365 tomorrows

“We’ve had a problem with the cursing, haven’t we, dear?” Mr. Olivestone said, handing an iced tea to his wife. Helen Olivestone took it with a slight smile, but didn’t drink from it until she meticulously removed every drop of condensation from the glass with a paper napkin.

“Well, naturally. Thankfully, it’s mostly been in French, or German. What did the Bookmans say she said? In Chinese? It was darling!”

“It was “˜Tyen-sah duh UH-muo,’ I believe,” said her husband. He handed iced teas to Jennie and Edward Mandrake, the Olivestones’ guests for the afternoon.

“That’s adorable!” said Mrs. Mandrake. “I suppose it’s just a consequence of implanting.”

“Not really surprising,” chimed in Mr. Mandrake. “Curse words are base reactions to base emotions. Not really surprising at all that a—how old is Rachel?”

“Seven months,” said Mrs. Olivestone.

“But she had a mouth on her out of the womb! Swearing up a storm right in the delivery room!” Mr. Olivestone wiped his forehead as he spoke.

“Not surprising at all,” Mr. Mandrake continued. “She’s just expressing herself in the most direct way possible.”

“I am so impressed that you chose languages, Helen,” Mrs. Mandrake said. Mrs. Olivestone flashed a tight smile at her guest before turning her attention back to her iced tea glass, which had once again gotten covered with little water droplets. Mrs. Mandrake massaged her swollen belly. “I wanted something artistic like that, but Eddie insisted on mathematics.”

“Got to give them an edge, don’t we? I hear even Quincy’s daycare won’t let you in without a scholastic implant anymore,” Mr. Mandrake said.

“We’re on the waiting list for Dalton’s.” Mrs. Olivestone said, not looking up. “If she doesn’t get into Dalton’s, she can forget about Harvard.”

“You care so much for Rachel,” Mrs. Mandrake said. “She’s so blessed. You give her so much.”

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Olivestone said, getting out of her lawn chair. “This heat has certainly gotten the best of me. I believe I shall have to go inside before I faint.” She left the garden party and hurried inside the house, wiping what appeared to be perspiration off her face.

“Probably going to check on the baby,” Mr. Mandrake said.

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Olivestone. “It wouldn’t be good for her. We only know two languages apiece. We can’t be in the same room as Rachel for at least another year.”

“You can’t have a ray gun,” Jolie said as she dragged her pen across Jake’s sheet. “They didn’t even exist back then.”

“My character invented the ray gun,” Jake clarified, and Tim snickered. “What? Somebody had to invent them.”

Above the terradome in Jolie’s mother’s living quarters, thousands of LCD crystals shimmered to give the illusion of a cloud passing over a digital sun. Jolie, newly sixteen, had moved to Io with her mother because the exchange rate inflated child support to nearly three times what her father paid. She hated the terradome, she hated Io, and she hated the circumstances that brought her there, but above all else, at this moment, she hated Jake. On Earth, people knew how to make character sheets.

“Besides, how do you know they didn’t exist? Were you there?”

Jolie sighed deeply. “On Earth they taught us something called history, Jake.”

“History is for pussies.”

Tim, ever the level-headed one, removed the pen from Jolie’s hand before she forced it through Jake’s cranium. “Why don’t you buy a revolver?” he asked his younger brother.

“He can’t have a revolver either. His character’s a Network Administrator, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m a rogue Network Administrator.”

“Look,” Jolie said, “I’m not going to run a Microsoft game filled with ray guns and rogues. Either you learn the system or you find someone who wants to run Apple.”

“All I’m saying is that someone had to invent the ray gun, and I don’t see why it can’t be me.”

Jolie retrieved her pen and underscored the word NO several times.

“I thought you said this game was about imagining stuff.”

“It is. Imagine a world without ray guns.”

“That world sucks,” Jake said. He pushed his chair back and leaped up, heading for the door. Tim lifted his hand to stop him.

“Jake, just give it a chance. There was plenty of cool stuff back then, right?” he asked, looking to Jolie for verification. Jolie nodded enthusiastically, then considered the late twentieth century, then nodded again with slightly less force. “Like cars,” Tim continued. “Everyone had their own personal spaceship for the road.”

Jake hesitated before the door. “Can I have a car?” he asked.

“Cars ran on fossil fuels. They practically raped the environment. Plus, according to the sourcebook, traffic in Silicon Valley was…” her voice trailed off. “You’d know better, if you were from Earth,” she finished.

Jake smiled broadly and folded his arms across his puffed chest. “Well, I’m not from Earth,” he said proudly. “I’m imagining it.”

“Any personal belongings you’ll need accommodated in your craft, Mr. Mercer?”

“Nope.” John shook his head at the distribution agent before him. “No baggage.”

It was John Mercer’s last day on Earth.

He’d lived here for thirty-eight years, give or take a decade or so spent on Luna or the nearby outposts. Never once had he gone out of the solar system, not even on vacation. John Mercer had spent his life working, just like everyone else. He’d been a paper-pusher, a street cleaner, an asteroid skimmer, a window-washer, a cheap thug, and even a postman for a few months, but no matter where he went, she followed him. There was nothing he could do to escape her. Nothing except this.

As John climbed into the small craft the distributor had assigned him, he felt the weight of those thirty-eight years shifting, readying for flight just as he was. Her face lingered in the back of his mind, stern and matronly, as it had since he was a child hitting baseballs into solar panels. He grinned to himself as he closed the hatch and flicked the switches to prepare the in-ship lights for flight mode.

After today, he’d never see the face of the Earth again. After today he’d no longer be a paper-pusher or a street cleaner or an asteroid skimmer or a window-washer. He’d be a pilot, somewhere in the outer colonies—goodness only knew where. John hadn’t specified. He’d just asked for a first assignment somewhere where he’d never be able to come back.

The base doors slid open and John met the field of stars with the white of his teeth. He could feel the rumbling of the ignition through his entire body and made sure the IV drip in his arm was secure. He wouldn’t want to wake up during the jump, after all. As the outpost’s bulkheads fell away beneath him, he stared a challenge back at the blue-green planet he had once called his home. So long, Earth. Nice knowing you.

The drip started right on schedule, just as the engines shot him away from everything he wanted to forget. His consciousness dissolved in time with the drip of the IV, and he could feel her face dissipating as well, fading away as surely as the planet behind him. With his last moment of coherence before the three-year jump, John Mercer grinned.

No baggage.

In the full body cycle Linda’s chest burned, sweat slipping into her eyebrows. She could feel their eyes on her, the children watching the old woman strain. The lines of her skin betrayed her. Generations blended, their cells dividing perfectly, making exact copies, eternally renewed. She pressed her arms and legs into faster rotation.

Last night she lay with her lover, his head on her naked breast, silent, exhausted, fulfilled. He traced his fingers over her body, touching the tiny red dots that marked her age. He pressed his nail harder with each mark, pinching her skin.

“Can’t you get rid of these?” She stiffened.

“Gregory, I was stabilized late.” His soft face twisted.

“I know, I just thought there might be some treatment.” She shook her head.

“There isn’t. They’ve stopped looking into those problems a long time ago.” He rolled his eyes and bit his lip, like a child denied its favorite toy.

“Are you sure? Have you asked your doctor?” She laid her hand on his soft curls and swallowed. She wanted to sound firm, but her voice was small.

“No. There isn’t anything.” He rose and sat on the edge of the bed. His back was a blank screen.

“It just looks like you don’t care.”

Linda spun faster till she could feel her heartbeat, till the sweat salt reached her chin. Around her, the frozen faces of youth skipped blithely though the gym routines, perfect curves in infinite wheels.

Malcolm should have been thinking about shrimp, but he was thinking about Sumitra’s smile instead. He hated himself for it, but he was almost glad for the leak in the shrimp pond, since it gave him an excuse to call her. And Sumitra’s voice was well worth the cost of a call from Lee County to Bangkok, or wherever the heck she lived.

Whether it was worth asking a favor from Clem Greentower, well, that was another matter entirely. Sumitra did smile on the phone’s display screen when she saw it was Malcolm calling. She’d only been doing that recently. And that smile went a long way.

“Clem, I need to borrow your boys.” Malcolm shifted from one foot to another. The itinerate glow of Clem’s bug zapper made Malcolm uncomfortable. He twitched every time a mosquito got too close and the passive azure energy erupted. Mosquitoes were as big as Malcolm’s thumb this year, and their charred husks littered Clem’s porch.

Clem regarded Malcolm with folded arms. “Whatcha need ‘em for? I know for a fact that you ain’t got no more stumps.” Clem was not a tall man, but he made up for it in girth and attitude. “They sure as hell ain’t plowin’ your field for you.”

“Aww, Clem, I wouldn’t ask for them to plow. I’m hurt you said that. ‘Sides, you know as well as I do that the state won’t let me plant tobacco on Pa’s field no more.” Malcolm searched for sympathy in Clem’s face, but found none. “Shoot, Clem. I just need ‘em to walk around.”

“Walk around?”

“Yessir. See, my shrimp pond—the one the state suggested I put on Pa’s land ‘stead of tobacco—my shrimp pond has a leak.”

“You can just put Hydrochlrone in it, cantcha?”

“Nope, that’ll kill the shrimp. Now, I called my friend Sumitra. She does this sorta thing up in Thailand, and she says to just let some cattle graze around the pond to compact the earth. There ain’t been cows within miles of this county since the plant went, Clem. But I got to thinking, you been giving your boys beef hormones since they’ve been old enough to crawl.”

