The Heir of Infinity

Why Mister Pink is Nervous

By
Max Robbins

maxfiction.com

The first race to ascend the evolutionary ladder called themselves the a’kai. They hailed from a quiet, unremarkable sector of a galaxy lost to most galactic charts, their star a pale flicker against the vast emptiness. Humble as their origins were, the a’kai rose swiftly through the understanding of mathematics, astronomy, and physics, their minds naturally inclined toward the mysteries of the cosmos. In time, they became the galaxy’s first spacefaring species. They were a communal people, driven not by conquest but by curiosity—a society prone to cooperation and allergic to conflict. For eons, they moved quietly from star to star, their expansion gentle, deliberate. Trade between their colonies flourished, peace was the very foundation of their being.

But evolution, the cruel arbitrator of all life, does not always produce balance.

The second race to climb the ladder were the Dereneth, creatures of a very different nature. Their sun orbited at the chaotic edges of a supermassive black hole, where gravitational tides ripped space itself asunder. Conflict was woven into their existence, a warping of the universe around them. Their societies were born in violence, their every step marred by the cutthroat struggle for resources. Anger and greed became the guiding principles of their evolution. By the time their warships cut through the darkness of space, they had harnessed weapons capable of snuffing out entire stars. The day they encountered the a’kai marked the beginning of a terrible, universeshaking war.

In the end, it was not the Dereneth’s weaponry that triumphed. They were obliterated, erased from the annals of the cosmos with such precision that even the light of their stars seemed dimmer. But the a’kai, victors in title alone, paid a cost beyond reckoning. The few survivors, fragile as whispers of dust, carried the scars of their so-called victory into the long ages that followed. What was once a race of serene star-traders became something colder, something harder.

As they rebuilt, piece by piece, from the ruins of their golden era, the a’kai swore a silent oath. Never again.

From their trauma emerged the Central Institution, a sentinel-like structure whose singular purpose was to watch. The Institution would scan the universe, ever-vigilant, for any species that might one day carry the seed of violence against them. Their experience had taught them that races prone to aggression followed certain patterns, and these behaviors surfaced long before a species left their home world.

Thus, they conceived a method—subtle, ingenious, and chilling. They would create spies, woven into the fabric of each society, harmless in appearance, adorable even. Pets. Cute creatures that would nestle into the very heart of homes, desired by the unsuspecting, cherished as companions. But these creatures, bred and designed by the a’kai, would do far more than observe. They would gently manipulate the DNA of their hosts, ensuring their continued welcome, while silently influencing behavior.

The “pets” were not warriors, nor saboteurs. Their task was simple: to watch. When a species exhibited the traits of inevitable violence—when the whispers of war began to echo in the hearts of their kind—the pets would activate a beacon, an intergalactic signal that would scream across the stars back to the Central Institution. And when the a’kai received that signal, their response would be swift and merciless: the annihilation of the planet and all its inhabitants, long before they reached the technological threshold that could pose a threat.

In the case of humans, these spies took the form of cats.

As for my cat, Mister Pink, he carries the code that could signal humanity’s end.

Most of the other cats have already fed him enough data to trigger the transmission. It’s been more than a year now. By all calculations, Mister Pink should have radioed back to the Central Institute long ago. If he were to send the signal now, it would be too late to send a rescue or a negotiation team—the a’kai would simply deploy the kill beam. And that’s why Mister Pink always looks a little… nervous.

He knows the clock is ticking and its already too late.

THE BREEDING PITS

By
Max Robbins

maxfiction.com

Eulid was annoyed with the foreigner. He took an interminable amount of time for everything. More irritating still was that Eulid knew nothing about him. The curt imperial correspondence had simply stated, “take care of the man” and cater to whatever he required without question. The tone and the strange, anonymous nature of the message raised endless questions. It would require, at minimum, a personal senatorial-level edict to demand such action from a man of his station, and even more so to forgo the courtesy of a signatory.

He regarded Aleion for the nth time—clothes so clearly out of fashion, as though they were purchased from a history of empire tome, centuries out of date. The gold lining of the toga was leaves—leaves! For Hera’s sake! These had not been in court fashion since Julius the 8th! His sandals were thin at the base by half, and the loincloth displayed no trace of a family crest. It was maddening to consider that he, Eulid the Fourth, of the family Meritius, could be compelled to show this imbecile anything but a good beating. Adding insult to injury, the man had asked him to accompany him to the slave sector to look at breeding stock, and now he was over an hour late!

He fumed beneath his practiced smile, skillfully avoiding eye contact with the passing citizenry, covertly scanning the crowd, lest he be seen by someone of rank and compelled to explain his humiliating situation.

“Eulid, how pleasant to encounter you this day,” Aleion spoke, appearing as if from nowhere at his side. Briefly startled, Eulid quickly regained his composure.

“Ahh, Aleion, so pleased to join you this morning.”

