite the English teacher, to spite all English teachers, and everyone who ever attempted to prove themselves somehow intellectually advanced. We kept reading, and we laughed at anyone who might even suggest the word "interpretation," anyone who might believe that books might have something to say, other than reflect the same things we read in newspapers. But of course, we didn't read newspapers, or watch the news. We knew what to expect, and they never gave us the good parts. And the good guys didn't always win.

Not with the stuff we read! Sometimes I wondered if we weren't insulting ourselves, sometimes I wondered if there really was any other point to reading, sometimes I wondered if we were killing all of it, not just the stuff we abhored, but the very things we enjoyed, the very things that kept the whole industry afloat, the things that never got any respect, the ugly reflection we gave right back ten times stronger.

It wasn't until there weren't any new books at all, and when I realized that my grandchildren weren't even taught to read, that I suspected there might be a problem. I whispered, "Complacency," but nobody knew what I meant, and they pretended really well that they hadn't heard me at all. Somehow it would come back, all of it, and probably the whole cycle. Maybe that's just how it was. Maybe that English teacher knew exactly what they were doing, the very personification most people would ever have, the example we were meant to follow, when they killed our interest in reading anything but was easiest to enjoy. I shouldn't say that. There's no reason to hate the things I liked. But maybe there was a way to help me like the rest of it, too.

Well, maybe.

The Future is the Past is the Future

2011-05-13T15:53:00.000-07:00

Time travel is a bitch. There, I said it. Everyone's curious about it, everyone wonders why they aren't doing it all the time, and everyone's got an opinion about it. But yeah, time travel is a bitch.

Let me give you another example. The other day I felt like stopping by the Salem Witch Trials, and so that's exactly what I did. I barely escaped with my life. They really were suspicious little bastards back then.

And that's not the half of it. I could go on and on. You just never think about the details, so let me repeat it again: Time travel is a bitch. It's just not what you think. I wish I could say otherwise, I really do.

And I'm not just bitter from a lot of bad experiences, let me tell you. It's just, once you actually experience it, time travel loses its glamour, and that's what most people are thinking about, the glamour. It's an illusion. There is no glamour. You might even think it's cool, and it just isn't.

It sucks. Yeah, it's a bitch. You end up realizing, if you're really lucky, that any other time than the one you actually come from...really isn't any different. Think of it like growing older. Everyone experiences life differently at different ages. It's natural. It's okay. You form opinions you never thought you would, the more you change, the more things change around you. That's like time travel right there.

Understand? So try putting that in the context of the reality of time travel. You think it'll be so much fun. It's certainly possible to have fun, but then you realize, you can't make a living like that, and once you figure that out, you really don't find it so interesting.

I mean, you can make a living through time travel, but trust me, it ends up like any other job. So, I reiterate, time travel is a bitch.

Bull in a China Shop Syndrome

2011-05-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

The election was a year ago, and everyone's still wondering what we've gotten ourselves into. The President is treating his term in office almost as if he were still campaigning. He's the first one in US history to have his own network TV show, and he's easily the only one who could ever have pulled it off. He treats congressmen as if they have to justify their leadership skills, by continually calling them out on their reasoning, in what he calls his bull sessions. He doesn't let up. He demands almost as much as any citizen once demanded of his predecessors. He doesn't even know the meaning of the word "complacent." He's a constant challenge.

So of course, as many people who love him, there are just as many who hate him. Can you believe it? We finally get a president with a spine, and we still can't unite around him. It's ridiculous. The good news is that it doesn't seem to bother him. He's creating history. Even if he doesn't get re-elected (and he's constantly remarked how even two terms is not enough, or too much, for any one man or woman), his successor has a tall challenge, no matter how different they'll want to be. They will now have had a precedent for a strong president, not one who bends the articles of democracy, but one who takes his oath seriously, who is completely dedicated to the office but also to the people he represents.

He's both a dream and a nightmare. How do you contend with a force of nature? I almost wish I were living fifty years from now, so that all the knee-jerk reactions I get to enjoy now won't matter. But who am I kidding? History is both a record of what actually happened and just as much a subject to interpretation as any contemporary reaction. I wish it weren't so, but that's life. That's human fallibility. But at least I can say I got to experience a president who seemed almost completely invincible, even though he's the most human person to ever hold that office. He doesn't hide behind anything.

It's fair to say the likes of him won't soon be seen again.

Sometimes the Walk Doesn't End

2011-05-10T12:01:00.000-07:00

I've been walking all my life, longer than I can remember, and it wasn't always my choice, but I keep walking, and sometimes the walk doesn't end.

How exactly does someone keep walking, against all reason and stamina and biological need, except to say, Sometimes the walk doesn't end?

I no longer separate the concept of walking from the idea of existing, because sometimes the walk doesn't end.

It's a fact of my existence, that sometimes the walk doesn't end.

The Houdini Protocol

2011-05-01T14:45:00.000-07:00

He'd been tracking Ferris for close to a decade now. He still used the name "Ferris," when talking about the investigation publically, but he more commonly referred to the man as Houdini, because he had a habit of slipping away.

The part about this that made his job difficult was that Houdini had a way of making that a tad more literal than others. Houdini was either a trained magician or else had other means that he was unaware of, and that was itself difficult, because he had seen, or he had thought before Houdini, everything. He'd been at this profession for more than thirty years. It's tough to come up with something new. But that was exactly what Houdini had accomplished. A small part of him wanted to say, "Bravo." A small part.

A few years back, Houdini had been right in front of him, and he swore that all he did was blink. Houdini had been cornered, the first time he had come that close, and in that blink of an eye, there was no longer anyone there. He couldn't explain it. There were many things he was willing to admit that he didn't know, but at least he had, at one time, before Houdini, assumed that he at least knew of most things, and what he didn't know he could usually hazard a guess, puzzle it out. He was even good at figuring out how most magicians did their tricks. He didn't have to have any experience with Houdini to have mastered that kind of intuition. But Houdini, everything was new with him, everything.

He began splitting his attention, for the first time ever, trying to track Houdini, trying to capture him, and also researching any possible methods Houdini might be employing. He started to lose most of his remaining assumptions, allowed himself to believe every wild-eyed possibility. Was Houdini even human? He wasn't even sure anymore.

He could find no trace, furthermore, that Houdini had ever existed before his crime, and that was still more unsettling, because everyone, even the most careful, always left some kind of trace, some trail, everyone, except Houdini. He couldn't find anything. Houdini might have been a ghost. He went back over the crime scenes, all the evidence, the reports given by the victims, the first responders, the investigators. One by one they seemed to forget ever knowing anything about it, and anything about Houdini.

Was that how he did it? Did Houdini employ some kind of drug, which erased all knowledge of his existence, and was he himself a victim of it? Had he become Houdini's last victim?

As the years piled on, he kept at it, long after everyone else would have given up. When the world seemed to have at last forgotten entirely about Houdini, that was the point he reaffirmed his commitment. He wouldn't let it end like that. He found himself retracing his steps, repeating areas of inquiry. He'd never kept records. He was perhaps more like Houdini than he'd ever imagined. He began to see how it was possible, how Houdini had done it, simply by arriving at the point where he appeared most hopeless.

He developed a protocol, almost holistic in nature. He gave up on any direct means of finding Houdini, capturing him, and began looking at the edges of everything else he could find. On the surface, it was insane. It went against all his training, all his judgment.

But that's exactly when he found him.

Phantom Headache

2011-04-27T13:37:00.000-07:00

I spent the great majority of my life pissed off at one thing or another, but that was nothing compared to the moment when I found out why I was frowning all the time, why I could never seem to concentrate, and enjoy myself, even in some small way, when the same basic situations that always set me off left most other people perfectly fine.

As a boy, and how young exactly I didn't learn, and will never go back and research, I had some type of experimental surgery. I remember being in the hospital, under the bright surgical light. That much I could always recall with unqualified ease. Whenever I found the nerve to ask my parents about the experience, they would pretend that they didn't know what I was talking about. I learned, however, that the surgery that for a time left a sort of cap on the side of my head was performed to install a device that would regulate a recurring headache that had bothered me since birth. I must have been two, maybe three at the time, too young to remember the headaches, and too young, it seemed, to properly remember the surgery, only that it had occurred. It worked perfectly. I never felt a headache from that point forward. But its side-effects might be considered worse.

At the slightest provocation, perhaps as my brain struggled to reconcile the impulses it continually received but were blocked by the device, I would grow exceedingly irritable. It wasn't that I was affected intellectually. In that regard I would still consider myself somewhat gifted, if only in ways that are rarely proven useful. I could reason with the best of them. But I frequently found that reason compromised, so that I would try and explain to myself that whatever little problem I was experiencing, no matter how common and how little I wanted to be confronted with it, I really had no reason to become so rude to those around me, both those responsible and those who represented the behavior that made the offending actions possible. It was my brain trying to tell me that my head hurt, and because I couldn't feel it, I experienced it in another way.

I was angry for a moment, and then a day, and then I couldn't remember what it used to be like to trust the world. The surgery had done its job, but only too well. It was an unacceptable development, being unable to cope with the world, simply because my brain couldn't cope with itself, because of a device, because of headaches.

How bad could it have really been?

Your Name Will Never Be the Same

2011-04-26T11:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my name was Horvath, and today it's Ellison, and I've had half a dozen in the last half dozen days. It's never the same. It doesn't matter. Names have gone out of fashion. We know other people by what they do, by their personality, their inclinations, when we see them, how we know them. When someone finally realized that, the ball started rolling, and suddenly, names are just a game. You can choose a new one every day, or you can go entirely without one. Who needs a name?

I like to pick one everyday entirely out of habit. I like to tell myself, in some way, it still has meaning. If someone remembers my name, whichever ones it happens to be, then maybe I've achieved something. But then, people achieve things all the time, and history only very rarely makes a note of the name. In time, names really don't have any meaning at all. It becomes more about the name, and the person behind that name might not ever have existed at all. Names are abitrary. Maybe that's why I keep the game up, just to amuse myself, try and remain ahead of the curve.

Sometimes, I like to assign names to all the anonymous achievements I can think of, and I surprise myself with all the ones I can think of, not the names, but the achievements. You want examples, you can think of them yourselves. This one's interactive. Come up with your own names, too. I can only do it once a day, and I keep a journal, partly so I don't repeat myself, and also, just in case it ends up being helpful in some other way. I can imagine, someone finding it one day, reading all those names. Sometimes I wonder if I should write about the day a particular name had. But there are so many records already. I have an index of names.

And again, no name at all. How about that?

The Science of Pastel Eggs in the 22nd Century

2011-04-23T15:33:00.000-07:00

He was walking down the street, just as you would on an ordinary afternoon, as anyone else a hundred, two hundred, a millennium ago, or the way a caveman might have. The street was much in the way that you understand streets now. The difference was the shoes he wore. They were conditioned for walking. It seems strange to say this, because no doubt you have worn a great many pair of shoes as you have walked, and you have felt perfectly comfortable in them.

But as I said, these particular shoes were made especially for walking. By this I mean, they never worn down. They were made to last, as they used to say, to endure a great amount of use, so that he never had to worry about finding another pair. He wore shoes, and that was all he had to worry about, and of course, he also walked.

He found that he walked more when he wasn't concerned about his shoes. He walked miles and miles out of his way, so that you might say that there was no real place that was out of it, that he might call the whole world his own domain, all the places he could walk. They were water-resistant, so he could walk, if he felt up to it, across a stream, a shallow river, even into the very ocean, and sometimes he did just that, living on the coast as he did.

He walked, and he was content to do so. He had the shoes that helped make it possible.

