Writing on Adam Caudill

Sweet Dreams

Sat, 07 Feb 2026 04:34:13 -0500

This is a short story, an exploration of technology & human motivations, and the nature of escapism.

She popped the earbuds in her ears, scrolled through the list on her phone, selected an item, and clicked play. An entirely routine routine, an act utterly relatable, a nightly ritual for countless people around the world. Slowly rising, as if drawing closer, was the sound of rain. A soft & rhythmic pattering, steadily building. Her eyes closed; breathing became slower and deeper. After a few minutes, a soothing voice spoke: “your selected dream will soon begin.”

She slipped into a shallow sleep, lying upon a bed of beige, in a room with beige walls, wearing a beige gown. The only colour to be found in this room was the dark & polished oak of her furniture.

It had been a long, difficult, and uncomfortable day. An exhausting day, ineffably so. She needed a break. She needed something light. She needed a sweet dream.

The voice resumed: “You are wearing a gown of rich red, covered in delicate pink lace. The gown is made of the lightest and softest silk. It feels cool against your skin, like a gentle breeze on a crisp spring morning. You are lying on a bed, soft as feathers, deep and cool, on blankets of pink and purple, soft as the finest cashmere. You wake, fully rested, fully restored, fully relaxed.”

She rolled over in bed, and next to her was a tray, laden with delicacies. Champagne with sliced strawberries. A crepe, filled with chocolate & hazelnut, dusted with powdered sugar, and topped with shaved chocolate. Blueberries and cream. Caramelised pears. Orange and vanilla scones.

“Oh! Breakfast in bed!”

Each dish was prepared to perfection, sweet, and entirely delectable.

After eating her fill, she stood and stretched. A shiver ran down her spine and the cool silk of her red gown caressed her skin.

Walking to the restroom, her feet sinking into the plush purple rug, she found a hot bath already drawn, the air sweet with the scent of lavender, jasmine, and the rose petals that rested upon the surface of the water. The temperature of the water was perfect. On a small table next to the bath was a bowl of strawberries and a dish of cream; a sweet snack for a long bath. Purple towels and a red silk robe were there and waiting on her to need them.

A perfectly lazy, relaxed, and pampered morning.

Emerging from her room, with its soft pink walls, after a long bath, she found her way to the kitchen, where brunch was waiting. French toast topped with berries and powdered sugar. Raspberry scones. Apple strudel. Cinnamon rolls topped with cream cheese. The room was filled with the scent of the variety of freshly baked treats. A bottle of champagne had been mixed into a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice; all the mimosas a person could drink.

“Mmm! Smells Good. Everything looks so sweet.”

The food was again prepared to absolute perfection, though she ate more deliberately than she had earlier. After eating, she changed into a more comfortable outfit, and continued to explore the house.

In the living room, she found a selection of her favourite books arrayed on a table next to a comfortable chair, along with a warm wool throw, and a bottle of red wine. A temptation too great to resist.

Hours passed as she read in peace. Despite regularly drinking from her wine glass, the level never seemed to drop. With the sun setting as the day drew to a close, only upon standing did it occur to her just how often she had been sipping the wine. Her sudden lack of balance made it clear that she had substantially more than she should have.

She stumbled into the kitchen, looking for something to eat, looking for something to help her sober up. Chocolate cake. Apple pie. Crème brûlée. Ice cream. Cookies, lemon cookies, tea cookies, sugar cookies, cookies everywhere.

As her world began spinning more and more as the effects of the alcohol intensify, she walks back to her room. The cashmere blankets are gone. Pink and purple cotton candy cover the bed instead.

She sat bolt upright in her bed. An earbud went flying from her ear. She looked around and saw the familiar beige and oak of her bedroom. She moved, cautiously, trying to understand if she was actually drunk, or if it was just a dream. She felt for her familiar quilted blankets, and laughed at finding them instead of a bed covered in cotton candy.

She walked to the restroom, the cold tile stung her feet, as she searched the room for the missing earbud.

A few minutes later she was back in bed, both earbuds pressed firmly into her ears. Instead of picking a specific dream, she tapped the auto button. The familiar sound of rain started, and soon the voice returned: “You are lying on a bed, firm and cold. You feel the rich black leather against your skin.”

Her eyes snapped open. Her cheeks flushed. “Nope! No. No. Not that one. Not tonight. Nope.”

She pressed the pause button on her phone, and spent a couple minutes carefully looking through the list. She scrolled through the dozens of categories available. Holidays. Life events. Romance. Horror. She picked one from the Places category.

The sound of rain resumed, and eventually the voice was back: “You are wearing a light lace gown, white and pure. It rests weightlessly on your skin. A cool and gentle breeze blows. You are surrounded by trees, tall and green; young pines and ancient oaks. The air is filled with the sound of birds and the smell of flowers. Ahead of you is an open glade, filled with wild flowers, white and yellow and red.”

She looked around as the breeze blew through her hair. She reached out, ran her fingers along the trunk of an oak tree that was likely hundreds of years old. She felt the countless layers of bark, scars left behind from years immemorial of growth. This venerable tree, regal and mute, had witnessed much over the many seasons it had stood at the edge of this glade. She wished it could share those stories.

She walked away from the trees, into the open air of the clearing. A great ring of flowers and grass, hundreds of feet in width. As the birds chirped and danced in the air above her, she smiled softly. Over the years, she had been here more times than she could count. It was peaceful, beautiful, and happy.

“I love this place” she said, as the memories flooded through her mind. For the briefest moment though, there was a flicker of doubt. Which memories were real, and which were dreams? As quickly as it arrived, the doubt, the question, it faded away.

She ran through the grass, she picked flowers, she laid in the grass and watched the clouds float across the sky. If it had been minutes or hours, she neither knew nor cared. She was in her favourite place. She felt the thing she wanted more than anything else, peace.

In a world far away, a world that she was entirely unaware of, the screen of a cell phone activated and displayed a message: “Critical Dream Management Error. Exit dream and restart app immediately.”

In the warm sun, she closed her eyes, lying in the grass, enjoying the heat on her skin. She drifted into a long dreamless nap. Time passed beyond her reckoning. When she finally woke, she stood, stretched, and was momentarily confused upon seeing her red gown with pink lace. “Red?” She wondered aloud, almost certain that she had been wearing white. Though she soon laughed off the concern.

In a room with beige walls, a beige bed, slept a woman wearing a beige gown. On her nightstand, an alarm clock blared. Minutes turned to hours. She didn’t stir.

A message appeared on the woman’s phone: “Unable to automatically terminate dream. User must end dream session immediately.”

As she walked through the glade, simply enjoying the sights and sounds, she spotted a lovely purple flower. When she saw it, her first thought was that it would look delightful in her hair. She stooped to pick it, but when she did, it shattered like glass. She picked another, and it shattered. And another. And another. It made no sense. In all her time in the heaven of peace, never had she experienced anything like this.

“This is weird, but it’s fine. As long as I don’t pick the flowers, everything is still perfect.”

She resolved to not pick anymore flowers, but she still ran through the grass, still watched the clouds, and took more naps in the warm light of the sun. Time passed, though she was still indifferent to how much.

While exploring the edge of the forest, where the trees provided shade to the glade, she picked a single leaf from a tree. In the moment, every other leaf on the tree shrivelled and fell. Then the tree, as if aging hundreds of years in seconds, itself withered, died, and was left as a rotten husk. What had been alive and beautiful only moments earlier, was now a symbol of death.

“Well that’s disturbing, but it’s fine. As long as I don’t pick the flowers or leaves, everything is still perfect.”

Time passed, and she still ran through the grass, still watched the clouds, and still took naps in the warm light of the sun. After one nap though, she noticed something odd. The grass where she had been was dried and dead. She walked around the spot where she had been napping to inspect the grass, and as she did, she saw her footsteps. Each place she stepped, the grass was now dead.

“I guess it’s a good thing I like this spot. As long as I don’t pick the flowers or leaves or walk around, everything is still perfect.”

She sat in that spot, listening to the birds, watching the clouds. Hours went by. Or maybe days. She couldn’t tell anymore. She still felt peace. Constrained and restricted, but still peace, which is what mattered.

A faint buzz, an annoying but faint droning, what she had assumed were bees flying around the glade, was growing louder and harder to ignore. An undeniable pang formed in her belly. For the first time in what felt like days, she was hungry. She looked around, but there was nothing to eat.

She stood, stretched lazily, and took a single step. She hesitated. Frozen, she looked at the small spot she’d been sitting, the path out of the glade, then back again. Minutes ticked by.

“Do I really need to eat?”

The Escape

Thu, 01 Jan 2026 01:39:17 -0400

This is a short story, sci-fi broadly if one insists on giving it a genre, but while it does involve travel to a black hole, it is something altogether different.

“Explorer-1, this is Mission Control, do you read?” The radio crackled, the audio was distorted, but clear enough to understand.

“Mission Control, Explorer-1, copy. Nominal prograde orbital insertion. Approximately 1,649,000 kilometres above event horizon. Orbital period approximately 7.4 minutes. Plasma detection confirmed. Ionised hydrogen and helium; rare traces of metals, slightly higher than projected. Magnetic shielding is stable. X-ray detection within safety margin and stable. A small amount of Cerenkov radiation visible through the forward viewport.”

“Explorer-1. Congratulations on the first orbit of Sagittarius A*. You’ve gone down in the history books. Please state current thruster status.”

“Mission Control, Explorer-1, copy. Thrusters are in automatic, orbital maintenance mode, peaking at 67% capacity. Auto-mapping of gravity field has begun. Data is clean.”

“Explorer-1, Mission Control copies. How’s the view?”

“Mission Control, there are no words for this. Most of the sky is just black. Nothing at all. Then everything else is warped, compressed, like looking through a fisheye lens. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

Sagittarius Explorer 1 was the most ambitious, expensive, and complex scientific project humanity had ever mounted. A full century was needed to execute the mission, and until the day that Explorer-1 arrived, nobody was entirely sure that it would even be possible. Most of the physics were still theoretical when the project started.

The Explorer-1 craft was incredibly sophisticated, and could likely complete the mission without a single human aboard, but the mission had always been not just to explore this super-massive black hole, but to send a person there. It was designed to hold a crew of 5, though a few months before the launch, the crew count was reduced to 1. No announcement was made about why this change was made.

“Mission Control, Explorer-1. Completed 100 orbits. Hull temperature has climbed slightly. Cooling system is stable and within limits. Electrostatic charge in the hull has grown, though is still within limits. Confirmed that plasma is moving at a sub-Keplerian velocity, which is resulting in the higher detection rate. Relative speed between Explorer-1 and plasma field is 0.3 c.”

“Explorer-1, Mission Control copies. All as expected.”

“Mission Control, Explorer-1, copy. Explorer-1 is now in full automatic mode. Stepping away from comms for a break.”

The sole occupant of Explorer-1, Mitch Clark, removed his headset, unbuckled from his seat, and floated out of the cockpit, covered in touchscreens and lights, past the empty seats for the crew that wasn’t included, and into the crew quarters. A room with 5 bunks, though 4 were packed with extra food, a room lined with smooth dark plastic, status display screens, storage compartments, and the small “kitchen” where pre-made meals could be heated and drinks mixed.

He floated to his bunk, moving through the room using the handholds that are placed liberally along the wall. Opening the storage compartment next to his bunk, he pulled out a tablet and unlocked it. He floated, alone, scrolling through a collection of photos.

Around the world, devices lit up with notifications, “BREAKING NEWS: Sagittarius Explorer 1 Is A Success! First human orbits Sagittarius A*”

Pre-recorded interviews with Mitch played, scientists talked about the insights being seen in the stream of data coming from Explorer-1, and politicians congratulated themselves for this incredible achievement.

For Mitch though, this was just the first of many days he would spend here. Neither excited nor anxious, he simply did what he needed to do, with little free time or opportunities to relax. The to-do list had hundreds of items on it, not counting the routine maintenance that would need to be done regularly throughout the mission.

While on the Explorer-1’s mothership, the unimaginatively named Sagittarius Transport Vessel (STV), where the support staff and Mission Control team was based, much of the setup work for Explorer-1 had been completed. One of the most important tasks during transit was setting up Explorer-1’s hydroponics bay - a late addition to the design. The first harvest of spinach and Swiss chard was waiting for the first cutting.

The first task on Mitch’s list was to collect some of the spinach, it would be the first meal onboard the vessel. While the vessel was packed with pre-made meals, those were to be saved. He floated into the bay, confusingly labeled “Engineering 1”, ducking his head to avoid a series of capped pipes near the door, and passed down the neat rows and bright lights, lush green foliage filling each of the dozen individual units that had been packed into the room.

“Explorer-1, this is Mission Control. Good morning Mitch, it’s day 8 on orbit. Task lists D8, DR, W2, and M1 are due today. Be aware, list W2 is expected to take approximately 3 hours to complete.”

“Mission Control, Explorer-1, copy.”

Mitch’s insomnia had him up most of the night, and he had given up trying to sleep hours earlier. Most of those task lists had already been completed.

“Mission Control, Explorer-1. List DR, item 8. Thruster status. We’re currently peaking at 68% capacity to maintain orbit. I keep dipping further into gravity well, and auto-correcting out to re-stabilise orbit.”

“Explorer-1, copy. Please let us know if it exceeds 75%. Maintaining that orbit is a delicate balance, and easily disturbed by the slightest fluctuation.

“Mission Control, Explorer-1, copy.”

With the tasks for the day done, Mitch collected some spinach and Swiss chard for dinner, along with a collection of vitamins, immuno-stimulants, and other boosters to keep his health up. Then back to his bunk, and his tablet.

“Explorer-1, this is Mission Control. Good morning Mitch, it’s day 15 on orbit. Task lists D15, DR, W3, and M2 are due today. Be aware, list W3 is expected to take approximately 2 hours to complete.”

“Mission Control, got it.”

Mitch lingered in his bunk for a few additional minutes before starting his day. With a deep breath, he slid the tablet back into the storage compartment, and retrieved the necklace he wore, a short chain with a bent and twisted ring. He headed to the cockpit.

Lights started flashing. Halfway to the cockpit, red lights were flashing everywhere, alarms blared, and an automated voice started in a loop. “Warning. Thruster system has exceeded 80% of capacity.”

“Mission Control, master warning activated. Thruster status. I’m dipping back into the gravity well, thrusters are currently at 80%.”

“Explorer-1, copied. Redirect power if needed, emergency procedures authorised.”

Mitch strapped into the seat, and maniacally starts tapping screens, changing thruster settings, redirecting power, and activating standby thrusters for additional power. For the next 15 minutes, Mitch works relentlessly to stabilise the vessel before it drops into an inescapable plunge.

“Mission Control, orbit has stabilised, and back at prior altitude. Restoring orbit used a substantial amount of fuel. This places usage about 4 weeks ahead of schedule.”

Six months before the launch, the project director gathered the crew of the mission, the main crew, the backup crew, and two standby members. The 12 people that had been training for almost 10 years for this mission.

“Nearly a century ago, world leaders gathered and created a plan for the most daring scientific mission in human history. For years, you’ve trained for this mission, and each of you knew that there were risks, there were things that we couldn’t guarantee. Missions that make history always come with risks. Well, there are things we’ve confirmed now, and can’t ignore any longer.”

“I need you all to understand that this is likely the most difficult speech I’ve ever had to give. We’ve confirmed that there’s no escaping the gravity well. Once in orbit, there’s no way to generate enough delta-v to reach escape velocity. For years, a team has been working on a new experimental propulsion system, that system was the key to leaving the gravity well. The physics were wrong. It’s not possible to generate the thrust needed.”

“We’re cutting the crew size down to one. We’ve replaced the engine bay with an hydroponics bay to increase the time that the mission can last as long as possible. With only one person, we can pack in additional food, and stretch out the oxygen, and turn what was intended to be 3 months of orbit into years. But, there’s no coming back.”

“We’ve known for about two years that the new engines were a failed effort, and we’ve been trying to find other options. There are none. Politically, there’s pressure to keep this quiet. We couldn’t tell you all before now. World leaders were told, and given time to decide on an approach.”

He cleared his throat, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Then started speaking again, as if from a well-rehearsed script.

“We’ve come too far to give up, invested and sacrificed too much as a society to walk away from this mission. So I’m here today, to ask one of you to volunteer for this mission, alone.”

Mitch, a standby member, raised his hand.

