A Filipino consultant, working for a medium-sized design company along Lockhart Road, left a final entry on his blog before jumping from the thirty-third floor, his death accidentally captured by an amateur touring videographer, and subsequently immortalized on YouTube:
We read about Atlantis and Lemuria and imagined how things were in Roanoke. We watched TV specials and films on ancient civilizations: Great Zimbabwe, Egypt-under-sands, Heinrich Schliemann’s Troy, ruins of Viking colonies (marveling how some were found under houses, and some under unremarkable mounds). We mourned the End of the Second Age of Elves, gasped at the red skies that heralded the destruction of the DC multiverse, and were in attendance as the Reconquista fell upon the noble Moors.
All in the past, all imagined or real, all dwelt upon, written on, celebrated, reviled, constructed, reconstructed, critiqued, discussed, remembered.
But there are smaller lost worlds, less grand, hidden, briefly exposed, then burned, lost, obviated.
When you and I met, we created such a world. We set out on voyages of discovery and then sent treasure fleets to hoard moments, stories, and fragments of memory. We built and plundered and planted and razed down and colonized each other’s space in the name of love or hope or togetherness or fate or choice or chance, and it was good, this small world of ours, this small sphere that to us was immense, was the solar system, was the universe. It was all good. We defended our borders against outside incursions and sent the barbarians packing, so we could return to the glorious task of living and conversing and arguing and yes, yes, thinking.
Then one day, it was the end, it was over. It doesn’t matter if it was my hand or yours that thundered down the hapless glittering wonders of our world. It doesn’t matter who pushed the red button, who moved the doomsday clock to midnight, who did what when where how or why.
Our world was smaller than Mu, tinier than Atlantis. It did not inspire books or Discovery Channel programs or mysterious first-person 3D games, did not proffer the wisdom of the ancients (if we were anything, it was not wise), did not inspire others to dream or write poetry or bake pottery with achingly beautiful figures.
You moved on.
Our last mutual act was walking away, apart, in different directions, crossing the silent gulf between dead small worlds and what you once said were infinite possibilities.
SECURING DOORS FROM FATHERS
THE FIRST THING to keep in mind is that most fathers enter and exit your home the same way you do. Fathers use doors. It makes sense, then, to make sure that all your doors are secure. Remember that you must protect more than just your main and back doors. Look around your home and consider where else a father can seek ingress: will he enter through the sliding door from the garden, his damp slippers leaving ghostly footprints on your vinyl floor? Will he pass through the odd auxiliary door adjoining your condo unit, the one that Maintenance swore would never be used? Or will he simply use the door from the garage, the one you usually forget about?
When a father intends to break into a house, you must think and move fast—time is everything. Anything you can do to slow him down will deter him from choosing your house; after all, fathers are not known for their patience.
One of the best deterrents is a good lock.
A FATHER DOES not pick locks. He will:
1. walk in through open doors (he may think himself welcome);
2. break down reticent doors (but only if he thinks no one around will see or hear); or
3. simply trip mechanisms on cheap door hardware (given a father’s mindset and desire, finesse is painfully low on the totem pole).
INSTALL A DEADBOLT on every door in your house, including sliding glass doors. These are relatively inexpensive and easy to install. These will frustrate him, and given his nature, he will seek someplace easier to enter.
Optional: If, for some reason, you do not want to install a deadbolt on a sliding glass door (though it must be pointed out here that safety should always trump aesthetics—this is a father we are talking about, and he will be the last to appreciate the clean lines of glass you preserved), the simplest way to protect that door from being opened from the outside is to place a stick in the track of the door when it is closed. The stick should fit as tightly as possible in the length of the track. This way, even if a father manages to jimmy the lock on the sliding glass door (and most of these are flimsy, but so is glass, if you think about it—though occasions of a father simply breaking the glass on a sliding glass door are extremely rare), he will not be able to slide the door open. The downside is if he does jimmy the lock and get it, he will take the stick and use it. You could, of course, attempt to wrestle it from him when does attempt to use it. But by then it is usually too late, as we all well know what happens when a father gets too close to us.