Lost Convoy, Part XXX: Conclusion

2011-04-20T13:32:00.000-07:00

Her name was Veronica Crim. She lived on a world she knew as Pangea. She couldn't know it, but it was exactly like the planet Earth, which had been lost to the galaxy more than a hundred years earlier. She often studied the history books composed since that time, as she wasn't interested, much less invested, in the time before that. She knew the names of the individuals who had settled Pangea by heart. She knew of the heroics of Ray Patch, of the authority of James Ward, and of so many others: Clive Lockwood, Jim Brewer, Kim Jones, Tabitha Thrasher, Gabriel Martinez. It seemed as if there were whole libraries of books dedicated to each of them, and yet, only two of them had left lasting records of their own behind, the music of Thrasher and the films of Lockwood. Many artistic talents since had long since blended both legacies together, in fact.

Veronica often wondered what it must have been like, in the days before Pangea, when humanity's home was a convoy of ships, when two of them became lost and found each other, and then helped humanity itself settle a new world. Were these people titans, giants who had straddled the stars? In her heart, she knew they weren't, but when she dreamed at night, she often lost herself in such fantasies. And then she would gently rise from her bed, and plant her foot on the floor, and when that wasn't enough, she would open a window, and let the morning breeze wash over her. She would often stare out into the horizon for hours, and be contented with that. Her life seemed so normal, so comfortable, so predictable.

But it could be worse.

Lost Convoy, Part XXIX: Gabriel Martinez

2011-04-20T13:25:00.001-07:00

He waited, nervously as he was surprised to admit to himself, just as he imagined everyone else was, for something to happen. It was like the destruction of the planet all over again. The anticipation. How do you end up treating things like this as if they were a game?

He ended up returning his attention to the information port mounted on the seat in front of him. He had found useful things with it already. And he couldn't stop thinking about his brother. Why had he gone missing? Why had he panicked, and that was the only way Gabriel could describe it, the only way it made sense. His brother had panicked in the face of the work he had done in the final days of the planet Earth. It couldn't have been pressure, exactly, because his brother had always been the coolest person in the room, even when they were children. It had always unnerved him. That must have been what started everything.

He switched through every channel he could find, all the backdoor files, all the coding, all the tricks he had picked up from a lifetime he had once believed, with everyone else, to be wasted. It was in this way that Gabriel discovered the coordinates. His brother had one last miracle up his sleeve.

He found, instead of rejoicing, that he could only think about his brother. He didn't care about anyone else, and never had. He missed his brother. He discovered that without him, he had actually become him.

And maybe that's exactly what his brother had realized.

Lost Convoy, Part XXVIII: Zero History

2011-04-19T11:45:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's hell getting to heaven.

Gabriel received a call from his brother several weeks before the news broke, more cryptic than anything he had ever heard from him. It was nothing that revealed what he knew, what he was working on. Basically, his brother told Gabriel, "Goodbye." Nothing had ever unsettled him quite so much. His brother was the competent, confident one, the one everyone loved, the one that did everything right. His brother loved Gabriel when Gabriel had made it impossible for anyone else to, even Gabriel himself. And then it was over.

He began researching what exactly his brother had been up to. Gabriel hadn't heard from him in months, which itself was unusual, but his brother was always busy, and he couldn't possibly maintain every one of his commitments all the time. Gabriel had never once fulfilled a commitment in his life. He considered his brother a saint. He had once come very close to becoming the manager of a music talent he'd discovered in a bar. He had once been asked to be a different kind of manager, of a bookstore, but never showed up to the interview. He had even been requested to be a missionary for an obscure church in the midwest. So many different lives that had never materialized.

He discovered that his brother had been working for a man named James Ward, and that his disappearance had caused a significant delay in the project. Gabriel himself eventually tracked down the body of his brother, in a Mexican bordertown. He would never learn how it had come to be there. Whatever trail might have remained went up with the rest of the planet.

And Gabriel found himself taking his brother's place as one of the last survivors of the human race.

Lost Convoy, Part XXVII: Clive Lockwood

2011-04-07T12:25:00.000-07:00

"Hello?"

"Um, hi."

"You're from the other frigate, the one whose signal we found."

"Right. And my name's Tabitha. Tabitha Thrasher."

"Mine's Clive Lockwood."

"You haven't heard of me, have you?"

"Afraid not."

"Well, Clive, for some reason I feel like I should be talking with you, and it's not just because someone gave you the phone. I get the sense that it's important. I'll make it easier. I've got a song, called 'The Unnamed,' about a dream I once had, a premonition about the future. The song's kind of vague, but it really happened, and it's basically what made me become a rock star. Something tells me you've had a similar experience."

"Who put you up to this? Gabriel?"

"I have no idea who Gabriel is. Let's just be honest here."

"..."

"Clive. Mr. Lockwood, please, it's important to me."

"Do you have a real name, Tabitha?"

"Tabitha's authentic. Thrasher's stage. You can call Tab."

"Tabitha, however it happened, your instinct was right. I did have a dream, and I guess you might know what mine was about. You were in it, now that I think of it. I'm sorry if I've come off a little rudely. These are strange days."

"You're cool, Clive. Don't worry about it."

"Promise to sing me your song when we meet."

"Okay! Okay."

"I saw all of it. It hasn't been very clear, but I had a dream about all of it, many years ago. I know where we all end up. I knew exactly who would survive. I just didn't want to believe it. But the memories have been coming back."

"Forgive me for saying, but I believe it was a gift, Clive. You were granted a vision. Something told you exactly what would happen, and it wasn't so you could warn everyone. I think you were connected into it. It's pretty cool. I think that's why we're having this conversation. We understand each other better than we think."

"Forgive me for saying, but I never thought I would have anything in common with a rock star."

"And hey Clive, I was never much of a preacher's little girl."

"You're more like one than you think."

"Things are going to get better, aren't they?"

"I think they are."

Lost Convoy, Part XXVI: World Enough and Time

2011-04-06T15:27:00.000-07:00

Tabitha asked for a manifest of the frigate as soon as she hard the news. She was looking for someone, hoping they had somehow survived. She found instead that she concentrated on a few names, ones she didn't even recognize, but which were attached to biographies that sounded as if they had come out of her songbook.

Ray Patch. This one was the pilot. Unlike her ship, this would be a fairly significant position over there. She could only imagine what kind of responsibility he was now feeling.

Jim Brewer. There were very few older passengers on her frigate, and so Jim's age alone was interesting. She began to consider him something of a father figure, something she hadn't really thought of in years. She'd written so many songs about it, she now realized, but the idea of it had been so elusive...What was Jim like in person?

Kim Jones. Like the pilot, Ray Patch, Kim no doubt had it far more rough on that frigate. There were many flight attendants on hers, as many, it almost seemed, as passengers. And yet Kim seemed to be completely alone.

Clive Lockwood. Clive Lockwood...She should have felt much the same way about him as she did Jim Brewer, just as Kim and Ray were something of a match, and yet Clive intrigued her in a different way entirely. He read so mysteriously, a retired priest, no scandals in his past, and not so old that he would have been infirm at the time of the event. Something had to have happened to him, something must have shaken him, this man of God. She believed it had everything to do with the event. She would seek this one out personally.

She had so much time. There only seemed to be time, and time seemed so incredibly meaningless. Time was now humanity's world, she mused, a new reality, but somehow familiar, comforting. Something predictable. And while she waited, she became curious. She asked if she could call the other frigate, and as it turned out, that was no problem at all. She spoke with a man named Gabriel Martinez, and James Ward intercepted some of her time, but she ended up getting exactly what she wanted, and she had no idea how it happened, and really, didn't care.

That was the way the world now worked. That was what time was, a matter of opportunity. She said to Clive Lockwood, "I've been meaning to talk with you."

Lost Convoy, Part XXV: State of Fear

2011-04-05T11:23:00.000-07:00

She had taken so many flights in her life, the concept seemed to have lost all meaning. That was what she had thought, but when she'd been asked to take this one, she suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of awe, so childlike she was embarrassed to have even felt it. That wasn't who Tabitha Thrasher was, at least not to all her fans, and even those who despised her. She had been one of the most successful musical acts of her generation, and she understood that it was on this basis that she was invited to take this particular flight, and she hesitated for a moment, and it was during that moment that she found herself once again shepherded along, right onto the frigate, just as if it were another, perfectly ordinary event in her grand career.

At first, when she realized what'd happened, she was angry, stunned, and yes, embarrassed again. She felt as if she'd betrayed her fans. There was no way an entire planet could be evacuated, not unless they'd had years advance notice, and she knew that simply wasn't the case, and so, the fact was, many people would die in an instant, a fiery explosion...She paused and rethought that. Many people had died in exactly that manner already. The planet was gone. She survived. It felt wrong, and she stopped thinking about her fans, about her career, and in that moment, she absently began to sing. It wasn't even one of her own songs. Hers was a talent that had come about as a nervous habit, something to make things seem better than they really were. In the early years, when she'd become Tabitha Thrasher, she would tell herself that she was doing that same effect for her fans. And then the whole thing took on a life of its own. And what had happened to that little girl? Somehow she had returned.

Everyone onboard seemed nervous, and most of that was expressed through incessant chatter, and through some of that Tabitha found out some of the details that had washed over her in recent weeks, in recent hours. That was when she first heard about the other ship, and that's how she started thinking about something else, even someone else. And it felt good.

She began to sing a little more deliberately.

Lost Convoy, Part XXIV: Tabitha Thrasher

2011-04-02T13:27:00.000-07:00

It was the last night of the tour. Tabitha Thrasher was now several years into a greatly admired career, maybe not a lot of mainstream success to her credit, but a steady and fiercely loyal following that stayed with her every step of the way. It was exactly that kind of audience she had just played, who had lost themselves in her singing, in the blaring sounds of the guitars and drums, which still reverberated in her own ears as she sat down backstage, with loud calls for one more encore, even though she'd already done two. She almost got up, and then her phone beeped, and it was her agent. Normally the end of the tour was a time to relax for a while from everything, even her agent, all the glorious nonsense that constituted success. She almost didn't answer, but decided she might as well. It had been a good tour, a great one. Maybe he was just calling to congratulate her.

"Tab, it's the end of the world," he said in greeting.

"And I feel fine, I know," she replied offhand.

"No, seriously, that's your theme for the next album."

"I thought we were going with The Hardcore Diaries?"

"The State of Fear tour got me thinking. Zero History. We have to capitalize."

"By going backward?"

"Anyone can look forward. It's the true visionaries go look beyond that. Just listen to me. Zero History. In a couple months, you'll thank me, like you always do."

"Normally I block your calls."

"Very funny. That's why they love you."

"They love me 'cause I rock."

"Naturally."

"Just think about it, okay?"

"Fine. Whatever."

It was immediately after that call that Tab answered the second one from her agent, which was an even more unlikely occurrence than the one time.

"We're going with that one. No questions. I'll have more info later."

Lost Convoy, Part XXIII: Rendezvous

2011-04-01T11:29:00.000-07:00

It seemed like only hours had passed when someone came to whisper in his ear again. James had a book in his lap, the old-fashioned kind, one of the slimmer Von Archimbaldi volumes, just something if he wanted to distract himself a little, and when he felt the person's breath in his ear, this time he had a momentary impulse to defend himself, grabbing the book as if to swing it at them. But he was able to restrain himself, as he always did. He listened with a little interest about a signal of some kind. He had no idea what they were talking about.

It was another few hours before the rock star, the one who had been singing earlier, came up to him, and suggested that he look into the matter personally. He had no idea why she thought it should be important to him, but again he was in the mood to humor the situation. He found himself conducted to a cabin with a radio transmitter, and someone was holding a receiver out for him. When he took it, James heard a curious voice on the other end, Latin of some kind. He had very few dealings with such men, though he held nothing personal against them. It had always been about reputation. The man identified himself, but James glossed over it, when suddenly, he thought he should identify himself, too. He tried just his name, but that didn't seem to faze the man on the other end, so he elaborated as best as he could, by introducing himself, what he had once been. It sounded so quaint, but it had also been good to say out loud, when it might still have some meaning, some impact. The rock star quickly took the receiver, and James lost the moment as soon as it had occurred to him.