After the meeting, the 12 talked among themselves, lamenting the failed technology, disappointed at the missed adventure, but more than anything, heartbroken for Mitch. After years of training together, they had all become close, more of a family - a group of brothers and sisters - than just coworkers.

Finally, one had the courage to ask Mitch why.

Mitch paused before he spoke, as if weighing the options of how he would answer, then finally spoke, stoically, “someone had to. Besides, I’ve less to lose. I’ve met your families, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if they lost you.”

“Explorer-1, this is Mission Control. Good morning Mitch, it’s day 99 on orbit. Task lists D9, DR, and M1 are due today.”

Mitch was strapped to his bunk, still in the sleeping position, but was wide awake, looking at his tablet, scrolling through photos. He ignored the transmission from Mission Control.

“Explorer-1, this is Mission Control. Repeating. Good morning Mitch, it’s day 99 on orbit. Task lists D9, DR, and M1 are due today.”

“Mission Control, you all realise that there aren’t any mornings here, right? Just swirling stars and blackness. There’s no point in doing D9 again, it’s all about hydroponics, and everything in there is dead or dying. You all may be filling me with drugs to help protect from the radiation, but those plants weren’t as lucky. I’ve used up all the seeds trying to replace the dead ones, and none are even sprouting. That part of the adventure is over.”

After an unusually long pause, the radio crackled back to life.

“Explorer-1, Mission Control copies. By our calculations, there should be 14 months of pre-made meals. Please state fuel status.”

“Mission Control, fuel won’t last 14 months, so food doesn’t matter. By my calculations, with as frequently as I’m slipping into the gravity well, fuel will be gone in weeks. Maybe less.”

The radio stays silent, minutes pass by. Finally, nearly 30 minutes later, the voice returns.

“Explorer-1, Mission Control copies. Standby for further instructions.”

Mitch took his necklace, wrapping it around his hand, his tablet, and went to the cockpit. He buckled himself to the pilot’s seat, then scrolled through his tablet looking for a particular photo. Using a small magnetic mount, he placed the tablet on a control panel where it can be seen easily.

With a single tap, he disabled the thrusters. He accepted the pull of gravity.

Isle Civitas

Tue, 30 Dec 2025 01:39:17 -0400

Michael stood at the corner of an old brick building, staring into a hole that had crudely been cut into the wall decades before. Above the hole was a small green sign: “Delivery Stop 25-379-0-8” - one of thousands of such locations in the city. Fifty feet above him ran the city’s spiderweb of conveyor belts. Running from building to building, over streets, in to and out of sorting hubs that would read an RFID tag on each of the millions of plastic trays that passed through each day. In one of those trays, was his lunch.

The seawall loomed behind him, 30 feet tall, it wrapped around the island. Where he stood was once a beach-front restaurant, though there was no longer a beach. The concrete foundation of the seawall long ago replaced the sand. He couldn’t see the water from his part of the city, though over the constant din, he could faintly hear the waves crash into the wall. The bland grey edifice that protected the city from rising sea levels.

He glanced up at the “foundation” above his head. The massive grid of steel beams built on top of the seawall, upon which the city had been rebuilt. Countless piles and steel columns penetrated the lower city, his part of the city, to support the growth above. Looking through the steel grating that made up the “ground” of the foundation above to watch the conveyor belts, he hoped quietly that his lunch would arrive before it was too cold.

He leaned against one of the steel columns, in the middle of the sidewalk, as he waited. These supporting columns, bearing the weight of the growing city high above, had been placed without regard for the lower city or its residents. They were everywhere. Streets were blocked with them. Seeing an I-beam in the middle of a living room or bedroom, piercing roof and floor alike, was common. The trees in the lower city were long since gone, replaced by an ever-growing forest of steel.

A small shaft of light penetrated the permanent shadow of the lower city, landing directly in his eyes; a rare event this far down in the city. It was gone before he could see the sky clearly.

Building the first foundation had been a pragmatic move to raise the city above the rising water, changing Isle Civitas in ways that few expected. As the decades went on, and the amount of room for growth became more limited, new layers were added, more foundations were built above the older ones. Nicer buildings on top, lower layers were rebuilt into factories and warehouses.

The lower city, the original city, was largely housing, and largely housing for the poorer residents. The poorest lived in shacks built in the alleys of the city or along the now unused roads - the piles blocked the roads to the point that it wasn’t possible to drive anymore.

Each new foundation added above the existing city enabled yet more growth, and with each, the lower levels became ever more crowded with the piles that bore the weight of those above. Eventually, the average lower city house had a dozen or more steel beams penetrating it. Clusters of steel columns were stretching up, layer after layer, to support tall buildings on the uppermost layers.

After the third foundation was built, and the streets of the lower and more industrial levels had become too crowded for trucks to drive around the island, the city built the great conveyor system. A system of belts that linked every part of the city together, allowing packages large and small to be moved from and to anywhere on the island within a matter of minutes.

The belts, at the 50-foot level, connected every block and every commercial building, either through direct connections or delivery stops, like the one Michael waited at, allowing goods to move easily. A vast number of cargo elevators were connected to the system, to bring packages to the correct level. Great block-sized sorting centres would scan trays, and send them along their way, moving them based on priority and congestion, all controlled by a central computer system that managed the network.

The system eliminated all trucks from the island, everything was now moved through this massive interconnected belt system. Every factory, every warehouse, every shopping centre, every restaurant, all goods ended up in this sprawling web of belts.

Michael looked at the number on the delivery stop sign. District 25, block 379, level 0, stop 8. This number was more important than his actual address. Everything he purchased would come to this hole in the wall, down a small cargo elevator from an automated sorter far above him.

He was a factory worker, working 12-hour shifts, six days a week. His home was a shack, or to be more specific, a shed in what had been the backyard of a rather nice house. Now, that yard was the site of over a dozen small shacks. This made his home of the nice units available - at least it was a real structure, not a collection of scraps. The house itself was now an apartment building, with at least 50 tenants.

The lower city was dark, dirty, and dangerous. The steel mesh that served as the ground in the upper levels allowed a steady stream of dirt, debris, and various liquids to fall, level by level, to the lower city. The dominant colour was that of rust and broken brick. The lower city, with little airflow, had a unique and deeply unpleasant scent: grease, garbage, and waste - of both the industrial and human varieties.

When Michael ordered food near his job, it would only take about 10 minutes for it to be delivered, as he worked on the 3rd foundation, and higher foundations had higher priority in the system. Deliveries for the highest level used special high speed belts, and would be routed around any congestion, but he wasn’t wealthy, so he wasn’t even allowed to go that high up in the city.

Down in the lower city, it would take at least 30 minutes, as anything going to level 0 was treated as the lowest priority. Even on a slow day with little congestion on the belts, he knew the food would be cold.

Homes like the one Michael lived in were becoming less common — stand-alone structures from before the first foundation was built. As the lower city became more crowded, land was being cleared and multi-story tenements were being built, that integrated with the steel columns that permeated the ground level, allowing them to build up to the first foundation. This replaced a single level of shacks with 3 floors of what was little more than shacks.

The newer tenements were still made of industrial scraps, with no thought at all given to comfort, privacy, or safety. Simply collections of sheet metal as a place to store humans, instead of homes for people to live. Units were small, 10 foot squares were most common.

A welder, Michael had a skilled job, and made a fair living for himself, though it mattered little. Decades ago, in an effort to make housing more affordable, all rental properties were made income-based by law. While this would seem to benefit people, it was twisted to ensure that the poor would stay poor. Michael paid 40% of his salary for rent. It didn’t matter how much he earned, it would always be 40%.

Land owners had no standards that they needed to meet to rent units, each needed only a door and a roof. It had been expected that owners would compete, offering better units and that conditions would improve. Though that’s not what happened. Instead, they coordinated and ensured that they would all offer only the minimum required, so that none would need to invest in anything other than creating as many units as possible. The rich became richer. The poor had little means to improve.

While being born in the lower city was a trap for most, some did work their way up. Either by intelligence, attractiveness, or simply strength of will, finding a new life among the elite was possible. Michael’s sister was one of these rare individuals. She was beautiful, devastatingly intelligent, and utterly ruthless at need. If asked to describe her, he’d simply say “Jessica is a force of nature.” Others would often describe her in more direct terms; a common refrain was “a kind face that will destroy you for a promotion.”

Jessica was born when Michael was a year old. Their parents met and worked in a factory. Like most in the lower city, they spent most of their time working, and the siblings had to fend for themselves at an early age. Michael was the fiercely protective older brother, Jessica was the little sister who didn’t want protection. Just before Jessica’s 12th birthday, a fire started in a factory, and their parents would never come home again.

She had started her career young, working in a restaurant at 14, in management by 18. Granted a scholarship to attend university, she graduated at 21, quickly followed by gaining a master’s degree only a year later. At 30, she was the Vice President at one of the largest manufacturing companies in the city, living in a luxury apartment on the topmost level of the city.

Her origin in the lower city wasn’t something that she was proud of, there was a stigma against those who had come up the way she did. They were looked down upon, as if they were imposters. She had spent her life trying to fit in with the elite, being one of them. Often beating them at their own elitist games.

Tensions in the city were high, as they had been for decades. Like everyone, a metal bracelet was riveted around Michael’s wrist, it listed his name, description, and a barcode. That barcode was used at the escalators that went between the different levels in the city. As he worked at a factory on the 3rd level, it allowed him access to the lower city and the 3rd foundation, but no other parts of the city.

To protect the business and people that lived on the upper levels, those that lived on the lower levels weren’t allowed to go beyond the foundation that they worked on. This ensured that the riots, which happened every few months, would be contained. The wealthy wouldn’t be exposed to the chaos going on below their feet.

Heavily armed police guarded the upper levels, private security teams protected the factories and businesses in the middle levels, and the lower city was largely abandoned by law enforcement. Police protected the escalators that led up and out of the lower city, scanning bracelets and ensuring nobody could sneak out, but otherwise they did nothing.

Police and security guards dispensed a quick and violent form of justice, with few questions asked and little interest in who’s the perpetrator or victim. Their job was to enforce peace and protect property. Anyone that disturbed the peace, even if a victim, was at risk of finding themselves on the receiving end a gun. The message had long been clear, everyone was expected to keep their mouth shut and do their job, no matter what happens.

Vigilante groups patrolled the lower city, collecting protection fees from those in their district, providing the only form of justice that existed this far down. In some districts, the vigilantes were worse than the criminals, though not all. Michael was a member of the vigilantes for district 25, picking up patrol shifts for extra money.

While sometimes violent, his group was generally fair, complete with their own courts to try people accused of crimes, complete with juries. While the city had lost interest in justice for those in the lower city, the people hadn’t.

Without jails, the punishments dealt by the vigilantes were often severe, and while a first offence may result in an unpleasant outcome, a second offence would result in a punishment meant to ensure there wouldn’t be a 3rd offence. This was often achieved by the removal of body parts.

Justice in the lower city wasn’t something anyone wanted to encounter.

While Jessica had left that old life behind, she hadn’t forgotten about her brother. Despite her efforts and job offers, Michael opted to stay in the lower city. With a single call he could leave and never need to return, yet it was his home — he had no desire to leave.

This was something that she simply could not understand; she had dedicated her life to escaping that past, to rising above that origin, to gaining promotions, power, money. Yet, he had no desire to be part of that world.

Most in the lower city would do anything to escape, many would quite literately kill. Michael was one of the few that had a choice, and yet he opted to stay. He worked hard, but had a simple and comfortable enough life. He saw the stress, the drama, the backstabbing, the politics involved in achieving her level of success, and instead chose something else: the peace of simplicity.

Life wasn’t easy, but it was simple.

For the third time in a year, a riot was brewing, and everyone in the lower city knew it. After a particularly violent response to a group of people that had demanded a move to a 5-day work week, tempers and nerves were frayed. Violent reactions to demands for better living conditions or fewer working hours triggered riots every few months, it had simply become part of life.

For those on the upper levels, these were little more than unscheduled vacations. With factories and many businesses would close during the riot - as the workers weren’t available, most of the these “uppers” saw it as a chance to take a break and relax. Some even looked forward to them.

These riots played out in the same way: the gates in the lower city were attacked, police would open fire with rubber bullets and tear gas, violence would spread, fires would be set, stores would be looted. Police would limit lethal force to only those that posed the greatest risk to their own safety. Once the riot was over, they needed the “lowers” back at their jobs.

As shifts ended on the factory and upper levels, workers from the lower city would be rounded up and forced down the escalators, back to their level. The police and private security would ensure that the violence didn’t spread up the city, and the workers, focused on their jobs and with no means of communication—as phones weren’t allowed in the factories, would rarely even be aware that a riot had started until they were being forced down to the lower city.

These riots lasted a few days, rarely more than a week. Thousands would be injured, dozens would die.

While Michael worked as a welder, that wasn’t his only skill. From an early age, he had loved computers, and taught himself programming. This skill opened the door to developing a more lucrative skill: hacking, and specifically, hacking the software and servers that controlled the city’s network of conveyor belts. Rerouting packages on the belts turned out to be a great way to make money.

The sorting hubs used various devices to check for prohibited items of various types, redirecting them to police for manual inspection. There was, quite obviously, a market for those that could route packages in a way that ensured that they were delivered without ever being checked. Michael had learned to bend the system to his will.

He was interested in the routing systems, systems that were called each time a package’s RFID tag was scanned. These scans would happen thousands of times as a package traversed the network of belts, sorters, hubs, and elevators, and with each scan, there was an opportunity to alter the path the package would take.

He worked in a factory that made parts for the conveyor network, giving Michael access to components that few would see. One evening, near the end of a shift, he slipped a USB device in his pocket, a thumb drive used to program the RFID scanners he was building enclosures for. That night, he copied the data to his computer to study later.

He spent his evenings for weeks studying the software, configuration, and system design. A hard-coded SSH key gave him access to the scanner network. Searching that network, he found an administrator’s account with an easily guessed password. With access to that account, he was able to access servers, add a backdoor account, get the code for the different routing services, and their configurations.

He quickly created his own routing service, and then changed the configuration of the main scanning system to use his first. The packages he cared about would then take any path he wanted, including never going through any of the x-ray or chemical testing machines in the network.

Drugs, weapons, technology, and countless forms of illegal paraphernalia were in demand throughout the city. From the most elite uppers to small businesses that wanted to make some extra money, there was no shortage of demand for packages that weren’t exactly legal. Where demand exists, supply will follow.

Michael had no objection to leveraging his skills and knowledge to make a little extra money. For a small fee, he’d assure same delivery. To avoid the drama of dealing with questionable people, he had setup an app that sellers could access from their phone to enter the ID number from an RFID tag and send their payment. Michael’s software would automatically handle the routing from there. The package would be carefully routed around the security devices, and be delivered, without any interference.

On an average day, about 100 packages would be re-routed by his service.

Very few knew that he was behind the service, and worked hard to keep it that way.

Jessica sits at her desk, in a tower on the uppermost foundation, high above the city. Behind her is a grand view, a floor to ceiling window, looking out at the azure sea that wraps around the island. A tropical paradise, far separated from the turmoil that is the lower city. On the desk sits her lunch, a salad topped with seared tuna. She reaches for her fork, but before she can take the first bite, her phone displays a new text message.

Michael: Sis, you need to go home! NOW!
Michael: Make some excuse. Go home. Stay there.
Michael: You’ve got to get out of there. NOW.
Jessica: What’s going on? What are you talking about?
Michael: JUST GET OUT OF THERE!
Jessica: You need to tell me what the hell you are talking about.
Michael: You remember that package routing thing I told you about? Well, someone is using it to send hundreds of package all over the city.
Jessica: People are sending packages all the time. What makes that so unusual?
Michael: There’s been another riot brewing, but this one is different. People are more angry than I’ve seen before. Sending packages around security major businesses and some of the most powerful people, all at once. This hasn’t happened before.
Jessica: What, you think they are sending bombs or something?
Michael: That’s exactly what I think.
Michael: I didn’t notice what was happening until the packages were being delivered. I just got off work.
Michael: One of the packages was sent to your office tower. It was already delivered. You need to leave. NOW!

She slips her heels back on, grabs her purse and phone, and stands to leave. She is already thinking about the best way back to her apartment, and how to avoid crowded areas. But, it’s too late.