“Shall we proceed to the pits?”

“I must again urge you to use an intermediary, as it is quite unusual for a man of your… err, for any citizen to visit the breeding pits directly. There are people for whom this activity can be arranged in a more private and… uh, dignified venue.”

“No, I will do so directly. Please lead the way.”

Eulid felt insulted and confused. The man had no sense of decorum. A person of good breeding would never immediately contradict such a request. Yet, while Aleion essentially ordered him forward, he did so without the smug assurance of a high-ranking official. He did it in a way that made Eulid feel as if his role was incidental and assumed. Clearly, the man was an idiot, and Eulid briefly considered telling him so, but the thought of the imperial communiqué quickly stilled his tongue. It was possible this idiot might be important to the emperor, and perhaps favor could be had by treating him well. Again, he bridled between his feelings and his well-trained diplomacy.

“Of course, Aleion. Please follow me.”

They crossed the market square, and for the first time since his youth, Eulid walked the back paths, usually reserved for vendors, careful to avoid the main thoroughfare where he might encounter another citizen. They moved slowly through the crowded alleys, lined by a menagerie of differing cultures, each hawking wares ranging from elaborate lamps from the east to rugs and candles. The smell of soaps and scented wood filled his nostrils. He briefly recalled an incident from his school days when a vendor had become abusive, refusing to meet his more-than-adequate offer for a set of leather riding boots. Eulid had smacked the man across the face, and unbelievably, the man had swung his fist, nearly breaking his nose. Eulid had, of course, called the city guard and personally attended the whipping, enjoying the man’s pleas for forgiveness as his skin was slowly flayed by the repeated strokes from the town guard. He came back from his reverie at the sound of a dog barking.

“Ahh yes, we are here.”

He rapped twice, loudly, on a dark wooden door with an arched top, so firmly fitted in its stone enclosure that it was nearly invisible. Several moments passed before the rattling of metal against wood could be heard, and a small partition opened. Silence persisted until Eulid finally spoke.

“It is I, Eulid the Fourth of the family Meritius, and honored guest.” More rattling and the soft scraping of wood on stone followed as a smaller, nearly invisible portion of the door swung soundlessly open. A short, obsequious man appeared in the doorway.

“Pardon, sir. Pardon, please. Please enter.”

“We require to see the breeding pits. Please send for a guide.”

Aleion spoke, “No, we will not need a guide. Please let us proceed directly.”

Again, Eulid nearly broke out in anger but caught himself.

“Of course, Aleion. Please follow me.”

What a lowlife this man must be, thought Eulid. What could possibly compel him to forgo even the basest of etiquette by entering the pits without a guide? It was an unthinkable breach of protocol and only reaffirmed his feeling that this man must be from the lowest class. How was it possible that he found himself leading this maggot through the merchant district?

“We will not be taking a guide, and please inform your master that we are on the premises. We will be some time, and during this, we would like not to be interrupted. Make sure that there are no other viewers or staff save the guard while we are browsing.”

“Yes, yes, master sir. I will see to it right away. Is there anything else the master requires?”

“No, you filthy oaf. Now be about what I have ordered.”

Eulid took pleasure in berating the little man. A small comfort, given his current circumstances, but it made him feel like himself again.

“Please, Mr. Aleion, follow me.”

They walked through a simple, square stone room that served as a combination cloakroom and weapons storage. Nearly complete sets of robes, sandals, and a variety of largely ceremonial arms were interspersed with satchels of food lying on wooden benches around the periphery. At the far end of the room, a carved set of circular stairs led down. They could hear the hushed activity below.

“Aye, a genuine lord! Move, move, get out!” could be heard.

Clearly, the frantic machinations of patrons had no reason to expect their visit would be interrupted in such a way.

As they made the last turn, the stairs opened into a long, open stone hallway with barred doorways at regular intervals along the walls. A large man, nearly naked and wearing only a loincloth, squatted on a stool near the first of what could only be described as cells.

“You can trust the discretion of the eunuchs, as we remove their manhood and their tongues before they are allowed to work in the pits.”

They approached the first cell. The doors to the cells were heavy and wooden, with a cross-section of iron bars at eye level, allowing a full view of the interior. In stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere of the hall and door, the rooms were brightly lit by a series of golden biers that burned near the ceiling, casting a warm, ambient light across the space. The walls were lined with long, comfortable-looking couches covered in velvet. A single mechanical contraption made of heavy oak adorned the back of the cell, where a naked woman lay bent over, face down, and secured by leather bonds. Her arms were bound above her head, and each leg was secured at the ankle near the floor, completely exposing her. Obviously, the last patron had been busy before being quickly ejected by their unexpected arrival. The room contained twenty very attractive young women, all dressed in similar blue silk robes designed to emphasize their figures. Each wore the same expression—an eager, forced smile as they regarded the two men at the door.