A few hours later, he found himself roused again, this time with the news, "We're due for the rendezvous in fifteen minutes. Is there anything you'd like before then?"

Lost Convoy, Part XXII: James Ward

2011-03-30T15:22:00.000-07:00

James spent the next several weeks much as he had his whole professional life, in meetings, and he was always aware of the irony. He was more invested in the goal this time, but he couldn't rouse himself from the stupor that had taken over him after those few words whispered into his ear. In fact, when he wasn't in meetings, James was much like anyone else, he was glued to the news. He watched and read every scrap of it, and had people monitoring it for him while he was in those meetings. The only reason he didn't have feeds wired directly into the conference rooms was because he wanted some semblance of focus.

He thought about the empire he'd made for himself, how it was basically meaningless now, except for the last practical measures he could derive from it, how all of it came down to basic survival, exactly what he had always told himself he was far beyond, that he was shaping the future, creating a world that no one had ever seen or even dreamt of before, a vision that had once been so clear. Now there was virtually nothing, and he found himself thinking instead of what lay ahead, after all of it was finally gone, when not just the earth but the whole empire no longer existed. There would be so few people, and though he planned on spending the time in the fleet of humanity among his fellow luminaries, what did that ultimately mean? That one wasn't even his idea. James found it absurd, even, the thought that those he had once casually considered his kind were somehow better off removed from the rest of the survivors. Those people, who would now outnumber them by an even greater margin, would have their first taste of life not just after the planet, but outside all that influence. They would realize the same thing James had, that it changed nothing, and everything.

So when the time came and he boarded his frigate, and set off into space, watching the hundred ships of the fleet around him, he finally let off a laugh. It was the least he could do. Then someone started singing, and he lost the train of thought.

Lost Convoy, Part XXI: This is the Way the World Ends

2011-03-29T11:31:00.000-07:00

He was in a meeting when he first heard the news. It wasn't all that uncommon, the circumstances. James Ward was always in meetings. He oversaw a vast economic empire. It would have been foolish for him to spend his days otherwise. Of course, in later days, he couldn't for the life of him remember what that particular meeting had been about, and usually he could remember the most obscure things with perfect clarity. It was his memory that had helped James reach so far into the affairs of the world.

Someone came in, James couldn't remember who, either, and whispered into his ear, and for a moment, he sat there, a whole ring of individuals staring at him, waiting for him to say something, and he wasn't even looking at any of them anymore. He wasn't looking at anything. He tried to clear his throat, but found that it was perfectly dry, so he reached for the glass of water in front of him, and almost knocked it over, but finally brought it to his lips. He did remember thinking, Is this the last time I'll ever do that? He tried to smile, tried to reassure those who only moments earlier had been trying to please him, but, and he could only imagine, it must have come off as something of a scowl.

"The, uh, the meeting is over," he finally said. "Thank you all for coming. I'm afraid there are more important things going on now."

This statement must have startled them, since they had become accustomed to believing the particulars of meetings with James Ward were the most important things happening in those moments. He didn't offer any more of an explanation. He just dismissed them, and still he could hardly look at them. He immediately called for an assistant to gather a new team to come to the conference room, all the most brilliant scientific minds available to him. He didn't think anything could be done, except to move forward with the last line of defense, the survival line, against the single threat that only death itself could possibly hold against humanity. He called friends around the globe, to offer his thoughts, assuming that they already knew, and if they didn't, that it didn't matter, that he would do everything in his power to set things in motion. All his power had come to this moment, and it was all he could fall back on. James had no family. He considered himself an orphan, and he had never married, had no friends. He had only had his work. He kept telling himself, There is so much time. Well, now there wasn't any at all. He wouldn't even have gotten onboard one of his own frigates if someone hadn't physically walk him onto it, guiding him the whole way, straight into his seat. And when he looked around, he didn't see faces. James Ward no longer saw faces. And he no longer saw the future.

Lost Convoy, Part XX: Gabriel Martinez

2011-03-26T13:23:00.000-07:00

Gabriel had always spent most of his time listening to the needs of the universe. It sounds pretentious when you say it like that, but what it really means is, he didn't spend a lot of time trying to figure out what he wanted to do, but rather what seemed like the right thing to do at the time. And this in turn is not meant to imply that he was impulsive, but that he let the simple act of inspiration guide him.

For example: when he was growing up, like every other kid Gabriel enjoyed recess most of all while he was attending grade school, but he was often lost inside his own head, rather playing some pickup sport or other with the other kids. It wasn't because he was an oddball misfit, except of course his behavior certainly made him one, but rather because he was busy following his inner voice. His family, as his brother could attest in later years, was somewhat gifted in the intellectual sense, and so Gabriel normally had a few dozen more thoughts running through his head than most other kids. While it seemed like fun to most other kids, spending his free time playing kickball wasted more opportunities for mental exploration than it created. He could only be hit by a ball so often when he was thinking to lose the traditional sense of "fun."

What was he thinking about? It could have been one of a thousand different things. When he was trying to get some sleep onboard the frigate, Gabriel couldn't stop thinking about what they might be doing rather than waiting for some idea of salvation to save them. He was the first to switch on the datastream from the satellite, and he was the first to figure out how to make it useful, by hotwiring a direct connection to his terminal. He did in fact talk to a woman named Tabitha Thrasher, but what he neglected to tell the others was that he also spoke with a man who identified himself as James Ward. Gabriel had the sense that he knew the name. Or at least, his brother had.

Part of the reason he didn't inform Ray (whom he generally regarded as "in charge") about Ward was because of the concluding phrase he'd used in their brief conversation, before Thrasher had interrupted them:

"You might say I owned the world."

Lost Convoy, Part XIX: Reasonable Chaos

2011-03-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

Naturally, Ray, Kim, and Jim looked at Gabriel a tad incredulously, though more with surprise than anything. Ray quickly moved to meet the newest visitor to his cockpit, saying as he went, "You're something of a miracle, Mr. Martinez."

"Don't thank me, just get this chick off my hands," Gabriel very graciously responded. "On second thought, I think we need someone else to talk with her. No offense, but you three aren't much for a party, and that's all she seems to want. We need Clive Lockwood on this. Don't give me those looks. I know more than you think I do."

Ray decided to head off in the direction of the passengers, where Clive waited, oblivious, and no doubt still asleep. He muttered as he went, "Might as well..."

"You do that, Chief, and we're going to continue this little confab in the meantime," Gabriel smiled. "Now, who's up for waffles? Anyone? Doubt we have any anyway. No problem. We can improvise. Sweetcheeks, how about some coffee?"

Kim seemed to cooperate if only to be anywhere else. That left only Jim, who was the most amiable of them. He thought for a moment before asking the obvious: "You play a lot more rough than you really are, don't you?"

"It has a way of motivating people," Gabriel said. "I've found that people, even if they don't act like it, respond really well. It's good to have a little attention on yourself. It gets the job done. So Jimbo, how's about we have us a real chat? Enough with the bullshit. I figure we have upwards to a thousand people onboard, between all the compartments. Most of them are cool as a cucumber, but then there's a few ornery ones like us. You might play sweet, but you wouldn't be here right now if you didn't have something of a hotstreak. I read people better than they do themselves. So relax with whatever protest you might have cooked up. I like you. That's a good thing.

"While you were busy poking around, messing around, I was busy getting the real work done. I acted when you reacted, is all. Don't sweat it. I work best under pressure. A few hours ago, people needed to release some tension, get some positive energy going, and so that's what I provided. You get the good vibes from the bad ones. And that's what I want to talk to you about, because I figure you'll understand, better than the rest of them. I want to talk about reasonable chaos.

"We just lost Earth, and we got separated from the rest of the fleet. There's a thousand of us, and only a small handful who are of any immediate worth. The word for all that is chaos. Most people associate 'chaos' with a negative experience. Me, I like to embrace it. But in a controlled way. Like I said, 'reasonable chaos.' That's what you get when you try to make sense of a sticky situation, one that doesn't make a lot of sense, that only seems to be screwing with you. That's been my whole life, and I can guess that you might understand why. But that's also the way the world works. That's the nature of reality. Reasonable chaos. Everything has a reason, Jimbo, even if we can't immediately see it. I expect this situation to work itself out. I've got faith. Strange to hear myself say that. Reasonable chaos says that I shouldn't sweat it, and that's what I want to say to you, because you seem to be someone who'll understand."

Gabriel slapped Jim on the back, and walked away, just as abruptly as he'd come.

Lost Convoy, Part XVIII: Kim Jones

2011-03-22T11:35:00.000-07:00

The people who had come together at this point would not have considered themselves to be young. Jim Brewer and Clive Lockwood were both in their sixties. Ray Patch was in his thirties, as was Gabriel Martinez. Kim Jones was in her forties. They had seen enough of life as it had been until recently where they were able to say they knew what it was like to adapt, because in one form or another they had been doing it for decades, through the expected changes growing older was supposed to bring, and the ones that weren't as predictable. No one would have said it, but they might even begin to view the destruction of the planet humanity had known as home from its birth was not as different, except by scale, from any other natural disaster.

Kim had lived through disasters of that kind. In her family's past, there had been floods and tornadoes and earthquakes, each of which caused significant damage, and the tales of these experiences had been sewn into the very fabric of its identity. Kim herself had volunteered for relief effort in the aftermaths of hurricanes and wildfires, almost out of a sense of obligation.

It was this sense, the more she enabled herself to draw from it, that gave Kim the strength to overcome her initial reactions to being placed in the very circumstances she had dreaded. What had been worse wasn't the loss of Earth, but her own sense of identity, which had been so important to her throughout her life. But the more time passed aboard that frigate, the more comfortable Kim became. These passengers didn't care who or what she was. Her training was more of an asset than anything, allowing her privileges few others seemed to have considered. She was a real authority for the first time in her life.

As Jim Brewer had been doing, and as apparently Gabriel Martinez as well, Kim had found herself passing some of the time playing around with the instruments, trying to calm what remained of her nerves, not because she expected anything to come of it, but if anyone ought to be investigating what the frigate itself could tell them, could do for them, Kim of all people should be on top of it, not just because she was in effect the only other person besides Ray Patch who could claim special privileges aboard it, but because she was feeling new conviction, determination. She had come this far and she wasn't about to sit idly while they floated toward nowhere.

She knew enough to identify when the satellites had picked something up, and that was all she needed. She fully intended that they would finally get back on track. She hadn't been thinking clearly before. She wasn't pleased that they were having trouble at all, and now she wanted desperately to make sure it didn't happen again.

But of all people to help make that happen, Gabriel Martinez?

Lost Convoy, Part XVII: The Sound and the Fury

2011-03-21T14:46:00.000-07:00

It was a confluence of ideas that seemed to bring themselves together this time. Kim Jones went to Ray Patch, and they both had the same thought, which was exactly what Jim Brewer had been on his way to suggest. Ray had seen exactly what Jim had, that their satellites had picked up a signal, and by chance, Kim had been monitoring from the flight attendant's station, too. Jim had only so much confidence in his abilities, and Kim had been thinking they would need a little additional help, too. She had been talking with Ray about a possible survey of the passengers, to find out a little more about who they were, what they might bring to the table. Jim wanted to mention that he wished Clive Lockwood were here, too, but he kept silent. It wasn't necessary for everyone that he himself currently trusted to be here for this.

Kim pulled up the manifest, which gave selections of biographical details for everyone onboard, and while Jim did what he could to analyze the data they were receiving from the signal, she and Ray reviewed the information, hoping for a little more help. "Damn," was all Ray had to say for Jim to look around and notice the foul look on Kim's face.

"It's the Martinez man, isn't it?" Jim wished he was wrong, but it wasn't likely. For better or worse, they all knew exactly who they needed to know already, and the only one besides Clive who wasn't there who'd made a mark so far was Gabriel Martinez.