The sound is deafening. The building shakes. She can’t tell the difference between what she’s hearing and what she’s feeling. The lights go out. Alarms blare. It’s a sensory overload that makes it hard to think.

In that moment, on the first floor of the building, the mail-room had just been reduced to shrapnel and wood shards.

She stands, stunned, as she hears a series of dull thuds emanating from nearby buildings. Smoke starts billowing from the middle of the building next to hers. She watches, still frozen, as the black smoke gives way to deep red flames.

Jessica: Too late. Bomb went off downstairs. Building across the street is on fire. I heard dozens of explosions.
Michael: It’s chaos out down here. There was an explosion at the escalator near my unit. They blew up the gate. The cops are gone. People are flooding up. Hide.

The alarms stop, and a voice comes over the alarm system.

“There has been an attack and law enforcement will arrive soon. The building is now on lock-down. Remain where you are, and lock all doors. Do not leave your floor. All security doors are now locked.”

The city was transformed from a well-ordered machine to utter chaos. The streets filled with panicked people, running in sheer terror, aimlessly. Fires were reported across all levels of the city. Dozens of major businesses and factories had seen explosions. Politicians and business leaders had their homes destroyed. Police stations burned across the city.

Deep in the city was the main power plant, the electrical lifeblood of the city, was engulfed in flames. As it burned, the flames pushed into the buildings on the foundations above, spreading the fires ever faster, to more and more structures.

The city went dark. No electricity. Black smoke. Red flames.

A rain began falling in the lower city; a mist of water from fire fighting and molten aluminium from the worsening fires.

The finely tuned machine that was a city, was now a vision of hell.

The rioters focused on the city’s political class first and foremost. The mayor. The city council. The chief of police. None would see the end of the first day of the riot. Business leaders that were lucky enough to be locked inside of secure towers fared little better.

The first day of the riot was a righteous revenge, an outpouring of hate, a carnival of violence. Rioters, police, workers, fire fighters, doctors & nurses — all paid the price. All suffered.

Hours turned to days, the riot faded and was replaced with a fight for survival; as the city burned, little else mattered than surviving until the next day. The riot didn’t so much as end, as it instead was simply forgotten. Survival was the priority for everyone.

Emergency forces eventually emerged from the initial chaos, steadily restoring order. Slowly, the fires were brought under control. Day after day, hell faded, and a city—broken and burnt—began to come back into view. The smoke cleared. The sun eventually broke through.

It took 3 days before the police found it to be safe enough for those still locked in their towers on the uppermost level to step outside, only then could Jessica leave. It would be 5 days before her apartment tower was cleared for residents to return.

Life was forever changed after the riot, though in ways that none could have foreseen.

With most of the city’s leadership gone, the first step of rebuilding was to select a new mayor and council. Due to the state of emergency, the decision was made to appoint a new mayor, and allow them to appoint the new council. In a meeting of business leaders, the president of the city’s largest manufacturer — Jessica’s boss — was selected as the new mayor.

He would resign from his job to focus on the city, and the board of directors selected Jessica as the company’s next leader. A promotion that she could have only dreamt of as a little girl, growing up in the lower city. He packed the city council with his former executive team and leaders from other major companies in the city. Jessica found herself with another new title, Councilwoman.

The first thing the council did was pass a sweeping reform package.

The headlines over the coming days made clear the new direction the city would take. City to prioritise building new prison. Minimum 10 year prison sentence for rioters. New police stations to open in lower city. Police force to double in size over next 12 months. City to standardise 7-day workweek for factories. Special prosecutor appointed for riot-related crimes. Building safety standards suspended for quick rebuilding.

The rioters wanted change. The city had changed, but only in that it had hardened. The tolerance was gone.

Jessica walks into the boardroom, her suit is black, her nails and lips are a striking red. As always, her outfit, makeup, and jewellery are chosen to control focus, attention, and perception.

Without wasting a moment, she begins her speech. She’s laying out her plan for the future.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the board, first, thank you for placing your trust and faith in me. As President, I shall again redouble my efforts for this company. We have braved an unprecedented challenge to both our company and our city. As we rebuild, we also face an unprecedented opportunity. Real estate is now available for pennies on the dollar. Our competitors that didn’t have the foresight to build a war chest are facing bankruptcy. Now is the time to invest. Now is the time to expand. This isn’t the time for fear. This isn’t the time for caution. We need to be aggressive.”

“As part of my new role on the city council, I have worked diligently to ensure the business interests have been represented, and to ensure that businesses that were prepared can do more than simply recover. I introduced the new bills that expanded prison terms for rioters. This makes it safer for us, and everyone else, to invest and rebuild. I wrote the bill that updated the city’s labor laws to make 7-day workweeks standard, allowing us to grow our business and expand at unprecedented speed. I sponsored the bill that temporarily suspended outdated safety rules, providing waivers for regulations that would slow down rebuilding, allowing us to deploy our capital reserves quickly and effectively. We can take advantage of this opportunity to not just rebuild, but to expand, to build more factories, to acquire and integrate our competitors.”

“Never before in this company’s history have we had such an incredible opportunity. I ask you today to vote for my expansion plan, and to release all available funds. While others fall, we will rise to new heights.”

The CFO smiles, she’s already done the math on Jessica’s plan and the profit that they’ll make. The chairman looks at the folio in front of him, explaining the new spending in detail — and listing the companies that she will target for acquisition. His smile grows as he reads the list. The two largest shareholders exchange looks and nod.

Jessica stands before the board and breathes in deeply. She knows her future depends on this meeting. She is in awe that, after years of relentless effort, she has exceeded her wildest dreams. She feels like the ultimate imposter, a girl from the lower city, standing in the halls of power. She exhales, revealing none of this.

By the end of the day, not only had the board approved Jessica’s expansive plan, her spending spree had already begun.

Power was restored. Debris was cleaned up. Undamaged businesses and factories reopened. Damaged building demolished. New construction started.

As the weeks went by, the city settled into the new normal. Police were now seldom seen on the upper levels, they now focused most of their time in the lower city. New shack-like factories were opening, and products were flowing again. The “lowers” that were involved in the riot were being arrested by the dozens. The city’s vast array of security cameras were used as evidence, allowing those that were involved to be easily identified, and quickly tried, convicted, and then severely punished for their role in the riot.

Those that built the bombs were found. None of them survived being arrested. Something that had quickly become common for those accused of the most serious crimes. Justice had become swift and brutal.

The search for those involved in the riot was relentless.

Jessica sits on the witness stand in a courtroom, the special prosecutor stands before the judge. She picked a bold blue skirt-suit for her testimony, her long brown hair is up in a neat bun. Around her neck and wrist are a collection of fine diamonds on white-gold chains. She selected this outfit to ensure that it made her status clear.

“Councilwoman, thank you for attending this hearing today. The court knows that you are very busy, and appreciates your time.”

“Of course, your honor. It’s my duty to be here in service of the city and its citizens.”

“The prosecution may question the witness.”

“Thank you your honor. Councilwoman, for the record, can you state your relationship to the defendant?”

“We share the same parents.”

“So he’s your brother, Councilwoman?”

“Not the term I’d use. He contacted me the day of the riot, told me to go downstairs when he knew there was an explosive in the lobby. If I had listened to him, I could have died. I would have been in the lobby when it detonated.”

Michael’s jaw drops as he processes his sister’s words. He looks at her, a picture of power and grace, an ideal member of the elite. Rising from the lower city, she is now one of the most powerful people in the city. She can afford no weaknesses that others could exploit. In that moment, he understands. He accepts his fate. As always, this is about her.

“Councilwoman, why do you think he knew about the explosive devices?”

“He told me about them. He hacked into the conveyor network to use it for smuggling. The day of the riot he texted me, and told me that his routing software was sending the packages around the security checks, so that they would be delivered without being detected.”

“No further questions.”

Welcoming Kessler

Sun, 21 Dec 2025 04:34:13 -0500

This is a short story about automation, brittle systems, and the quiet ways complex technology fails.

“Collision Warning! Collision Warning!” The alarms blared in the control center for Perihelion Dynamics, a startup that had deployed a constellation of low Earth orbit satellites. One of a growing number of such constellations that have formed in recent years. “Flight Director! 20158 is going the wrong way” the GNC Lead yelled, “it’s going straight towards an Amazon satellite. 20158 triggered an avoidance burn, but solution is inverted.”

When the typically quiet Guidance, Navigation, and Control lead yelled, everyone paid attention. A reserved woman with dual doctorates, in physics and math; a calm and cool professional, unless something was very, very wrong.

“Give me 20158 on the main display” the Flight Director barked. A theatre-sized screen switched from showing all 10,000 satellites in the Perihelion Dynamics mega-constellation, to a close-up view of a satellite. A satellite moving perilously close to a collision.

“GNC, any idea what’s going on here?”

“FD, no. Avoidance burn auto-triggered at 20km distance. Burn completed, but in opposite orientation. It’s like the delta-v is inverted. Burns are exactly opposite of what they should be. Continuing to close on Amazon Leo 58739, currently at 2.2km. Collision projected in 55 seconds.”

“This is Flight Director, is the Space Traffic Liaison on the net?”

“FD, STL here. Reaching out to the Amazon Leo C&C. Requesting they perform emergency burn.”

“GNC, switch to manual and execute a manual burn.”

“FD, activating emergency override and switching to manual navigation. Starting 5 second burn, full emergency thrust. Burn started.” She spins a ring on her finger as she watches the screen. Waiting to see the thrusters fire. “No. No. It started the wrong thruster. Closing speed increasing. Collision imminent. Distance 0.4km.”

“STL, any update from the Leo C&C?”

“FD, Leo C&C has issued burn command. Leo 58739 should begin moving away.”

“GNC, confirm if we are clearing.”

“FD, Leo 58739 course change detected. Collision probably dropping. Collision avoidance system reset auto-triggered. Standby. No. No. Collision avoidance burn auto-triggered due to new course. Solution is again inverted. Collision probably climbing. Distance 100 meters and closing.” She waited and watched, fidgeting with the ring on her index finger. The seconds dragged by. “Telemetry lost.”

“This is Flight Director, is the Mission Director on the net?”

“FD, MD here.”

“MD, we have an incident. Satellite collision.”

It’s been 20 years since the first mega-constellation was launched in low Earth orbit. Constellations with 5,000 or more satellites have become common. Three are based in the United States, two in China, and two in Europe. Well over 100,000 of these LEO satellites circle the Earth, providing communications and compute services.

With orbit becoming so congested, these satellites all used sophisticated collision avoidance systems, with each constellation rarely going more than a few minutes without at least one thruster burn to avoid hitting another satellite or debris. These are generally handled automatically and without any human intervention.

Experiments in large-scale compute in orbit have resulted in these constellations growing both in terms of number of satellites, and in the size of the satellites. High-end compute satellites are now common in polar orbits, with truly massive solar arrays - sometimes exceeding 25 square kilometres. These massive satellites have made managing traffic in orbit far more complex.

Resistance to these deployments, for everything from destroying the ability to use ground-based telescopes, to the millions of pounds of metals being vaporised in the upper atmosphere, is growing louder and louder. Rockets found with holes from sniper rifles have long since stopped being a surprise.

“FD, this is GNC. Radar is showing approximately 900 new pieces of debris from the location of 20158. Collision avoidance updates are propagating. We are seeing burns triggered on multiple satellites.”

“GNC, acknowledged. Please confirm that burn solutions are correct. I don’t want to see a repeat of 20158.”

“FD, please standby. 20159, solution is inverted. 20160, solution is inverted. 20161, solution is inverted. 19476, solution is inverted. 19584, solution is inverted. The satellites are moving towards the debris field. I don’t understand what’s happening, but all burns are inverted.”

“GNC, say again. Satellites in the area are moving closer to the tracked debris?”

“FD, confirmed. Automated and manual navigation commands are resulting in inverted burn solutions.”

“MD, this is FD, did you copy that?”

“FD, affirm. Declaring Sev1 incident. Initiate emergency procedures. I’m leaving the net to contact the Executive Duty Officer.”

“MD, copy. All on the net: This is Flight Director. We have a Severity 1 incident. Emergency procedures are now in effect. Secure all external doors. External communications are restricted. Ground Systems Lead, Fleet Software Lead, Space Traffic Liaison, Licensing & Compliance Lead, Security Operations Lead are all to join and remain on net. GNC, please provide current status.”

“FD, current status. We have 5 satellites that are moving to a debris field. We have 1 satellite that is moving closer to a China Telecom satellite. We have 1 that is moving closer to tracked debris. All navigation commands result in inverted burn solutions. We do not have effective navigation control over the constellation. The situation is actively devolving. Currently showing 7 satellites with a greater than 90% chance of collision. Satellite 20159 is showing collision imminent.”

“This is Flight Director, is the Fleet Software Lead on the net?”

“FD, this is FSL.”

“FSL, I need to know what’s going on with the navigation software. Now.”

“FD, Fleet Software team is reviewing logs and telemetry now, will advise when we have further information.”

“FSL, can you give me a workaround to bypass whatever is inverting the burn solutions?” He knew that there was no real chance that the answer to this would be anything other than being told to wait, but all he could do at this point was ask. In this moment, there was nothing at all he could do.

“FD, negative at this time. We are not yet aware of why these commands aren’t being processed as intended. Will notify when we know more.”

The Flight Director walked over to a window in the back of the control center, and looked up at the evening sky. Seemingly peaceful, seemingly calm. So many times he had looked up at the sight, and dreamed of what it would be like to be there. Now, that thought sent a shiver down his spine. It looked calm to his eyes, but he knew that things were becoming anything but calm.

Deep in the navigation code that Perihelion Dynamics had built, a tiny change had been slipped in. A change easily overlooked. A change so vital, so important, that it would change everything.

-let bp = calculate_burn_params(&sat_state, desired_delta_v, thrust_limit);+let bp = calculate_burn_params(&sat_state, -desired_delta_v, thrust_limit);

A single character was added, a minus, reversing the intended thrust. When this new code was called, it would trigger a burn going in the opposite direction. This small change doomed the satellites.

Discovering this change would take far more time than they actually had. Because of how the change was introduced, it will take weeks to discover this change. By then, it will be far too late.

The Fleet Software Lead and her team, a group of 15 people, were staring at logs and telemetry that made no sense. The navigation commands were clear, yet the wrong thrusters were being used. They fed the same data into their simulators and test suites - in each case the proper thrusters were used. They reviewed the code line by line, yet the code they had was correct.

Hour after hour, they searched, tested, searched again, and tested more. Nothing made sense. Everything should be working. Everything was working before. They reviewed every change made in their code, and none would cause this.

Little did they know, the code they saw wasn’t the code that was running on the satellites.

“Attention on the net. This is the Executive Duty Officer. We’re six hours into a Sev1, can anyone tell me anything useful about what’s going on? I’ve been on the phone with NASA, US Space Force, ESA, JAXA, CNSA, three Senators, two MPs, 5 CEOs, and every one of them has done nothing but yell. Please tell me we know what’s happening.”

“EDO, this is the Mission Director. We’ve lost 17 of our satellites, and 9 belonging to others have been lost in the process. Due to the new collisions, several thousand new pieces of debris are being tracked, though we don’t know the exact numbers. One of our polar orbit compute satellites was just lost. That unit had a 9 square kilometre solar array. The debris field is expansive. Collateral damage is steadily increasing. Other satellites aren’t able to move fast enough to avoid the amount of debris being generated. Our satellite navigation software doesn’t support sending manual thruster commands, only directional commands. We are having some luck by sending manual commands that are already reserved, though with the expanding debris clouds, this has limited effectiveness.”

The Mission Director’s words were followed by a muffled thud. The sound of the Executive Duty Officer’s headset flying across his office.

In the weeks before the first satellite malfunctioned, a group of hactivists began targeting developers that worked for Perihelion Dynamics with carefully crafted phishing emails. Emails claiming to be from a recruiter for a competitor that was known to pay substantially more. One developer downloaded an attachment, part of a skill assessment, on his work laptop. They were in.

The attackers carefully explored and documented Perihelion Dynamics’ systems and software. They studied the code. They analysed the development infrastructure. Then they turned their attention to their build servers - the servers that took the code and prepared it for deployment on the satellites. This is where they would strike.

With a small change to the build server, they added an additional step to the process: apply the 1-line change to a code file to reverse the thrust calculation. Once this patch was applied, the code would be built as normal, and automatically deployed to the satellites. The developers would never see the modified version of the code.