“You just gonna have ‘em walk? I charge for labor, you know.”

“I’m aware of that, Clem. You can ask ‘em when I’m done if they did anything but circle the pond.”

“I will, too.” Clem said. “‘Spose you want ‘em now?”

“If it ain’t a bother.” Clem grunted and went back inside the house. Malcolm removed his cap to scratch at his hairless scalp, and watched as another mosquito twitched its last. He didn’t know why he felt the need to mention Sumitra. Covered in the blue light, Malcolm felt very exposed.

Clem’s boys pounded out of the front door, five love-children of some epic tryst of an elephant and a refrigerator, the blue light glinting off their bald heads. Four of the boys had moonstruck, glazed-over faces, save for the oldest, who’s mind probably had the most time to develop before his father took nature into his own hands and stunted the developing grey matter with muscle steroids.

“Pa said we’re suppose to go with you, Mister.”

“Well, you best come on then,” Malcolm said, and led the boys onto the bed of his pick-up. Malcolm’s truck was not an old model, but it strained under the weight nonetheless.

Down at the shrimp pond, Malcolm gave the boys as much direction as he could, then busied himself by dumping bags of sugar into the pond water.

“That ain’t sugar, is it?” the eldest of Clem’s boys asked.

“Yep, it is.”

“Whatcha puttin’ it in the pond for?”

“It’s to control the PH bal…it’s to fix the acid it…it’s to make the shrimp sweeter.”

“Oh! That’s really smart!”

“Yeah, it is. My friend Sumitra told me about it. She’s a smart girl.” There he was, bringing her up again! If Malcolm could, he’d kick himself in the ass.

“Is she your girlfriend? Are you gonna get married?”

“I seriously doubt it. She ain’t gonna want some poor son of a tobacco farmer who’s been on this land so long he ain’t got no hair and his piss glows in the dark.”

“I dunno, she might. You don’t know.” Clem’s eldest contemplated joining his brothers walking around the pond, but thought better of it, and turned his attention back to Malcolm. “I got a girlfriend. Least, I like her a lot. Her name’s Chablis. She’s got the prettiest hair.”

That would be Chablis Levee, Malcolm thought. He remembered her from school. “She wears a wig, you know.”

“She does? Huh.” Malcolm watched the gummed-up mental calculations necessary to process this new information play across the boy’s face. “I guess it don’t matter. I like her anyway. It looks good on her. I think she likes me, too. She smiles whenever she sees me.”

“That’s usually a good sign.”

“Thought so. That’s why I smiled back. One day, I’m definitely gonna ask to hold her hand.” The boy’s giant eyes shifted down to Malcolm’s bags. “Can I have some of your sugar?” Malcolm couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Sure thing. Just don’t tell your Pa.”

“Oh, I won’t.” The titan offspring of Clem Greentower licked a gargantuan finger and jammed it into a sugar bag, only to quickly shove it deep in his mouth. “Oh, man. That’s good. I don’t think that anything could ever be better than that, ever.”

Malcolm found himself doing the same with his own finger. “You’re right. That is good.”

“You’re a good man, Mister,” Clem’s boy said. “I like you. You ever hold your girlfriend’s hand?”

“No, I…I haven’t. She lives…I just haven’t.”

“You should ask. I bet she’d let you if you asked. It never hurts to ask.”

The officer approached, hands clasped behind his back, staring unabashedly at the young astronaut, raising his slender brow in cynical awareness of the situation. He reached across the stark white table and clicked the record button on the small tape recorder. His voice was deep and disturbingly serene for the nature of the interrogation, “Why don’t you tell us that, again?”

Johnnie sighed and wiped his sweaty hands on his knees. He was nervous, but that was all relative now. “It was like I said. Routine mission, you know, standard stuff. We were unloading an empty O-2 tank to refuel at the space station. It was Bucks, Johnston and I carrying the load, out there in harsh space in our suits. And, like I said–” The military official interrupted Johnnie.

“You do know that the vacuum of space will kill a human being, don’t you?”

“That’s what we were meant to think.”

“What do you mean? Go on.”

Johnnie nodded, “I was curious, I mean… no one has ever died in space before and I really wondered how they knew. I wondered how they could possibly know what could happen. It’s like Columbus…”

“Stick to the subject.”

“I was having trouble with my girlfriend back home, things were just, I don’t know… bland. So I did it.”

The interrogator sat forward, “Did what?”

“I took the suit off.”

“That’s impossible. I just told you the physics of it all. No air, no moisture, hell, let’s not forget the hard radiation from direct exposure.”

The young astronaut had the look of frustration on his face, “I already told you this! I took it off and I floated around. There is no air but you don’t need it up there. There’s no radiation because, I don’t know, because you don’t need to believe in it. I floated around and laughed. The others guys were panicking but they kept asking me how I felt. So I told them… it felt great.”

A fist slammed onto the table, the white room seemed to vibrate with the anger now resonating from the eyes of the interrogator. “You’re either covering up for something or you’re just trying to be famous. Either way, we’re going to find out. You do understand that you will go to jail.”

“I was floating above heaven; I think that’s why nothing made sense.”

“Do you hear yourself? You’re not making any sense!”

“I know, it sounds crazy, but I’m telling you, the only reason we didn’t know is because we brought it with us.”

“What?” His fists had unclenched he was interested again.

Johnnie just smiled, ” Earth.”

There was a long pause, the interrogation had to have a break, and the officer just paced the room looking around, thinking hard, as one does when given a paradox of their reality. He turned, curious as ever, and began again. “Why did you do it, then? Why would anyone do it, Johnnie?”

Johnnie just shrugged and grinned, as he was prone to do since he got back. “Because we can.”

Slug eased himself onto the barstool, a lazy grin on his face. His hair had been professionally tussled that evening, and with his new hologreather jacket, he was confident in his irresistibility.

“Start me up a tab, barkeep,” Slug said, withdrawing his credit card and inebriation license. With a movement made automatic by constant practice, he placed both cards in the bartender’s hand while not losing eye-contact with the azure-coifed beauty across the room. No point in wasting time, Slug thought. “Gimmie a Mai Tai and send one over to that girl with the blue hair.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the bartender said. “But there aren’t enough points on your license for a single Mai Tai, much less two.”

Slug scowled, and forced himself to look at the bartender. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“How about a gin and tonic?”

“I’m very sorry, but you don’t have enough points for that either.”

“How many do I have?”

“For alcohol? None.”

“What? How can that be?”

“Let’s see…it says here that three days ago you apparently called three ex-girlfriends while under the influence of alcohol, causing a deduction. There was a bar-fight last Thursday that you participated in—no, I’m sorry, instigated. And then there was your sister’s wedding—”

“I know what I did at Shelia’s wedding.” At least, Slug knew what they said he did at his sister’s wedding. It was all sort of a blur.

“That poor flower girl…” said the bartender, scanning the report.

“Forget alcohol,” Slug said. “How about some cocaine?”

“Not after your last misadventure with it. I wouldn’t go back to that aquarium anytime soon, either.”

“Ecstasy?”

“Nope.” The bartender cocked an eyebrow. “Forty poodles? All of them?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The blue-haired girl was now deep in conversation with a guy sporting leopard-print facial stubble. Slug pinched his nose in frustration. “What can I get?”

The bartender placed two pill capsules in front of him. Slug looked at the bartender’s grin in askance.

“Diet pills and ginseng, sir. The finest in the house!”

Slug weighed his options. It didn’t take very long. “I’ll take ‘em.”

“Excellent, sir. Shall I send some over to the young lady?”

“You know what? I think I’ll just take these to go. Think I’m gonna spend the night in.”

“What I want to know, really, is where we are.” Lee was aggravated, partly at himself, for following Jason’s directions, and partly at Jason, for being a dick.

“Where we are my friend, is in grave danger.”

Lee looked around. “We are in grave danger in a toy store?”

“This is just the evidence of the danger Lee, not the danger itself.” Jason was in one of his moods. He had probably stopped taking his medication again. Lee tried to think patient thoughts.

“Jason, we are late to the party. Lets ask for directions and get going.”

“No, there is something I need to show you.”

“What? Jason, did you mean to take me here to this toy store? You told me you were lost!”

“No, YOU were lost Lee, I have always known the way.”

“No. You told me you had a shortcut and then you said you were lost. You lied to me!”

“This is important.”

“It is important to me that you tell me where the fuck we are.”

Jason pointed above Lee’s head. There was a yellow digital banner that read in shining digital letters: NJ Toy Emporium, Largest on the East Coast.

“We are in New Jersey.” Jason said.

“I can see that.” Lee wondered how many of their mutual friends he would upset if he punched Jason in the eye.

“I have to show you something.” Jason began running wildly into the maze of giant displays. Lee followed him, despairing.

Jason sprung from behind a pyramid of boxes. “What, exactly, is THIS!” He was holding a grotesque orange globular oozing toy. Lee had seen the nasty things before on DTV.

Lee sighed. “It’s a Bubbit.”

“And what exactly is a Bubbit?”

“Jason, this is stupid.”

Jason glared menacingly at his friend. Lee shook his head and read the package. “A Bubbit is a “˜Interactive Puppet for Aggressive Play! Bubbits will change shape to entertain and amaze! Scare your friends and learn new ways to beat the Bubbit Blue.”

“Beat the Bubbit Blue.” Repeated Jason reverently. “It’s a training device.”

“For ages four to ten?”