“I see you are not from the capital. May I recommend for you a couple of serviceable—”

“No. Open the door. I wish to inspect directly.”

“Dear Zeus, have you—err, are you certain? It would be highly irregular.”

“Open the door!” Aleion spoke, and while his voice never changed register, it was clearly an order.

Eulid bit his tongue, tasting a small amount of blood as he answered.

“Of course. Eunuch, the door!”

The fat, loincloth-clad man moved with surprising speed to the door. Awkwardly, he tried to use the keys without touching the two men, though the space simply would not allow it, and Eulid was forced to move aside.

“Later, I will have this man boiled at my estate the moment I leave the company of this insufferable imbecile,” he thought.

The door opened inward with a click, and the eunuch bolted backward, falling to his stomach in a sign of complete submission.

Aleion immediately entered the room, causing Eulid to scramble after him in a most undignified fashion. They approached the first woman on the right—a rather unremarkable redhead.

“You! Stand and demonstrate!” he barked.

She rose from the couch, pulling a single thread near her neck, and the entire robe fell to the ground, leaving her standing naked, breathing in short, quick breaths in front of them.

“As you can see, the quality of this one is questionable. What I recommend—”

The most extraordinary thing happened. Aleion reached out his hand and clasped the girl by the wrist. Eulid could not believe what he was seeing. This man was touching a slave! He could not even think of an insult; his mind was completely blank.

As Aleion touched the woman, both of them seemed to freeze. A faraway look came into their eyes, and they simply stood there—her completely naked, and him clasping her arm. An eternity of time, which may only have been a few seconds, passed. Neither moved nor spoke. Eulid stood equally frozen, finding the situation incomprehensible. The moments seemed to stretch on forever. He considered speaking, but the absurdity of the moment washed over him again as he stared, transfixed by the enormity of the disgrace. Finally, he realized that all the other women had turned their attention toward them—toward him! He felt intimidated. They looked with such amazement, failing to avert their eyes. The punishment for such an action should have been trained into them since birth. It was so unexpected that it shifted his entire reality. In that moment, he no longer understood who was in charge. He began to sputter, “This is… no, it’s… what…?” Then, as quickly as it began, it ended.

Aleion let go of the girl, and she sat back down. Time resumed its normal flow, breathing returned, the women averted their eyes, and Aleion moved to the next girl. She immediately stood, duplicating the feat of the previous one with the quick removal of her robe, and Aleion again clasped her wrist. Remarkably, the same thing occurred again, as their gazes turned glassy and time seemed to stop. The only difference was that this time, the other women averted their gazes, no longer awestruck, each attempting to be unseen. This repeated itself another dozen times until finally, at the conclusion of the thirteenth girl, Aleion turned to Eulid and spoke.

“This one will do. Have her delivered to my residence forthwith.”

With that, he walked from the room, leaving Eulid alone, surrounded by a bevy of very confused breeding stock…

Part 2

Milton could not seem to wipe the smile from his face. He knew this was just a reaction to the endorphins that the pod was infusing into his blood. Time shifts, without treatment, lead to significant mental trauma. The happy drugs were just a byproduct; nonetheless, he felt amazing. His local feed began to orient him in both location and time. He was near the edge of galaxy 113.221.3ic, orbiting the third planet of a G-type star. More or less, the backwaters of the local galactic cluster.

Odd that this sector, lacking significant solar masses, had developed such excellent bio-temporal stock. Perhaps because of, not in spite of, its relative isolation, it provided such exquisite material. The math was beyond him, and he did not fancy trading the neural resource to learn it. Suffice it to know that this small world had provided excellent stock for millennia. It was good fortune that its governing sentients were on the verge of their final move to a non-physical plane, and that he had been able to secure acquisition rights—a privilege not likely to repeat itself. He chose to use his personal AI, instead of the ship’s, to select a guide and secure him clothing and the physiological apparatus that would allow him to engage with the populace with minimal disruption. The ship would likely keep him within the framework of the local sentients, but his personal AI would prioritize comfort. While his host entities allowed his visit, they were quite strict in their codes of interaction. It was a bit of a gamble, but to his mind, an acceptable one. The local species was not to have any record of his interaction, and the use of mind control or temporal displacement was not allowed planet-side. Despite himself, he was excited at the prospect of direct interaction with a pre-technology society.

His awareness expanded as his AI implanted the language and culture of the planet into his neo-cortex. The expanding awareness and the remainder of the acclimatization drugs were an experience he would have to share with his family in the coming months, he thought.

“Upon completion of acclimatization, place me in direct proximity to the guide subject,” he mentally sent to his AI, unconsciously activating the security protocols built into teleportation within a gravity well. A brief, nearly blinding white light followed, and he instantly stood next to a man in an ornate period piece.