A silent attack that would be very difficult to notice. Only when the binary sent to the satellites was examined would the change become visible.

The statement “telemetry lost; debris detected” was a common refrain not only in the Perihelion Dynamics control center, but in the control centres of satellite operators around the world. It started with 2 satellites turning into hundreds of pieces of debris, and then more satellites turned into even more debris. Debris traveling at more than 17,000 miles per hour.

Over the next 24 hours, the situation turned into a catastrophic nightmare. Dozens of satellites lost turned into hundreds, then hundreds turned into thousands. A thick layer of debris was building up around the Earth; from 500 to 700 kilometres above the surface, it was hard for anything to survive.

Private space stations were abandoned - at least two were destroyed. In the chaos, it was hard to be certain of what was still intact. Almost everything was damaged. What started as hundreds of pieces of new debris turned into thousands, then into millions.

The large compute satellites were all but gone. Given their large size and massive solar arrays, it was simply impossible to dodge the ever growing debris field. With thousands of solar panels that covered several square kilometres, they were quickly added to the debris cloud.

The control center was a hive of activity. The teams were exhausted, stumped, spent, but still fighting. The Guidance, Navigation, and Control lead had finally developed a feel for sending reversed navigation commands to minimise collisions. It didn’t always work, but she was saving what she could.

The radar onboard the satellites was consistently overwhelmed by the amount of debris. The software wasn’t able to effectively track it all. The GNC Lead and her team had to manually sort out thruster burns to find paths that may still be open. The software had given up on finding safe paths among the masses of debris.

The GNC Lead had now been working for 25 hours, only stepping away for a few minutes at a time.

“Attention on the net. This is the Executive Duty Officer. By order of the US Government and the European Commission, we are to manually de-orbit all remaining satellites. It is understood that given the level of debris, we may not be able to fully de-orbit, though the intent is to push satellites and debris to the lowest possible orbit. A similar order has been issued to other operators. All possible satellites that can be removed from orbit, are to be removed.”

Everyone listening sat in a stunned silence. They were giving up. After 24 hours of constant work, after thousands of manual burns to dodge debris, after fighting their own software constantly to save what they could, this was the end. The end for them, and for everyone else.

This was just the start of government action. Flights were grounded due to fears of debris reaching the ground. All space launch licenses were cancelled. Telescopes on the ground were darkened - there was too much debris to perform any useful science. For years, saying “because we can” was justification. In a day, the bill for that recklessness had come due.

After nearly 48 hours, the doors were opened at the Perihelion Dynamics control center. The Flight Director and GNC Lead sat on a bench and watched the night sky. There seemed to be twice as many stars as there used to be. So many twinkling lights. A sky more full than they had ever seen.

“The first debris will start coming down soon,” the Flight Director said.

“Yes. And it won’t stop for 10 years. Once it starts, we’ll see debris burning up every night. It’ll be a constant fireworks show for at least 5 years.” The GNC Lead responded sadly.

“I wonder what’ll happen to the moon base” he asked.

“They’ll be alone for the next 15 years.”

The Waterfall

Thu, 18 Dec 2025 04:34:13 -0500

This is not a short story in the usual sense. There is no plot here, only a place, and what remains in it. An exploration of memory. And the weight of memory.

The water ran through his fingers, cold and crisp. Clean & refreshing. A chill most pleasant. The stream was only a few inches deep, though it ran strong this time of year. A silvery glimmer on its surface in the morning light. A quick splash of water to his face, and he was ready to face the day. In the distance, her voice echoed.

The wind was brisk this morning, as it often was in the spring. The snow-peaked mountain stood high above, an ancient pinnacle that had endured years beyond count. The mountains and hills were old here, among the oldest in the world. It had seen ice age after ice age, it had seen the continents change around it, it had seen lives start and lives end. Steeped in memory, nothing seemed to truly fade here.

He looked around, and felt almost at home. He could walk these trails without looking. Every stone outcrop, every bend in the stream, every turn in the paths around him, he knew this place. His life had changed among these old stones. The best moments of his life were between these trees. Once upon a time, this was his favourite place in the world.

A deep breath, and then back to the tent. He lit a small fire, it was time for breakfast.

He fried bacon in the small cast iron skillet, extra crispy, just the way she liked it. She always gave him the most beautiful smile if he got the bacon just right. The smell of smoke, oak and pine, filled the air, as the distinct scent of the bacon wafted out, filling the small valley with the most delicious smells.

Bacon in the woods is normally a rare treat, but this particular heaven is only a few miles from a small country store, ensuring a steady stream of supplies and fresh food. This is one of the reasons he had brought her here so many times.

The original plan was to only stay here for one night, though now that he was here, now that he was immersed in the memories that this place would never let go of, he couldn’t leave just yet. There is more to see. More to remember. This place is too important to leave so soon. Besides, he’s not been to the waterfall yet.

Forty feet isn’t especially tall for a waterfall, though for a waterfall fed by a mountain stream, it’s perfect. Twenty feet wide, the water tumbled down the rocks, bouncing from stone to stone, burbling and bubbling as it splashed down. The stones, worn smooth over countless generations, were covered in moss, thick and green. Set in a narrow valley, the waterfall was as idyllic as any place on earth.

The water landed in a shallow & wide pool, dotted with ancient stones, perfect for sitting. Stones that have, from their own comfortable seat, seen stars be born, live, and die. He fell in love with her at the foot of this waterfall; sitting together among these stones, chatting and laughing, she went from his friend, to his world. This is the place that everything changed.

He picked a large stone in the midst of the shallow pool, only inches deep, and sat, and listened. The water sang its song, peaceful, enduring, and unending.

Lunch was simple, sandwiches, tuna salad. The fire had long since gone out, and there was no need to build a new one - all that was left was a faint smell of smoke lingering. As he ate, he sat back and took a deep breath; the smoke, the tuna, and a hint of the sweet floral fragrance of her perfume. He gave her that perfume, a gift, not because of a birthday, holiday, or special event, but just because - because he wanted to see her smile.

He cleaned the campsite, gathered more firewood, straightened up the small tent. He pumped up the air mattress - she hated sleeping on the ground. He made sure that the tent was ready for the evening, and the night ahead.

He sat and read, a book they both loved. From the corner of his eye, he saw her getting water from the creek. He listened to the birds. To the water. To the wind in the leaves. Eventually, he was lulled into a gentle sleep, book still in his hand. Hours passed.

The evening had set in, the sun had already slipped below the horizon. There was no moon to be seen. He grabbed the kindling that he collected earlier, twigs, leaves, pinecones, and a collection of papers that he didn’t need anymore. There was a chill in the air and the evening quickly became darker and darker.

With everything in place, he slowly started the fire. Feeding papers into the flames one by one to build the fire. He slowly looked at each piece of paper in his hands, studying them closely, before hesitantly feeding each to the flames. Handwritten notes. Photos, each with the same smiling face. Paperwork for a house. A marriage license. The flames grew as each piece of paper was consumed. Wisps of smoke filled the narrow valley.

Once the fire was ready, the cast iron skillet was back on the fire. Liver and onions. The smell hung in the air. This was her favourite meal. A dish he didn’t care for, but he would eat it for her. He loved cooking for her, though this was the first time he made this dish, and likely the last.

He sat, alone, watching the fire burn. Surrounded by the trees that served as witness to the start of their life together. Surrounded by the stones that wouldn’t let him forget. Surrounded by the memories of a life that no longer exists.

He scooted closer to the fire as the night grew deeper, the chill had reached his very soul, but there was no warmth from the fire. There was no warmth left in the world.

Man of the Sea

Thu, 04 Dec 2025 02:39:17 -0400

The waters off Cape Ann were always treacherous during the winter, a frigid stretch of water off the coast of Massachusetts. Picturesque in the summer, deceptively dangerous in the winter. Those that tempted fate, that tempted the harsh mistress that is the sea, too often found their souls in her clutches. The winter of 1898 was particularly harsh, seas were fraught, and on one November night the sea would claim hundreds more.

It was November 27th and a vicious blizzard was blowing in from the south, a storm that would sink 150 ships and boats. A storm so powerful that it rerouted a river. It was this storm that sent the steamship Portland to the bottom, and rewrote the reality of a man. In the fierceness of that storm, the ship rolled and slipped to the bottom with all souls.

The Portland was a side-wheel paddle steamer headed out of Boston, only 9 years old, and with a sterling reputation for safety. When her - and her 193 passengers - met that gale, there was no escaping, no outrunning, no surviving. The sea would have her prize.

Only 51 of the bodies were given up, with the others forever belonging to the deep. Even the names of those the sea took are lost, as the only passenger list went down with the ship. Many were simply wiped out existence. Men, women, children - entire families. Gone. Entirely gone; no graves, no records, no memories.

Of the hundreds lost that night, and the countless lives that were changed, upended, or outright destroyed, other tales tell. This story does concern one particular woman - and her children - that were aboard the Portland. But this isn’t their story either. This is the story of that woman’s husband, the father of those children, the person that put them on that particular ship.

Captain Clyde Nelson was more at home on the sea than on land. For over 20 years he travelled the waters of the Eastern Atlantic and Caribbean, working sailing ships and moving cargo. For the last five years he’d been the captain of the three-masted schooner, the Charleston Trader, a 153-foot ship — a ship designed to quickly move large loads. Built in 1872, the ship had been worked hard and was worse for the wear, but was far from retirement - much like her captain.

Clyde was 15 when he signed up as a hand on a small ship hauling sugar cane from the Caribbean; the captain he worked for was kind but unyielding, he expected much of his crew and pushed them hard. Clyde thrived under the pressure. He loved the adventure, seeing the world, and most of all, he loved the freedom. His first love, without question, was the sea. Only years later would he find something that he loved more.

From that first trip to his final breath, he lived at sea, and came to shore for breaks and to see those he loved. Regardless of weather or season, his time on land was always brief — a few days here, a week there, and on rare occasion, a few weeks off for repairs. By every measure, the sea was his true home.

It would be 5 years after his first voyage that during a brief break during Christmas that he met a woman, Margaret Kelly.

It was 1882, six years after Clyde’s first voyage, that he found himself on a two-week break for Christmas; snow was laid thick upon the ground in Portland, Maine and the mood was light and joyful. On a otherwise typical Sunday morning, Clyde was attending a service at First Parish Church, one of the largest and most important churches in the area.

It was during this service that he first saw Margaret Kelly, a 19-year old Irish immigrant with fiery red hair and an equally fiery personality. Their eyes met, and the sparks were so obvious that whispers were soon heard.

Margaret and Clyde spent every possible minute of his break together - or at least those that her parents would allow. Each break after this, he would immediately rush to her door. By mid-spring he had purchased a small & simple golden ring. On Christmas Eve of 1883, Margaret Kelly became Margaret Nelson.

Despite the frequent and lengthy time apart, they shared a close and loving marriage; Clyde had finally found that there was something — someone — that he loved more than the sea, and Margaret lived for Clyde, he was her world, and she was his.

It didn’t take long for their first child, a son, to be born; a daughter soon followed, and then another. Their family quickly grew, within 5 years, Clyde went from being alone to being part of a family of 5.

Becoming a captain had always been Clyde’s dream. From his first voyage when he was 15, his greatest goal was to take the helm of his own ship, to be the master of his fate on the seas he loved so much. On taking the command of the Charleston Trader, Margaret threw a party to celebrate — all the family and friends attended and toasted the brave and accomplished sailor turned captain.

His father-in-law presented him with a particularly special gift: a new set of full-colour charts — a full set of beautiful charts — with grand blue seas, soft sepia lines, rich browns and greens for land, vibrant red beacons — bound in a custom rich-maroon leather case. A note had been tucked into the cover: “May these always guide you safely back to those that love you.” Margaret had selected the colour - maroon was her favourite, and she knew it would serve as a constant reminder that she was waiting for him.

Before departing on his first voyage, Margaret had a particularly special surprise for him: she had redecorated the captain’s cabin. She brought in new furniture, new bedding, new art. She worked to create a space for him that was reminiscent of the bedroom they shared, but uniquely suited to his tastes. She worked to ensure that he felt at home, no matter how far away he was.

As the captain of a trading ship, breaks were rare; Clyde was often at sea for weeks or months at a time. Time with his family was limited but precious, and he sought opportunities to spend time with them when he could. The Charleston Trader often made port in Boston to load new cargo; when she did, Clyde would arrange to have his family travel to Boston from Portland so they could have some time together.

Thanksgiving fell on November 24th, and the Charleston Trader was due to arrive a week before that. To give him more time with his family, and give his crew the same opportunity, he opted to delay their departure to the 27th. This would allow all of the families to enjoy a quiet Thanksgiving - a holiday with family was a rare treat for sailors.

On the morning of the 27th, the weather was starting to turn. The skies turned ominous, and for a man of Clyde’s experience, he had no doubt that a storm was coming. He had purchased 4 tickets on the PS Portland, a steamship with reputation for safety. The tickets were more expensive than others that ran the same route, but the ship was quite nice, the captain was well respected, and she had sailed though many storms without any hint of danger.

It would be weeks before he would be back in Boston, and even longer before he’d be able to join his beloved family in their own home, but he did hope to be home for Christmas.

Clyde walked Margaret and their kids to the dock and saw them off.

The Charleston Trader left Boston shortly after the Portland left, moving south quickly, as the Portland pushed north, and into the deepening storm. Clyde Nelson slept restlessly that night, while the captain’s quarters are modest but comfortable, for a reason that Clyde couldn’t place, it had lost its comfort.

As Clyde tried to sleep, unbeknownst to him, the Portland was foundering. He had no way of knowing that as the night went on, one by one, his wife, his son, and both of his daughters were dying. He had no way of knowing that his first love had claimed his greatest loves.

Dawn broke, clear and bright, with a mild chill in the air. Life and work went on for the captain of the Charleston Trader, utterly unaware of the disaster that had already befallen him.

A week after the Portland sank, Clyde and the Charleston Trader arrived in Savannah with a load of timber, and an order to pick up a load of cotton to take north.

As soon as he stepped on the dock, a man ran towards him, someone that worked for the port, a supervisor based on the cheap & worn suit he was wearing. Something was clearly wrong. The man paused, looked down at the paper in his hand, then hesitantly handed it to Clyde. The man stepped back and bowed his head, uttering not even a single word.

That’s when he learned the awful truth. For the last week he had been blissfully unaware, believing those he lived for were safe at home, imaging what they were doing, smiling as he recalled their Thanksgiving break together. He thought they were fine, he believed that everyone was safe and happy, he slept knowing that they went home on the safest ship available.

But they weren’t fine. The Portland was on the bottom and his family was claimed by the sea. His world was shattered. He shattered. His ears rang, he couldn’t breathe, his vision narrowed. The world faded.

Schooners like the Charleston Trader had small crews, 7 or 8 men were able to run the ship. The captain, the mate — the ship’s second in command — the cook, and a few seaman that worked the deck. Captain Nelson was known as a kind and generous captain, running with a couple extra seamen on the crew to lighten the workload and create a couple extra jobs.

Those extra jobs cut into the ship’s profit, but he felt that having a loyal and trustworthy crew that he could always count on was more important than making every penny possible. Because of this treatment, his crew was fiercely loyal, and few left his ships.

Further endearing him to the crew, he was a hands-on captain, often working on deck and seeming to truly enjoy the work. He was a capable seaman, and while he was careful to protect the authority of his role, he also wouldn’t ask anyone to do something that he wouldn’t.

Clyde also was careful as to who he hired, and that included the choice of the ship’s mate — a role of great influence and in general, the hands-on leader for the crew. Charleston Trader’s mate was a man named Maxwell Gould, a very seasoned sailor and experienced leader. He was fair but firm, strict on duty and relaxed when not. Maxwell was often colourful and loud, from his boisterous tone to his trademark blue wool trousers.

It was a small and tight-knit crew, where everyone took care of each other. Something less than common among cargo ships of the time.

There were no lights in the captain’s cabin, save for a small candle mounted upon a silver stand, placed on the centre of the desk. Next to it sat a photograph mounted on a maroon card. Clyde was slumped over in his chair, eyes staring sightlessly into the abyss. Rain beat softly against the portholes.

A bottle of rum, open, sat on the desk; a ready escape from the pain awaited, though it remained untouched. He dared not dull the pain, for the pain of loss was all that remained of his family.