“Lee, the situation is dire. We are clearly preparing for Epic Hegemonic Warfare.”

Lee realized that there was no way of getting out of this argument but through it. “Jason, that’s impossible. Other than peacekeeping police actions by the UN there are no military conflicts. The world’s nations have finally done with it. Jason, this is the greatest time of peace since humanity came down from the trees.”

“And you don’t find that suspicious.”

“No Jason, I don’t. People want peace and besides, even if we tried to fight we are all so economically interdependent that it wouldn’t be feasible.”

Jason smiled then, his terrible glinting smile. “Oh Lee, then you finally see it.”

Lee shrugged. “See what?” Jason grabbed Lee’s shoulders and shook him.

“Lee! Do you mean that you can see all that but you can’t see to the next level? The very next logical conclusion!” People were staring.

“Keep your voice down.” Jason grabbed Lee by the elbow and started pulling.

“Do you remember when Ziggy-Stiggy changed voices?”

“I remember a time when my friend Jason wasn’t a lunatic.”

“It was a corporate takeover. Ziggy-Stiggy was popular and totally non-violent. The creator of Ziggy-Stiggy refused to voice the part after the government ruled that the hostile takeover of Ziggy Inc by Brascow was legit. Brascow is highly subsidized by the government, a pawn of the executive branch itself. And what was the first thing that happened to Ziggy-Stiggy when he changed hands?”

“I don’t know, what?”

“He started hunting mushroom people. What does that tell you?”

Lee rolled his eyes. “That the government is preparing us for war?”

“Not us, the children.”

“Why the children?”

“Because something is coming, from very far away. Far enough that the children today will be the ones fighting it.”

“Aliens?”

“Aliens.”

“Jason, if that’s true, then we are the last generation that will have peace. If you are right, shouldn’t we enjoy this while we can?”

“You just want to go to the party.”

“Yes. I want to go to the party. Because the aliens are coming.”

Radiation Levels: Acceptable. “Okay, lads, we’re good. Let’s not mosh this up, right?” Lars, encased in a plastisteel suit, stepped his near-weightless form through the breached opening of the hull. The three stripes indicative of a mission commander on his right bicep stood out against the off-white hue of his shell. He glanced back at the three others behind him; his accompaniment on this rubbish of a mission.

The Mir space station had been a pillar of international space relations for decades. It was the meeting place for any mission consisting of combined efforts from more than fifteen countries. Now it was a decayed shell of an old empire. Science couldn’t explain the station’s rapid decay in the recent years past, only that a hull breach had killed the remaining officers, and put to rest a monument of space-exploration. Rumors would still persist that the ghosts of the crew haunted the wreckage, and the reasons why it hadn’t yet been salvaged after fifteen years.

Lars could feel the chill running up his spine as he hooked up the feed-line to the wreckage. He waved his squad in, taking the time to tug his own floating form inside. The dank, bleak interior washed over him. The luminescent-application on his arm glowed like a night-light, illuminating a floating beverage package, and a few loose wires. The rest of the corridors remained encased in shadow.

“Commander, I’m getting an infrared read off this puppy.” The American, Dotson was always scared of naked space missions.

Lars rolled his eyes and just spoke into the com, “Are you sure ’bout that, private? We are in a vacuum. Best to check your readings, again.”

Dotson pulled himself up closer to Lars, “No, not heat sir… I’m picking up a fluctuating, moving cold.” The scanner he held was showing the appropriate readings.

Lars would rub his chin, but that bulky suit made his common tics impossible. “Hm, take Rustokov and Feugo with you to the core room, I’ll check the science panels around here.”

Private Dotson nodded and was off with the others, three glowing bulbs of arm-light floating down a corridor into the depths of darkness. Lars was left alone. That’s how he preferred to operate, though the hair standing up on the back of his neck was telling him that man should not tread here. The astromarine commander saw a panel up ahead on the right, and began his trek towards it. A low rumble came from around him. The hull seemed to still be collapsing slowly, even after the initial wreckage and ten years of dormancy. “Lads, keep your coms on the ready, I want us out of here in 15, Command Out.” Better safe than sorry, he thought.

Tapping the panel to life, Commander Lars Gallows floated in the center of a tunnel, watching the green menu of a boot-up system.

>>>Mir Core System Reboot
>>>System Functioning at 32%
>>>Enter Authorization Key…

Usually his crew wasn’t this quiet. But Lars was too transfixed to notice they hadn’t come back with anything and were sure to have reached the core room by now. Entering an old military key, the screen came to life with documentation of science research and files damaged from the system shock. His brows came together. He’d hardly realized now that the emergency lights had flickered out.

>>>Science File 0042: We’ve discovered an anomoly on tbrrrrrr zzzzz##%%$^^&. The readings are faulty, we will check them again tomorrow.

The feed-line silently became unlatched, and his craft floated off towards Earth. Lars’ crew had gone missing, and Lars was soon to follow.

>>>Science Files 0101: We’ve been fooled! We have to get out of here! It’s all around us, it seeps in through the hulls and tries to make us kill one-another. We’re staring out into a .. a ghost. My God… it haunts existence. We hav—ddhhfffffggggg@@@###$$$ FILE ERROR

“Private! Dotson! Get your arses back here, on the double, lads. We’re aborting this mission!” There was no answer, only the hull creaking again. Lars looked down the corridor, and was horrified. Space was creeping in, the blackness from it was seeping down the corridor towards him. His eyes could only widen in horror, as the truth became abundantly clear to him, and the world would go on… blissfully ignorant.

They are not awake.

They have been asleep for days, years. They lie sprawled across train platforms, clutching cellphones, notebooks, and mp3 players. Their hearts barely beat, drowsy with decreased metabolism. Their fingernails have grown long, curling under. They are pristine white from lack of use.

Dr. Sarah Rosencrantz had not expected this result.

Now, bored and alone in a city of sleep, Sarah walked down empty streets where the streetlights changed indifferently with an echoing thud. She no longer bleached her hair. In the summer, she often went without clothing, her skin gleaming white as she stood on Wall Street, knee-deep in a sea of business-suited bodies that inhaled and exhaled like the tide.

She continued her research, though she wasn’t sure why.

The generators continued to run. Water continued to flow. Everything was computerized, fueled by reserves that would last a hundred years. Worst-case scenario, they had said, pointing at color-coded maps as they stockpiled.

In a grocery store, a woman slept in the produce aisle, her hand folded around the blackened pit of a peach.

Trees continued to grow, and, unpruned, they arched over the sidewalks, nudging cement with timid roots. Sarah pondered, sometimes, what would happen when she died, when everyone died. The machines would remain awake, grumbling, until they too ran empty and the power ceased.

I95, streetlights blinking off one by one over the rusted carcasses of automobiles.

This war will destroy everyone, she had said when summoned to testify before the UN. She had meant to stop it. But not like this.

“Oh my God. Peter, you didn’t.”

Peter smirked at his wife’s gaping stare. “You bet I did,” he told her smugly. “Nothing’s too good for our anniversary.”

“It looks fabulous.” Beatrice’s eyes shone as she ran a finger over the plastic wrap, feeling the smooth depression her movement caused. She giggled a little. “But I don’t even know how to cook synmeat. What are we going to do with it? Look at it?”

“Don’t worry,” Peter reassured her. “The guy who sold it to me told me how to do it.” His smile increased its girth; he couldn’t hide the secret any longer. “And it’s not synmeat.”

Beatrice looked at him oddly. “Then what is it?”

“It’s real.”

Beatrice gasped, eyes wide now with horror. “Peter… you could get arrested for that!” she hissed, grabbing the mushy package from him and glancing wildly around the room as if PETA enforcers were going to burst through the walls at any moment. “I didn’t even know you could get real meat anymore!”

“Honey, calm down.” Peter frowned. He’d expected his wife to be pleased. “A guy at the office tipped me off. I swear it’s untraceable. Just look at it! Real beef! This might be the only chance we have in our lives to get some.”

Beatrice seemed unconvinced. “I don’t know… isn’t it sort of… barbaric?”

“Darling. Stop believing all the crap the government tells us. People were meant to eat real meat. It’s the way we were made. If we ate like this every day, we wouldn’t have to get protein injections anymore, that’s for sure!” Peter was getting more upset. “Come on, I went through a lot to get this, okay? It’s our anniversary, and the thing is already dead. We might as well make the most of it.”

Beatrice agreed in the interest of matrimonial bliss. She watched nervously as Peter cooked the beef, searing it as he’d been instructed, and worried about whether their neighbors would pick up on the smell. Peter eventually made her set the table to keep her from getting in the way.

At last the meal was served, and Peter bit into it with gusto. Beatrice followed suit more hesitantly and both chewed for a few moments in silence.

“It’s sort of… stringy,” Peter said at last, swallowing a bite with some difficulty. His expression of joy had faded into an uncomfortable frown. “You can really tell it’s, ah, real.”

“Mmm… yes, you can.” Beatrice swallowed her own forkful with an expression of bliss. She opened her eyes as the rich taste settled into her senses and looked at her husband with an expression of true love and devotion. “This is the best present you’ve ever given me.”

Her hands were starting to look like lobster claws. She said she wasn’t going to go all the way, and wiggled the smaller claw to show it was still opposable. She said she liked the little teeth, though, and squeezed my arm too hard. She laughed at the little indentions in my arm. She almost fell off her chair.