Your bedroom door should also have more than one lock on it. Just in case a father does manage to break the door, it is one more obstacle between you and him. It could buy you some time. Just remember that the bedroom is where the father will most likely look for you (in some cases, they head straight for the bathroom, hoping to catch you in the shower).
Some fathers are not interested in conversation. They want you asleep. They miss putting you to bed, tucking you under the covers, and kissing you goodnight.
Some fathers want to establish a connection. They want you awake. They miss talking to you, snuggling with you under the covers, and kissing you goodnight.
So if you are awake and hear a strange sound, or sense someone unexpected, lock your bedroom door. Make certain that you have a landline or charged cell phone so you can call someone for help.
Do not talk to him. Do not talk back at him.
HE WILL:
1) keep quiet and pretend not be there, even though you know he’s right there, betrayed by his breathing (there is always hope that he will just go away); or
2) attempt to trick you into opening the door. He may act like everything (including his breaking in) was just an accident, purely unintentional. He may laugh and tease you for taking things so seriously. He may get angry and shout at you for misjudging intentions and coloring his actions. He may weep and mouth words that ask for forgiveness (but we know better—fathers do not change).
WHATEVER YOU DO, do not let him in. No matter what he does, do not open the door.
SURVEY OF ARTIFACTS FOUND ABOARD THE MALAYA
ADDENDUM TO INCIDENT report during zero-point refueling, extracted from the audio log of Lieutenant Alexander Dimacali (vessel’s chief engineer)
DIMACALI: Vessel in lockstep mode for zero-point refueling. Warm dark matter filament identified and approach protocols observed. Gamma ambients within acceptable parameters. Refueling commenced at UST 1545, Engineer Tatalon on point. Refueling estimated completion UST 1922.
At UST 1731 Arenas reports audial bogey in his helmet, declines suggestion that it is static or that his receiver caught background noise. Tatalon violates protocol and returns to vessel, leaving zero-point coupling unattended. I took point personally and resumed refueling at UST 2013.
There seems to be some damage to one of the WDM filament extractors, given Tatalon’s irresponsible leave-taking. Nothing that cannot be fixed later.
Official reprimand to Tatalon given.
There is nothing to hear out here.
draft of an incomplete branching game, coded by Engineer Michael Tatalon (vessel’s syseng); extracted from Tatalon’s personal tablet; entitled ‘Human Attack Simulator’; with audio commentary directed to Lt. Maximo Canlaon (vessel’s chief topiarist)
TATALON: Max, here’s a bit of what I’ve been working on. When it’s done, we’ll actually have something new to divert ourselves from this tedious mission. And thanks for asking how I’m doing. Fuckass “suck-my-cock-and-don’t-call-me-Alex” gave me hell about the ‘incident’ and actually issued a formal repri. Fuckass. I heard what I heard, like I told you. That sound—you believe me, right? Anyway, here’s what I promised you. It’s skeletal, Max, but I ha
ve faith you’ll work your word mojo and expand the basic text. I you’ll like it. I call it HAS—Human Attack Simulation—and first human killed will be the mighty fuckass himself. I’ll see you and the plants soon.
0001
Ho! The crèche is under attack!
0004 Report to the ailing Queen.
0012 Seek out and attack the humans!
0020 Flee with shame.
0002
The path to the nursery is a trail of devastation. Damn Human! The cries of the larvae reach you, and your ichor runs cold.
0013 Attack the human, with no heed for the safety of the younglings.
0022 Threaten the human.
0034 Turn back and gorge on the human you slew earlier.
0012
Ho! You come across three armed and shelled humans in the main tunnel.
0023 Attack one human and ignore the rest.
0024 Attack all three humans.
0020 Flee with shame.
0020
You turn away and flee the encroachment of the human invaders, abandoning your duties and proving yourself unworthy of the crèche. You have failed the crèche. Simulation ends. Report to the Administrator.
0023
Ho! You surprise the group of humans and focus on the weakest one. You tear the human apart with claw and tooth (//THIS IS THE FUCKASS!//), but the other two separate.