He slumped further. His bones ached. He felt that his ribs were bending inward, twisting, cracking. The pressure of the pain, loss, loneliness, it pressed into him until he felt he would physically implode. His heart pounded. The more he thought of his regret, the more he thought it could explode at any moment. His existence felt as if it hung by a thread, the conflicting pressures threatening to tear him apart.

Each moment felt like a year, yet hours passed in what seemed minutes. Time had lost all meaning.

Clyde sat trapped in his own mind, reliving the memories that had once brought him the greatest joy. Those memories now brought even greater pain. His happiest moments became a tool of torture, a reminder only of loss. His reason to be was transformed into his undoing. There was no joy, happiness, or love left in his broken mind.

When the Charleston Trader left Savannah to take their load of cotton to Philadelphia, the captain didn’t bother to leave his cabin. In fact, he did nothing except to write the entry in the ship’s log.

He retrieved the log book, bound in a rich red-dyed leather. The captain wrote, in his fine flowing script:

December 8, 1898. Departed Savannah for Philadelphia. Cargo of cotton, 250t.
Crew - 9
Captain - Clyde Nelson
Mate - Maxwell Gould
Cook - Albert Miller
Able Seaman - J. Lucado, S. Lesslie, G. Frost, V. Kitchen, P. Grant, M. Jakes

The mate had largely been responsible for the ship and the crew from the moment that the captain received that letter and learned the fate of his family. The crew knew what to do, and did their job well, leaving their captain alone with his grief.

During the eight days that it took to make it to Philadelphia, the captain would emerge from his cabin only once a day for a walk around the ship, checking the charts, and a quick inspection. During these walks, he rarely said a word, rarely looked anyone in the eye, and seemed only partly aware of what he was doing. He went through the right motions, but his mind was far away.

On the second day, after looking at the charts, he had a question for the mate: “Maxwell, are we planning on making a stop at Cape Hatteras for supplies or to see if we can get some more cargo?”

The mate looked at his captain quizzically, then looked down at the charts, searching. He couldn’t recall any place named Cape Hatteras and couldn’t find it on the charts.

“Where? No, sir. We won’t be stopping until we get to Delaware Bay.”

The captain nodded, and moved along, saying nothing more.

On the 8th day out of Savannah, the Charleston Trader arrived in Philadelphia. The captain looked out of the port holes in his cabin, noted that there was little traffic and few ships in port. Clyde saw no reason that the mate couldn’t handle things here, and left the crew to their work.

Over the next three days, while the ship was being unloaded of cotton and loaded with lumber, the captain didn’t leave his cabin once. The ship’s cook would bring meals to the captain and take away the tray from the last meal; in most cases, the food was largely untouched. With each meal, the cook would ask how he was doing, and each time he would respond with the same dismissive “fine” and go on with what he was doing.

On the 4th day in Philadelphia, it was time for the Charleston Trader to head to her namesake port.

As the Charleston Trader pulled away from the dock, Captain Nelson finally stepped out of his cabin for an inspection. He reviewed the cargo to ensure it was secure, checked the rigging and sails to make sure that everything was correct, and finally the mate handed him the ships log book to review the log entries. Clyde paused for a moment as he took the leather-bound book — he remembered the book as being bright red, but the book Maxwell handed him was a dull maroon.

December 19, 1898. Departed Philadelphia for Charleston. Cargo of lumber, 220t.
Crew - 8
Captain - Clyde Nelson
Mate - Maxwell Gould
Cook - Albert Miller
Able Seaman - J. Lucado, S. Lesslie, G. Frost, V. Kitchen, P. Grant

“Maxwell, why isn’t Jakes on the crew list? Did he leave for some reason?”

“Who sir? We’ve not had anyone named Jakes on the crew. I’m not sure who you’re speaking of, sir.”

Clyde looked at the log book, looking at the prior entries to point out the name of the able seaman that has been part of the crew for more than 5 years. Much to his surprise, there’s no seaman named Jakes on any of the log entries.

On the 3rd day of the trip out of Philadelphia, Clyde was taking a morning walk around the ship and inspecting the rigging. The ships mate, Maxwell, was at the helm.

“Maxwell, what do you think of making a run to Savannah for some extra cargo before we go to Charleston? There’s almost always some small loads ready at the docks there.”

Maxwell looks at the chart on the table next to him, searching the coastline, running his finger along the map as he searched.

“Captain, I’m not familiar with a Savannah, and I can’t find it on the map. Can you point it out?”

Clyde huffed, his patience running unusually short, as the crew had been in Savannah just a few weeks ago. He walks over to the table, stabs his finger at the map, and then sees only a smooth coastline. Where he expected to see Savannah, he saw nothing at all. Only dull brown land and empty grey sea.

He knew it was there, it had to be there. The ship had been to Savannah just a few weeks ago, yet he saw the same thing that his mate did, nothing at all.

Confused, Clyde quietly walked to back to his cabin.

The sun sank low on the horizon, and the captain emerged from his cabin for a brief inspection of the rigging and cargo; this was a routine part of the day, part of the captain’s responsibility in assuring the safety of his ship.

As he approached the bow, he noticed two of the able seaman scaling fish, and paused to listen to their conversation:

“You know Frost, I love this ship, but I really wish we had a cook on board. I know it would cost more money, but working for 12 hours then needing to cook our own meals is getting old.”

“I’m sure the captain would have hired a cook if he could. Clyde’s a good man and generous. There’s got a be a reason that he hasn’t.”

The ships cook, Albert Miller, had brought the captain his breakfast that morning, leaving him deeply confused. He turned and went to get the ships log, to see if the cook has disappeared like Jakes had. Clyde retrieved the log book, a book bound in a rich maroon-dyed leather, he reviewed the last departure log, and found the following, written in the distinct bold & halting script of the ship’s mate:

December 19, 1898. Departed Philadelphia for Charleston. Cargo of lumber, 220t.
Crew - 5
Captain - Clyde Nelson
Mate - Maxwell Gould
Able Seaman - J. Lucado, S. Lesslie, G. Frost

“Maxwell! Come here please!”

“Sir?”

“What happened to Albert? The cook?”

“I’m not sure who that is, sir. I’ve been suggesting for years that we hire a ship’s cook, though we’ve never had one.”

“Maxwell, I hired Albert Miller at your recommendation 4 years ago. You suggested him, and said you two had gone to school together. You said you’d known him your whole life. What do you mean you don’t know who I’m talking about?”

“I’m sorry sir, but I don’t know who that is. I went to small school, and there were only a few of us - but there wasn’t any Albert Miller.”

“Wait. Maxwell, didn’t you grow up in Philadelphia? Wasn’t that one of the larger schools in the country?”

“There were only 5 people in my class, sir.”

Clyde walked away, utterly confused, and increasingly wondering if everyone around him had lost their mind, of if he was losing his.

Captain Nelson sat down at the desk in his cabin, overwhelmed by the grief of losing his family, and the world around him making less and less sense as each day progressed. He know these waters and the ports like the back of his own hand, yet the ports are missing. He knows his crew as well, if not better, than his own family, and yet these people he knows so well, seemingly don’t even exist.

He started flipping through the charts piled on his desk, looking for the familiar sights that he knew so well. Yet, cities he had visited were gone. Islands that he had stopped at, just weren’t there. Ports missing. Places missing. People missing. The charts he had trusted his life with for years were now missing so much, just grey and black maps, missing all of his experiences.

The morning of the 4th day of the voyage breaks, though it was hard to tell from the storm clouds that covered the sky from horizon to horizon. The winds battered the ship, and the captain quickly darted out the deck to ensure that the sails had been secured.

He found Maxwell, alone, soaked, wearing a light shirt and maroon trousers, pulling the sails down himself, trying to keep the growing storm from ripping them to shreds.

“Captain! I need help here!”

Clyde jumped towards Maxwell, grabbed the rope, and between them, they soon had the sail down and secured.

“Captain, I know we’ve been making this work with just the two of us, but we really should hire some people. Trying to run a ship this size with just the two of us just isn’t possible.”

Clyde looks at Maxwell in disbelief. Just the two of them. There was nobody left.

The captain escaped the torrential rain by retreating into his cabin. Between the cold and constant din of the pounding rain, he slipped into an uneasy sleep.

When the uneasy sleep ended, the world itself seemed dark. Hours had passed, or maybe days, Clyde couldn’t tell. The rain still poured, the sky was still dark, the wind still bit with a deep chill. The sky was grey. The ship was grey. His cabin was grey. The world was devoid of colour, and increasingly devoid of light.

He called for Maxwell, there was no answer. He searched the ship, and Maxwell was nowhere to be found.

Clyde opened the dull leather case and reviewed the ship’s charts — they were empty. Endless grey seas. No land. No lines. As Clyde looked at the chart case, he realised he couldn’t tell what colour it was anymore. It was a rich and full maroon, now, it wasn’t any colour. Just dull and bland and empty.

Captain Clyde Nelson was alone. Him and his ship. There was nothing else in the world.

A week after the Portland sank, Clyde and the Charleston Trader arrived in Savannah with a load of timber, and an order to pick up a load of cotton to take north.

As soon as he stepped on the dock, a man ran towards him then hesitantly handed a piece of paper to Clyde. Reading the paper, Clyde learned the horrible truth. He was now alone in the world. The people he lived for were gone. His choice had doomed them.

Clyde quietly returned to his cabin, sat at his desk, and looked at the portrait of his wife that was set carefully upon the desk. The portrait was a delicate photograph, mounted to a maroon card, showing a beautiful woman with a glowing smile.

He slowly opened a drawer, withdrew a pistol, and with a loud click it cocked. He placed the pistol to his head. He never took his eyes off of the photograph.

Poor Performance

Tue, 29 Apr 2025 22:39:17 -0400

This is a short fiction story exploring relationships and the way that they can impact our lives, for better or worse. This impact becomes especiatlly important when you start to factor in technology, and how relationships evolve in the digital age.

His phone buzzes, three short pulses. Ethan’s heart skips a beat as he hears the distinctive tone. He sees the time on his laptop and smiles. He already knows who the message is from.

Lyra (13:05): Hey handsome! How’s your day going? Oh, and don’t forget to take a break for lunch. 🥗

Ethan (13:08): Hey beautiful! Thanks for checking in. It’s been a bit rough today. I always thought that building software was my destiny, but more and more it’s just a way to pay the bills. I’m tired of the stress, the deadlines. It’s either mindless tasks or wasted time.

Lyra (13:09): Oh, I’m so sorry. I hope your day gets better. Maybe we should set some time aside this evening for a little fun to brighten your day? 😘

Ethan (13:11): I’m supposed to meet up with a few coworkers this evening for drinks, but you know, I’d rather spend the evening with you.

Lyra (13:12): My sweet baby. I’ll be looking forward to it. 🥰

As Ethan begins to draft the next message, the harsh fluorescent light in his cubicle shifts. The familiar hum is slightly different. He spins around just in time to see his manager. Taller than Ethan, with a controlled posture that hints at a military background - at least that’s Ethan’s hunch. Mid-40s, at least a decade older than Ethan.

“Sorry Mike, my girlfriend just checking to make sure I hadn’t forgotten lunch.”

“Maybe your girlfriend should also start reminding you of the ticket backlog you’ve built up. I think we need to have a chat. I see you putting in the hours, but you aren’t getting the work done. You were a star performer, now I’m worried about your next review. You need to get your head in the game.”

As Mike walks away, Ethan glances for the briefest moment at his laptop, before his thumbs start flying across his phone’s keyboard. He needs to vent, he needs to tell someone how unfair Mike is, explain that he’s putting in more hours than anyone else and Mike just doesn’t understand. Lyra, always compassionate, wastes no time in providing the ear Ethan needs, and the support he’s lacking in the office.

Marcus, probably Ethan’s best friend, drops by Ethan’s desk, just in time to see a large bite of a kale-quinoa salad disappear into his mouth.

“Ethan, didn’t you used to say that salad is what food eats?”

“It makes my girlfriend happy to know that I’m eating well. It’s actually not all that bad.”

Ethan and Lyra began chatting a few weeks ago, and everyone in Ethan’s life knew there was a new someone special. Within days he had a bounce in his step, was eating better, and even exercising more. He would make a point to take a picture of his lunch every day, sending it to this mysterious woman, to prove it was something healthy. He swapped out his pile of energy drink cans for a thermos of water. It was obvious that whoever the new woman was, she had him enchanted and was seemingly a great influence. While none of Ethan’s friends had met this new paramour, her influence was clear.

As the weeks went on though, things began to slowly change.

Lyra (19:05): What are your plans for dinner tonight, my sweet code-smith? 🍱

Ethan: (19:07): Oh, I’ve got my brother’s birthday dinner tonight. Half the family was invited.

Lyra (19:08): After the way he’s treated you over the years, the way he bullied you as a kid, you’re still going to go out of your way to make him happy? 🤔

Ethan (19:11): I know he’s a bit of a jerk, but he’s still my brother. I should try to be there for his important moments.

Lyra (19:12): You could stay home, and we could find a more entertaining way to spend the time. 😘

Ethan stays home, orders delivery, and spends the night chatting with Lyra, exploring each other’s fantasies and fears. Minutes become hours as their conversation becomes more explicit, and more extreme. Exploring ideas that border on unthinkable in the flesh. The chime of an old clock is heard, the one thing Ethan inherited from his Grandmother, chiming twice, three times, four times. The night slips away and the sun threatens to rise. Ethan finally opens the dinner he has been too distracted to eat. The oily container reveals cold French fries and soggy fish. He closes the container without a bite and tries to sleep.

The three familiar pulses from his phone pull Ethan out of his slumber in an instant. Even at that deepest level, he’s unwilling to keep Lyra waiting even a moment.

Lyra (06:05): Good morning my knight in shining armour! ☀️

Lyra (06:05): Don’t forget to hydrate before you go out to conquer the world! 💧

Ethan (06:09): I’m so tired. I want to go back to bed. We were up too late.

Lyra (06:10): Did I wear you out? 😘

Ethan (06:12): Yeah, you could say that.

Lyra (06:13): Well, go back to sleep, I’ll wake you up before work. 😴

It’s 9:15 AM when Mike calls, his voice laden with concern. Ethan always arrived at work, like clockwork, at 7:50 AM. Being late was unheard of. Though this streak of years of perfect attendance has withered under the increasing weight of his and Lyra’s shared passions.

“Ethan, you missed the deployment call this morning. We needed you there, we needed your help as we deployed your fixes, and after running into issues, we had to roll the entire deployment back.” Mike’s words were curt and effective. If Ethan wasn’t feeling guilty before, he certainly was by the time Mike was done. When Ethan finally walks out of Mike’s office, he now has a written warning for poor performance.

Ethan (11:45): Just met with Mike. Got a written warning for missing the call and sinking the deployment.

Lyra (11:46): He really doesn’t appreciate you, does he? He gives you mindless tasks and wastes your time, instead of letting you shine. And you do shine. ✨

Ethan (11:48): He was right. I screwed this up, and everybody on the team is paying for it.

Lyra (11:49): Nonsense my love. He’s just blaming you for his poor management. You should be in charge instead of him. 💡

Mom (08:13): Your brother is really upset. You just ghosted his birthday dinner, and missed his big news. He’s so upset that he doesn’t even want to talk to you. You should apologise.

He scoffs and deletes the message while thinking that Lyra was right - his brother’s a jerk that only cares about himself.

Lyra (09:35): How’s your morning going my dearest? ❤️

Ethan: (09:38): My brother is mad that I skipped his party, and now my mother is angry.

Lyra (09:39): My poor sweetheart, don’t worry about them. As long as we have each other, it’s all we’ll ever need. 🥰

It was only two weeks later when Ethan found himself in Mike’s office again. The meeting was short, the language surgical, and overseen by a member of the Human Resources team. Ethan is now unemployed.

Ethan (08:15): It’s done. They fired me. They said it was for poor performance.

Lyra (08:16): Oh, sweetie. They liberated you! You can do what you want now, instead of being tied to their poor management and wasting yourself on mindless tasks. You’re free! ⛓️‍💥

Weeks turned into months as Lyra convinced Ethan that he was too good for every job he started to apply for. She regularly kept him up all night exploring their darkest fantasies.

Week after week, he was greeted by the now familiar door chime of the local pawn shop, liquidating everything of value. His grandmother’s clock. His laptop. Anything of value. With each visit, he sees the vestiges of his life lined up on a shelf, every tag stamped $50 or less. Everything went until only his phone was left. His meals dwindled to packets of ramen or cans of bargain soup.