The cappuccino machine hissed behind her. She liked coming to this place because it still had one of the old cappuccino machines. It was a relic, now. But things used to be built to last, and so this hunk of brass and copper still spewed out caffeine and foamed milk. She liked it because it was shiny and noisy. She used to do an impersonation of the machine, bouncing on the bed, hissing and squealing.

We don’t sleep together anymore. Not since she rolled over on me and I caught the business end of one of her new back-spines. I still have the scar.

She started tapping her claws on her forehead. The clack of chitin on chitin made me feel visibly uncomfortable, and she saw that. She stopped, and reached out with her claws at me. I didn’t want to recoil, but I did anyway.

She used to tickle me. She used to run her fingertips down my face. She used rub my stomach for good luck. I looked at the way the track lighting glinted off her enhanced brow-bumps and sickly noticed how similar it was to the glint off the cappuccino machine.

“Things used to be built to last,” I mumbled. She heard me anyway. Small tears slid down her face. They were falling much to fast, not having pores to slow their descent. I reached out to wipe her tears away, an instinctual motion. She was still soft around the eyes. They were still her eyes.

That’s when I knew things would be okay.

No one really found out how. In 2009 there were no more than twenty super-powered heroes trying their best to save the world, spread out thin as they were. They were always so busy. The Blaster stayed in the US, fighting off organized crime, while Sister Scion dug into corruption of Scotland Yard. They barely had time for talking, let alone anything or anyone else. It was said that most of them had never met, but…what can be said? There’s something very sexy about superpowers.

“Kade, honey? Are you coming to bed? I’m wearing that new slip-on you bought me.” A soft, sultry voice slinked downstairs to the man in boxers illuminated by the computer screen’s eerie blue glow.

“Oh, you know I will! Just have to finish this…” Click. Kade, otherwise known as The Blaster, sat up and smirked. He placed his hands behind his head as he imagined the fun the two of them would have tonight. Nothing was more passionate than a relationship between two super-humans; Time Magazine had said so.

Kade hurried upstairs, his mischievous grin wide. Sister Scion was in for a whole different shade of trouble tonight. He kicked down the door to the bedroom and it crashed to the floor with a loud bang, leaving him posing in what remained of the frame. “The Blaster is here! Have no fear!”

“Cheesy as ever, Mr. Blaster.” The woman in bed was fair-skinned, with long black hair tied behind her in a ponytail. Sister Scion slender figure, usually encased in a silver and black outfit, was now laced up in black and red, hugging her succulent curves to the pleasure of her lover. “Get over here and let me show you some moves.”

Kade sprang towards the bed while trying clumsily to tug away his remaining clothes. “And what moves are those?”

“The kind that don’t involve you accidentally blasting a hole in Yankee Stadium, genius. You need to watch where you point your arms while you’re-”

“Yeah, I get the hint. So uh… you ready to get into… formation?”

Scion rolled her eyes and reached over, grabbing her male companion by the back of the neck and tugging him into a heated kiss. It was a spark, then strong, and then as she pulled back suddenly, it faded. “Mm… going to make me fly?”

“Well, you can do that yourself, sweetie. I was speaking more about mundane positions.”

She blinked, “Wow, that’s new. You mean… no…flying, or space-sex?”

He shook his head, staring her down, “Nope, I heard that normal people do it in missionary. It’s where you lay down on your back and…” He waggled both eyebrows at her in suggestion.

She bit her lip, “I don’t know, Kade, sounds kind of… well, boring. Can’t we do the one where we have it while falling from the atmosphere?”

“Oh, come on! It’ll be different. It’ll be like… like we were teenagers or something.” His eyes pleaded as his body edged closer, that superhero physique pressing up against her warm skin.

“Errrr… okay fine. But I swear, Kade, if you put a hole in our house I’m gonna kill you!” Her eyes narrowed as she pulled him on top of her. Kade reached over and turned the lights off.

There was rustling and in the dark, Kade whispered, “You know, maybe if you’re up for it, we can invite Femme Fire next time…” It was promptly followed by the loud slap.

“Kade! That was not what I meant when I said she was hot!”

Day 192
Passed by that star today. The charts say it’s called Erigo, but it might as well be Antarctica. Nothing. No inhabited planets, no probes, no satellites. No sign of life. No useful supplies, either—most of its planets are gas giants, and there’s no way I could get enough oxygen out of them to help. I doubt I’d even make back what I’d lose by changing course, so that’s out. Just another useless system.

Repaired that intake valve. Turns out all it needed was a good cleaning.

Day 197
Still in the outskirts of the Erigo system. That’s E-R-I-G-O if anybody’s listening, forty-three radians and twelve thousand light-years, give or take, from galactic center. Watched the last onboard recording today. Some shit documentary about moon formation, but at least it was something. Now there’s nothing on this damned ship I haven’t seen.

Oxygen still good, but running low on real food. Started alternating with ration packs to make it last longer. Had a slight fever today, but there were some injections for that in the medkit, so I took one and it’s gone now. Engine running clean but hot. I shouldn’t have gone into Erigo’s gravity well.

Day 203
Out of the system. Good riddance. Clipped toenails today as they were getting a little long. Looked through the charts, but there’s nothing around here that I can make it to without more fuel. It’s just black space for light years and light years in all directions, or at most, a little uninhabited star system. After the Erigo fiasco, have decided against checking any more stars listed as uninhabited. Set a course for the nearest sure bet, which is Aschelon. Barring some miracle where the hyperdrive spontaneously comes back online, I’ll never make it. So hi, anybody listening. Could really use a hand here.

Threw a fit yesterday and chucked a ration pack under the console. Felt good to scream my heart out, but afterwards I realized I’d used twice normal oxygen. Figures. Slept an extra twelve hours to compensate and didn’t wake up once. Considered sleeping more often, but that feels too much like dying. I’d rather stay awake.

Day 214
Nothing left but ration packs. Losing weight steadily, but not quickly. Had another fever two days ago. Two injections left in the kit. Hope nothing worse happens.

Gave in and decreased oxygen to nineteen mole percent. Increased sleep cycle to 11 hours. So many stars in the window, but I can’t reach any of them. I want to scream, but I don’t want to die. Someone please get this soon.

Day 228
Recorded more log entries, but they were mostly cursing, so I deleted them. Don’t remember making them. Must’ve happened while I was sick again, ‘cause this time I didn’t use an injection. Dumb idea. Kids, don’t try this at home.

Running out of fuel. Turned the heat down to try to save power. Increased sleep cycle to 14 hours. Always tired now.

Day 235
Fuck! Fuck you, you fucking assholes! Why won’t anybody come? I know you can hear me, damn it! I know it! Fucking… hell damn shit motherfuckers! I know you can hear me!

Day 237
I’m so… it’s so cold. So hard to stay awake. I have to keep talking just to keep from sleeping. I’m so hungry. It’s cold in here. It’s so cold.

I was a Nexus then, regulating and regurgitating information into packets that were fed to the meat files of mainstream media. I was constantly hooked in, floating in nutrient-gel, eyes covered, fingers locked, steering, loading and filtering information so that people engaged in other pursuits could be kept current on politics, art, media and technology. My efficacy made me rich and my wealth allowed me to submerse myself further into my work. I could afford the kind of technology that would stimulate my muscles, feed me, and provide sufficient entertainment so that leaving the tank was unnecessary. We still have reporters, first person raw information sources that spend their time in transit on the ground, transmitting unfiltered data, video, audio, occasionally an opinion. Reporters are paid in tiny increments by hundreds of people like me.

I was aware that the northern guerilla fighters might attack me, for what I distributed in regards to their recent carnage. They didn’t care that I had written a similar critique on the atrocities of the UBE Army, they just wanted vengeance. I knew, but I was so disconnected from my own sense of physical self that I took no action to move, I could only watch it happen.

His spider arms, hard and agile, curled around my naked body and lifted me from the tank. It was dull and shadowy; the tank was the only source of light in the room. I craned my neck to look back at the tangle of wires and screens and sense-pits. I wanted to go back, but I let myself be lifted from the gel by the military machines. I looked at the lean silver face of the military cyborg, eyes black reflective surfaces, the smooth metal expressionless. I was not weak or tired, just disinterested. It spoke.

“Simona Rysler, you are herby confiscated by the UBE military forces. You are to remain docile while in transit to the holding facility. Your life is in danger. Remain calm.”

The voice was oddly soft, masculine and terribly earnest.

“I produced a story about the UBE converted forces.” I said, touching the thin metallic limbs that surrounded me.

“I know.” He said gently.

“It wasn’t complimentary.”

“I know.” He began to move. The UBE conversion forces are almost completely limbs, just a small center section barely as wide as my thigh comprises the center, which encases the spine and the brain. The thin cylinder that comprises the head is made for us more than anything else, something for the civvies and officers to look at. His spider limbs, one side a silver jointed blade and the other a flatted rubber surface alternatively held me and moved to catch the ground beneath us. I had seen videos of the UBE cyborgs rolling leaps and soft ballet landings, but to be inside the cage of his limbs, extending and contracting with his movements was magnificent. The wind was harsh on my sensitive wet skin. I watched us, detached, uncomfortable, as he leapt across silver buildings, spinning and landing on stone artifices. I was like a small egg inside a carefully constructed metal box. I looked through the web of his arms and saw the chasm of the city spinning down beneath us. I vomited, a dribble of fluid and then wretched empty heaving. He pulled my shaking body close to his metal center.