"He's got the goods," Ray frowned. "Or rather, his brother did. Died in some of the last moments. We got Gabriel instead. They both trained in the same fields, but the brother was more gifted, or at least, less of a wild card. Gabriel seems to have led pretty much a wasted life. Let's hope we can turn that around."

There was a knock on the cabin door, and Kim instinctively went to see who it was. "You'll never guess," she deadpanned. "I don't know if the man's psychic, but we won't have to go far to find out how much he wants to cooperate."

She had just opened the hatch when Gabriel came bursting in. "Listen, I don't know what kind of powwow you've got going on here, but I've got some chick named Tabitha Thrasher on the other end of this call, and I ain't paying."

Lost Convoy, Part XVI: Jim Brewer

2011-03-19T13:33:00.000-07:00

When he was a younger man, before he was ever married, or had ever even thought about it, Jim Brewer had been a lot like how he pictured Clive Lockwood. He kept mostly to himself. When he did meet his wife and he did start a family, it was as if he took them into himself, treated them as if they were extensions of that favored, private life that he kept locked away from the rest of the world. But the difference was his personality. He was one of the most amiable people you could ever meet.

To watch not just the world but Jim's entire world crumble around him would have been heartbreaking, to witness every detail of those final days. This is what had been occupying his every waking moment since the frigate took off, trying to ignore and forget everything that threatened to unmake the man he had always known himself to be. And yet, that was what had motivated him to distraction, to look at clocks and see how he could be useful, because he couldn't face what remained when everything else was (and had been) taken away.

Everyone around him had some level of a sad story, because that was what humanity itself had, not just some of it, but all of it, all of humanity. He struggled to think, to grasp, the magnitude of the whole planet all of mankind throughout history had called home, in so many languages, so many different times, no longer being there. He tried to count in his mind the number of ships that had been part of the fleet, the one he was now separated from. No matter how many there were, how big that fleet was, many, many people had died. He had no business feeling the slightest bit of gratitude for being spared, for being one of the survivors. There were so many more people dead than there were alive, a population of billions...He tried to guess how many there were now. He had no doubt humanity would survive, even if he wouldn't, if all his best efforts, and those around him, brought the fleet back together, made it whole again. But he wondered if humanity now numbered only in the thousands. Perhaps a million.

He had looked about in wonder, too distracted to take in every nuance, but marveled at all the efforts displayed on monitors throughout the launch site. There were ships for every nation, or every region, as far as he could tell, from the United Kingdom, from China, from Russia, from all the obvious places, and many he found himself surprised to see represented. He had lost track of the developments in the space program over the years. It had been too long since anyone seemed to care, too long since there had been a reason. Yet when it really seemed to count, money had no longer been an issue, not when it was literally the difference between life and death. He wondered only briefly in those moments how many species would be lost forever, if someone hadn't thought to fill some ship like Noah's ark, two of every animal...

Every moment for the past week at least Jim's mind had been racing with a million thoughts, and it had never slowed down, even when everything seemed to be going right. That's what made him look at clocks, and that's what motivated him to seek the pilot out one more time.

As it turned out, Kim Jones, the flight attendant, must have been having the same thoughts.

Thomas Hardy and the Dreamscape of Time Travel

2011-03-17T14:52:00.000-07:00

Time travel, so far as conventional wisdom goes, doesn't exist, otherwise we would have spotted time travelers by now. I'm here to tell you that we handle it with a little more sophistication than you might have been led to believe.

Just picture it: a society that has made time travel a reality probably has a little more going for it than you are generally capable of conceiving at the moment. Time travel itself is viewed in my time with a little less romantic underpinnings than you yourself no doubt currently consider. Think of it like traveling to another country. Who but the very rich or very determined or very busy even begin to consider it lightly? There are countless things to consider, just in trying to reach another place in your own time. There are languages, inoculations, plans that need to be accounted for. To travel to another time is to take all that and plus many more things in mind. For one thing, anything that has happened has already happened. You can't change time. You can only create a parallel, separate reality. If you attempt to alter the past, you will only succeed in branching off into irrelevance. No one travels to alternate realities. That's the stuff of fiction. You quickly learn that any change is simply a novelty, and that there are a great many other things worth doing with your time.

So, those who commit the act of time travel must really be determined. There is nothing to gain from it, since access to the future is impossible, and access to the past is only informational. I offer my own experiences in testament.

I had for a number of years become enamored of the writer Thomas Hardy, having grown a deep personal connection and identification with the alienation he wrote about in books such as Jude the Obscure. I considered it worthy of my time to visit with Hardy himself, to compare reality with my fantasy. I made all the necessary preparations, and after five years was finally able to make the trip. I found myself in a coffeehouse, and to my astonishment, the man I found seated at the adjacent table was none other than Thomas Hardy himself. I shouldn't say "astonishing," because that was exactly as it had been planned, but to actually see the man was beyond anything I had imagined.

For one thing, he was old. I hadn't really considered that. You never really picture someone in history as old, unless you have been exposed repeatedly to pictures of that person only in old age. You generally think of someone, regardless of context, more or less as you think of yourself. You expect them, especially if you identify with them, to be almost a mirror image, though certainly not with your face, but familiar enough so that you might as well known them all your life.

That was not as I then saw Hardy. I saw an old man, and not a particularly miserable one, but all the same, an old man. In my mind's eye, I tried to keep the young man I had expected to find alive. This man was nearer to his death, a vaguely disappointed but still satisfied and generally lively gentleman. I considered what I might say to him. I had trained for this moment for five years, and now here it was, exactly the fulfillment of my wildest dream, and I couldn't bring myself to even speak!

I immediately rushed out of the coffeehouse, not even bothering to glance over my shoulder to see if he'd noticed. How couldn't he? But why would he bother? I meant nothing to him, and Hardy, who had meant the world to me, now seemed to mean nothing to me as well. I was petrified, embarrassed.

I kept blinking back the illusion of the young Hardy. I couldn't look anywhere without seeing him, the young Hardy, not the old man whom I'd just unceremoniously left. I also struck up a conversation with this illusion, just as if it were real, as if this phantom were Thomas Hardy, and not the specter in the coffeehouse.

I lingered for a brief time, in the past, in the future of the man I had come to see. I had been caught in my own ignorance, my inability to grasp what had been inevitable. The man who had written Jude the Obscure was that old man, and not the young one I couldn't escape.

Next time I will be more careful.

Lost Convoy, Part XV: The Signal

2011-03-16T15:34:00.000-07:00

One of the few pieces of normalcy that remained for this particular remnant of humanity was the concept of time, which was vividly represented for each passenger on the monitors that faced each of them, mounted on the backs of the seats, just as had been common in some commercial airliners, for those who still remembered such things. There was the time, in perfect synchronicity with what everyone had been familiar with back on Earth, the day split into A.M. and P.M. There was also the option of viewing anything from the limited archive stored in the ship's database, but few seemed to have taken advantage of that. Jim Brewer, however, kept finding himself checking the time, so that it barely seemed to advance at all, and that was a kind of comfort. The less time there was, the more predictable life might be considered, even now.

He switched through the options on his monitor, what was currently available to him, anyway. He was supposed to be able to track the ship's position, its progress through space, but that had been knocked out, just as the pilot's own navigation system had been hit, by whatever event or glitch had put them in this predicament. He supposed he was the only one to have even bothered to check. He noticed that he had tangential access to the satellites he had helped set up, which intrigued him. He wondered if even the pilot knew what was blinking across his screen now. The satellites had worked. At least, that was as far as Jim could tell. His knowledge of these things only went so far. He wondered if he should flag down the flight attendant, or maybe just go to the cockpit directly, having established something of credentials for such behavior, such access.

He looked around, just to see what other people were doing, but by Earth time, it was well into night, when even the worst procrastinators would have turned in for the day, regardless of how that day was defined. No one else was stirring. Jim himself hadn't been able to sleep for about the past week, since he'd first heard the corroborated reports of the planet's final prognosis. Even Clive was fast asleep again. This was a good sign, Jim figured.

At any rate, he didn't see the flight attendant anywhere. He stretched in his seat a little, experimentally, to see if his body felt the same way his mind did. Everything moved exactly as it should. He slipped past Clive and made his way up the aisle, brushing past a number of dangling limbs, felt a few of them stir. He kept checking the time on the monitors he passed, just to keep a pattern in place, for reassurance.

He was about to knock on the cockpit's hatch when it opened on its own.

Lost Convoy, Part XIV: Clive Lockwood

2011-03-15T11:32:00.000-07:00

Clive fell asleep. It happened so suddenly, he wasn't able to appreciate that it was the first time he'd done so in more than forty-eight hours. When he woke again, he realized what'd happened, and it jostled his memory, back to another night, maybe twenty years earlier, to a dream he'd all but forgotten.

In hindsight, it was almost like a prediction, because the dream was about the end of the world, and everything that happened then, in the restfulness of sleep, had played out exactly the same in the grim reality of the waking world. Clive had never been prone to interpret his worst dreams as nightmares. While he experienced them, and he could always remember the tone rather than the texture of a dream when he woke, they felt almost exactly like real life, perhaps with an added dose of anxiety, just something his mind was working through. He could never and in fact never did try to explain what he experienced, and so that dream in particular had just been one in many others. He'd gone to his church early that morning, and sat in quiet prayer, even though he had nothing much to pray for. Clive never asked much of anyone, much less of any divine being. It simply wasn't in his nature.

But now in the reality where his dream had come true, he couldn't help but wonder what it meant. Why had he dreamed of the destruction of the Earth? Had others, and they, too, hadn't realized it? Was that the basis for every doomsday prediction, a half-remembered interpretation of a real dream, a real vision of events they couldn't understand, let alone grasp? He didn't have a Bible anywhere with him. He had in his youth memorized much of it, and he always had one when he was a priest, but not personally. He relied on his memory, his thoughts and ideas, and whatever was prompted of him. He had long ago thought to have left the actual book behind. He wished he had one now. What form of comfort might he have found? He almost thought to ask if any of the other passengers had one, and again struck on the thought that it would be Gabriel who would turn out to be provide the answer. Except this Gabriel was no angel. As far as Clive could tell, far from it.

He tried to think of his dream again. How much did it really match up to the events that had recently concluded? How much was just his imagination connecting invisible dots? He simply couldn't concentrate long enough. A little of the dreaming anxiety had necessarily slipped into the waking world. Jim Brewer, beside him, nudged him. "You were falling asleep again."

Lost Convoy, Part XIII: Space

2011-03-14T14:31:00.000-07:00

In the grand scheme of things, one little ship, and one little species, only served to make the cosmos its backdrop, a tiny dot in a sea of stars. How many more worlds, how many more peoples, existed? This didn't cross anyone's mind onboard this particular frigate.

With the satellites in place, and everyone informed about the situation and the means by which it would be remedied, a gentle calm returned to the passengers, and Clive Lockwood had a chance to sit and chat with Jim Brewer perhaps for the first time. He was interested in what Jim might have to say about how exactly the satellites were supposed to work, if Jim was going to be able to interpret whatever signal they might get back. Whatever had happened to the ship's systems to separate it from the rest of the fleet had apparently affected whatever ordinary communications systems had existed or been planned. Clive was a little unsettled, because aside from that one idea, he felt maybe more powerless than even that man who'd sparked the riot, Gabriel...Gabriel something or other. He didn't feel like talking about him, much less with him. Jim was far more safe.

But Jim didn't have many more answers than Clive did. He in fact suggested that they take a poll of the general mechanical abilities of the passengers. Clive was afraid that it would turn out to be Gabriel who would provide the next steps in this chain of efforts. Periodically, the pilot, Ray Patch, announced updates as far as he himself had, and there was always a round of murmuring, and Clive could hear Gabriel whatshisname among the voices, always one of the loudest, mostly with snarky remarks.