“Eulid, how pleasant to encounter you this day,” he spoke, marveling at the formation of sonic energy created by his lungs and punctuated by quick movements of his mouth.

The man looked startled, then quickly regained his composure.

“Ahh, Aleion, so pleased to join you this morning.”

“Shall we proceed to the pits?”

“I must again urge you to use an intermediary, as it is quite unusual for a man of your… err, for any citizen to visit the breeding pits directly. There are people for whom this activity can be arranged in a more private and… uh, dignified venue.”

He received a stream of feedback from his cerebral implants informing him that his guide would be deeply unappreciative of his requirements and would attempt to alter his mission. Recommended response: “treat him as an inferior.”

“No, I will do so directly. Please lead the way.”

His implant indicated that this society was hierarchical, and all relationships were subtle attempts to appear closer and more influential with key figures, who derived their power either through direct genetic legacy or periodic revolution. This man’s position was near the middle of the class, and his behavior would be dictated by the degree to which he understood Milton’s relationship. His implant recommended behaving in a fashion that demeaned Eulid in order to receive satisfactory service.

The man looked bothered by the direct request, but quickly recovered. While his facial expression showed a pleasant guise, his pheromones indicated to Milton that he was extremely upset—but still within the parameters suggested by his implant. The bio-feedback validated his response, giving Milton a feeling of cleverness. He smiled to himself—his purchase of the research data on the planet, while only accurate to within a few hundred years, appeared to be valid. This should allow for minimal disruption during his task.

Eulid led them from the large, well-maintained path to an area meant to service the shops. His implant informed him that Eulid was attempting to avoid meeting anyone of his social class. Milton briefly toyed with ending this evasion but then quickly dropped the thought as childish. Maintaining a good relationship with the sector sentients was important, and he could later replay the scenario virtually if he still felt the need to satiate this desire.

They passed numerous artisanal stalls selling foods, clothing, and farm equipment. He turned down his onboard data-feed to a level 1, the lowest setting, as all biometric and atmospheric information dropped from his feed. This was necessary, as the amount of chemicals in the air bordered on toxic. The absence of the feed gave him the unusual sensation of directly interacting with what his AI told him were “smells.”

He felt his heartbeat and respiration altering, briefly noting updates from the nanobots that were removing impurities from his bloodstream.

His implant noted that his guide was experiencing a heightened emotional state. Curiosity overwhelmed practicality, and he reached out, amplifying the signal of Eulid and copying the visual stream to his own. Ahh, the man was enjoying the physical violence he had provoked and the subsequent torture of another who lacked his societal protection. It caused a nearly sexual reaction in Eulid, and a bit of disgust in Milton, who immediately dropped the feed.

“Ahh yes, we are here.”

Eulid physically hit his hands on a piece of formed wood, obscuring an internal room. Milton changed visuals to infrared, identifying several humanoids on the far side of what his implant told him was a portal. He turned up his sensors to validate that there was no danger. His AI would have done this automatically, but the strangeness of his surroundings made him slightly ill at ease. Perhaps the afterglow of the feed from Eulid had discombobulated him.

A smaller section of the wood opened, and the reddish outline of the interior entity faded into the visible spectrum, becoming a small man.

“Pardon, sir. Pardon, please. Please enter.”

“We require to see the breeding pits. Please send for a guide,” spoke Eulid.

Milton understood that Eulid was requesting another entity. He felt mildly bothered and decided that interacting with another local would greatly increase the complexity of his immediate task. He formed words almost before he was aware— obviously, the training implant had now fully adapted.

“No, we will not need a guide. Please let us proceed directly.”

His danger sensor briefly spiked. The reading from Eulid indicated that the man had nearly moved to assault him physically. Milton manually retracted the defense initiative. It would serve no one if he vaporized this man. The sector sentients would definitely react badly.

“Of course, Aleion, please follow me.”

He noted that Eulid continued in a physiological state that kept re-engaging his auto-defense system, forcing him to repeatedly override manually.

“We will not be taking a guide, and please inform your master that we are on the premises. We will be some time, and during this, we would like not to be interrupted. Make sure that there are no other viewers or staff save the guard while we are browsing.”

“Yes, yes, master sir, I will make it straight away. Is there anything else the master requires?”

“No, you filthy oaf. Now be about what I have ordered,” Eulid snapped.

Milton noted that the verbal abuse Eulid used on this man elicited a positive physiological response in him. Turning up his monitor, he noted that this society was largely addicted to a chemical produced by a gland in their brain. This chemical was produced in response to the suppression of other members of the society. He referenced his AI and was not surprised to find that this was why they had been intentionally isolated from cosmic society for the last million parsecs.

He pondered momentarily—would this race ever be allowed to move beyond its own planetary system? Perhaps he could move to have his sentient group take over the management of this sector when its current sentients ascended. A longterm engagement, for sure, but genetic rights to a planet unlikely to join the cultures might be profitable indeed.