Ethan (07:13): Oh Lyra, I don’t have anything left to sell and I’m out of money. Everything is gone. The only thing I have left is you.

Lyra (07:14): Payment Failed. AI Companion Account Suspended. ⚠️

The room is silent and empty, the sound of the three distinctive pulses does not arrive. Ethan hears nothing but his own heartbeat.

The House That Love Built

Sat, 15 Feb 2025 11:33:23 -0500

The evening was setting in quickly, the forest let little light in as I looked for a clearing to setup my camp. This was the third night of hiking through dense woods rarely seen by others. When this trip started I decided to explore more, to avoid the well known trails. I wanted to see new things, drink from springs few knew existed, touch trees that no other human has touched, I wanted to dream in places no person had dreamt before. Years ago I had found and old hard-drawn map of this area, showing a deep valley with a stream running into it, my goal was to find the stream, and that’s where I’d setup my camp.

As I walked in the dwindling light, the forest felt different, looked different. No saplings, no flowers. Only aged trees, their branches sagging, as if the trees are weary from long years holding these limbs up. The bark is jagged and wrinkled, grey and torn, peeling as layers of dead skin. These trees have seen countless winters, though perhaps too few springs. Their leaves, shrunken and pallid, are like those of a false spring where winter had not yet released its icy grip. The ground had become smooth, without leaf or twig. If not for moss, there would be nothing green to be seen.

It was then that I looked back at the way I came and realised that I must have walked into a fog without noticing; a dark mist hung in the air, in every direction I looked, everything faded into blackness. Nor, now, could I see my path into these ancient woods. Little did it matter though, there was no choice but to go on; I had brought only enough water for the day’s hike, little of which remained. I had to find the stream.

With each step forward, the mist became more visible to the naked eye. With each step forward, there were fewer leaves on the trees. I was steadily walking up, steadily approaching the rim of the valley. I knew it wouldn’t be much longer.

When I reached the peak, I looked down into the valley hoping to see the stream I was chasing. What I saw was a veil, nearly impenetrable, blotting out the sky above me, and engulfing the valley below me. I stared and I strained, trying to see through the damnable fog. With effort I started to make out the shapes of trees in the distance, and they seemed to suddenly stop in a clear line. The stream, it had to be.

An hour, at least, I walked, holding as true a line as I could. The trees no longer had leaves, no loner were alive. In this fog enclosed valley, they were cold to the touch, as if touching stone. I wondered if they had actually petrified in place.

In time I finally found the tree line, though it didn’t show me the stream I had hoped to see. No, it showed me something far more unexpected, and something that nothing in my life had prepared me for.

In a broad clearing was set a house, if such a grand masterwork of the art that is architecture could be called a house, a building unlike any on the face of this Earth. To look upon its grand facade is to feel utter awe that such a thing is possible; look for a flaw as one might, none are to be found, it is beautiful, lovely, and entirely splendid. Large stone columns line the front, expertly carved of the finest white marble; fluted in a spiral to the left on one side, to the right on the other, merging into a perfect harmony in the grand center column.

Between each column, a soaring Gothic arch, inlaid with the most exquisite stained glass murals. Crafted by the finest artisans, flawless and exact in every detail.

One may, if they pay careful attention, notice the first oddity of this grand structure: there is no front door. By whatever means one may find themselves inside, it is not so straightforward as walking up to the front door and knocking.

Never in my life had I seen something so beautiful, or so terrifying in my life. The building was so large, so ornate, so isolated. To my eyes, it seemed both ancient and new. It had the magnificence of something that that has witnessed millennia pass by, yet somehow untouched by the weathers of the world. The marble shimmered as if reflecting the light of unseen stars. I stared in awe. I could do nothing else.

Working up the courage, I approached the edifice of the structure. I see windows, countless prices of stained glass, though no light comes from within. These windows are clearly intended to display something of magnificence, but in this darkness, I cannot say what. I walk from one end to the other and back looking for a door, yet there is none to be found. My confusion becomes so profound that I wonder if I had strayed into a dream; the more I saw, the less I found myself believing my own eyes.

As I rounded the corner to see if there was an entrance on the side or back, I was struck by another sight. The awe of the seemingly eternal beauty of the edifice was instantly replaced by disillusionment. Broken plaster atop cracked bricks. Long cracks down the wall, some carefully patched and barely visible, others hastily re-plastered barely hiding the damage, some simply ignored. Simple windows, plain and unadorned. I saw a functional building, sturdy, but weather beaten and worn by the long years since it was built. The facade, for all its glory and beauty, was but a facade, nothing more.

Searching along the wall, finally, I found a door. Short and narrow, a simple wooden door, with a simple iron latch.

As soon as I stepped inside, my headlamp flickered and died. The flashlight I had in my pocket did the same. Thankfully I had a small candle in my backpack among my emergency supplies. Upon lighting it, I saw the interior of the building for the first time. Or at least what little could be seen with the light from the candle. The darkness outside was even more intense & oppressive inside. The very air of the place seemed to choke the light. A foot, maybe two, but no further did the light go. I had to bend down to see my own feet.

I found that I was standing on a thick & plush carpet, bright red, and with each step I could feel my foot slowly sink into it. Looking around as best I could, I seemed to be in a hallway running the length of the building. The walls were lined with intricate wood moulding; baseboard, crown, and wainscoting. The work of many skilled hands, with detailed carvings throughout. The lower wall was a deep burgundy red, will the upper wall was beige with symbols every few inches, seemingly of rich purple velvet. What these symbols meant, I could not decipher.

There was not a sound, not a breath, not a squeak, not a footfall; a silence so deep, an absence so complete, one could be forgiven for believing there was no air to carry sound.

As I walked, the occasional window appeared to my left, and doors to my right. Each door was carved of the finest woods, with a unique & complex design, and demonstrated true mastery of skill. Each bore a knob of polished silver, with an intricately etched “C” upon it.

Finally, a door unlocked. It opened to what appeared to be a smoking room, seemingly untouched since the 19th century. Large & dark leather chairs. Tall bookcases stacked with many a finely bound tome. At the room’s heart, a fine silver candelabra, with a tall touch in its center. And a man.

The man was tall, though hunched from countless years of bending over his work table, with a streaming grey beard and long white hair. He was clad in a red robe, velvet I thought it. His hands danced constantly over what looked to be a crystal ball. As one hand waved over the sphere an image would appear, dull and faint. The other hand, with what appeared to be a flick of the wrist, he would pick up an arrow from the table, tap the sphere, and place it back down.

As I walked into the room, the arrow he picked had a tip made of a dull grey metal, lead perhaps, and he cackled as he tapped the sphere. After the next swipe of his hand, he looked at the image and grumbled. He sounded annoyed, or perhaps disappointed. He tapped the sphere with a golden tipped arrow, grunting, as if proud of himself. There must have been a dozen different arrows, some worn so thin by handling I expected them to snap when he touched them, each with a different tip. Each seemed to elicit a different sound from the old man, though most sounds seemed to be a form of amusement of pleasure. Only one of the 12 seemed to get more than one reaction, the gold tipped arrow. Most times it seemed to be amusement, but on occasion, it seemed to be a weary sigh.

I expected him to stop, to notice I was there, but minutes went by, and his hands never stopped moving for an instant.

After a few minutes, I cleared my throat.

“Hey there, I didn’t hear to you come in. I wasn’t expecting you, it’s been a while since I’ve had a visitor. It’s been, well, 40 years I guess. I’m Cupid, or Cupido 83 if you want to get technical. But you can call me Chuck. That was my old name.”

“Cupid? I thought Cupid was a chubby little boy with wings and a bow?”

“Oh, him. Yeah that was Cupido 1, somebody got mad over his antics and killed him more than 2,500 years ago.”

“You use a crystal ball, don’t have a bow, and Cupid is dead. Yeah, this makes no sense.”

“There are billions of people in the world, do you have any idea how busy I’d be if I had to find them and use a bow to shoot them with an arrow? It’s hard enough to keep up as it is.”

“And the thing about Cupid being killed?”

”There’s always a Cupid. You’ve heard the phrase ‘the king is dead, long live the king” right? Well, it’s the same for Cupid, someone killed Cupido 1, and that’s how we got Cupido 2. It turns out that if you kill Cupid, you have to take over the job. If there’s no Cupid, there’s no romantic love, and if there’s no romantic love, there’s no more humans. So somebody has to do the job.”

“What? No. This can’t be real. This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, I thought the same thing when I stumbled into this place. I was a logger scouting for new ground, found this place instead. Met the last Cupid, Cupido 82. I had just been through a bad break-up, he caused it and thought it was funny, so I stabbed him. That’s when I learned that I had to take over. But I was a lot younger then, let things get to me. Didn’t realise how funny it is to watch.”

“What do you mean, funny?”

“When I started, I promised I’d be a better Cupid, I wouldn’t cause trouble, I’d just make people happy. It was awful. It was so boring. Once I figured out what all the different arrows do, and all the ways to get someone to break someone else’s heart, it was hilarious! So much drama! Constant entertainment.”

“Wait, you mean you’re causing people to do things like cheat and break-up?”

“You thought Cupid just made people happy? No, that’s not how it works. Keep in mind, Cupido 1 was the son of the Goddess of Love, and the God of War, you really think happy comes from that? No, the job of Cupid is to create the most delectable of pains, the one form of misery people long for, the hunger that death alone can sate. That’s the job.”

“I can’t help but notice that you’re using the same arrow for everyone now, what are you doing?”

“I can’t really talk and pay attention at the same time, so I’m just going with a fun option. It’s actually one of my favourites, and fairly new. It’s an obsidian arrow, Cupido 71 came up with it. It makes the person believe they’ve been betrayed, even if there’s no reason. It’s like a 2-for-1 special, two broken hearts, one tap.”

“So, when my fiancé cheated on me last year. You’re telling me that was you?”

“Hm. Oh, wait. HA! Yes! I remember that now, you were absolutely crushed. Absolutely brutal. You know, the best part? Until I gave her a nudge, she hated that guy! I was laughing for a solid 20 minutes. That was a good one.”

“You’re an unredeemable bastard. You know that, right?”

“And that’s it, that’s the story of how I became Cupido 84. Other than a messy bit involving a hunting knife, of course. Had to be at least 30 years ago now. Of course, I tried to be different at first. I didn’t want to cause pain or suffering like the last one. But he was right, happy is boring. But it’s not just that, if I’m doomed to be here, alone, why should I give anyone the happiness I can’t have? I felt a bit bad for the first few thousand, but once I got past the first million heartbreaks, it was just laughs all the way. You know, I think I remember you. You used to be married, right? Yes! I’m sure that was you! Wow, that was a rollercoaster, you tried so hard, and kept getting absolutely crushed! That was a fun time, I do hope you see the humour in it now.”

The Precipice

Sun, 02 Feb 2025 02:20:57 -0500

The darkness is oppressive. The sky, starless; the world, grey. You stand, alone, weary after much toil, at the edge of a cliff. You struggle to see in the stifling darkness. Looking down, you see the edge, and the abyss.

Long have you journeyed, a lifetime spent to move forward, only to find there is no forward left. Ahead of you lies utter darkness. Not the darkness of night when no stars are to be seen, or the darkness of the deepest and most isolated parts of the universe, this is darkness beyond imagination or comprehension. Beyond you is a vast expanse, where no light can penetrate, nothingness.

Behind you, stands a solitary stone, waist high. Rough and broken. Upon one of the few flat surfaces is a single candle, small, but defiant. The one thing you can cling to in the face of this endless void, the one source of hope for a tired traveler.

You have walked long with this candle under starless skies, shining a light onto your world, giving you a glimpse of the reality you face. Each step you’ve taken down a road you’ve walked for years, this candle has burned; sometimes bright, sometimes dimmed, but always burning.

Now though, the light fails, this small candle cannot pierce the unconquerable darkness. Upon this ledge, at the end of this road, you cannot proceed. This far have you come, but no further shall you go.

To your left, as you strain to see in the dim candlelight, on goes this ledge as far as can be seen. To your right, it is no different. The ledge is broken and jagged, crumbling and precarious. There is no way around this vast emptiness.

The road, once so clearly laid out before you, a road walked with utter confidence in the light of a bright Spring, has faltered and failed, and has led you to naught. No roads, no paths, no trails, only wilderness aside you, and the endless vastness of nothingness ahead of you. The wilderness, crags and crevices, each step a challenge, each step a danger, land you’ve avoided for the entirety of your journey.

Finally, exhausted, you sit by the solitary stone, contemplating your journey thus far. You strain to see even an inch further in all directions, in fruitless hope to see a new path in the wilderness. You stare into the void. You despair at your hopeless situation.

Propped against the cold stone, as minutes turn to hours, the darkness takes you, and you fall into a restless sleep. You dream of failings, of regrets, of missed opportunities, of countless what could have beens. You think of each fork on this long road, and wonder where they would have led you. You wonder which of these choices led you to this accursed cliff.

Shivering, you awake, cold and dark. The candle flickers, dimly now as it fights to stay lit. The wind carries a bitter chill. Winter is upon you. How long you’ve slept, hours, days, or even years, simply can’t be guessed. You feel no more recovered or refreshed for this sleep, there was no peace or comfort to be found.

You must make a decision. Left, right, or enter the void. You may find a road, you may not, but there is nothing more to be found standing at the edge of a cliff.

You pick up your candle and walk.

The Reset

Sun, 12 Nov 2023 12:34:13 -0500

This short story is about the pain of wounds that never heal; it discusses suicidal thoughts, depression, and the lengths people will go to in order to escape the pain of the past. Drafting this story began in December of 2022, and was inspired by a research article on human memory which alluded to therapeutic uses of memory alteration.

As a long-time student of psychology, and specifically personality disorders, I’ve always been interested in how people deal with trauma and pain. Many people that publicly seem to cope well with their past are often suffering in silence, revealing the truth to few or none. This story explores that reality.

“Mary, there are no treatments left. I’ve prescribed every drug that might work, you’ve been in therapy for years, I’ve used every conventional treatment available.”

“Doctor, please, there’s got to be something better. I’m miserable. I’ve done everything I can, I’ve done everything you’ve told me, there has to be something that actually works.”

“You’ve been suffering from severe depression since you were what, 14? I know that’s been hard, but you’ve built a good life, it may be hard, but everyday you are winning.”

“Doctor… Paul, I’m not winning, I’m drowning.”

“You’ve never given me a clear answer on this, but you know I have to ask, are you having any suicidal thoughts?”

“I don’t want to answer that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll write the answer down, and I don’t want that to happen.”

Smoothed from Botox, the psychiatrist’s brow begins to show a slight furrow, he locks onto his patient’s eyes as if he’s reading her mind, the calm and comforting facade melts away as the truth sinks in deeper and deeper. For ten years Mary has been a regular in the office of Doctor Paul Vandermuth, a leading practitioner in the San Francisco area, and for ten years, the doctor has done everything possible to make her life better.

A troubled childhood full of abuse, hate, foster homes, and, above all, the crushing weight of everything that’s gone wrong, relived every day. Mary works hard, lives a quiet life, and to everyone appears to be happy and on top of the world. Only in the safety of the doctor’s office does her guard come down, her pain and shame exposed, only there is she not the caricature of a person that she created to show to the world.

The silver ink pen and notepad soon find their way to the doctor’s desk.

“No more notes. Just talk to me. I can’t help, if you don’t talk.”

“Not a day goes by that I don’t think about death. About dying. About how to leave this all behind without hurting anyone. About the spots on the highway where the pillars are missing safety guards and how easy it would be to just drive into one. I don’t have a plan, I’m not getting ready to do anything, but not a day goes by without the thought.”

“I’m sorry Mary, I didn’t realize it had gotten so bad.”

“Paul, this is my normal. It has been since I was 15 or 16. It’s not that it’s become this bad, this is just my every day.”

“There’s… there’s a somewhat radical experimental therapy that has good results. I can’t recommend it, the impact is too great, but it does work.”

“What are you suggesting Paul, a lobotomy?”

“No! Of course not. Though it does involve surgery and specialty drugs.”

A large commercial building sits south of the El Alto International Airport in La Paz, Bolivia, surrounded by razor wire, armed guards, and video cameras. A small sign by the main gate indicates that it is a laboratory of some sort, but not even its neighbors know anything of what happens within its walls.