0002 Follow the human that goes to the nursery.
0017 Follow the human that heads towards the Deep Caverns.
0034 Gorge on the human you slew.
TATALON: Max, I know I’m skipping , but you’re getting the basic , right? Anyway, this is where the branching good and the fuckass is hahahaha!
0024
Gloriously, you attack the humans! You slay the first one with ease, but find yourself open to the assault of the other two. You advance toward the second, and manage to decapitate it, before it can flee. The pain of your own missing limbs only pushes you toward greatness, as you fall upon the last of the enemy. The human struggles, but you crush it after moments of exertion. You feel a lightness of your senses, as the human’s final action, a hot lance of light from its weapon, sunders your own life.
Success! You have given your life for the crèche and defeated the humans! Simulation ends. Report to the Administrator.
0034
The human, a male, is covered in a thick carapace. It takes only a few moments to shell it. You split open the head and suck on the softness within before hurriedly gorging on the rest of the succulent flesh. Sated and bloated, you slip into torpid heaviness, an easy target for the other humans that come upon you with delirious cries moments later. You are slain and have failed the crèche. Simulation Ends. Report to the Administrator.
TATALON: I want to go home, Max. I really
notes on a fMRIS scan, attributed to Doctor Jocelyn Montemayor (vessel’s physician); extracted from Montemayor’s audio logs
MONTEMAYOR: …suggest subject’s ventral tegmental areas unusually inactive. Begin note: test for quantities of dopamine in brain’s lower regions. May be answer for subject’s intense craving and audial hallucination. End note. Scan suggests subject’s nucleus accumbens, higher and further forward than the ventral tegmental, is producing extraordinary amounts of oxytocin. Begin note. Oxytocin is the body’s most powerful bonding element, test others as well. End note. Scan suggests pronounced activity in subject’s caudate nucleus as well. Begin note: What’s going on? The caudate nucleus is associated with maladaptation and obsessive behavior. Are the sounds various subjects reported hearing linked? Can something heard affect us like this? Can sound be a vector of sorts? This does not look good. End note.
portion of an informal report by Lt. Maximo Canlaon to C1F Arsemo Gonzales (vessel’s commanding officer)
CANLAON: … cannot guarantee results. The vessel’s topiary is not designed to handle any loads greater than the computing needs of tertiary systems such as our personal tablets and auxiliary recorders. The interaction between ambient starlight and the chlorophyll molecules in the topiary’s greenery bacterium relies on quantum superpositioning, yes, where a single photon’s energy can be in multiple states at once. To quote my instructor from many years ago, “This is what permits photosynthesis to probe all the possible reaction pathways within the various chlorophyll molecules, selecting the most efficient pathway and transferring energy through the bacterium as the superposition collapses.”
I’m afraid that 1) the relatively small amount of energy harnessed cannot power anything outside of the design parameters, and 2) the ambient starlight where we are currently located is weak and in flux, due to the vicinity of the WDM filament.
What do you need the power for?
I would also like to ask how long we are staying for refueling, as this is the longest we have ever been in lockstep. The topiary requires better sources of starlight.
I know it is not my place to say, but it would be good to get moving again, sir.
portion of dream, related by C1F Arsemo Gonzales to Dr. Jocelyn Montemayor; extracted from Montemayor’s audio logs
GONZALES: …when the last of the reserve power was spent, we found ourselves in darkness, blind to the starlight beyond the confines of our vessel. What little warmth we had began to surrender to the impossibly cold temperatures outside. Anya’s hand found mine, and our fingers interlocked, a final act of desperation.
MONTEMAYOR: Who’s Anya?
GONZALES: My wife. Back home.
MONTEMAYOR: Continue.
GONZALES: She whispered that we’ll run out of air soon. I felt numbed by the inevitability of the situation. I closed my eyes and waited for the cold to take me, to take us, to embrace us fully and finally. I thought about our mission, about how it had begun with hope and succumbed to disaster after disaster. So many dead: Dimacali, Arenas, Tatalon. All of them, each one I was responsible for.