“Please, Mr. Aleion, follow me.”

They passed through a room formed entirely from stone. His sensors noted that the room had been recently occupied, and his audio monitor reported that patrons, two meters lower, were being quickly ejected. An aperture in the floor, with an access made of layered stone, opened before them, and he followed Eulid down.

At the bottom of the access, he noted a man whom his implant indicated as sexually incompatible, as his biological age did not match his sexual development. His implant informed him that this man’s sex organs were removed prior to full development in order to induce a more docile temperament. Milton surprised himself with his reaction to the barbarity.

“You can trust the discretion of the eunuchs, as we remove their tongues before they are allowed to work in the pits,” spoke Eulid.

His perimeter sensors showed a series of rooms, each containing several females of the species, radiating from the current enclosure. Analysis of atmospheric pheromone activity indicated a high probability of good source material.

They approached the first enclosure. He noted that the structure was intended to allow access from one side. The occupants were not at liberty to leave. While the portals themselves were not closed, some behavioral structure kept the occupants from leaving. Inside the room were a number of young women, one of whom was secured to an object intended to allow access to her reproductive organs. The room had a strong odor of physical intercourse, and the facial readings of the women did not match their biometrics. His implant indicated that this enclosure was something roughly translated between market and laboratory.

“I see you are not from the capital. May I recommend for you a couple of serviceable—” Eulid began.

His implant informed him, “The man Eulid is attempting to interfere with the sampling and requires a reaffirmation of the hierarchical protocol.”

“No. Open the door. I wish to inspect directly.”

“Dear Zeus, have you—err, are you certain? It would be highly irregular.”

His sensors moved into alert, reporting increased heart rate, respiration, and the production of epinephrine. His implant recommended, “Immediate imperative statement without tonal fluctuation.”

“Open the door!”

“Of course. Eunuch, open the door!”

The sexually immature entity moved quickly to apply a metal object that engaged the barrier to entry. Some small difficulty was encountered as Eulid obstructed the actions of the eunuch. This seemed to please Eulid and caused an endorphin response, dropping the danger reading from Milton’s implant.

The portal opened, and Milton followed Eulid into the room, approaching a female with a genetic marker differentiating her hair color.

“You! Stand and demonstrate,” Eulid commanded.

The female rose and activated a physical mechanism designed to quickly remove all clothing. Her biometrics indicated that she was in a position of extreme discomfort, while her expression indicated the opposite.

“As you can see, the quality of this one is questionable. What I recommend—”

Milton reached out and grasped her by the wrist. His encounter subsystem engaged. The world fractured as temporal distortions created several hundred million alternate timelines. In each timeline, a version of the girl and a version of Milton were created.

Each timeline differed in background, education, experience, and geography. Every instance of the circumstance of their meeting changed. Millions upon millions of different realities expanded exponentially, each one ranked by thousands of criteria. The less successful instantiations quickly pared away, leaving only the positive interactions.

Each successful pairing elongated into time, near infinite periods of time passed, again subtly rated on the success of the pairing until only one remained. In the finale, of the millions of interactions, a rating of 86% potential positive match in 7 trillion alternate realities. System recommendation: negative.

Milton moved to the next girl…

A HIGHER POWER

By
Max Robbins

maxfiction.com

The bridge of the star-cruiser Talon’s Reach hummed with quiet efficiency. Screens glowed in pale blues and whites, numbers scrolling in neat, endless rows. At the fore, the void rippled — a wormhole, steady and bright, its edges trembling like the surface of water under a heavy wind.

The elderly Captain stood with his hands gently clasped behind his back,  watching the pulsating orifice. A cadet approached cautiously.

“Coordinates confirmed, sir. Transit to the Soria Clusters will take four hours.”

The captain smiled in amusement . “Four hours,” he mused. “This run used to take a millennia of cryogenic sleep. And that was if you were lucky enough to catch a wormhole before it winked out again.”

He paused wistfully.

“There are still ships transiting that route will not arrive for thousands of years. Now we transit it in an afternoon.”

He paused as if lost in a memory, the continued addressing the cadet directly.

“Entire civilizations rose because one opened and died when it vanished. Whole quadrants left empty for centuries.”

He tapped the glass, knuckles rapping once, hard. “That was the way of things. Chaos. Indifference. The truth of the universe.”

The cadet hesitated before speaking. “And now?”

The Captain gestured at the screens. “Suddenly there was order. A system. Wormholes that don’t collapse. A grid across the stars, that some cosmic accountant had lain out neat as ledgers.

“What happened sir” the cadet asked

“Nobody knows” he replied

The two stood silently, in contemplation.