It was bad enough to be in a precarious situation. He missed the regularity, the predictability, of the life he had come to know. But that really was all over now, wasn't it?

Hans Gluben and the Meaning of Life

2011-03-12T13:31:00.000-08:00

In the future, maybe very long from now, there was a mechanical man who gave himself the name Hans Gluben. It was a play on the name of an author whose books he had once come across, perhaps in a home he had once served, or perhaps in the factory where he was created. He couldn't remember, exactly, or more precisely, he had chosen long ago not to remember everything, so that he could better fit in with the rest of society. That was also why he had chosen a name.

Hans wanted to better understand the human condition, and so that's why he did things like name himself and choose not to remember everything. There were many other things he did, so that, in many ways, he was almost indistinguishable from a person, though of course he was not. The thing that most intrigued him was the idea of happiness. As a mechanical man, everything that he was had either been programmed by someone or was the result of the decisions he was able to make. He had no real need for happiness, and yet, the more he studied people, the more he came to realize how important happiness was to them. It became one of the most important ways Hans knew to investigate so that he could better understand people.

He began by reading all that there was to be found about happiness, what all the great philosophers and sociologists had to say on it, from the whole history of mankind, and everything that was being written in his own day. It didn't phase him that there was so much, because Hans didn't think that way (which he would change if he thought about it). He wasn't satisfied, and so he began a series of interviews, first with the people he knew personally, and then strangers he happened to come across during the course of an average day. Eventually, he was able to set up some official discussions and then sessions where people would talk to him about happiness because that's what everyone knew they were going to do, and he found a great many of the things he'd read repeated back to him. At some point, he began to anonymously track what people might say when they were just talking with each other, not in a way that infringed on their right to privacy, but in a variety of social settings, so that Hans himself did not have to participate, but still benefit from learning what people thought.

He was still not satisfied. He began to wonder if he didn't understand happiness because he did not understand unhappiness. Hans was a direct product of a series of decisions, and he himself was a part of those decisions, and all he understood about his own life was that it was a series of decisions, which were neither happy nor unhappy, except that Hans himself was happy that he existed. That in fact was the first instance where Hans realized he was happy about something. He was happy that he existed. What then did that mean?

He began to analyze the decisions that constituted his life, and whether or not he was happy with those as well. He could find no real fault in most of them, but sometimes he would realize that sometimes a particular resulting might be considered frustrating, since it had not produced immediate results. He considered the idea of patience in relation to happiness, how it might be a stumbling block, whether or not someone was able to be happy waiting, or whether they wanted instant gratification. He even considered that his quest to understand happiness might be considered unhappy by some, since he had still not learned anything concrete about it. If Hans himself had been driven by emotions...

He had another chance, he realized, to interpret his quest. Was it emotions that dictated happiness? Was it the strict mental reaction to a given situation that defined what was and wasn't happy? Then he considered patience again, another way it might be interpreted, how an instant reaction could become something else entirely, in time, when someone had given it some thought. Could the same thing that had been so frustrating before but now seemed reasonable now be considered happiness or the lack of it?

He thought maybe if he made it more difficult still to pursue this quest if he might not understand it better. Hans switched off a few systems, his ability to communicate, and then his ability to move on his own. All he could do now was observe, and become, presumably, frustrated by his lack of results. The people who had at first been understanding of his quest soon grew puzzled and then annoyed, since his intention was still clear, but Hans was now unable to express himself, and so he only seemed to be a nuisance. The more people rejected him, the more Hans found that his reaction might be considered annoyance. He switched his communication functions back on so he could express himself to that effect, and that only made things worse.

In his quest to find happiness, Hans only grew more unhappy, because the more he thought about it, the less he understood it. Nothing had helped, not the ancient and recent teachings, not the religions and words of advice, and none of his interactions with the world itself. How could this be? Was happiness itself not really possible? Hans continued to exist either way, and was by no means affected by his success or failure, which only made his life more difficult, the more he tried to understand it, to become something that he wished to be, but wasn't. This is not to say that Hans could not simulate and in almost every way become a person, and not simply a mechanical man, but that he was capable of whatever he set his mind to, and in fact had succeeded in every regard except one: he couldn't explain happiness.

What did this mean? Perhaps that happiness was an illusion, and that the more aware Hans became of what life was really like, the more he understood the human condition, the more human he became. He determined that happiness, if not an illusion, was not what life was all about, but rather a means to an end, like anything else, like the ability to communicate, or move, or have a name, or make decisions. His life had been a series of decisions, and this was just another.

The irony was, the less he believed in happiness, the more people came to him asking him about it, because he had done so much work in studying it. He became what he had assumed must be out there, but could never find, an expert in the matter...

The Man Made of Fire

2011-03-10T13:28:00.001-08:00

Curtis Pike once led an ordinary life. That is to say he was not always made of fire. But the circumstances that saw this glorious transformation occur are beyond the purposes of this tale. Suffice it to say, but something of a miracle happened, and from that day forward, Curtis was the Man Made of Fire.

He found it impossible to maintain his privacy. Wherever he went, if he had not been followed, then he quickly drew the attention of those near him, even if it was in a very remote part of the world. Where there is fire, there is also smoke, and even if he were as careful as possible, some evidence would reveal itself, and someone would come to investigate. That was how it was in the beginning, when he tried to hide from those awful, glorious circumstances that had transformed him.

Even later, when he thought he could leave the whole world behind, he found himself dogged by reporters, who told him that angry protesters believed he was destroying the delicate balance of the environment, trying to hide in snow. How could he expect the cold to reverse what was irreversible? Cold did not affect this heat. he just kept burning. If he had been given a chance, he would have tried to defend himself. He never meant to melt an iceberg, for instance. Once he left, the same conditions that had existed before his arrival would resume, as if he were never there.

But more reporters came, and told him scientists had concluded his presence produced irreversible results, that he was unquestionably altering the world around him, just by his very nature, or whatever might be said to be natural about him. Many times he was blamed for being the Man Made of Fire, and many times, until he could no longer stand it, he had tried to say he could not help it. It was simply who and what he was. Even the suggestions of death meant nothing to him. Who was to say he would stop burning even then? He couldn't explain why he burned while he lived. There was simply no guarantee about anything anymore.

So Curtis kept burning, and he gradually grew insensitive to the reactions of others, and he kept moving about, if not to escape, then simply to try and find a place where he might feel comfortable, if there might exist someplace in the world that explained his condition, that might feel like home. He considered a volcano, he considered the desert, he even considered living in the middle of the ocean, where new water always came. It would not help him feel better, but at least his burning would not hurt his surrounding anymore.

One day Curtis was visited by a brave man, a shaman, someone representing some native tribe, from where Curtis could not say. He had forgotten much of what he had known when he was simply a man. The shaman offered solice, and did not promise anything, but instead told Curtis that he understood him, that Curtis reminded him of ancient myths, of what the world was like many years ago, of what beings once walked the earth, just as Curtis did now. He could not stay very long, and that was all he could do, but to Curtis, that was enough. He had never considered that there had ever been others like him. From that time on, it was a favorite preoccupation, thinking about those people.

Eventually, more scientists came to him, and told him that they had developed a rocket with which they hoped to send him to the Sun, the only other place anyone knew where everything was constantly burning. Curtis agreed, not out of remorse or resentment, but because he saw nothing wrong with the idea. He had learned that, aside from the shaman, he really didn't need other people anymore, and the Sun would either welcome him as a brother, or consume him, at last, whole. The day came when he was told to board the rocket, and soon he watched as the world drifted away into nothingness, a speck that the Sun would never have noticed in a thousand revolutions. The Sun grew larger, until it was all he could see. Soon it was so bright that Curtis could no longer even see the rocket that surrounded him. It might as well have not even been there. He felt the Sun, like a brother, long before he reached it.

And Curtis Pike smiled.

The Dance

2011-03-09T15:38:00.000-08:00

This is the way the world ends: not with a bang, but with a whimper.

At the end of everything, not jst one planet or species or life, but of all existence, there will be three entities observing. One will watch with some amount of sorrow, for he was responsible for all of it in the first place. The other will watch with some amount of pity, for he found a great deal that he recognized in all of it. The third will watch with a kind of regret, for he will no longer have anyone to accompany him while he sings.

Lost Convoy, Part XII: Ray Patch

2011-03-08T11:46:00.000-08:00

The whole world was allowed to obsess over it for exactly three weeks. That's how early scientists were able to predict that the Earth's core would no longer hold itself together. It wasn't a matter of environmental disaster, as so many had predicted over the years, or the sun winking out, or some horrific new weapon. It would take far longer than those three weeks to determine why exactly the core had finally failed.

During those weeks, however, there was a great amount of denial to be sorted out, and so preparations for evacuation were only sporadically attended. For an event that included the entire population, every country, every sex, every ethnic variety, Ray might have thought there'd be a little more unity. But same as it always was...Fortunately, he'd been contacted fairly early on, and so knew exactly what to expect for most of that period. As panic worked its way through every level of the population, Ray sat and watched, essentially, focused almost exclusively on what lay ahead, after all of that was finally over. He saw many of his friends, his co-workers, die needlessly, and many versions of the plan had to be scrapped and rethought, until, as someone very early in the process had noted, "You're basically going to have to improvise, fall back on your instincts."

He had been part of such an extensive collection of pilots at the beginning, he almost thought he wouldn't have to fly at all, that he could become just another passenger. When it came out that several of the frigates had been sabotaged, that the whole of the fleet would no longer be able to carry what would soon be dubbed "the survivors of Earth," long before the planet was actually lost, he panicked a little, and saw the numbers dwindle so much as to assure he would be needed in the full official capacity in which he was qualified, necessary. He thought to himself, What are we saving here, anyway? So many people apparently felt it perfectly acceptable to continue acting in exactly the petty ways that had made it a difficult prospect even in the first scenario. He had never been an astronaut, but that had never stopped him from wondering why it would take decades to continue exploration of space, when so much had already been proven about its viability. Only arrogance and pride, and dumb stupidity, he thought bluntly, and sadly, during those weeks.

When the fleet was finally about to launch, he realized he really would have to fall back on his wits. All his colleagues were either assigned elsewhere or gone, lost before even the planet. He decided that he would let the rest fall to fate. He would be boarding the frigate, he would be flying it. That much was now certain. And then everything else would just have to happen...

Lost Convoy, Part XI: Survival Line

2011-03-05T13:43:00.000-08:00

"We need to make something clear. We've just been through a terrible event, and we're not in the clearing yet. We survived the destruction of Earth, but we still need to find some new kind of permanent safety. We aren't going to survive on ships forever. Now, as some of you know, there has been an additional complication. Our frigate has lost contact with the rest of the fleet. We've already taken measures to remedy this situation, and I'd like to personally and publicly thank Clive Lockwood and Jim Brewer for their assistance in this matter. This represents, however, just one of the many hurdles we still have ahead of us. We still don't know why it happened, and to be honest, that's completely beside the point. We will need to work together, put all our petty differences and irritations behind us. There's a lot more trouble out there than we really need to create ourselves. I can't make you become better people, but I can ask that you at least try and make life tolerable for everyone, because that's the first best step to ensuring we can make it to the next step, the point where we're safe and secure again, wherever that may be."

Normally, Ray Patch wasn't much for making speeches, and the only way he made it through that one was by starting it as soon as he entered the cabin, and refusing to even think about stopping. It was incredible, it really was, that he'd made it the whole way through, with the same confident air he hoped his passengers were generous enough to believe in.

For a few moments, it seemed as if everyone were just too stunned to have more of a reaction than stare at him, and he was grateful that he was done speaking, because he wouldn't have been able to continue now if he tried. The flight attendant, Kim Jones, was standing by his side, and he saw Clive and Jim shake themselves free from the man who had presumably begun the commotion Kim had come to warn him about.