MONTEMAYOR: It is just a dream. The deaths… they are not your fault. There is something… I’d like to discuss my findings with you, perhaps afterwards? Would you like to stop?
GONZALES: This is the furthest, you know, Doctor. We’ve gone the furthest anyone has ever gone.
MONTEMAYOR: Yes, this is true. Would you like to stop? The relaxant I’ve administered to you is—
GONZALES: Anya says many things.
MONTEMAYOR: Such as?
GONZALES: She said that our singular achievement of piercing the nearest boundaries of the Oort Cloud offered little comfort. We have traversed close to a thousand SAUs in less than sixteen years, proving beyond a doubt that the universe was modeled after a crumpled piece of paper. But what does achievement matter when we, the people left aware of our accomplishment, are doomed to pass into silence? Things like that. Things like that, she said. In her way.
MONTEMAYOR: You realize that it is you talking and not your wife in your dream? And that you yourself told me that we’re in lockstep for only a little longer, until the couplings are repaired?
GONZALES: Yes. Yes, of course. But it all seemed so real.
MONTEMAYOR: Is there more?
GONZALES: Yes. There .
MONTEMAYOR: Captain?
GONZALES: We . Anya and myself. We’re killed.
MONTEMAYOR: Again, please? I didn’t quite—
GONZALES: She says she she could see outside. “If I could see, if I could only see.” We’re barricaded in the .
MONTEMAYOR: I’m sorry, I didn’t understand what you just—
GONZALES: Anya’s movement and shouts took me completely by surprise. She shouts “We want to out! We want to out! We want to out!” And I beg her to stop.
MONTEMAYOR: Captain, I—
GONZALES: Because there is someone outside. Anya, , I say, reaching for her in the darkness. Stop. , stop!
MONTEMAYOR: I’m sorry, what did you say?
GONZALES: Stop, stop—
MONTEMAYOR: What did you—
GONZALES: From the hold, the ; sound! Don’t listen, I above the, m
y ears. Anya, Anya please—
MONTEMAYOR: , I don’t underst—
fragment of a video recorded by VB-cam 4-G6 in the quarters of Lt. Maximo Canlaon; Canlaon is in uniform but looks disheveled, his hair untidy and his narrative interrupted by small and sudden motions. His voice is high-pitched. As the cap begins, he is reading from text on his personal tablet. Towards the end of the cap, his eyes begin bleeding.
CANLAON: Ho! Look at all a-twitter, furry eyebrows risen full on his foreridge, mandibles lickerish and pungent, chartreuse thorax constricting his folded wings, all certain signs of excitement. why shouldn’t he be? In his forelimbs rests a , still sap-papered and sealed, etched with the marks of subdued . thrills and croons, ecstatic at the promise hidden, for the , only for the moment, by the outer . It is a credit to his temperament he does not rip it open like some dung heap , rip tear shred as do with abandon. would never such a thing, never, not if there no one else to see. No, no, it is a , his moment, to savor and savor it he does, having waited for so long, scratching , on her favorite , sac, counting cycles of the sun of the moon , the comings and goings of , occurrence, extending the exercise , patience to new lengths. , lifts the small , inhales the scent of hope made , and a-trembling extends , tongue to lick the , just a little, just for a taste, just , the daintiest tip, but knows , the time to see the future , neither here nor now, now nor .
Ho! Look at , all a-quiver, the tiniest hairs on his shiny , erect as if , were not , colors speckling , sweetness, oblivious to the buzzing of his . He, too, is , and rightfully . His stomach growls at the , that circle his , head. It has been , since his last , and he know, he , that within him is lies the , of life, a life he needs a , to make whole and . He , the , of his new , with v that , her beauty, so vigorous, her , so vital, that it , all of his self-control , to just launch , at her across the , across the , without a care, not to , in to the imperative of , of time and the universe. , he stifles his desire, stiffens his , and , once twice , on smooth , he , on, , grooves , bleed , while he , and waits for , right time
How to Traverse Terra Incognita Page 7