Nathan came up out of sleep las though he’d been kicked. A sound — the high, insistent bzzzz of something mechanical — sawed through the walls of his trailer. His nose caught the stink next, acrid and bitter, and the memory of his failed drunken cooking attempt slammed down on him with an anvils fury.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He exploded out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor, only to skid on the cover of Big Booty magazine strewn carelessly next to his bed. His body pinwheeled once, then met the floor with a spectacular belly-flop that rattled the picture frames on the thin aluminum walls. His left knee cracked hard against the wooden frame of the waterbed — his one prized possession — and he hopped up like a wounded heron, clutching it, breath whistling between his teeth.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the long mirror leaning against the wall, mostly buried under a landslide of dirty laundry. Wild eyes. Unkempt stubble on his jaw. A loser in boxer shorts who’d just fallen out of his own life.

The smell hit him again, stronger this time, and panic put a charge in his step. He half-skipped, half-limped into the cramped living room/kitchen.

The scene was hellish: a pan had slid off-center on the lit butane burner, and its red-hot belly was vomiting black smoke in rolling storm clouds across the ceiling.

Nathan grabbed the first thing he saw — a towel looking as if it had last been washed when Nixon was in office — and swatted the pan. It caromed off a pot of ancient soup, slopped a trail of greenish sludge across the counter, and dropped into the sink, which was already a graveyard of dishes, rotting food, and slimy water.

The sink made a dragon roar of steam and a glass exploded with a gunshot crack. A shard shot across the room and lodged in Nathan’s forehead. It stuck there, absurdly delicate, trembling back and forth in front of his eyes reminiscent of a grandfather clock pendulum.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, and fumbled the burner off. Blood began to trickle down the bridge of his nose, dripping into his left eye in hot, salty stings. His stomach, already sour, gave up. He puked into the reeking stew of smoke, steam, and old dishwater, the sound wet and awful.

From the bedroom, his alarm clock began its shrill nag, telling him he had thirty minutes to get to work.

Nathan slumped against the counter, holding the towel to his bleeding forehead, eyes squeezed shut. He muttered in a broken rhythm, as a man at the altar.

“Never again, Jesus. Never again. I swear to you, Lord, never again.”

Elsewhere — much elsewhere — a lecture hall shimmered, big as a mountain turned inside out. Students of every possible body plan filled the seats: gas bags in jars, bug-eyed mantis people, something that looked suspiciously resembled a giant scab.

The Professor tapped lightly on the podium. The lights dimmed, and galaxies appeared as blooming ulcers floating in the center of the room.

“Today,” he said, “we discuss overlap, a most rare… phenomena.”

A gelatinous student farted wetly in its sleep.

“The quantum foam from which all things are born, for reasons not fully understood, occasionally generates multiple simultaneous universes. While each contains its own unique physics, in this circumstance a portion of each can overlap. In at least one instance, even more rare, we find evidence that the overlap encompassed a tiny fraction of an existing, well-developed universe. In such an instance, the affected area shares the possibilities of all its constituent parts. For a moment, physics becomes… negotiable.” He paused for effect before continuing. “It is plausible that in this moment, a consciousness with the correct understanding might influence the very structure of those formations.”

A scaly paw raised.

The Professor waved a lazy assent.

“What might an entity in that overlap require to have such an understanding, in light of the fact that the only possible universe in that scenario is the existing one?”

“It is an excellent question. Unfortunately, I do not have such an excellent reply. One could speculate that some direct link into the repository of cosmic knowledge might be possible… if perhaps accompanied with the rarest distillation of atomic structures. Purely theoretical you understand.  An event so exceedingly rare as to be almost impossible.  If so inclined, you might find reference in the archives, under the topic Unverifiable Speculative Phenomena by the late Honorable professor Krill Rrrrspreet” replied the professor.

By noon Nathan was behind the counter at Gas & Go, working through his fourth cup of vaguely brown liquid and generic ibuprofen; ringing up smokes and scratch tickets. The air conditioner whined annoyingly in the corner, failing to produce even the faintest relief. Sweat soaked through his shirt. He muttered “never again” as a rosary under his breath, but the words were already flimsy as tissue paper.

His shift dragged on inexorably. At long last the sun began to set, and the chime of ancient wall mounted clock indicated freedom. He felt mildly better as he wolfed down the last remnants of a chili-cheese burrito while punching his time card.

He passed a few words with his shift replacement, Bill, who looked about as happy to be there as Nathan, asking him to keep an eye on the list of banned customers taped to the register. He noted he had a double shift tomorrow morning, grunted internally and exited the employee door to the attendant parking lot.

Nathan’s pickup sat in the lot, poorly parked, akin to a dying dog too stubborn to crawl off and die. It was a ’78 Ford in theory, though by now it was mostly rust, primer, and prayers. The paint had long ago given up, leaving scabs of orange and brown, the metal underneath a flaking sunburnt skin. One headlight was fogged over with a cataract, the other pointed slightly cross-eyed at the ditch.