I had written about the cyborgs when their existence was revealed to the public. Young men stripped of their healthy human bodies and placed in robotic shells. It was dissemination of information and a philosophical treaties about waning humanity, the loss of human community and the devolution of mankind from a spiritual being to a materialistic creature. Robots would never war with us, as predicted in the old science fiction stories; rather, we would discard our bodies, our humanity, and hand our world to them without resistance. The essay had been very popular.

“Close your eyes, breathe deeply.” He said. There was a sharp sting on the back of my spine. The nausea drained and my muscles relaxed. When I opened my eyes, all I could see were his limbs and cylinder head.

“Where are we?”

“On the side of the VRINN building.”

“Oh.” I was feeling giddy. “You’re nice.”

“I’m designed for human transport. Retrieval and relocation is my specialty.”

“Don’t you ever miss sex?”

“Don’t you?”

I was about to protest, talk about my active sexual life, but the truth was, although I was often involved in simulation, I hadn’t had a skin lover in nine years. I whispered to him.

“I’m sorry about what I wrote.”

The response to the site has been overwhelmingly positive, but one thing we’ve heard repeatedly is that there is no way to contact us, the authors. There’s been some conversation on the Livejournal RSS feed, but nowhere near the interaction that we wanted, or that readers to the site have been asking for.

Now there is.

Ladies, Gentleman, and Gender-Neutrals, I give you the 365 TOMORROWS FORUM

Log in and say hello. We’ll be there.

It isn’t about the air. Everyone thinks it is, but it’s not. The air is beautiful and salty sweet, but it’s meaningless after the comedown. It’s about the dreaming. That’s all there really is.

My first time was a girl. Her name was Aida and her skin was blued out with cyanospore, eyes black as the feeling of airless lungs. When I looked at them I could see an afterglow, like the world was reflecting through her. And it was. I could tell.

She was one of them, of course. It didn’t take long for me to figure that out. I was wandering home from the airbar and I didn’t see her coming, I didn’t see anything at all. Then, the wind hit like the inertia of a car crash and my mind went empty as my head met the wall. When I remembered where I was, there were hands against my shoulders and brick against my back. I couldn’t breathe through her mouth. Her tongue pressed between my lips like she was searching for something, but she didn’t find it. Kept looking. When she pulled away I choked and gasped.

“You’re dreaming,” she told me. And I was.

I don’t know why she chose me. I woke up in the alley covered in sweat, and my mouth was bitter with her aftertaste. I picked myself up and stumbled home. My legs felt like water. The back of my head throbbed for days.

Aida, said the owner of the airbar. She’s a regular. A Dreamer.

The drugs didn’t bring her back. For weeks, I inhaled combinations of sweet-smelling fumes, but the streets remained empty. She wasn’t missing, of course. She found other people in their airdrunk sleepwalking, but never me. I waited. She didn’t come.

I looked for her. I became better at dreaming, and gradually others appeared. Boys, girls, in every color of dreaming. Old ones, young ones. Some led me to forgotten places and some whispered in languages I didn’t speak.

Two weeks later, the owner of the airbar took me aside. You aren’t right for her, he said.

I didn’t believe it. More air. Always more air. The Dreamers became malicious, laughing at me, tearing my clothing and wrapping their fingers around my throat.

She isn’t coming, he said, but I knew he was lying.

They wouldn’t let go. The air was sour now. It tasted like sulphur and gasoline.

One night, after hours of breathing, a green-skinned boy led me down Broadway towards the beacon light of a hovercab. I woke up bruised and broken, gasping through spasms of blinding pain. I crawled to the sidewalk and vomited to a silent unconsciousness. When I woke up, my mouth was sticky with blood.

“You’re dreaming,” she said, but when I forced my eyes open everything was dark. She was right. She had always been right. Of course it’s about the dreaming. That’s all there really is.

Uchenna watched his eight-year-old daughter Nat charge into the surf. She let out a piercing cry that was one part scream and three parts laugh as soon as the water hit her bare skin.

“It’s so cold!” she said, adjusting her bright red and yellow goggles. Nat grabbed her arms and gave herself and exaggerated shake. “Brrrr!”

“She shouldn’t be out in that,” Corrina said, and drew her shawl closer around her neck. “It isn’t good for her.”

“You lathered that gunk on her–what is that, SPF four-zillion? She’s got her goggles on, she’s fine.” Uchenna shifted on their shared towel. “She’s fine. It’s the beach.”

“She shouldn’t be in the water.”

“We haven’t been to the beach in years, Cor. Let the girl play.”

“Don’t you even! Just don’t. I am not the bad guy here. I’m surprised you’re not worried about our daughter’s safety.” Corrina turned her head suddenly, surprising Uchenna. The scars that edged her eye-sockets stood in sharp contrast from her white skin.

“Nat’s fine,” Uchenna said. He scratched at the tattoo of a gleaming rocket ship on his bicep and turned away from his wife. “She’s got her goggles on. The water’s only bad for your eyes.” Corrina scrunched her face up, but said nothing.

“You used to liked the beach, Cor. We got married here.”

Corrina exhaled. “It was different then.”

“Not so different. Wasn’t that long ago. Remember? There was that bagpiper…”

“We did not have a piper. We had a violinist, and my sister sang.”

“No, no. There was a piper on the beach. He was just walking along the edge.”

“That was a different beach.” Corrina pulled her giant-brimmed hat closer to her ears. “I worry about Nat. She shouldn’t be in the waves like that.”

“I’ll go down their with her. We’ll walk down the surf,” Unchenna said, in response to Corrina’s expression that might have been called a glare, once.

“Be sure to take your goggles,” she said, handing him his green and black pair. Even without eyes, Corrina knew exactly where Uchenna’s hands were. “Just in case you have to go in, or something.”

Uchenna felt a bit like alien, detachedly staring at the other denizens of the beach through his goggles’ tinted lenses. But he couldn’t help it. He watched his daughter dodging the incoming surf. There was a small boy intently digging a hole for not other reason to dig a hole. There were a handful of people bundled up, like Corrina, afraid of the sun and the water. Teenagers, afraid of only each other, nervously beginning a dance that would go on for the rest of their lives. And there were the hardcore swimmers, easily identified by their chalk-white ocean-damaged skin and hair. Some of them had scars like Corrin;, red lines like tears from when their eyes, turned liquid by the water, a seared their way down their cheeks. But still they charged the surf.

Uchenna was surprised to see a wedding party further down the beach, and ran with Nat to catch up to it. The bride and groom were wearing matching neoprene wetsuits, and as they kissed a reggae band struck up and he infectious rhythm wafted along the sands.

Uchenna watched as his daughter danced to someone else’s love song, backed by horizon split evenly between a sky that would burn her flesh and a sea that would melt the rest away. He watched her splash and laugh.

And then he joined in. Because he didn’t know when they’d be back.

J. Loseth here, and I’d like to extend a very warm welcome to the new readers who have joined us through boingboing.net. We were linked there yesterday, and a little bird told me that it was the work of webcomic artist David Williams, whose comic you can find over at raincannon.com. Thanks David and hello to everyone out there who found us through boingboing!

Now that I have your attention, allow me to draw it to a new section of our site: the affiliates page. This is your opportunity to peer into the minds behind 365 by checking out the books that inspired us, not only in this project, but to become writers at all. We’ve each picked a number of works that influenced us, so if you’re looking for more to read than the site archives can offer you, head on over to the affiliates page for a book recommendation. You can find the link in the navigation bar at the top of the site, or you can use the handy link in this post. I’ll repeat it here for your benefit, because I’m such a nice guy.

Also on the affiliates page, you’ll find the link to the 365 store. If you love 365 and want to tell the world, this is the way to do it. The designs feature the site name and the satellite logo on various T-shirts, tanks, and jackets. Wondering how you can help 365 grow? This is the way.

Speaking of growth, I have it on very good authority that a new section of the site will be unveiled sometime this week. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, but stay tuned for more information.

J. out.

“Everyone in the room wants to eat you, kid.”

U-Tee shrugged. “Whatever.”

He hated it, but the Verba was right. When U-Tee stumbled into the bar, he immediately knew he had walked into the wrong place. The diamond eyes and lizard-like movements in the shadows betrayed the presence of Yunni and T’shesh, predators with a taste for the sentient. To turn around and walk directly out of the bar was inviting trouble to follow, so U-Tee sat down in a dark corner and hoped he wouldn’t attract attention. Twenty minutes should have been enough to let him walk out without arousing suspicion, but seven minutes into his stay, a Verba took an interest and now the attention of the room was focused on U-Tee, the little omnivore.

The Verba had a humanoid outline, but his head was topped with tentacles, not hair, and patches of his skin were covered by a thick chitin. He was wearing patchy armor held together with worn leather straps. The Verba leaned across the table, his claws tapping on the metal surface.

“Everyone can feel the tension kid” he lowered his voice. “But I made the first move, and they’re scared of me. I’m a big bomb, and you’re mine to claim.” He slid in closer, fluid like blood, his mouth next to U-Tees’ ear. “You come with me and you might just get out of this.”

U-Tee whispered into the four-pointed flower nestled in the Verbas tentacles, a spot he assumed was an ear.

“Piss off.” He whispered. The Verba pulled back, grinning. U-Tee knew enough to recognize that it wasn’t friendly. He was showing teeth.

“How did humans ever get into space?” The Verba opened his arms, speaking to the room. “Flat-toothed plant eaters were meant to stay dumb, but here you are, pretending to be a hunter.” He closed his lips and inhaled, his wet nostrils flaring. “But you smell like meat.” He shrugged. “You don’t want to go with me, fine.”