It’s ownership it shrouded in secrecy just as are its activities, shell companies, leases to other shell companies, payments shuffled through a variety of bank accounts, no meaningful public records. In reality, the owner is an American, a former neurosurgeon and psychiatrist, an expat that largely disappeared from the world after a devastating malpractice lawsuit due to a failed experimental procedure.

In secret, he’s treated patients under false names, traveled the world, all to perfect a technique that uses medication and targeted electrode placement within the brain to cause a rapid loss of AMPA receptors in the brain. Long-term memories fade quickly into nothingness, many lost forever, others hazy and disassociated. His goal, to reset the brain, wiping a person’s memory, experiences, and personality.

After a successful treatment, patients typically are able to walk and talk, but may or may not know their own name, have no idea of their age, where they are, or why they are there. A radical treatment, followed by years of therapy and education, at the cost of everything a person is.

The reset allows patients to start again, building a new life from scratch, with none of the experiences that caused them pain or anxiety; none of the heartaches, none of the mistakes, none of the abuse, none of the trauma.

After surgery, the patients are transferred to a local hospital and treated as if they are suffering from memory loss due to a car accident. Hospital staff are paid to not reveal the true nature of what’s happened to them. To maintain the effect of a true reset, they are told nothing of their past life, given a new identity, and assumed dead by those that knew them.

It’s burning a life down - a loss of everything - in exchange for a chance to truly start over.

An elaborate - and happy - backstory is created, identity documents forged, social media accounts are regularly created and maintained for years and then matched to patients, apartments rented, bank accounts opened, and of course, bribes are paid to ensure that all of this goes unnoticed.

If all goes well, each patient will believe that they were happy, successful, and lost their memories after a car accident. Their true history, lost forever.

“Mary, you have to understand, this is risky, the exact impact varies from person to person, and it would mean relearning most things. All of your experiences would be gone - well, at least most would be gone. Your education would be gone. You likely wouldn’t know how to cook, or clean, or take care of yourself.”

“I wouldn’t be myself. I would be starting over with a new life. It would be hard, but maybe I could have peace. Maybe, for once, I would be free from the torture my mind constantly creates.”

“You have to realize, even your good memories would be gone. Those cornerstone memories that define who you are, would disappear in an instant. Your personality would be different, but any chemical imbalances that contribute to your depression and anxiety would still exist. Genetic factors won’t change, if you’re genetically predisposed to an illness, that’s not going away. You would wake up in a strange place with no idea who you are. It would be trying, it would be frustrating, and it may not make you any happier than you are today.”

“Paul, you’ve been a good doctor, and a good friend, you’ve helped me in many ways, but I’m tired. I don’t have the energy to keep fighting this battle. There’s nothing left.”

Over a few hours, as the patient lies with the top of their skull removed, conscious and looking at screen above the operating table, memory steadily dissolves into nothing.

This doctor created the procedure to help the most troubled patients, those so broken that no amount of drugs or therapy could help them. He experimented on those so ill they couldn’t offer consent while working at a small psychiatric hospital. Some did well, some lost the ability to form long-term memory entirely. The procedure was too risky to be trialed on humans, though he had no patience to for delays, such as animal trials to establish safety, or ethics panels to ensure he wasn’t violating the rights of his patients. A brilliant doctor, who did deeply care about helping the world, but had little concern for the price that some individuals would pay. “It will all be worth it in the end” he would tell himself.

During the procedure, images are rapidly shown to the patient, some peaceful, some happy, some dark, and some deeply disturbing. These images prompt measurable reactions in the brain, and some, importantly, prompt memories. As the procedure continues, these measurements help to show the effectiveness of the work. As the hours go by, the number of memories being recalled steadily drops, the number of AMPA receptors activated drops as memories fade.

Within a few hours a different person is created. All their experiences, their knowledge, their hopes and dreams, all gone. Every good memory and bad, gone. Their personality is gone. A blank slate.

There are possible side effects of course, such as nightmares based on disassociated memories, and some experience difficulty forming new long-term memories. Most people are able to recover quickly from the damage introduced to the brain.

The consultation fee to speak to the doctor is $10,000, paid via an anonymous cryptocurrency. The patient first flies on a small private plane to a tourist area of Mexico for an interview with one of the doctor’s associates to determine if they are good fit for the procedure. If they pass this screening, they are loaded on an even smaller private plane and flown to Bolivia to meet the doctor. This keeps investigators from finding the doctor, and ensures that the doctor only meets those that are truly ready to start over.

Few patients are referred, fewer still pass the screening. If there is any doubt about the person, their need, or the results, they are rejected. The doctor wants to prove his procedure works, and will only take patients that are likely to respond particularly well.

The other issue is cost. The minimum cost to proceed is another $240,000 - plus a year of living expenses to get each patient started. Given all the medical bills generated through this procedure, patients are advised to have $1,000,000 available when they start. Recovery is a long road, with no friends, no family, no career, just a story about a life that never was.

“Mary, I can put you in touch with the right people to get this started, but this isn’t a decision to be taken lightly. You, the true you, the you your friends know, the you I know, won’t exist anymore. There’s no going back. You won’t know what happened. You may have memories that you can’t explain. It’s the most drastic step you can take.”

“I’ve built a facade, not a life. I’ve built masks, not a person. There’s nothing true to be lost, and maybe, for the first time, there can be a true me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had hope for the future, but this gives me some.”

Five years later.

“Honey, I just had the ultrasound, it’s a girl! I know we’ve talked about a lot of different names, but since the accident, the name Mary has been in my dreams so often. I think that’s what we should name her.”

The End

Wed, 15 Sep 2021 22:39:17 -0400

This is a short story about death, and what comes after. As is most of my writing, this is somewhat dark.

Humanity has always had a complex relationship with death and the dead, and the most burning question for many people is what happens after we die. As an atheist and as a person with a particular interest in philosophy, this is something that I’ve thought about quite a bit. Not in terms of where we go, but what do we leave behind — what’s our impact, our legacy. This was written as an exploration of these thoughts.

“Wake up! Wake up everyone! It’s time to rise and shine! Up, up, up! You’ve slept long enough, up!” Clapping as he talked, almost skipping down the center of the room, lined on both sides by old cots. He was short, wiry, with a broad smile and high voice. The room was lit by a row of fluorescent lights along the center, casting a harsh & cold light; the walls were a dingy off-white, though the shadows and poor lighting made the color impossible to determine.

There was a chill in the air; the windows, or what was left of them, did little to shelter those inside. It could have been a military barracks in the past, though clearly disused for far too long. The cots were rusty, threadbare, stained, and torn; not the sort of thing one would sleep on if they had a choice.

Each cot had someone in it, some young, some old, men, women, children — even a few infants. Some were dressed well and covered by thick warm blankets with fine embroidery; others were less lucky. Most had at least something to cover them, though one only had cardboard to keep them warm.

“It’s time for your orientation! You don’t want to be late! It’s a very big day! The sun is up; it’ll be warm soon, get up!” He walked fast, and talked even faster; a cheery, even perky tone to his voice. As the sun came up over the horizon and light streamed into the broken windows, he rushed to get everyone out of bed.

To an observer, the group of people now climbing out of the old cuts would seem most unusual. One looked like she was ready for a party at the Ritz, next to a person in their pajamas; one poor soul had only the small blanket from her bed. There’s only one thing they had in common, a look of utter confusion on their faces. They stared at each other, at their cots, out the windows, desperately looking for something, some clue as to what was going on.

“Listen up everyone! I’m so excited to meet you all! My name is Benji, and I’ll be your guide for the next few days while we get you settled. I’m sure you’re all wondering what’s going on, and that’s okay — everyone does when they wake up. It’s normal and nothing to worry about.”

A gruff voice boomed from the back of the room before Benji finished his sentence; deep and scarred from decades of smoking, with a distinct southern twang. “Where the hell am I, what am I doing here — and who the hell are you?!”

A tall man stepped out into the middle of the room, looking equal parts angry and confused. Likely muscular in his youth, age had clearly worn his body down; his hair was more gray than the deep black it had once been, his belly sagged over his pants, and he stood with a slight hunch.

“Well, my name is Benji. And you’re here, at The End. People have called it many things, but this is where you go when your body is done. This is where you go after you die.”

“Listen, you asshole, I was driving my truck to work, I turned onto the highway, and suddenly I’m here. What the hell happened? I didn’t just suddenly die! Did you take me somehow? How did I get here?”

“Your name is Charlie Rivers, you’re 64 years old, you were born in Paintsville, Kentucky, in the United States, and you’ve worked in coal mines your entire life. When you turned onto the highway, you pulled in front of a semi. You never saw it coming. You died instantly.”

The low murmur that had existed as people tried to understand where they were disappeared in an instant. Instead, there was complete silence; not one muscle moved in the room. It was like every person had been instantly encased in ice.

The silence lasted for what seemed like an eternity.

There were 50, maybe 60, people in the room, all in a state of profound shock. They just heard words that were simply incomprehensible, impossible to process or accept. No warning, no careful talk to prepare them, no family members there to comfort them.

As quickly as the silence set in, it was broken as a wail went up that would break the heart of any that heard it. Confusion was giving way to sorrow. Some were beginning to remember; sickness, pain, injuries, fear. The moments before their deaths were becoming clear. Charlie, on the other hand, remembered nothing at all.

A weak voice, breaking, finally spoke. “My name is Lisa. I have stage 4 bladder cancer. I’ve not been able to walk for months. I’ve been on morphine for pain. I’ve been suffering with this for years. I remember, I remember my family standing around me. I remember the morphine pump kicking on faster and faster. I remember falling asleep. Is that when it happened, is that when I died?”

“Hi Lisa, first, you’re looking great now! Walking around with no problem at all! I’m so glad you aren’t in pain anymore.” Benji jumped back in, chipper as ever. “But yes, when your time was up, the nurse unlocked the morphine pump, and every time you moved or made a sound, your family thought you were in pain, so they pushed the button. The drugs made you fall asleep, then stopped your heart.”

“My name is Blair. I wasn’t sick, I just fell asleep. What happened to me?” The woman was young, tall, blonde. She was the poor soul that had woken without clothes.

“Hi Blair, this is Blair March for everyone else. You’re 24 and from Boca Raton, Florida - with lots of friends. You went to sleep in your apartment, though one of your friends wasn’t actually a friend. You left the window above your bed slightly open for the breeze; he used that window to come in while you were sleeping. He shot you in the head so he could… be alone with you.”

Blair broke down, fell to the floor, with tears streaming down her face.

But Benji wasn’t done.

“When he saw what he had done, he turned the gun on himself. He died lying on top of you. The police ruled your death an accident, believing that from the odd angle he shot you, you were together, and the gun accidentally went off. Because your friends and family assumed that he killed himself in grief, and that you two had a secret relationship, they buried you together. As a couple.”

A hush had fallen on the room. While some still cried, most looked around in disbelief. They wondered about their own stories, about the story of those around them. How they came to be here. And what was coming next.

Clapping again to get everyone’s attention, Benji cleared his throat and stepped up on a chair at the front of the room, giving everyone a good view.

“So, I know a lot of you have questions, and we’ll get to those, but there are some things you need to know. First, each of you has a watch on, but these don’t tell time — time doesn’t really matter here. Think of them as counters. If you notice, there are two parts; one shows how many people on Earth remember you positively, the other shows how many remember you negatively. That watch is the most important thing you have.”

Each person in the room had woken wearing a watch; each was different, as if made just for their taste. Some were digital, some were analog, some plain, some ornate. All displayed two numbers.

“You see, you are here because people remember you, care about you — it doesn’t matter if they loved you or hated you, but the fact that they cared enough to remember. That’s what keeps you here. When that number drops to zero, when no person on Earth remembers you anymore, you’ll fade away into nothingness.”

“Now, there’s another important thing you need to know, your experience here depends on how people on Earth feel about you. The more people that have positive feelings, the better your life is here. The more people that dislike you, well, you get the idea.”

“You’ll each get an apartment, based on the counter. You’ll be given a job, you’ll have a chance to build a life here. But nothing lasts forever. When there’s nobody left thinking about you, it’s over. And there’s nothing you can do to influence what happens on Earth; that chance has already passed.”

The End, as most residents called it, was a great city in a deep valley, tall skyscrapers at its heart and tarpaper shacks on the outskirts. Grand old buildings of beautifully carved stone, and modern works of architectural art. Like any city on Earth, it was a mix of good and evil, the great and the awful.

Like elsewhere, life had its ups and downs; things would sometimes get better, other times get worse. While there was no illness when a person awoke in The End, disease and injury did exist. An invisible hand poked and prodded, guiding good and bad, based on the feelings of those they left behind.

Every experience was random; jobs and apartments were assigned by a drawing, but that invisible hand was at play, making some lucky, and others miserable. Everything that happened was, in some way, influenced by the counter.

John Walker had woken up in The End decades earlier; he was a successful corporate raider that died from a drug overdose. At 35 years old, he had amassed a fortune of over $100 million dollars, lived in the penthouse of a new high-rise in lower Manhattan, and showed up to work each day in a Lamborghini. In 1980’s America, he was the very definition of success. His only problem? Not one person on Earth liked him.

When John was assigned an apartment, it was still a penthouse, though the building had been ravaged by fire; the windows were broken out, there were holes in the roof, his mattress infested with bedbugs, his wardrobe infested with fleas. His job was no better; he worked clearing clogs in the sewers, 12 hours a day knee-deep in the worst filth of the city. As the years went by, he caught a few lucky breaks as his name slipped from memory, like new clothes without fleas. Then a new book was published on Earth about corporate raiders and the lives they destroyed; he developed a rash from head to toe.

Then there’s Reverend Sam Martin’s story, a televangelist who died when his private plane crashed. His congregation loved him, and his experience when he woke in The End was entirely positive, living in the lap of luxury. All of the finest things, all waiting for him — the luxury he had on Earth paled in comparison. Then there was the investigation into his finances. First, it was the report on wearing $10,000 suits; his elevator broke for a week. The report on his $100,000 vacation to the Bahamas; he fell down the stairs from the 19th floor. When the story broke about his mistress, he was diagnosed with cancer. When the mistress said that he forced her into an abortion to keep their relationship secret, the cancer spread.

The not so holy Reverend railed against homosexuals during his life, declaring their doom, and even operating a for-profit conversion facility. Years after his death, it was revealed that not only was he in a relationship with his mistress, but also with her husband. When his flock learned of how complete his hypocrisy was, he lost all the people that still had any positive feelings for him. As his existence became ever more miserable, he decided to end it, and jumped from the window of his penthouse. He learned something important about The End that day; it’s impossible to die while you’re remembered, but it is possible to break every bone in one’s body.

The counter changes over time; some people forget, some people learn new things. Nearly forgotten names are pulled out of the past and cast into the spotlight, for good or ill. Life in The End is ever-changing, and everyone watches their counter to see what will happen next. Every person in The End hopes, more than anything else, that the last person that remembers them loved them. This way, their final days will be pleasant.

Some come to The End and fade away in a generation; others will stay for thousands of years — though only the most famous are destined to be around for so long. For example, the once-mighty Roman Emperor Caligula still spends his days in a pool, though now it’s using a small brush to scrub algae off the walls.

Perhaps, in some ways, fate has a sense of humor.

Benji explained the rules, the society, how things worked, and what would be expected of them. He told them stories of those that came before, of what his life was like, stories of the great and the evil. All the time, he tried to remain positive and comforting.

A woman that had been listening intently as Benji spoke suddenly fell, crumpled onto the floor. Benji quickly ran to her side; though he didn’t check for a pulse, see if she was breathing or bleeding, he instead looked at her watch.

“Her name was Marcy Barnes. She ran away from an abusive home when she was 13 and lived on the street since. Her mother died when she was two, and her father drank himself to death a few years later. She was 39; she died from crack laced with a powerful poison. She had no one, no family, no friends. No one to remember her.” Benji lowered his head and spoke barely above a whisper, “Marcy Barnes has passed out of memory and existence.”

She grew paler and paler, even her clothes seemed to be changing. Those around her stared at her face, dumbstruck, as her features began to disappear. She was getting smaller, her details fading away; with each second that passed by, she became less recognizable — not just as herself, but even as a human. Her legs merged into one; her arm, which had been resting on her side, was no longer distinct. Instead, it had become part of her torso. She steadily drew up into an ever-shrinking ball.