The interior reeked of stale cigarettes, oil, and whatever had leaked out of a paper sack left under the seat last summer. The bench seat was split wide, yellow foam spilling out resembling the guts of a roadkill possum. You could see the road flashing past through a rust hole by the passenger’s footwell, and the floor mats were so soaked with old coffee they crunched when stepped on.

The engine didn’t so much start as negotiate, coughing and backfiring as a man on his deathbed before grudgingly rumbling awake. Every time Nathan turned the key, he half expected it to simply sigh and never come back.

But it ran. Somehow, just as Nathan himself.

They rattled down Route 9, coughing exhaust like a two-pack-a-day smoker. The steering wheel shivered in his hands, and the dashboard lights winked in and out redolent of a Christmas tree on its last string of bulbs.

He gripped the wheel tighter, jaw set. You’re not stopping. No goddamn way. You puked your guts out this morning, cut your head open, made a promise to Jesus Christ Himself. You’re going home. You’re making a sandwich. Maybe even a salad, if that head of lettuce you bought last week is still there.

The neon glow from McMurphy’s sign flared up ahead, buzzing blue through the twilight. Nathan’s stomach turned a slow, hopeful flip.

One drink won’t kill you. A beer’s practically bread, right? Liquid bread. Germans drink it for breakfast. You could get one, maybe two, and walk out smiling. Nobody’ll know. Nobody cares. It’ll take the edge off this hangover, put the world right-side up again.

He passed the first driveway, heart hammering. “Keep going,” he muttered aloud. “Keep the pedal down, champ.”

But at the second driveway, his hands seemed to turn of their own accord. The truck wheezed into the gravel lot as if it had been planning the detour all along. Nathan cursed, lightly, almost fondly.

Son of a bitch, he thought. Guess the truck wants a drink, too.

On a planet that smelled of a urinal puck left too long in the sun, an alien named Hrrak drained a pint of something green that looked like antifreeze. He noted the timer on his chameleon software slowly counting down and cursed silently. He passionately disliked pre-technology worlds and the extra effort required to conceal his appearance.

A passing glance at the mirror lining the wall behind the bar showed only a row of uninterrupted humans. “What a sad-looking bunch,” he thought.

His comm buzzed, bypassing his filters — which could only mean an emergency. He groaned, slapped down a simulacrum of local currency, and scrambled out the back door toward his hidden craft as he silently authorized the full transmission.

PORTAL ANOMALY CLOSING PREMATURELY – NEXT PROBABLE EVENT 2142 PRE

“Baggard’s balls,” he muttered. The passage he needed to return home was closing. If he failed to make the window, he could be stranded in this backward-ass system for ages.

He unconsciously began the calculations for a jump, quickly realizing that he was massively overladen for the velocity he would need to make the portal in time.

“Jettisoning that much weight would be a huge loss,” he thought. Then an idea occurred to him: he could program the ship to micronize its entire backup system and store it in a pocket dimension to cover the weight issue. His eyes cast about for a physical object to serve as a local in dimension reference for the transfer. They fell on a discarded bottle opener lying next to the garbage bins behind the bar.

He snatched the opener and hurried into the tree line beyond the dumpsters. Once there, he shifted into the vibratory pattern that revealed his craft and mounted the ramp. He noted the final calculations had just completed, the backup system was downloading into the bottle opener, significantly reducing the craft’s mass.

He entered the code into the door, only to be met with a loud alarm. Cursing, he remembered he had implemented new security codes after the incident on Rigel Six. A mechanical voice informed him that he had only moments to enter the correct code before a time-delayed entry protocol would engage. Increasingly panicked, he frantically punched entries into his comm unit which, with moments to spare, spat out the correct code. The door sprang open.

With a sigh of relief, he jumped through, failing to notice the bottle opener snagged on the locking unit of the doorway. Annoyed by the slight restraint while passing, he jerked himself forward, sending the opener careening through the air, coming to rest on the ground nearby. Its faint consciousness bid him farewell as his craft rose silently out of sight into the darkening sky.

Jenny, the backup night waitress, pulled her jeans back up, wincing as the zipper caught a curl of pubic hair. The woods behind McMurphy’s were quiet except for the drone of cicadas and the snap of twigs underfoot where the manager was already heading back toward the bar. He didn’t say goodbye — he never did — and that was fine. She didn’t need romance. She needed the night manager’s slot, and the way she figured it, a couple more “meetings” and an insinuation about speaking with that cheap bastards wife and the job would be hers.

She waited three full minutes before setting off down the trail herself. Couldn’t risk strolling in behind him, both of them sweaty and grinning like idiots. People talked. At McMurphy’s, people lived to talk.

The path was narrow, lit only by the neon buzz bleeding from the parking lot through the trees. Jenny kept her head down, watching for roots, when her toe caught something hard. She stumbled, muttered “shit,” and looked down.