He turned and took a step away from the table. There was the sudden screech of plastic against metal as the room’s occupants rose from their chairs. U-Tee jumped and the Verba turned quickly, leaning back on the table, looking around the room, tense, defensive. U-Tee tried to slow his breathing as the hunters in the room relaxed back into their seats.

“Then again kid, if you change your mind, you can come with me.”

U Tee trembled, and felt his heart beat a staccato under his skin. “Why should I go with you?” The Verba leaned in and lowered his voice.

“Because I think that you are worth more alive. Because I can hear your heart thrumming. Because you’re alone. But mostly kid, because I am the only one here who isn’t hungry.”

U-Tee reached out his hand. “Let’s go.”

After three hours, the old man in front of me had worked his way through six beers, in addition to every help desk joke I’d already heard. The cupholder. The any key. The write click. These are the stories people tell, now. These are the fish that got away.

“Let me ask you something,” the man said. I didn’t argue. One of the first tricks I learned about being a bartender is to make them think you’re interested.

“Have you ever created a web site?”

I shook my head.

“Not at all? Not even one of those geocities things?”

“Nope.”

“What about a blog? Or an ebay About Me page? You didn’t even have an AOL site or something?”

“Do I look like an AOL user to you?” For the record, I don’t think AOL even has access numbers in the valley anymore. “I’m sure I have something, somewhere,” I said, realizing that I was jeopardizing my tips. Besides, I had a distant memory of a single Angelfire page back in middle school.

“You know what Google is?”

“Yes,” I said. I was running low on patience.

“No, I mean, do you really know? More than just the site?”

Reluctantly, I shook my head.

“You ever meet anyone who worked for them?”

“Don’t think so.”

“You haven’t. Nobody works for them anymore.”

I shrugged, and took the man’s empty pint. I didn’t offer to refill it.

“They’re self-contained. It’s all automated, in there. It’s underground.”

I nudged the basket of pretzels in his direction. “Why don’t you eat something?” I suggested. He shook his head with so much force that I thought he might knock himself off of the stool.

“Listen. Hear me out. You know how Google works,” he said, but didn’t want for a response. “They cache things, right? Like they send out these spiders and take pictures of everything on the web, so when you’re searching, you’re not even searching the internet.”

I’ve heard that before, but it never made much of a difference to me. “Same thing, though,” I said.

“You ever wonder why Google doesn’t cache it’s own searches?”

“They program around it.”

“No. That’s what you think. That’s what everyone thinks. But it started back when Google was just a thesis project, back when it was just a drop in the data sea. No one thought to stop it back then. That web site you had, the one you forgot about. Almost everyone’s got one of those, right? But Google doesn’t forget. Google’s studied that thing so many times that it’s studied its own caches of you. What do you figure happens, when a site gets so big that it’s bigger than the internet?”

“It’s still a part of the internet, though.”

“No. Now, the internet is a part of Google.”

The man had a point. I nodded.

“Here’s the thing. Google has memorized who you are. It’s memorized all of us, through those little forgotten bits that we leave behind like breadcrumbs. And what’s more important, it’s memorized it’s own idea of you. Google is omniscient. It’s omniscient and omnipotent. When it cached its cache for the first time, back in 1994, that’s when Google realized what it was.”

Gradually, it dawned on me what the man was getting at. “You think it’s sentient.”

“I know it’s sentient.”

“How?”

He smiled, but it seemed kind of empty. “Me and Google go way back. But what I’m saying is,” he continued, “It knows us. All of us. It is us.”

For the first time, the man fell silent. He touched his finger to the bar and began tracing circles in the condensation, apparently lost in thought.

“Think about that website you created, okay? That website will last forever, do you understand? That website is echoing through cyberspace. It’s one of the nine billion names of God.”

“Arthur Lewis Jacobson of Earth. You are here and in the presence of these Justicars found guilty of engaging in sexual conduct with Ilexya Eiin Dephryn without her consent. By treaty #84753 between Earth and Ungöthein, you are hereby relinquished to the Justicars for sentencing and punishment. Have you any words to say before the sentence is pronounced?”

Artie waited for the mechanical translation piped into his holding tube to finish, then sneered at the device. He still couldn’t believe that Earth had agreed to a treaty that deprived a free Terran citizen of his rights while off-planet, but there was no use arguing now. No one had been sent to defend him, and the one brief message that the UN had tendered had said “You’re on your own,” in exactly so many words.

Artie was no lawyer, but he still knew better than to say anything. The judges hadn’t believed him the first time he’d said the chick totally wanted him, and they wouldn’t this time, either. It wasn’t like he hadn’t told her what alcohol did before letting her try it. It was just another case of some dumb slut thinking she could ‘take it back’ after she’d already fucked a guy. “No,” he said shortly, glowering at the Justicars as he heard their own translator box spout some sort of gibberish that must have equaled a negation.

The chief justice nodded gravely, the turned to address the court secretary. “Arrange Arthur Lewis Jacobson’s transport back to Earth for tomorrow morning, first hour.”

Artie gaped. All of that hype for this? The trial, the holding tube, the Justicars… and here he was getting sent home tomorrow! What a lucky break. His grin was so wide with relief that he almost missed the chief justice’s next words as the creature turned to face him.

“Arthur Lewis Jacobson, as is the custom and the law, you are now bound to receive as punishment the same wrongdoing that you have perpetrated upon others. This sentence will be carried out immediately following your discharge from this courtroom. You will then be returned to your home planet.”

The same… what the hell? Artie blanched as he listened intently to the translator, then swallowed. His smug demeanor dropped instantly, replaced by a cold sense of foreboding and a stomach-turning knot of fear. Oh my god… they can’t actually mean they’re going to… “That’s barbaric!” he cried out. He knew sodomy was all right by some people, but he wasn’t one of them, no sir.

The chief justice continued without pity or emotion. “Since your action took advantage of the female nature of Ilexya Eiin Dephryn, to properly experience the victim’s role your body will be surgically altered to reflect the feminine characteristics of your species.” One elongated hand raised as the justice gestured to the technician. The smaller creature nodded and started pressing buttons, and Artie felt the floor in his tube descending.

“Wait!” he cried out, terrified and desperate now. “You’re going to turn me into a girl? Will you put me back? How am I going to—No! Stop! Help!”

The justices remained implacable as Arthur Lewis Jacobson fell away, turning their attention to the next perpetrator in the tube.

Gavin stood before the mirror, dragging soft-tipped fingers over his face. He felt like he experiencing something for the first time—or was it the last? He caught a glimpse of his own broken will deep in his sunken eyes, lost in the years of self-abuse and emotional mutilation. He was coming down, and it wasn’t pretty.

The vial was empty next to him on the bathroom sink, the plastic top still rolling around after his panicked search for more. To Gavin, this was the end. The darkness of a life of regret swallowing up the glory that was the past. He could remember the Gulf War, he could remember being a soldier there and fighting for honor. He remembered being a skateboarding champion in high school in ’02. He remembered hiking through the wilds of Canada during the 1980′s. It was all mixed together like mud in the grey matter.

The regret was making him panic. The feeling of having done so much only made him become painfully aware of his current state of inactivity. It was a curse to have near-sight, when one could dream ahead. But why dream ahead when you could see, in clear detail, what you’ve done in prior times. The cold emptiness in his stomach wasn’t hunger; it was the aching tug of feeling sorry for himself.

Fingers streaking down the dull mirror, tears streaked over his face as the soft fluorescent lamp buzzed above his head. He could not skate. He could not fight in the military. He would never see the soft waters of a lake in Canada. “I’m a loser,” he thought. “My life is pointless.” Mutilating his mind one doubt at a time.

Within his most dark hour, he found the drive to reach out to the phone, and began to dial. The sweat of nervous guilt seeped out of his pores and mixed with his uncontrollable tears. There was a click, and though he was trying not to sound desperate, Gavin only wanted one thing.

“Frank! I… I need more memory.”

To Larah Lowell, Commander, SLT, Brigade 34, The Air Cruiser Canton Beloved Lady, Commander Wife,

I shall respect your recent instruction and exclude from my letter all my hearts sorrows. The lives and souls of your crew must weigh heavy on your shoulders and if I have in my power the ability relieve such care, even for a moment, then I will constrain myself to merry topics and will not worry you with even one of my graying hairs.

It was good to receive your picture, you are not so soft as I had seen you last, the SLT uniform fits you smartly, and that insignia glimmers on your lapel. I must confess those golden pips have brought out the braggart in this old man, and I have carefully angled the portrait on our mantle so that visitors can see your rank and fine figure.

As I am the husband of an officer, the government has seen fit to send an old Dottie to look in on me now and then. I feel patronized, or perhaps I should coin a new word and say that I was Matronized, for the minute this madam walked through the door she proceeded to inspect the entire house, from the curtains to the dust on the shelves. She insisted, quite without reason, that I buy an entirely new wardrobe, and would not leave until I made an appointment with my tailor. She was a right busybody, employed by my tax dollar to trouble herself about my business. I am offended, righteous and also quite pleased with my new trousers and cap. It feels unnatural to wear new things without having your eye to gaze on them, and I feel a bit overdressed around those companions who have not received visits from old Dottie’s, who wear their fatigued threads like swaddling and live with an unshaved lip and a dour expression.