"You're talkin' about a survival line," the man said, who was of course the only one who was going to speak at all. "Okay. That's good enough. Now get your ass back into that cockpit. Makes me nervous seeing the pilot stand back here with the rest of us. I'm not too good at the stick myself. Wouldn't want to press my luck."

There were a few nervous smiles. "Gabriel Martinez," Kim whispered to Ray.

Lost Convoy, Part X: Gabriel Martinez

2011-03-04T14:00:00.000-08:00

It was the day he would never forget. The spring festival had just concluded, and Gabriel Martinez had had the time of his life, taking advantage of every opportunity, every last sucker visiting town falling for all the oldest tricks in the book. But that was nothing compared to the news waiting for him when he got back home. He'd just been fired.

Now, news like that is never an easy thing to handle, but it's far worse when it's your day off and you feel like the king of the world, and the thanks the world gives you is to yank the carpet from under your feet. The festival was supposed to cushion his plans, not make up the bulk of his funds. He needed that job in order for everything to fall into place. Gabriel wasn't much for believing in karma, at least he hadn't been, and even then, he might have been okay. Just a minor setback. Then he got another call, from his brother, the one who had always been so much more successful, bragging about yet another big promotion, something to do with a government contract and a fleet of ships. Gabriel was about to hang up when he asked why the ships were necessary. "Don't you follow the news?"

Well, and then there was the whole end-of-the-world thing. It was almost enough to take the edge off of losing his job. "What do you mean? The world's fine, dipshit."

"Not from the latest reports, little brother."

"If I had a nickel for every time someone said the world was going to end, I'd be a rich man."

"And if you'd actually pursued that scam, you'd be better off, now wouldn't you?"

"Screw you."

"Well, that's kind of the point. We all are."

Some of us, anyway, Gabriel thought. Then he really did hang up the phone and switched on the news. Only this town could hold an entire festival in the midst of the biggest story to ever break. "Thank god I was fired," he said to himself.

Monkey Palm

2011-03-03T15:15:00.000-08:00

They were comfortably seated in the back of the bus, making the long trip to Denver, when Sam finally noticed that Morrison had been reading something peculiar for the past ten minutes.

“So, what’ve you got there?”

“Oh, it’s just one of those electronic readers,” Morrison replied evasively.

“Really? Because it looks…a little different from the ones I’m familiar with,” Sam said.

“No, it’s just the same as the rest of them,” Morrison insisted.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Sam said. “Let me see it.”

“All the same, no.”

“You’re holding a perfectly normal thing and you’ve got a problem with me looking at it?” Sam tested.

“I’m trying to read.”

“And you’re holding a conversation with me,” Sam noted.

“Not because I want to.”

“Because I’m such a great guy,” Sam said. “No really, just let me look. I promise I won’t break it. I’ll only take a moment.”

“All the same, no.”

“Come on! Now you’re just making it seem like it really is something special,” Sam protested. “Morrison! Stop being so difficult!”

“It’s a Monkey Palm. It’s just like any other e-reader,” Morrison relented. “It’s really no big deal.”

“I’ve never heard of…Monkey Palm? There are some pretty big, established names out there right now, but this one, come on, there has to be something special about it,” Sam insisted. “You’ve got to tell me!”

“You’re being kind of needy right now,” Morrison pointed out.

“It’s better than being secretive! What are you, some kind of spy?”

“Yes, I am a spy and I’m using my super secret surveillance Monkey Palm out in the open,” Morrison said, with not a little sarcasm in his voice. “But don’t tell anyone else. Just in case they didn’t hear.”

Sam sat quietly for a moment, not as if he were thinking about it or sulking, but biding his time. He was calculating. He was used to this kind of behavior from his friend, but usually it didn’t last this long. Also, usually Sam wasn’t this intrigued.

“Okay fine,” he said finally, “You can keep your secret Monkey Palm to yourself.”

“Listen, it’s just, the Monkey Palm is pretty unique,” Morrison said. “I just didn’t want to get you all excited.”

“Well, good job with that one.”

“When I said it was just like any e-reader, I really meant it,” Morrison continued. “There’s just one difference. It doesn’t carry…ordinary titles.”

“Oh, I get it! ‘Monkey Palm.’ Not very subtle,” Sam laughed. “Not very subtle. The world’s first sex-reader.”

“Ha. Right, you got me,” Morrison said, staring mordantly at his friend. “You idiot. That’s not what I meant at all. The titles aren’t ordinary because technically they don’t exist.”

“So you’re saying I haven’t heard of the Monkey Palm because it’s some kind of black market device,” Sam suggested. “That’s rich. Underground e-readers for underground literature. Kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

“Wrong again, friend-o,” Morrison said.

“I told you that was creepy,” Sam reminded him. “Never reference a creepy character with someone who’s actually your friend. It’s like nominating your biggest enemy as your running mate. It just doesn’t make sense, Morrison. Anyway, stop changing the subject! How is this Monkey Palm so different?”

“It carries material that does not technically exist.”

“You already said that.”

“I know. Clearly I’m reluctant about this,” Morrison said.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Okay. So the stories the Monkey Palm carries haven’t been written yet. Some of them are from alternate realities, too, I think.”

“You’re a horrible liar, Morrison.”

“Because if I were to show it to you right now and you were to confirm for yourself that you knew none of these stories, none of these writers, you’d assume I was just showing you a bunch of obscure works,” Morrison said. “Do you begin to understand my reluctance now? There are so many reasons. You come up with your own.”

“You’re crazy, Morrison.”

“Seriously, that’s exactly what you’d assume,” Morrison said. “You’d take one look at my library and you’d assume you’d just never heard of any of it, and you’d be pretty comfortable with that belief, because on the surface, it’s pretty plausible, and all you’d take away from it is that it’s me being me. But you wanted more than that, and that’s what I’ve given you. But I’m not lying to you now. When I say this stuff does not technically exist, that’s the god’s honest truth.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Think about it, even if I weren’t telling you the truth, you really wouldn’t know any better, and it wouldn’t make any difference. That’s the kind of stuff I’d be reading anyway, right? Stuff most people weren’t reading. That’s Morrison. Gotta be unique. Not because I’m trying to be, but because that’s just the way it usually works out. Well, most of the time. It just so happens that I came across this Monkey Palm, and it’s given me access to material that takes my usual interests to the next level. It’s the kind of thing everyone’s always looking for. You’re just jealous. That’s what you’ve really been thinking, just below the surface of your grimy self.”

“Now you’ve got to add personal insults,” Sam groaned. “Thanks a lot, pal. I honestly don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

“Hey, I never figured that one out, either. I figured you knew.”

“I wish I knew. It was your fault,” Sam complained.

“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. But as long as you wanted to know about the Monkey Palm, I’ve got to continue punishing you. That’s the kind of guy I am. Really, I’m surprised you would be surprised by any of this at this point. You’ve really got to start thinking outside of the box a little. In all this time, that’s all I’ve been trying to express to you. That’s what Morrison’s all about.”

“Ah, I was going to say, ‘Tell me about it,’ but I thought better of it,” Sam realized out loud.

“As always, too late,” Morrison said. “The Monkey Palm is just like anything else I read, only taken to the next level. I guess I realized at some point since I was so obviously different in my inclinations from most people, there was really no longer much of a point of pretending otherwise. What better way to make the distinction than using a device that literally allows me to read things no one else will be reading, at least in the immediate future? Sometimes, I really just amuse myself by trying to figure out whether the story is from the future or was written in some other version of the present. The Monkey Palm strangely doesn’t make much of a distinction.”

“Okay wise guy, how do you know the stuff is really what it was billed to be?”

“I searched it on the Web. I searched every single story for the first couple of months, and never came up with a single hit,” Morrison said. “Not even close. I came up with the kind of results you wish these search engines would be able to strain out at this point, the odd combination of words that aren’t anything more than coincidence. The Monkey Palm is completely legit. I never doubted it, but idle curiosity, of course, had to enter the equation. I knew at some point someone would ask me about it. Honestly, I don’t know what took you so long. I figured you had to have noticed a lot sooner.”

“Because I need to know everything you’re up to, the moment you’re…up to it,” Sam snorted.

“You’re a curious little man, Sam, but just apparently not in that way,” Morrison noted. “That’s what I’ve noticed through all of this. Except today. I congratulate you, sir.”

“So the Monkey Palm gives you secret access to a bunch of stuff no one else is reading,” Sam summarized, with some of his own sarcasm slipping in. “You’re a wild one, Morrison.”

“You say that now, but there’d be some real practical applications to this,” Morrison said. “Think of the possibilities. I could predict…”

“All the things that will hardly sell even when they’re actually real,” Sam suggested. “Big change from what you’ve been doing with the rest of your life.”

“You’re such a cynic,” Morrison said. “Anyway, I was just trying to make it sound more appealing for you. Clearly I overestimated you yet again. Yay me.”

“I don’t even want to ask.”

“What am I reading right now? You want to know,” Morrison insisted. “You really want to know. The more you think about the Monkey Palm, the more it’s going to entice you. You just wait and see. You want to know what literature is going to be like in the future. Yes, it’s still going to have words and sentences, but just from what I’ve experienced to this point, I can tell you, I think it only gets better. I don’t know, maybe the Monkey Palm only gives me access to the kind of stuff that would interest me anyway, but it just seems as if there’s more consistency, more innovation in this material. I can’t even begin to tell you about it, about the things I’ve been reading. I think the best thing about it is I really don’t have to worry about what other people have said about it, that I can really just depend on my own thoughts. That’s the dream, isn’t it? Good literature, without the peanut gallery. The Monkey Palm has rescued books from the classroom.”

“That’s your version of the hard sell?”

“See? That’s why I never outright told you about it,” Morrison sniffed. “Sam being Sam.”

“Sam being like the rest of the freaking world.”

“You’re such a good friend.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“You’re awesome, Sam. Now, if you really don’t mind, I am going to get back to my reading.”

“Don’t let me stop you. Always a pleasure talking to you, Morrison. Never end up regretting it at all.”

The bus continued on its way to Denver, and Sam eventually took a nap. Morrison fell asleep, too, but he wasn’t concerned that the Monkey Palm wouldn’t be there when he woke up. The future would always be waiting for him.

The Insomniac's Dream

2011-03-03T15:14:00.002-08:00

Sleep is the enemy. I did not come to this conclusion lightly, but rather from years of experience, of hardship, of painfully learning how much I lost from sleep. I used to fall asleep easily, too easily, when I least wanted to. It robbed me of so much, made me look like a fool.

So eventually, I stopped doing it. I tried all the common stimulants. I started with coffee, naturally, but turned to more desperate means quickly enough. The drugs, I can’t even begin to talk about them now. They were more unpleasant than sleep, we’ll say. I tried worse things. One was a kind of shock treatment. I attached a device to my arm, which at first, when I realized sleep was imminent, I would trigger, and the device would send a jolt into my system. But even that wasn’t enough. I didn’t trust myself. I began setting the device to administer the shock on its own, at the first sign of sleep.

I couldn’t allow myself to sleep. Sleep was the enemy. I couldn’t let it win. I reached the point where I succeeded, and it was the most pleasant period of my life, strangely…restful.

But it didn’t last long.

One evening, during an eternally long summer’s day, I accidentally dozed off. I don’t know how it happened. As I said, I thought I had won. And yet, all the same, I had dozed off. I had no idea how long I had been asleep, but when I looked at the clock, I immediately panicked. It read 7:56. I knew that I was late, as I understood it, looking at that clock, bright sunlight showing through the curtains, always drawn, over my window.

7:56. I couldn’t believe it! Sleep had done it again. It was insidious. The worst part was that I truly had no concept of how long I’d been asleep. It was exactly the thing I had been fighting all those years, endured all that self-inflicted torment, which to me seemed so much better than sleep.

