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I know what you’re going to say. That I got what I deserved. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. Nothing like kicking someone when they’re down, eh? But here I am, dressed in all my mistakes. Huddling inside a house I don’t dare to leave.
It is the year 3048 and you still hate your job. In the past eight hours since landing on this wasteland planet, you fended off two rogue mechas, hacked the building’s access code, and decapitated a droid.
We have seen you come before. We have always resisted. We will always resist. The first aliens came as conquerors, ready to crush us, ready to destroy us. We went to ground, we hid. We fought. We picked away at them, bit by bit.
Buddy and I abandoned our hydrogen nomad at the edge of the wastelands before trudging around the rusted chain-link perimeter of the abandoned fairgrounds, waiting for the blast of steam and guttural earthly moan to escape.
It was close to midnight on the second day of Diwali when we got the message. From deep space—far out past the Kuiper Belt and Pluto, which is not a planet anymore and probably pissed about it—a radio signal penetrated the atmosphere and reached our big-ass dishes in the desert made for this type of thing. Props to NASA, they only took four hours to decode the encryption algorithm.
The simulation blossomed around Nadja Gavrić like a hypercube unpacking itself into three dimensions. The plain metal floors of the Roses’ cargo bay turned the shiny white of faux marble. The walls closed in, became a circular chamber. Display cases sprang up around the perimeter. Nadja stumbled backward when her right arm suddenly joined an exhibit of Cometborne funerary instruments.
1. Second Person POV: You’re a good person, although your ex doesn’t believe it—and here you are, writing in the second person, which your ex says is a limiting, even off-putting POV, simply to get his attention, to tell him your side of the story. Your boyfriend broke up with you last week after confessing he had doubts about your character. What really hurts is that since the breakup, he’s left your emails and texts unread.
You’re asleep in dreams of your father holding your head underwater, so the call from Magnolia Assisted Living goes to voicemail. “I didn’t raise a son of mine to count on his fingers,” your father says in the dream—because ah, yes, it’s all of your worst moments rolled into a single nightmare. You hear the beeping of your alarm and you know you’re dreaming, but you can’t wake up any more than you can pull yourself free of your father’s hands.
05.22.2028 — Dear Teejay_009: Today makes it a decade and a day I have been keeping tabs on you. I started by watching your mother, monitoring all her movements while she housed you. There’s no better time to relay this message but now.
The trouble started after my husband reported a strange Zoom call at work. The company he worked for was a tech company that dabbled in defense contracting. I know all tech companies make weapons, but I didn’t want him working on that kind of stuff. He never promised he wouldn’t.
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