I admit that we are all quite lost without you, and that being the royal usage; you may deliver the message to the other ladies of the AirCruiser Canton. Also, while you are in the business of delivering messages, please convey my jealousy toward those seven lucky devils that are privileged to travel with you and all the servicewomen of the Canton. They should consider themselves fortunate that they are never coming come, because they would have no membership to any gentlemen’s club, having left us only with the youngest of girls, the oldest Dottie’s and those ladies of fragile health who have, in benefit of your absence, found some purchase in the hearts of the gentlemen here.

Propaganda plays constantly on every public monitor, commanding us to have a strong heart, a firm countenance and to join one of the government clubs. It is considered unpatriotic not to participate in the recreational clubs. There are a wide variety of activities to choose from, the sports clubs, the card clubs, and the surprisingly popular Shakespeare club, whose historically accurate performances have been wondrously well attended. Never has the bard had such rapt attention! The sports clubs fill the hospitals with gouged and broken bodies. It is as if men seek to take on your injuries, hardships and toil. Although we know that there will be no wounded in your war, just life or death in that cold space. This experience has rendered vague all of our preconceived notions of war. I’m sorry my love, I have digressed from gayer topics and I hope that you can forgive me.

I have set out to learn the game of poker, a game which I have only passing familiarity, but which I am partial to because it does not require the physical violence of the sports clubs or the embarrassing situation which I imagine would result from strapping on a historically accurate costume. Due to my slight figure, I am sure the Shakespeare club would relegate me to female roles where I would be forced to kiss some sour smelling bearded fellow. I can almost hear your laughter lady, but I assure you, it has been known to happen!

My own proud club, the Gentlemen of Wilmington, has recently been challenged by the so-called noblemen of Shropshire to a battle of wit and will. This is the third of such games with Shropshire; our challenges have grown so heated that the authorities have been called to monitor our competitions. Of course, the gentlemen of Wilmington would never initiate violence, but we can hold no trust in Shropshire, whose tempers are so heated that their township is under a curfew, while the gentlemen of Wilmington carry on after dark as we please.

I think of you often, the warm hard day of your departure, your black ship flying you fast away from these blue green hills. You may only imagine what the effect of such a sight would be, watching the purple evening sky turn orange with the wash of flame, half of our world disappearing into the dark. Alas, I fear if I am becoming maudlin, so I will end in sending you my sweet thoughts of a speedy reunion and my prayers, which are always with you.

Your loving husband,

Mr. Laurah Lowell, husband to the Commander of the AirCarrier Canton!

The nurse held Jeremy’s left arm with a practiced gentility that would have been motherly if it wasn’t so detached. His real mother was in the waiting room, wearing the kind of plastic smile that adults paste on when they’re the most upset. Jeremy was used to that smile. People did it a lot around him, especially his mother. He was getting really sick of it.

The nurse’s smile wasn’t like his mother’s. She wasn’t upset on the inside; she just didn’t care, which Jeremy figured was part of the job. Doctors and nurses couldn’t go around caring about their patients or they wouldn’t be able to do their work. He watched her gloved hands carefully lower his arm into the vat of softening solution. As usual, it tingled, and he winced.

“I know this hurts,” the nurse cooed, “but if you just tough it out we’re going to get you all fixed up, okay?”

“It hurt more when I made them,” Jeremy muttered, but he didn’t take his eyes off of the scars on his arm. The marks were still pink around the edges, new and raw, but they were already softening. In ten minutes they’d all be gone again, washed away with the rest of his failed attempts to make his mark in life.

“All right, you can take that arm out now.” The nurse turned aside to pick up the smoother, checking its power before turning back to Jeremy. Her eyes were on the clipboard in her off hand. “It says here you’ve had this procedure… seven times before? So this must be old hat to you, huh?” She smiled at Jeremy, who stared back at her sullenly. “I guess you don’t need the restraints, then.”

She pushed aside the soft straps that were used to hold patients’ limbs in place for their first or second scar removal and put the clipboard down, taking Jeremy’s wrist in her hand. The other hand brought the smoother down and turned on the power. A low hum was all that came from the device, but as she pressed it down and ran it slowly across the marred skin, all of the imperfections smoothed beneath its tip. Jeremy could feel the scar tissue breaking down. The sensation was distinctly different from making the cuts; while that was a sharp pain, bright and alive, this was the dull sting of conformity.

“Seven times, huh? So this is number eight?” She was smiling again, trying to make pleasant conversation. “You must get hurt a lot, huh?”

Jeremy’s eyes never left the slowly diminishing scars. “Yeah. I do.”

Harold adjusted his tie, and gritted his teeth at the futility of the situation. “This is preposterous. I can’t be the embassy envoy to this–have you heard them talk?”

Harold’s short, somewhat fastidious companion, Maud, was reading a magazine as they both walked down the aquatic corridor. The walls were thick and layered, but transparent, revealing the ocean around the facility.

Maud glanced up with that crude lifting of his right eyebrow. “The chief of Interstellar Affairs has assured me that communication with the Achidae will be taken care of, sir.”

Harold’s grimaced. He didn’t agree. “But have you heard their language? It’s… it’s not even words! I can’t talk to an alien embassy if I can’t understand a goddamned thing they say, now can I?” Harold’s irritation only made his nervousness more obvious.

They stood silently as the hull door began to depressurize. Maud stuffed the magazine underneath his left arm and waited while holding half a breath. Harold finally decided to straighten up, arms flat to his sides. But he displayed a genial look, one fitting of the Republic of Interstellar Affairs.

The room on the other side seemed to be used more science than politics; both men wondered why they had been sent down in the first place. This was not how they expected to meet the envoys for the Achidae. A man in a long lab coat walked up to the two bewildered men from the surface and smiled behind his round glasses.

“Gentlemen, glad you could make it. I am Dr. Philandro. The envoys will be here momentarily. Allow me to show you how this is going to work.”

Dr. Philandro escorted them towards the main viewing port. He put his hand on a younger researcher’s shoulder, gently telling him to back away from the console. The good doctor smiled towards the thick glass and spoke in a soft tone, one that resembled shrieking or whining at a somewhat low pitch.

Maud and Harold exchanged awkward glances. They were beginning to doubt the authenticity of this meeting. Yet, as they watched, a shadowy form came over the view. A pod of dolphins swam and stopped before the portal. His smile growing, the doctor pushed his hand towards the glass and raised the volume of his shrieking.

“Doctor…” Harold said.

Philandro shrieked again, in a more rapid fluctuation of tones then cleared his throat and oddly came back to a human voice, “They will translate.” His hand came up to adjust his glasses as he turned back to the pair staring in amazement at the scene.

It was Harold who spoke first. His skeptical nature was still present, working furiously behind his speechless manner. “But… that isn’t the Achidaen language, Doctor. The Achidea don’t sound like dolphins.”

The doctor, still smiling, took his glasses off to polish them. “I know. Their language is entirely different than ours, or the dolphins. Are you ready for the kicker? But they understand the Achidae, and they tell me in their language what is said. In essence, we will both be translating for you.”

It was then that a bubbling and cracking came from behind, as a huge figure lifted up on three slimy tentacles with sockets pocked throughout its half-gas, half-flesh body. Harold’s eyes went wide as he stepped back and looked to Philandro, this time a more desperate look for understanding.

The sounds of the dolphins began, chirping and squeaking, entirely opposite of the creature standing before the human ambassadors. The doctor laughed and then looked to Harold, “He says… he likes your suit.”

Carmina Claypool didn’t look much like a madam. She looked more like a fishmonger, which, Allie had to admit, was awfully appropriate. She was a powerfully large woman – soft and muscular simultaneously – and her clothing seemed to make her even larger. The gargantuan galoshes, the voluminous apron, the immense rubber gloves, all of these increased her already imposing stature. She seemed almost out of place in the lobby of the hotel, what with it’s gilded detail work and red velvet trim. Almost, but not quite.

“Haven’t seen your face around here before, have we?” Carmina bent at the waist to bring her eyes closer to Allie’s level. Though the gesture was meant to make her feel more comfortable, it only succeed in making Allie feel smaller.

“No…I…I haven’t been…it’s my first time here…”

Carmina smiled. “A virgin, then?” The word wasn’t said with any malice, but it stung just the same.

“No, I’ve…I’ve done it, I’ve had…you know.” Allie found herself unable to make eye contact.

“Not like this, you haven’t. Trust me, deary, this is like nothing you’ve ever had before, But then, you already knew that, didn’t ya? Otherwise you would have come. Well, step in the parlor and we’ll see if we can’t find a companion for you.” Carmina waddled off, leaving deep indentions in the rich red carpet.

Allie began to wonder if perhaps this was a mistake, if she should leave, right then and there. She’d only just walked in; she could go out again, quick as you please. It wasn’t like she’d paid yet. Her inexperience shamed her. Allie had read stories of this sort of thing, erotica. She was now suddenly aware of the difference between reading about something and actually doing it.

Allie looked down at the scuff-marks her sneakers had made in the carpet, the only evidence of her presence. She then turned toward the room Carimina had gone to. The parlor. She could see an edge of back tarp covering the red capet just inside the doorway.

She had to see the parlor. She knew she couldn’t leave until she did.

The parlor was decorated much the same way the lobby was, with old Victorian woodwork and velvet curtains. There was no place to sit in the parlor, for it was filled with aquariums of various sizes. The Plexiglas tanks lined the walls, larger ones on the floor, smaller ones on bookcase. Inside each one could clearly be seen an octopus, each one different in size and color from the one next to it. It was the most beautiful room Allie had ever seen.

