[Estimated reading time: 35 minutes]

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Erebus gets a lot of sleep these days. Every morning he wakes up, performs the morning cleaning rituals, re-fluffs the bed, does the three legally-mandated laps in the courtyard, then reads the news. The front page is always the same, so Erebus ignores it: "TRIAL OF THE GALAXY" has a nice ring to it, someone decided a while back, and that is what is usually on the front.

After the news, he takes a long nap. The prison is state of the art, of course, for its unique guest, and for a change Erebus is happy to be sleeping on a flea-less and heated pad. The last weeks of the rebellion were spent shivering in dilapidated buildings and the associated squalor and nastiness of communal living. Escaping the death squads was secondary to getting good sleep, at least in the minds of some.

After lunch and an outside jog, the giant show-guards come and escort Erebus to the courthouse. The prison was built over the course of a week and attached to the courthouse by a see-through tunnel of thick glass. The guards plod along on either side of Erebus and manage to block out the views to either side of him. They're twice as tall as Erebus, each of their paws are as big as his face.

In the tunnel, they talk at Erebus in long sentences mostly composed of swears and idiomatic expressions that all mean pretty much the same thing: "dead asshole walking, step back, dead asshole walking".

They stop talking once the tunnel doors open and reveal a throng of press on the other side. Then it's a short jaunt to the court room. Erebus only hears a handful of curses fly in his direction. Today, it seems, the judge has the courtroom in control once again. Erebus' side still hurts from an attack last week. He still winces when stepping up or down. Thankfully, the entire walk from the prison cell to the courthouse are entirely flat.

Erebus is lead into the defendant corner and is locked in. Out of habit, Erebus wags his tail and turns around once. As he does so, his tail hits the invisible barrier of the booth and a mild shock goes through Erebus. Satisfied that he is locked away, Erebus lies down on the too-small pad and closes his eyes.

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[Estimated reading time: 18 minutes]

Previous chapter

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Brother Esteban looks up from the book in front of him and lets his eyes wander over the scenery. Forested mountains run roughly east to west here, and Esteban is looking at the ridge-line from the south. Rivers descend from the snow-covered peaks into the forests and run mile after mile, winding this way and that, and disappear from view in the bosoms of the mountains.

Brother Esteban's book lies in front of him, on the table, and it is surrounded by the books of the other Brothers. They sit at a long table on the roof of the monastery and read. It's a cloud-free day, so Brother Esteban's hood is up over his clean-shaven head, the brown material is very warm from the sitting out in the sun.

Esteban takes out a small mirror, holds it in front of himself and plays with it. His fingers toss the mirror around, flip it across knuckles, spin it. Esteban faces his book, but his eyes follow the mirror. After a few seconds, his hand pauses its fidgeting and Esteban holds it still for a breath, a second, a third.

The mirror is trained on a non-assuming spot in the sky, and Esteban squints, wills his eyes to see and his brain to understand.

A handful of blink-and-you-miss-it flashes come from the non-assuming spot in the sky.

Brother Esteban counts the flashes and eyes Brother Darius, then starts again to fidget with the mirror, turns a page in his book. The book is a treatise on river frogs, and seems (to Brother Esteban) to have been scrapped together by frauds who had little understanding of frogs, had likely only seen one from a distance. But the book came in on the weekly supply run, and of course he needed to read it. Through inference and the obviously fake species names, Esteban has been able to conclude that this tome was written by a duo of siblings who-

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[Estimated reading time: 9 minutes]

[Note: this is a work in progress.]

The cabin is an old-fashioned thing, wooden beams span the single inside room. A large bed sits next to a window and occupies a quarter of room space. In the opposite corner is a small cast iron stove, half a dozen logs stacked neatly by it. The walls of the cabin are covered in an odd jumble of old photographs, hiking equipment, a handful of mirrors, and two bookcases.

Felicia has taken a random book off the shelf and plopped onto the leather couch that's opposite the big front window with the lake view. From her posture, it is clear that she has claimed the entire couch. David takes a seat in an old armchair.