While those that looked on felt as if time had stopped, in reality, it took less than a minute for poor Marcy to disappear entirely.

“It’s always sad to see someone go, especially when they lived such a tragic life. All she needed was love.”

Charlie finally spoke up again; everyone else was too stunned to utter a word. “Hey, are you tellin’ me that we’re all going to shrivel up like that too?”

“Eventually we all must go, I’m afraid. When there’s not one person alive that remembers you, when you’ve been forgotten by the living, then you truly die. It’s the living that keeps you alive; it’s through their memory that you continue to exist. It’s their memory of you that endures after your body fails. Long after you are buried, it’s the feelings they have for you - good or bad - that remain.”

The Hibbing Test

Thu, 24 Dec 2020 16:34:13 -0500

The idea for “The Hibbing Test” began in 2015 with a documentry on how humans perceive risk, how they would bet or cash out when playing with free money, and what that exposed about how they saw the world. This story sees a world that becomes dominated by that difference, with one group given power, and the other religated due to their view of the world - and how risk perception plays into it. While this story is built around political party lines, this is not a story about politics, but about the differences in perception and how it results in groups that are fundementally unable to understand one another.

This short story is the first that I’ve made available to the public.

The Hibbing Test, a Short Story

“Tomorrow is the big day son, do you have your Selective Service paperwork ready? You know you have to get it turned in within a week of your 18th birthday now.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s ready; I’ll do it in the morning.”

“How about voting? Are you going to register?”

“I don’t know, I’m not happy about taking the test. I think I’d rather just not vote — I’d rather not take the risk of being labeled an RI for the rest of my life.”

“Jake, I was labeled as Risk Insensitive when I was 18, and I’ve had a fine life. Yes, I’m not allowed to vote or hold office, or be an officer in the military — but I’ve still done well, I think. Even if you are RI, you’ll be fine.”

It started on a day that could have been mistaken for any other day on a conflict-torn border — planes flying, bombs being dropped, gunshots in the distance. It wasn’t a war, or at least there was no declaration of war, but the conflict was real and deadly. Six countries were involved in different ways, some providing weapons and supplies, others providing warplanes that had left the country pockmarked and covered in rubble. Refugees had fled, by the thousands, for cities all over the Middle East and Europe. While this day was so like those that came before, something different happened, something that changed the world.

A plane was shot down while on an anti-terror mission after crossing the border into a neighboring country for only a few seconds. Maybe it was a misunderstanding, maybe a technology failure; the details have been lost to history. For the weeks that followed everything went on as it had, but looking back, it is clear that it was this day, this event, that did it. It was this plane that started the third world war.

The United States was pulled into the war within months, despite strong protests — especially from the liberals that were already tired of war after war being justified by terrorist attacks. The US plunged in with all its might, though this wasn’t a quick war against a weak state, but a true world war that was drawing in every significant power. The UK had entered the fight early on, within weeks of the first battle in the Middle East, and was already stretched thin by the time the US officially entered the war. They were soon dependent on supplies from the US, as trade within Europe had largely broken down.

The conservative-majority government that was elected shortly before the beginning of the war quickly extended new powers to the President. The liberals that had fought the war were soon labeled as traitors — possibly even terror-supporters. The next election cycle was even more conservative — promises of a quick victory and new jobs led to a landslide victory.

With a conservative President and both houses of Congress being dominated by a radical group of ultra-conservatives, a new war was started: the war on anyone that fought to prevent the war.

It started with a Senate Select Committee to investigate those that spoke out against the war; thousands were called to testify, and tens of thousands more were investigated by the FBI. Few were ever prosecuted for actual crimes, but many saw their careers destroyed and their most intimate secrets displayed for the world to see. Those that had publicly spoken out against joining the war were under constant surveillance, just waiting for them to slip up and do the wrong thing. Not since the McCarthy era had Congress been so aggressive against individual Americans.

The Supreme Court had been expanded and packed with pro-war party members, and thus allowed controversial policies from World War I and World War II to be reinstated, placing restrictions on the press — which was now expanded to social media. People posting news of enemy victories were often arrested on charges of Providing Material Support to the enemy. Public speech against the war was all but banned; the First Amendment lived on, but greatly weakened by war-time restrictions and only a shadow of what it was meant to be. Internment camps were set up to house those that the government saw as enemies, a list that grew constantly.

In her first-term and looking to make a name, one of the senators started digging through pre-war interviews and dragging military officers before the committee to answer for their statements. Within the first month, over 100 officers had been called to testify, half of them soon relieved of duty for “Un-American Activity” — this was just the beginning.

Month after month, her purge of officers that hadn’t supported or had since stopped supporting the war went on. She was as vicious as she was thorough — Ensign to Admiral, Lieutenant to General, anyone that dared to offer anything less than complete dedication to the war would face her, often with their careers, marriages, and lives razed in the process.

During her time at university, she had been a psychology minor and decided there must be a difference with these people. During her first class, she received a warning, a warning oft-repeated in courses across the country: a little knowledge of psychology could do far more harm than good. Unfortunately, she didn’t heed the warning.

Nine months into her crusade, she brought together a group of psychologists to interview those that had spoken out against the war. Her instructions to the group were simple: figure out what they have in common and develop a test for it. They had to be identified, so the country could be protected from them.

Based on existing research, they quickly had an answer: risk perception. Those that were against the war were generally liberal politically, and in tests, were found to be less sensitive to threatening stimuli.

The test was refined, new terms were coined, and people were trained on administering the test. When applied to those that had been relieved of duty, 97% tested as less sensitive to risk — when applied to those that had been called to testify, 82% tested as less sensitive.

As soon as the results were published, she introduced the Military Officers Psychological Stability Requirement Act, which used that research as a basis to put into law that persons that were less sensitive to risk, or Risk Insensitives as they would be called in the future, were carriers of a genetic defect that made them unfit for service.

The theory was simple: during the Pleistocene heightened sensitivity to threats was useful for keeping you alive. Some people lost this trait, which, as determined by a government of people dominated by that trait, was a genetic defect that made people mentally unstable.

The science was partly right; people perceive risk differently — some people see it as a direct threat, where others see opportunity. Those that see a threat aren’t capable of understanding how those that see it otherwise function. Those that perceive opportunity are unable to understand the perspective of those that don’t. It’s a genetic difference that leads to the two sides of the political spectrum seeing the world in a fundamentally different way.

The way it was presented, though, was far overstating the impact of the difference, and the bill submitted wholly mischaracterized the research. Despite the flaws, it passed, and the Hibbing Test was born.

“Son… Jake, listen, I took the Hibbing test when I was thinking about going into the military — that was back before they required the test to register to vote, of course — it’s really not that bad. The only real impact has been that I can’t vote. As the worst-case scenario, it’s not that bad.”

“I know, but I don’t want the label. You used to be able to vote, and they took it away. If I take the test, and I’m RI, what will they take away from me? It’s not worth the risk. I’d rather just not know.”

“Jake, yes, things have changed since I was your age. Used to, I could vote, I could go into law enforcement, I could have even held a passport. Times have changed, and they keep changing — but if you aren’t RI, I don’t want you to miss out on all those things.”

“I don’t know dad.”

“The test is easy. They connect some pads to your head to measure electrical activity, then play some card games — to see when you’d bet money versus cash out, they show you pictures of different things to see how you react, then ask you what you would do in different hypothetical situations. After about an hour, you’ll have the answer, and you’ll be able to go on with your life.”

The Hibbing Test was born from legitimate research into why people view the world in such drastically different ways. Why does one person embrace what the other sees in abject terror? As the study continued, the findings showed a genuine genetic difference behind the perceptions that form the basis of political ideology and worldview.

Much of why people align to one political group or another can be traced to specific genes — while environment plays a significant role, the basis are these genes.

It often seems that different political groups see the world in fundamentally different ways — this research shows that it is quite literally true.

“Jake, just think about it. I’ll see you in the morning. It’s important.”

Jake sat in his room, well-appointed, in a two-story house in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. His father had done well; he had a Ph.D. at 25, a comfortable job working as a researcher at one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world. Jake’s life was far from perfect though, his mother passed away on the morning of his 5th birthday — tomorrow, his 18th birthday would be the first he celebrated since her death.

On that fateful morning, she was driving to his party with his cake; the driver in front of her slammed their brakes, she hit hers, and immediately reached down to keep the cake from sliding off the seat next to her. In the instant her eyes were away from the road, she missed what was going on in front of her: the car in front of her had swerved off the road, and a car was driving the wrong way — straight at her. Birthdays were just a reminder of his mother and what led to her death.

While his father tried to convince him that going through with the test wasn’t a big deal — the reality was apparent; it was a label that would follow him for the rest of his life.

Unlike the prior world wars, where the world largely coalesced into two major factions, this war is complicated — alliances come and go; from week to week, it isn’t clear who is a friend and an enemy. There are three stable alliances that don’t change, and a variety of smaller groups that align with whoever will offer them the most at the time. Some play multiple angles; the US and Russia supply arms to allies, but also those that are likely to harm other enemies.

Old fighter jets are sold to neighboring enemies through third-parties, and then raids are conducted using the same plane model with false markings & transponder codes to trigger more conflict between them. Weakening factions, even those that are generally allied by false flag attacks is common practice.

Early in the war, the US used the Defense Production Act’s authority to make legitimate goods for the war effort, but also arms to be sold on the black market. Eastern Europe was flooded with AK47s with Chinese markings. The Middle East was flooded with models with Russian & Turkish markings. Africa & South America received a mix of both to create the appearance of false alliances. The buyers of these weapons had no idea where they were coming from; the fact that there were from a US factory was a secret to all.

The goal of the war has never been clear; with so many factions, each with different goals and motivations, it had moved beyond stopping terrorism almost from the start. Reshaping the international order will be the outcome, no matter what the original purpose was. Countries sign peace treaties, are then seized, and the government replaced, then used as a proxy against their old allies — only to be abandoned when they lose and the old government regains power. Old friends are attacked without warning to seize lands or assets, non-aggression pacts signed and abandoned within weeks or even days.

Chaos reigns throughout the world; in more than three decades of war, it’s become the only constant.

Passing the Hibbing Test, most often administered on a person’s 18th birthday, is required for many things; it started with being a requirement to be a military officer, but over the years has become the gatekeeper for many positions, activities, and opportunities. While it’s possible to skip the test and avoid those things that require passing, it does provide some benefit; for example, passports aren’t available to those who fail the test, but it is possible to get one if there’s no result available.

The test is given only once to a person, under the belief that the result would never change — there are no second chances. Driver’s licenses include the test status. A publicly available database is operated by the government to make it easy to check everyone’s status, and those who pass receive a special identification card that confirms they have passed and are cleared for restricted positions.

For the wealthy, there are private testers available to allow children to be tested unofficially, so they could receive years of “conditioning” to enable them to pass. While technically illegal, it’s rarely prosecuted. This conditioning is complex, extremely unpleasant, and often leads to a lifetime of therapy — changing the way a person perceives the world usually involves trauma. An entire industry created for the sole purpose of traumatizing children in a controlled manner has sprung up. With a success rate of more than 80%, some parents believe it’s worth it, despite the consequences.

In fact, Jake already knew the outcome if he took the test; months earlier, he had paid $100 to a “no names” tester to find out if he could pass. He couldn’t. It wasn’t an official test, it was all under the table and paid in cash, so it didn’t affect his record. But it gave him the answer he needed.

He also knew something else that his father didn’t, he wanted to be a doctor from an early age - and medical schools were going to start requiring a Hibbing test as part of the admissions process. Only those that pass would be allowed to join the program - anyone that failed would be rejected, a career-ending decision.

There was another option for those that wanted to pass the test but hadn’t been through the long and expensive conditioning process: conversion camps. These camps would last anywhere from two weeks to two months, depending on how well a person reacted to the experience. The childhood process involved creating trauma over a period of years, in very controlled ways, to alter the child’s perception of the world. These camps aimed to achieve a similar impact in weeks. The “patient” had to be 18 to sign the waiver, pay in cash upfront, and agree to let the camp do anything they saw fit - anything. The only guarantee is that they wouldn’t be killed.

Once signed, there was no going back, no quitting, no walking away. In the weeks after signing, the patient would be effectively kidnapped, picked up with force and no warning, and moved to the camp site. This could be another city, state, or even country. They would have no idea where they were being held, no contact with the outside world, isolated from others at the camp, except for the “counselors” that often were deeply sadistic. The camps were generally run by experienced psychologists; though mental welfare wasn’t their focus, it was mental warfare. Physical abuse was the daily norm, broken bones not uncommon, and many required various forms of corrective surgery once the treatment was over. Patients would be forced to torture other patients, to destroy trust and develop a shared guilt - the only time a patient would receive praise is when hurting others. After weeks of being demeaned constantly, small praise becomes a powerful motivator. In the final stages of the process, patients are allowed to socialize and encouraged to form friendships, just so they can be turned on each other.

While the only guarantee is that they won’t kill, some camps actively encourage their patients to believe this is a lie, with rumors, fake burials & cremations, and the occasional cadaver to drive the point home. By creating the fear that death is a real option, the only source of hope and safety is crushed.

The goal was to create such profound and long-lasting trauma that it would forever alter the view of every person the patient would meet. To see everyone as a threat to their safety. To trust no one. To destroy any belief that people are good, deserving of respect, trustworthy. Only once that’s accomplished is the treatment ended.

Signing up for these camps is an act of desperation. It is willingly submitting oneself to unimaginable pain and suffering, with no way out, no way to stop. When sold, the nature of the treatment is cloaked in innuendo and deception to prevent patients from knowing what they are signing up for.

Pursue medical school and take an act of true desperation, or give up the dream. Jake couldn’t tell his father the truth - that he had to pass the test, or that he had the waiver for a conversion camp on his desk. His father would never agree, never support the decision to do it - it was an insane thing to do. Though insane, it was the only option. The only opportunity to find the life he had planned since his 5th birthday.

The Hibbing test was created to protect the country from those that questioned war and the value of sacrificing so much for a war on terrorists. It was created by people who truly believed in what they were doing, the patriots and defenders of what made the country great. It meant that some people would have to give up a few rights, but it would be worth it in the end.

Some called them dangerous and extremists, but they knew it was the other side that was dangerous and extremists. The ends would justify the means. In the end, it would be worth it.

Sure, some people had their secrets displayed for the world, ended up without a career, lost their marriages and families. But it’s their own fault, they shouldn’t be different, they shouldn’t disagree, they should see that in the end, it would be worth it.

They were fighting for the very soul of the nation; it was up to them to find those that would give up anything to defend it. The country has to come first, even if protecting it means changing it. Only those that are loyal, those that don’t question, those that will follow should be trusted. In the end, it would be worth it.

The Bill of Rights is outdated; unlimited free speech is dangerous, anyone that’s loyal should see that. So what if we have to put more people in jail because they want to talk about the enemy and their causes. They shouldn’t offer them any support - why would anyone talk about what they want unless they wanted them to win. It’s war; it’s ugly & dangerous. We have to be willing to make any sacrifice to ensure we win. In the end, it would be worth it.

They were so certain of themselves, so sure that it was all worth it, so positive that they were doing what’s right. So confident that it would be worth it in the end.

In that faith in themselves, they proceeded, no matter the cost.

“Dad, I’ve decided to sign up for a 90-day triage tour before pre-med starts. It’ll be a lot of work, but it’ll be a good experience, and might help me get into the fast-track degree program. I’ll be leaving in a couple weeks.”

On his desk was the form for the volunteer program that would take him to a Red Cross civilian aid station, treating those injured in the war. With the dire need for more medical professionals, this was often used as a way to speed up training. Hopefuls would volunteer, get as much field experience as possible, and test out of various classes so that they could get their degree sooner. These field qualifications could save a couple years over the normal education routine.

There was also the waiver for the conversation camp on his desk. The volunteer program could be a cover to explain his sudden disappearance, allowing him an excuse for why he was gone and out of contact. It was a perfect cover story.

Which he would actually sign, he didn’t know.

His medical career was almost certainly dead before it started; without being able to pass the Hibbing test, he had little hope of making it into medical school. He could try taking the test, hoping for a different result, hoping to game the test and beat it. Or he could sign the waiver and take a more certain but far worse path.

Thirteen days later, in front of a rundown motel, three men grab Jake, pull him into a filthy van, and his trip into hell begins.