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You know you are fucked when you see fragments of the broken radio on the floor. Your damaged ship lay nose caked into the sand, and coupled with your sprained ankle that hums an excruciating pain, and slight concussion on your head—your chances of survival in this unknown territory has now drastically dropped. In your first year as a space cadet, you were taught to remain calm, breathe slowly, and call for help in the event of a crash.
The creatures who shared your art with us had to explain many things to make it minimally comprehensible. This by itself made sense. You are who and what you are, and we are who and what we are, and the physical differences between us are profound. We belong to different orders, and this means that our minds are also different, our philosophies are different, our ways of measuring and of comprehending the universe are different.
We’ll skip ahead. Say eight minutes in, so I’m not wasting your time. You’re in your chair, strapped tight, taking around eight Gs. Like this, they wouldn’t even feel that bad, all the force coming from front to back, pressing you down into your seat. Your eyes are starting to water. You might have trouble breathing. But you’re doing great. You’re looking out that window into the black of space, everything shaking. There’s some pinpricks of stars, light-years away, wobbling out there.
“They farm starlight.”
“Bullshit.”
“Okay, they’re going to farm starlight. For now they’re running fusion rigs. But that’s not their long-term plan.”
“No one in the sunforsaken Oort has a long-term plan. Other than slow suicide. You know what they told me, when I was first coming out here? ‘There are warmer ways to die.’ That’s in the bloody Kuiper.”
The first time you killed me, I cried like a baby.
Stupid, stupid, to cry over something make-believe—stupid and ugly and pathetic, too, when already the only thing I wanted in the world was for you to find me pretty. I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t expected it to hurt so bad, dying in the sim. I hadn’t expected it to hurt at all.
Jacey Watkins’s fingers were shaking as she stared at the five remaining questions on her Advanced Temporal Disruption Midterm. She was already exhausted from responding to ten “short” essay questions. Now she hit the “long” essay questions and as she read them, her heart sank. She hadn’t expected the damn midterm be so hard.
Draw a rectangular shape. Put a cylinder around it. Add a few small rectangles to any lines, such that they straddle them. At least one on the rectangle, and another on the cylinder. These are airlocks. The engine should look like a lighter stacked on top of a pack of cigarettes; don’t take too long drawing it, but make sure you color it in red, and then draw over it with a black marker.
The most surprising thing about my journey (well, the first most surprising thing) is that the dream I experienced while traveling lasted a thousand years, a single dream stretching all the way to the Iota star in the Gemini constellation. I dreamt of Bindi, my childhood dog, a heeler and pointer mix who used to follow me everywhere; now it seems, she’s even followed me to this distant star.
A year of living in the ground had not accustomed Moyer to the smell. He wondered how the French, who’d been at this business so much longer, could stand it. But if the officers who had trained his unit in the intricacies of trench life were any indication, they were so weary and battered as to scarcely notice the world around them any longer.
Personality Disorder (Not Otherwise Specified)
My patients called me Dr. Holloway. My friends called me Jason. I won’t tell you what my three ex-wives called me but I’m sure you can guess. I was a psychiatrist (and a damn good one seventy percent of the time).
My adult life had been full of restarts, reinventions, and rehabilitations. This new beginning, though . . . this was supposed to be different. I’d taken a job at Margins Treatment Center in sunny Los Angeles as the Clinical Director.
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