He doesn't want to interrupt Felicia's reading, so he gleams the book title off its spine: "The Pacific Ocean Walrus". A few thoughts come to David, but he ultimately decides against speaking, against interrupting Felicia.

David sits there for a minute and just watches Felicia read the book. She seems really into it, her attention is caught up entirely in the foreword, and David feels deflated.

"Stop staring at me," Felicia says from behind the book.

"Sorry. I'm... gonna go for a walk. Around the lake. Won't be long."

Felicia doesn't say anything. That must be one hell of a book about walruses.

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[Estimated reading time: 5 minutes]

[This is a work in progress.]

Intros first. I'm Samantha Wally, junior in high school, runner, hockey player, and amateur photographer. I've got two moms, no siblings, and three Golden Retrievers: Queen, Gwen, and Timoty.

The striking fake-blonde is Chloe, my best friend since preschool. She's rocking torn-up black jeans, black jacket, black concert shirt underneath. Her makeup is minimal and very dark, her eye shadow looks like the void.

Last week was weird. My friends, family, even my freaking dogs, they all just started acting so strange. We would be in the middle of a conversation - or playing, in the case of my woolly beauties - and suddenly they'd change their mind. "Sorry, what were we talking about?" It's like the world shifted underneath their feet and they're surprised to see me.

I don't get it, but whatever, people are weird, and Mercury is in retrograde, so miscommunication is expected. But, still, weird.

The last time it happened was at school, this morning. Mr Hale, the biology substitute for the past couple of weeks, was really getting on my case. I was presenting my research on the regional varieties of mussels and he kept interrupting me to point out that I was doing something wrong. Every. Fucking. Sentence.

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[Estimated reading time: 8 minutes]

[This is a work in progress.]

6:1~

I move quietly, slowly, as my eyes are roaming and taking in the neon-hued sights. Bright glowing fishes watch me, single and in pods, but they are in their own worlds, their attention is fleeting at best. I move past the red and blue tetras, awkward little guppies, a handful of bettas, utterly forgettable goldfish, strange angelfish, rainbowfish who are true to their name, and of course the catfish.

I turn and walk past the salt-water aquariums and start testing my memory there. It's a bit more complicated, but I've long ago memorized the species, even named some. I go through the list anyway: lunar lyretail wrasse, red-toothed trigger, blue hippo tang, and so on and so forth.

It's some time after six, but I haven't looked at the clock in a while, I'm fighting the constant pressure to see how much time is left on my prison sentence.

The shop is empty save for me. No one needs to get a pet fish at 7pm, least of on a Saturday night, and I've said as much to the management, but orders are orders. So I meander through the neon-lit aisles and pretend I'm snorkeling in Hawaii. Not that I've ever been, but I'd like to imagine.

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[Estimated reading time: 5 minutes]

[This is a work in progress.]

The gray asphalt segments the world in two. On the left are calm waters, on the right are righteous waves and whitecaps. I descend down, closer to the water. Up ahead artificial structures pop up from a green landscape. I look past the buildings, out to some sixty miles in the distance, toward the glowering snow-covered mountain peaks. The Olympics, my destination. I drive my trusty truck over the floating bridge and cross over into Seattle. It is just the first leg of my journey.

An hour later I'm on the ferry from downtown to Suquamish, across the water. I spend the ride in the truck, nervously checking and double-checking my equipment. The camera gear is fully charged, the GPS beacons are working and I'm able to locate the ferry on my tablet, and the AR gear shows green neon arrows around me. The green arrows have text next to them, the distance from my current location to the various points I'd bookmarked in advance.

The trip is uneventful. From the ferry terminal it's a drive up through various small towns no one outside Washington has ever heard of, like Sequim and Elwha. From Elwha it's forest service roads, which themselves are little more than frequented paths set deep in the woods. By sunset I get to the first of the bookmarks. This one I'd labeled simply "Base Camp".

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[Estimated reading time: 4 minutes]

[This is a work in progress.]