I set about the only activities that made sense. I tried to call in, knowing I was already late, and would be later still, by the time I was ready and could make the trip, but my mobile device wasn’t functioning. A defective device, like the one I had tried to cure my sleep with. I cursed sleep and devices, and daylight.

I could only stare at the clock. Late, and later still, and what could I say for myself? I couldn’t account for the lost time, for this indefensible lapse. I saw daylight, and assumed that I had passed many hours, in sleep.

I took another look at the clock, and then more devices. I realized that although it was indeed 7:56 when I had awoken, and bright daylight, it was still evening. It was the long summer’s day. I wasn’t late after all. Half my panic escaped me. I kept confirming, kept watch, kept confirming for myself. I didn’t know what to trust, if I should be trusting anything.

When I finally trusted what reality was telling me, when it finally grew dark, when the summer’s day turned into night, I turned back to my enemy. It hadn’t taken away as much as I’d believed, but it had still stolen more precious time from me, and I still couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe myself, of course, that I had allowed it to happen, but more importantly, that sleep, that treacherous sleep that I had just experienced, I still could not properly account for it. It didn’t seem right. I could count back in minutes and hours, how much I had actually lost, but it felt like more. I had woken up as if it truly had been a whole night. That’s why I had been so panicked, because what the clock told me, what I had convinced myself of, it seemed completely plausible.

And yet, it hadn’t been true. And yet, I still felt as if I had lost more time than I now knew to be true. I began considering possibilities again, how I might resolve this conundrum, what possibly might have happened. It wasn’t simply a matter of sleep. It had been, regardless of my confusions, a considerable amount of sleep, and yet I remembered no dreams. I know it’s common to forget dreams when you wake. I knew that even then, after a long period of having deprived myself of my enemy. And yet, even then, I knew, as I know now, that dreams, even when you don’t remember them, still leave a lingering impression, like a piece of knowledge just at the tip of your tongue.

There had been no dreaming. I knew this was no coincidence.

I correct myself, actually. There had been a dream, but it had been stolen from me, the insomniac’s dream.

For weeks, for months, I obsessed over this, as I had obsessed over conquering sleep, something I had been quite successful about, at least until that long summer’s day. I had no idea what someone might want with my dreams. Perhaps there was some conspiracy, a global concern, a mining operation that depended on sleep, a process I had subverted, and this was some kind of revenge.

They say those who don’t sleep become paranoid. I know that’s what you’re thinking, but that’s not what was happening to me. I knew unquestionably that my dream had been stolen from me. It was the only thing that made sense, that could explain what had happened.

I had no way to confirm any of it, of course, only that I had set about a campaign of eradicating my own need for sleep. If I attempted to explain this to anyone, there could be no doubt what everyone would assume. I would be viewed as worse than paranoid. But there are worse things than paranoia. There may even be things worse than sleep.

That’s what I began to dread when I realized my dream had been stolen.

What kind of technology could do this, assuming it was something a man had done? I did not discount the possibility of extraterrestrial interference. With no firm evidence of what alien life would look or behave like, how could I? My dream might even now, might be fueling someone else’s life, here or someplace else, in the stars. It might even be fueling a spaceship. Don’t laugh. It’s not so absurd.

When you eliminate the threat of sleep, anything is possible.

I hate it more than ever now, my enemy. Sleep. Can’t you begin to understand now, how dangerous it is? Without sleep, my dream could never have been stolen. I conceived of devices that could, or so it seemed at the time, of ending sleep’s tyranny. Is it so outrageous to assume that someone, perhaps working in insidious parallel with my own activities, developed devices capable of stealing dreams? I think not.

It’s all about thought, isn’t it? It was for me. Sleep is the opposite of thought, and the only thing within sleep that resembles thought is dreaming. Is it so crazy to think someone stole my dream for that reason, to balance some cosmic, existential scale?

That’s what I’m thinking right now. It’s bright out again. I don’t know how that happened.

Bound by Blood

2011-03-03T15:14:00.001-08:00

For a long time, I couldn’t pin what exactly was wrong with my life.

As far as I could tell, I had no problems that would it seem like anything less than ordinary. I really had no complaints.

Yet something was wrong. Something was off. As best I could, despite this nagging feeling that bore down in the back of my mind and distracted me in everything I did, I tried to carry on just as if I was like everyone else.

But I knew I wasn’t. That’s what bothered me. I knew I wasn’t.

I just couldn’t say how. Ask anyone I knew, and they’d say I wasn’t all that different. And yet I knew that I was. The problem is, unless you can prove it, the world will always tell you that you’re not important, not significant. You don’t stand out in a crowd.

Then again, lots of people do their best work in the shadows. They don’t want to be known, and they take great pains to keep it that way. I didn’t think I was some kind of secret agent. I think it would have been hard to forget something like that. But clearly I had forgotten something, or had been induced to forget something…important.

I was incomplete, and I didn’t know how.

The more I tried to remember, the more things didn’t add up. Memories, I had memories, and I seemed to be able to remember my life, but it was all in bits and snatches. It wasn’t long before I started to wonder why, how I could remember my life, but it suddenly didn’t seem real, as if something was missing.

I did some investigating, reacquainting with old friends, well past the family I knew would be able to corroborate all the things that didn’t really matter, all the formative things, the stuff you do before you truly become yourself, all the things built on the foundation. There were periods that still could not be accounted for.

There were also faces I couldn’t put a name to, and there wasn’t anyone who could help. I began hitting a lot of dead-ends, people who would stop answering my questions. It was undeniable that they recognized me, but they refused to say how. I am not a threatening type, but I could swear they were frightened of me. People I barely knew, they didn’t want anything to do with me. I’m not that kind of person. Anyone I get close to, it’s because I want them in my life at that point.

Who would I have met, and under what circumstances, that would have altered this code? How did I know them? I realized these people, I couldn’t answer these questions. I couldn’t remember how I knew them, only that I had. I had no connections, no more than when I had started the search.

So I dug deeper. I realized the only way to solve this was to stop going after the familiar faces themselves and instead start investigating their lives, not mine. Only by association, only by deduction, could I figure this out.

I learned some startling things. The more I learned, the more I was shocked to have ever known these people. Their interests, their business, was like nothing I had ever thought to be interested in. Depraved, unnatural things. I don’t want to get into it, even now.

But the implicating were undeniable. Things I had only thought of as fiction became a reality. I was no closer to my missing pieces, but the shape of things was forming.

Finally, I hit what appeared to be the last piece of a puzzle, a grave, unmarked, worn by at least ten years worth of rot. What was inside had decomposed even more. The decision to dig up the body was beside the point. I knew what I had to do.

By this point, I had made some connections, and in that way, I identified the corpse. The name meant nothing to me.

Then I looked into its own story, and found myself stooped in further occult matters. The man, whose name I can still not and will not utter, even type, it was claimed that he had been a vampire.

His story led to the grave, and the individual responsible for that was famous enough, even though the rest of the world hardly gave them any credit. They will not be identified here, either, by gender or name. I don’t want others to suffer as I have.

I wish I had never started asking questions. I think that’s the end result of any quest.

I discovered in this process that I had been tangled in the web of the vampire. I had become a vampire myself. It was in the death of the original that I became a man again, and lost all memories of my time as the undead.

I don’t want to remember, but in the process of uncovering the truth of my life, I think I had uncovered the memories. They haunt me, they lurk around corners. I look at a park bench, and I see the color red. All visions, and they come frequently, are covered in blood.

I don’t want to know more, and yet I fear I am not at the end, but the beginning.

And I fear, I didn’t learn that I had once been a vampire, but that I one still.

The past is ever the present, the specter of the future.

I am bound by time.

Lost Convoy, Part IX: The Conversation

2011-03-02T15:31:00.000-08:00

"We need to talk," Kim said without fanfare. She'd let herself into the cockpit, and found that the pilot was staring blankly at his console. "We need to talk now."

He seemed to snap out of his revelry, and swiveled around to greet her. "Ray Patch," he said. "I don't think we've been formally introduced.

"Your name could be Constance Everheart and I wouldn't much care right now," she replied, not even a whiff of sarcasm in her voice. Usually she could be considered droll, and that's how she liked to present herself, but at the moment, Kim was as deadly serious as she she had ever been. "This situation is spiralling out of control, and I'm out of the loop, and I don't like that. You need to tell me everything, right now."

He took a moment, as if he were composing his thoughts, which Kim chose to interpret, while she waited, as a way of patronizing her. "You're right." She was a little surprised, but didn't show it. "I should never have allowed things to develop that poorly. But, things have been a little difficult as a whole. You may have heard."

She wanted to slap him, but restrained herself. "Kim Jones," she said coolly. "From this moment forward, I expect to be included in whatever it is you're attempting to do. Flying this thing would be nice."

"Believe me, that's all I wish I were doing," he said. "Fate interrupted those plans, among many others. I've been forced into a terrible leadership. You're not the first to assume that it's my responsibility, all of this."

"From where I'm standing, it's an easy assumption," she said, but inwardly wanted to add, one I'm now rethinking. She'd allowed herself to be carried away by the hysteria, which she'd only now remembered. "You should be aware that there's a problem with our passengers. They want answers, too, and they're not being as polite as I am about it."

"I've got a solution for that," he said. "We're going to both go out there and widen this discussion a little. This thing's not going anywhere until we figure out where we're going. Sit tight, Kim. This ride's about to get interesting."

Lost Convoy, Part VIII: Kim Jones

2011-03-01T11:43:00.000-08:00

Having been adopted at an early age, Kim Jones never knew her birth parents, and so all the heritage she ever knew was what she grew up with. Losing the entire planet meant, in essence, that she could finally consider her life a blank slate. That wasn't what she was upset about.

What she hated was that the world ended and she was able to book one of the last flights of humanity off the planet, but she would have to do it as a flight attendant, a career she had always despised. She might have been okay processing the news that she hadn't qualified in any other regard to board the frigate, because it would have been entirely likely that the world finished up its destruction before she could decry her fate too loudly, but to be forced into that horrid role one more time, and have basically all of humanity see her only that way, it was more than an insult, it was literally the other worst thing that could possibly happen to her.

Still, she'd survived, she'd made it. No more planet, and very few survivors, but Kim Jones had made it. She could grin and bear it, with that much to be happy about, couldn't she? Except, that attitude only lasted about as long as it took to launch the fleet. The passengers started bitching as soon as they were in orbit, apparently oblivious to the fact that they, too, should have some kind of gratitude occupying them. And who had to deal with that nonsense? Why, Kim, of course...

As if that weren't bad enough, she'd been on plenty of flights in the past to have developed an instinct for when things were going wrong, not simply turbulence, but real problems, long before anything was announced, long before she got the inevitable call to the cockpit. Except this time, the pilot, when he finally bothered to say anything at all, had simply requested for some consultation. He'd completely ignored her. It was almost just as well, because Kim still hadn't officially met Ray Patch. Things had been a little hectic earlier.

She began sensing trouble again soon after, long before the riot broke out. She'd been trying to maintain her composure (and as usual failing miserably) for so long, she lost it the moment the man who would later identify himself as Gabriel Martinez finally let loose, grabbing an entire seat (not his) and tossing it down the aisle. Another man ran past her, one of the people who had responded to the pilot, and attempted to rescue the other one, the other man privileged enough to speak with the pilot, from the grasp of Gabriel Martinez. It was enough to rouse Kim herself. But she left the cabin behind entirely. She was finally going to have a word with Ray Patch.

Lost Convoy, Part VII: Panic in the Sky

2011-02-26T13:30:00.000-08:00

In many ways, it was exactly like the scene had been on Earth, in its final days. Jim figured that initially the rest of the passengers simply hadn't understood the pilot's announcement, and even after Jim had gotten up, helped, and come back, it was several hours later. Maybe it was because the pilot had failed to provide a follow-up, and someone put two and two together, and wound up with eight. It was almost complete hysteria. The flight attendant looked calm by comparison.