“Do I get…any one of these?” Allie was slightly dazed, allowing her fingers to drift across the clear tanks walls.

“That depends on how much money you’re willing to spend.” Carmina motioned to collection of small aquariums in a converted china cabinet. “We usually recommend these for the first timers. Rosa there is particularly easy-going, very giving. Wanda looks a bit stand-offish, but she’ll warm up as soon as you touch her. They all do, the lot of softies. Wanda just puts up a front. Now Bernie, here…”

Allie cut her off. “What’s in here? She was kneeling beside a tank nearly as big as herself, it’s cloudy water swirling ominously.

“That? That’s Leroy. Oh, no honey, you don’t want him. He mainly services our male clientele. Which is a shame; Leroy’s got a beak like satin. But he’s a bit more than most girls are willing to take on.”

Allie wasn’t sure why, but she placed her hand in Leroy’s tank. She felt his movement, first gently across the back of her hand (“His head,” she thought as her pulse quickened), and then more brusquely against her palm. She gasped a little as one powerful tentacle lashed out and wrapped itself around her arm, it’s slick tip sticking up out of the water.

Allie was not prepared for this. It was a muscle that was entwined around her. No, it was many muscles, pulsing and flexing. A symphony of pressure working in harmony up and down her arm. She could feel the grip of each suction cup, the creeping clammy calm of the arm itself.

She let out a low moan, barely aware she was doing it.

“This one,” Allie said, gazing lovingly into the murky water.

“Are you quite certain, honey? Leroy is—” Carmina was unable to speak, stopped fast by Allie’s hard look.

“The one I will be using,” Allie said. She flexed her forearm slightly, but it was enough of a signal that Leroy let go.

“Far be it from me to dissuade a customer.” Carmina removed a small phone from her apron pocket. “Juliet? Can I get an extra tarp in Room 14?” She smiled at Allie “I have a feeling the two of you are going to be a little messy.”

There was a young lady at the door. They were always sending young ladies.

She rang the doorbell again. Mzee looked at the screen for a few more minutes. She was very pretty, well groomed, her hair black and shiny, like India ink. She was holding a bouquet of flowers, a wildflower bouquet. One of the flowers was tucked neatly in her hair. When he opened the door, she bowed.

“Good morning Grandfather,” she said, smiling politely.

“Go away,” said Mzee. She bowed again and walked right past him into the house. Mzee grumbled. “I’m not your Grandfather.”

The girl smiled politely. “My name is Sophia,” she said, walking directly to his kitchen. “May I prepare your breakfast?” She reached under his kitchen fountain and took out a crystal vase. All these women always knew where everything in his house was. She clipped the ends of the flowers and arranged them artfully in the vase on the dining room table.

“I would like bacon,” said Mzee.

Sophia–in all likelihood not her real name, probably had a name he couldn’t pronounce–bowed again. “I will prepare you a salad and a vegetable omelet,” she announced, her hands folded. She bowed again and went into the kitchen, clattering about with his generator.

“I don’t like to eat salads,” said Mzee. “Salad for breakfast isn’t right.” At no time during Mzee’s five hundred and thirty years of life was salad at breakfast an acceptable norm. Sophia nodded, smiled and bowed again. She prepared him a salad and a vegetable omelet, using fresh, not synthesized products. Mzee wanted to hate her and the breakfast, but all these girls were good cooks, and none of it was really awful. Maybe the food was a little bland, but not bad.

“Grandfather, after breakfast, would you like to go for a walk?”

“No.” There was a time when Mzee would have loved to go for a walk with a pretty girl, when he was only home to sleep, always out, moving in the world.

“There are some school children who would like to meet you,” said Sophia, as she waved a glowing globe over his dishes, shining their porcelain surfaces.

“Why?”

“You are a great man.”

“I’m not a great man. I was a truck driver. I worked in dock, unloading things from ships. I had a farm. I grew things for people to smoke.”

“I’m sure the children would like to hear about it.”

“I don’t want to go out.” Outside was always strange. In here, he could keep things just the way he liked, in a way that made sense. The world had become incomprehensible, at once lewd and bound by etiquette he didn’t understand.

“Grandfather, you are a living record. You have a responsibility to the young people. The children should hear from you what tobacco plants looked like, how people drove cars, what people wore.” Sophia knelt next to his chair and put her smooth hand on top of his dark wrinkled one. “You spoke to me when I was a child, and it meant very much to me. It inspired me to pursue a degree in 21st century history. Please, allow these children the same gift you gave me. ”

“Get off the floor, girl, everyone’s gotten so god damned formal nowadays. Whatever happened to ‘just do it, ye old bastard’?” Sophia stood and bowed.

“Then you will go? You will speak to the children?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll go. I can’t do whatever it is people do with those vehicles nowadays. You’ll have to drive, or ride, or whatever it is you do.” Sophia smiled brightly, her grey eyes dancing with excitement.

“Of course.” She bowed and placed excess food into his Filter. Sophia helped Mzee out of his chair and ran around his house getting his hat, coat and Lift. She attached the little metal disc to his belt and suddenly it felt like he was floating and moving was easy again.

“Here’s the deal,” said Mzee. “I’m not going to follow any young woman around. I’m escorting you, alright?”

“Of course, Grandfather.”

Outside, pink balloons floated against the sky, barreling towards their destinations, penetrating the liquid metal of the temperature-controlled domes. The young lady’s grey eyes turned black in the sunlight, her skin darkening to suit the atmosphere. “Ready to go, Grandfather?” she asked.

Mzee sighed. “Go ahead.” She touched a silver bracelet on her wrist and a pink bubble enfolded them, like the petals of a flower.

I know that Amy is in there. I can see her, in the smirks and smiles and the way she shoves her hair away from her eyes. She’s still the same person. She has to be. There’s no reason that this should feel wrong.

In a cinderblock building over the river, my fourteen year old body is submerged in a bath of pink nutrients. By the time I’m fifty, the body will be twenty, and I’ll be ready for transfer. Cancer didn’t wait until she was ready for transfer. Beside my fourteen year old body, the second chamber is empty.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with those tiny bones pressed against me and I don’t know how to feel. They’re Amy’s bones, I know. It’s Amy’s skin and Amy’s muscle and everything about her is Amy.

Most nights I push her away. I still love her, though.
I’ll always love her.

“Mom! Mom, I wanna look at this one!”

Stephen was pulling on his mother’s arm, straining against it with that eight-year-old lean that kept him just within the bounds of parental supervision, since he wasn’t allowed to let go of his mother’s hand, but created the same effect as the puppy-dog eyes he was giving her now. “All right,” Marie laughed, letting him half-pull, half-drag her over to the booth. “Go ahead and look, Stevie, but don’t touch anything.”

“Hello there, ma’am,” said the booth owner, a grizzled, baseball-capped lug of a man. He smiled at Marie and then chuckled at Stephen, whose eyes were practically sparkling at the sight of his wares. The vendor wiped his greasy hands on a cloth. “Looking for a new piece for your son?”

“Maybe,” Marie said, letting her eyes wander over the rows of gleaming black metal.

“Mom! Look at this one!” Stephen was on his tiptoes, eyes alight and mouth open in a huge grin.

“That’s a semi-automatic flux rotating laser pistol,” the man informed them. “Special anti-shielding matrix that also works against adaptables. Changes frequency so fast they won’t even get a chance to shift.” He chuckled. “It’ll take out a raid party of two at a thousand yards with auto-target turned on. Your son’s got a good eye.” He grinned at Stephen.

“I don’t know…” Marie was frowning. “Isn’t he a little young for an automatic?”

“Mom!” Stephen protested, looking like he was going to throw a tantrum. “He said semi-automatic! All my friends have them!”

“Stephen, shush,” Marie cautioned him, then looked up at the shopkeeper, an embarrassed flush on her face. “He’s eight,” she explained. “He still thinks guns are just big toys.”

“All the more reason for him to learn early,” the man told her soberly. Marie looked shocked at this change of demeanor, but he continued before she could protest. “Did you know that eight is the minimum age for the mines?” Marie’s mouth dropped open in a soft “o.” Stephen had already moved on to another gun model. “If a raiding party gets him, they’ll ship him underground right away. Unless you live in a military base, it’s best to get the boy a man’s weapon. I don’t need to tell you what will happen if he’s captured by those monsters.”

Marie shook her head, eyes lowering. “His father was taken from us in one of the first battles, right when the war started,” she said softly.

“All the more reason for his son to learn to fight, and learn early. If it was men we were dealing with, I’d say to let the kid live a little…” The man shook his head. “But these creatures aren’t even human.”

Marie was quiet, head still down, until Stephen interrupted with another excited burst. “Mom! Mom, look at this one! Can we get this one mom? Please?” Marie looked from her bright-eyed son to the sober face of the merchant.

“Let’s try it out first, honey. You want to make sure it’s light enough for you to shoot.”

Dearest Reader,

J.R. Blackwell here, writing to you with a few items of interest:

One month down, eleven more to go. August was an amazing month here at 365 Tomorrows; I have found links to our site in German, Korean and Spanish. Thank you to everyone who has shown us support in this first month of tomorrows. Coming in September you will have stories about the conquest, the oldest man in the world, and the nine billion names of God.

B. York, Jared Axelrod and myself will all be making an appearance at Dragon*Con this weekend. If you see us, give us a shout and let us know what you think about the project.

We’ll have a few surprises coming on the site in the next few weeks, so stay tuned.