The jeep bounces over uneven ground, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it. The driver's hands dance on the steering wheel, never gripping it too tightly, just nudges here and there, the fingers push and pull at the dusty leather that's been smoothed over by the decades of continuous use. The driver reaches into the side console and pulls out a tape with a faded label ("Safari Song") and jams it into the car's stereo. Old world music comes out of after-after-market speakers and sounds exactly like a landslide of a thousand tons of broken glass.

Today there are three passengers. Seated next to the driver is a nervous-looking bespectacled Anglo with a wild mustache, and sharing the backseat are two Asian ladies decked out to the nines in unblemished designer gear that must have first encountered dust and sweat just this morning. They arrived at the Outpost on the cross-continental train a few hours ago and paid handsomely for the ride. The driver has stopped glancing in the mirror, he's already seen all he needs to see, knows everything and nothing about his fare.

"...then the locals stormed the palace and carried out the gov'nuh on a rail. Honest injun, I was there, never seen anything like it. No one wanted another repeat of the Winter Solstice Incident, so we just elected a new gov'nuh and pretended we'd never heard of Old Gaspar. Now, his son..."

The driver is talking to himself more than anyone. The passenger next to him is tuning him out, just staring at the wild expanse of emptiness around the jeep. The ones in the back are asleep.

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[Estimated reading time: 21 minutes]

A new day is a new chance to become our better selves, my mother used to say. She still says it, but she used to say it, too.

I think of the strange but loving woman and her weird obsession with us bettering ourselves, and hope that today makes me a better self. I say a prayer to Kaleel, and to Tomoy for good measure, and set off in my trusty boat.

The first few strides are across soft sand, and I sink a little as I push the boat away from the shore, then I hop into the boat and row hard and fast, and just manage to avoid an underwater rock I'd not noticed until now. I curse the unfamiliar beach and long to be back home, to set off from the beaches that I know so well.

Better self, I repeat to myself, and set off toward the rising sun. The cool blue light illuminates the shore and glances off the ocean waves, flits across the ripples, and ignites my soul. I hold steady and row straight out toward the sun, watching as the shore recedes and sharp features disappear into a strange blend. I concentrate on rowing for a while and only look up again after a few miles. The island, from this distance, looks like a moss-covered rock, the jungle's thick canopy of greens and yellows blend together and it's hard to make out individual trees.

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[Estimated reading time: 12 minutes]

"That fucking... the stupid son of a bitch... I'll show him... he's gonna eat his words..." Felix mutters as he stomps his feet, his mind not on the rainy walk. He is almost run over at two non-consecutive intersections. Each step comes down and causes a localized tsunami that threatens worms and leaves, splashes Felix's pants and drives his thoughts further toward madness.

Felix is so absorbed in his thoughts of retribution and destruction that he actually walks a block past the halfway house. When he realizes this, he lets out a growl of anger that startles a handful of birds who are hiding out from the rain in the branches of a heavy oak.

He runs into the house and doesn't bother to take off his shoes, just stomps into the basement, ignoring Mildred as he does this. He's not sure what she's saying to him and he doesn't rightly care. He goes to the small double room that he shares with Buddy and is happy to see that he's alone at this moment.

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[Estimated reading time: 21 minutes]

I step through knee-high water, a department-issued service weapon in hand. The watertight boots curve and bend around the uneven and slippery ground, so I have perfect form. I crawl another dozen feet down the disused ventilation tunnel, stop and listen. Something like human speech reaches my subconscious, a ghost whisper that's too quiet for the real world.

I hear the sounds of water first, then finally a human voice pierces my consciousness and I realize that someone up ahead is asking for help. I creep around a turn in the tunnel and see a large empty space. It must be another interchange, a point in the system where multiple of these tunnels meet up.

There's a bumpy shadow in the crook of the tunnel, where the ground reaches up and disappears into darkness far overhead. The shadow moves and at the edge of my hearing I barely detect a cough.

Poor bastard must be near death! I realize. I have to help, right?

"He is somebody's son, perhaps somebody's father," I whisper. I'm talking to myself, of course.

I'm on a mission, but does that mean I have to ignore a dying man?

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