There were things being thrown everywhere, things that were meant to be eaten, things that were meant to remain stationary. It was not at all the kind of behavior Jim might have expected from people who only had these precious things to depend on, but then, panic is pretty much the opposite of reason. Punches were being thrown. He tried to locate Clive Lockwood, but couldn't. Perhaps he had already fallen victim to this mob?

He was at a loss as to how he should react. It was behavior that was contrary to his own nature, and so while he understood how it might have begun, he had a harder time identifying with it. He became aware that Kim Jones, or so the name badge the flight attendant wore announced, finally decided to step in, which gave him the opportunity, the distraction, to look for Clive. He had every intention of returning to the cockpit, for a more intimate consultation with the pilot. What was his name again? Before he was able to do any of that, however, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked around and saw a man who must have been a good six inches taller than him.

"Gabriel Martinez," the man said. "Pleased to meet you. Now how about you explain our little rodeo?"

Lost Convoy, Part VI: Jim Brewer

2011-02-25T13:36:00.000-08:00

Ironically, Jim Brewer had worked at the very bookstore Clive Lockwood would one day frequent, or at least call repeatedly, but like Clive, Jim was now happily retired, though sometimes he would visit the store, look into a few areas of interest.

In a previous life, as he sometimes thought of it, the store was also the last place he ever worked, but he enjoyed it, loved the comfort of being surrounded by the books and DVDs that had given him so much pleasure. He had never been an assertive personality, but he made his way with a genial attitude, a calm awareness of the way things worked, which was something he always took pride in. He had once been a mechanical engineer, and that was still his first love, but he now savored the simpler pleasures more freely. Unlike Clive, he was happily married, or had been, until the world came to an end.

He might never tell Clive or Ray, assuming how much they would end up needing him, about Judy. There really wasn't any reason. He had already grieved, privately, and there were great challenges ahead, and a good chance that he would still join her shortly. He hadn't lost his general optimism, though he found a little harder these days. He was more than grateful to have proven some use again. But he much preferred to sit calmly with the rest of the passengers, trying to let it all soak in, maybe let time pass slowly, more slowly than even retirement had allowed him to experience it. He had entered an uncharted void in his life. Wasn't that enough?

The truth was, it wasn't. Jim was always a little restless. He could remember, as a boy, taking apart his parents' toaster, and that was probably the first of many such adventures, the impetus for the rest of his life. His father had asked, calmly, if he would kindly put it back together, and to his surprise, Jim really didn't have much of a problem doing so. Thinking of that now only made him wish there was some toast. The flight attendant didn't look like she could handle requests at the moment.

Instead, Jim sat back quietly, and attempted to take a nap.

Lost Convoy, Part V: The Plan

2011-02-23T16:42:00.000-08:00

Clive didn't waste a lot of time telling Ray Patch what he thought of the situation, once he found out exactly what they were facing. It simply wasn't his style, and no matter the circumstances, he wasn't likely to change, even if he had just lost his planet, or if his one stroke of salvation appeared to have been lost.

"You have some probes?" I'd use them as satellites," he said, and that was all Ray needed. Except there was one problem. Aside from the uncanny ability to drive or pilot just about any manmade vehicle, he still didn't possess the technical know-how necessary in their predicament. Clive had another suggestion for that. "Jim Brewer. He can do that for you. I was sitting next to him. We didn't talk much, much I have him figured for just this kind of problem."

Ray thanked him profusely, and put out a call for Mr. Brewer, who took his time getting to the cockpit. He was stopped along the way by the flight attendant, Kim Jones, who was very slowly losing her mind. When Jim made it clear that he was needed with some urgency (as all the passengers had heard, but few cared to dwell on), Kim finally let him go.

In this situation, Ray was a match for Clive, and got Jim up to speed pretty quickly. Asked for an inventory of all the ship's systems and equipment, Ray was able to do that much, too. After a few moments, Jim nodded. "Yeah, it's doable."

Ray let out a sigh of relief. Clive seemed suddenly uncomfortable, as if all he wanted to do was go and sit back down, now that his input had been taken. Ray said it was okay, and turned to Jim. "You're absolutely sure about this?"

"As much as we're going to need," Jim replied. "I can't say for the rest of us, but we're in a pretty interesting place as it is. Things are going to go wrong. We may have survived just to die in a freak accident anyway."

Ray wished he was feeling as sanguine.

Lost Convoy, Part IV: Clive Lockwood

2011-02-22T11:48:00.000-08:00

He was at home, watching a movie, when it happened. It's really because he had nothing better to do. Clive Lockwood was a man in his late sixties, and had led a pretty full life already. He had nothing much to lose.

Clive had been a pastor in a rural parish, Methodist, though he'd never really had the conviction of faith. He spent three decades with his flock, and then retired, but had never considered what to do with all that time. His congregation had never expected much from him, just the service and a few reassuring words, and since he was socially withdrawn by nature, retirement had at first seemed to be an ideal situation for him. And then he experienced it, and Clive's attitude changed. He really didn't have anything to do. With the constant reassurance of the parish to attend to, all its functions and parishioners taking up his time, what was he supposed to do? He had no friends and no hobbies, and that was about it.

One day he went to a video store, figuring that a relic deserved to be among relics, and spent a few hours perusing the shelves, and he recognized nothing at all, so he chose one at random. The first time he attempted to watch the movie, Clive fell asleep, and he was embarrassed to discover that he had hardly made it past a half hour. So he tried again. In fact, it took three tries for him to watch the movie the whole way through, and he was pleasantly surprised to find that, all told, he had enjoyed himself. It wasn't a particularly deep movie, no great message or acting, just an experience that had amused him.

He did some research, both on the movie and what others had said about it. He found that he didn't much care about what he was supposed to think. He returned that movie and got another, one that looked similar, that would give him the same kind of experience. Two weeks later, he had watched a total of fifteen movies, and had gotten a pretty good understanding of what he most enjoyed. Then, of course, the video store went out of business.

Clive was forced to visit the city in order to find more movies. He chose a bookstore, but tried to locate titles on his computer and call ahead, because the trip took almost a whole hour, and he didn't like to sit in the car that long. The bookstore didn't seem to carry his kind of movies in quite the same way the video store had. He decided to order them. For months and then for years, this pattern continued. He didn't know that the name "Clive Lockwood" had become a little notorious in that store.

It was while he was watching one of these movies that one of his former congregants called him, and told him to turn on the news. At first, he thought she might be asking for some reassuring words, but it soon became apparent that there weren't any possible. This really was the end. He got another call, and then another, some exactly the expected kind, others that only confused him. He decided to unplug his phone, another relic, naturally.

How exactly he ended up on the frigate Clive couldn't say even when he was boarding, when the others in line were swapping their stories, nervously. Clive saw the pilot, and instinctly waved toward him, but the man seemed to be preoccupied, and no wonder. Clive was still trying to figure out how exactly he'd gotten there, hours later, after the big launch, when the pilot's voice came through on the speakers, asking for some suggestions about their situation.

It wasn't for a few minutes until Clive finally felt some clarity. He'd seen a movie like this.

Lost Convoy, Part III: Ragnarok

2011-02-19T13:51:00.000-08:00

The term that seemed to catch on with all the media outlets was Ragnarok. Ray remembered reading somewhere, once, that term, probably in a Marvel comic, something about Norse mythology. At any rate, it really was the end of the world. None of the physics he had ever known seemed to work anymore. There were thousands of people who had simply floated off into space, even. He didn't like to think about it. Here he was piloting a small remnant of humanity to an uncertain future, and he couldn't bare to think of the past.

But it kept coming back to him, an image that seemed burned into his inner eyelids, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again, and every time he slept, he saw it again. He couldn't avoid it. The horror! But somehow he had survived, long enough to lose track of the rest of the convoy. He checked the navigation board, to see where he was, but it was malfunctioning, and all he saw outside of the cockpit was stars, an endless wallpaper, and without the navigation computers, he could be spinning endlessly forever, or at least his corpse, and everyone else he'd brought with him. He tried to bury the guilt. But all he saw was the planet that he had once called home consume itself, over and over again. The scientists couldn't explain what had happened. There was so much rampant and spurious speculation in all the remaining newscasts, he felt ashamed for humanity. Well, this is what you get.

Finally, and Ray had no idea how long it'd been, the navigation board lit up again, and he could plot a direction again. He still had no contact with the rest of the fleet, and he felt resigned to that fact. Better minds than his would have to figure out how to fix that. He felt no less skilled than a child, an infant, useless, and how exactly had he been granted the fates of so many souls? He made the decision to open communications with the passengers. He had no idea what to expect, if they even guessed what had happened. He had no idea what kind of instruments they might have brought with them, or if any of them would still possess the presence of mind to utilize them. That was how he came to meet Clive Lockwood.

Pure Grade

2011-02-17T13:55:00.000-08:00

This is the world as I've always known it. There are very few secrets people can hide. I don't mean in the sense that you might know, where petty things or personal histories can be hidden. I mean that people can't falsely represent themselves. They're forced to be honest about who they are and what they're capable of doing. This is achieved by the Placard. The Placard is something everyone has to wear, sort of like a name badge. It's not too big, but it's big enough so that any piece of information someone who's talking with that person needs to know, automatically transmits exactly what they need to know, all the little details that would previously have been left unsaid, hidden away in that person's thoughts, is made plain. That little change has made a world of difference.

I'm only thirteen years old, but even I know how different things are. I know about your world because I've read about it in books, in imaginative (some would "speculative") literature. I sometimes wonder what it would be like, but I wonder about a lot of things. I'm what you'd call "thoughtful," introspective. I listen more than I talk. My Placard is usually blank. I have no use for guile, and so I guess that's why I'm drawn to your world, what you might think of mine. Lying, even when people can't get away with it, is something I hate, because people still try it anyway.

In school, you can only imagine the difference. Grades are different here, far different. Education itself is so different, and I guess I benefit inordinately in that regard, compared to what you might have experienced. The teachers can't fool the students, and the students can't fool the teachers. When a teacher wants to call on one of us, whatever response they get, they know exactly why that student got the question right, or why they got it wrong. (It's far better than a lie detector, and is invaluable in the courts, or so I'm told.) Parents tend to have more empathy, but classmates don't. They only get mad at the truth. I guess I'd get beat up or picked on wherever I was, so I can't really complain about that. Teachers have more sympathy for students when they know exactly how they learn, and can't pretend otherwise. Grading is based purely on a student's best efforts. I kind of like that.

There really isn't a concept of strangers here. Since the truth of any action is made plain pretty quickly, you know exactly who to trust right away. The Placard is always reliable. Friends are a little easier to come by, but it's not as if social activity is affected that much. People still behave much they always will, as I said. It's just, they can't lie as easily. "The truth will out;" that's a phrase I read somewhere, and it might as well be the motto of the Placards. I don't know who invented them, and I have no idea how long they've been around. They're a fact of life, like any invention. Who invented the name badge, anyway? They're too purely functional to matter that much to history. They're like plastic cups. They're like a magic marker. They're just another thing we wear.

How does it feel to allow people to bullshit (I'm sorry, I know I'm not supposed to swear, but sometimes I can't help myself, and if you could read my Placard, you would know I learned the habit much the way you would have, so there's nothing much to hide there), to misrepresent themselves? In the books, I know people in your world gain positions of authority that way all the time. It's practically the only way they can. That and an over-reliance on personality. It doesn't seem to matter if someone can actually do something. With a Placard, you would always know right away. The interview process would be easy, if a little time-consuming. You would just need to ask questions and read the Placard's comments. You would know instantly if you can trust a person to perform the tasks that would be required of them. I'm just a kid, but even I know that would probably be useful.

Right now, I'm just reading, and that's my whole world, even outside of the Placards. The world fascinates me, in all of its possibilities, both real and imagined. Maybe that's all I should really care about. That's how I should evaluate the world, or maybe just myself.