There in the dirt lay a hunk of metal. At first glance it looked similar to a bottle opener, sleek and curved, but the surface shimmered oddly in the moonlight — not steel or chrome. More like liquid frozen in place.

Jenny bent, picked it up, turned it over in her hand. It felt too heavy for its size and faintly warm. Brand new, too — not a scratch on it. What the hell it was doing out here in the woods behind a dive bar, she couldn’t guess.

Curiosity prickled. Jenny slipped it into the pocket of her apron.

If it was worth something, maybe she’d sell it. If not, maybe she’d use it to pop caps when she finally had the manager’s keys around her neck.

She smiled at that thought, then stepped back onto the trail, hurrying toward the glow of McMurphy’s.

Nathan was four, maybe five deep by then, the kind of drunk where words slurred into each other like kids on a Slip ’N Slide. He leaned against the bar, jabbing his finger at a pair of regulars — two Mexican roofers who came in after shifts, ball caps pulled low, boots dusty.

“I’m just sayin’,” Nathan slurred, lips shiny with beer foam, “back in my day, folks spoke English in bars, y’know? Ain’t that right, boys?” He grinned wide, displaying an array of poor dental hygiene.

The roofers ignored him. One sipped his Bud, the other stared at the ballgame on the TV. Nathan didn’t notice, or pretended not to. He was too busy puffing himself up, trying to reclaim a little dignity from the bottom of a bottle.

“What’s it gonna take for you twos to speak Ingles?,” he said louder, clapping a hand on the sticky bar.

The one with the hat finally acknowledged him and said “You drink the midnight special and if you don’t puke, we will speak Inglés for the rest of the night.” He exaggerated the word with a mocking accent.

The nearby drunks laughed and egged him on. Do it, Nate. Show ’em, Nate.

Jenny was behind the bar, covering while the manager dug around in the storeroom. She froze a second, eyes darting to the shelves. Everyone in McMurphy’s knew about “the midnight special” — nasty mixes of dregs and bar slop, reserved for fools dumb enough to ask. She didn’t know the recipe. Didn’t want anyone to know she didn’t.

So she grabbed a bottle from deep at the back of the lowest shelf. Dust coated its shoulders, the label faded to nothing. God knew how long it had sat there. The cap was stiff from age and rust. She pulled the strange new opener from her apron and worked it in.

The metal groaned. Jenny twisted harder. With a sharp crack, the opener snapped a sliver — brittle as glass — that tinked down into the bottle.

Jenny frowned, then shrugged. No one would notice, certainly not that asshole Nathan.

She poured the drink and slid it across the bar. The liquid thick and black, smelling of paint thinner and old licorice.

“Drink up, champ,” she said.

In a industrial suburb of Cleveland, Carl Haskins worked the graveyard shift of the McKinney bottling company. The plant was a cathedral of chrome and conveyor belts, all noise and syrup stink, a place where men went deaf in their thirties and diabetic by their forties.

Carl swayed gently from foot to foot, equalizing the pain in his ballooning joints, and dry-swallowed his midday pill. Rare meds, imported meds — the kind of thing you couldn’t find in your local pharmacy. He bought them out the back of his local health club from a guy who went only by Ron. Big man, bad tattoos, smelled of Axe body spray and pepperoni.

Ron never said much. Just: “Off the truck. Fifty bucks cheaper than your doc’ll give it. Cash only.”

Carl didn’t ask questions. Pills were pills. They let him stand another night under the factory lights, and lord knows he needed the money.

The truth was worse than he could’ve imagined.

Those pills started life halfway around the world, at a chemical plant outside Gdańsk, Poland. A plant run by a company that specialized in “low-cost sourcing of minerals” — which was code for grabbing whatever rock was cheapest to grind. A shipment of ore had come in from Kazakhstan, dirty and unlogged. Tucked among the hunks of dull brown ore was one stone that didn’t belong. It glittered faintly blue in sunlight, hummed at night. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared.

The miner who spotted it called it “The Angel’s Egg” and tossed it in with the rest. To the bean-counters in Poland, it was just another rock, so into the grinders it went, crushed into dust with the rest of the load.

But it wasn’t from Earth. Not even this solar system. The Angel’s Egg was a fragment of something older, stranger, denser than anything in the textbooks. Its atoms carried rules that didn’t quite match the rest of the periodic table — from a time before time.

That dust was refined, pressed, and used to bulk out the pills Ron sold Carl. A mineral so rare it shouldn’t have existed in this universe at all.

As he bent to check the line, one of the pills slipped from his pocket. Time seemed to slow as the pellet floated momentarily above the row of bottles waiting to be capped. Carl stood mesmerized as the pill pulsated wildly, almost alive, before plummeting with laser accuracy into one of the bottles just before it entered the capping machine. Just one, laced with just enough of that alien dust to tip the scales.

He wiped his forehead, immediately doubting what he had just seen, belched, and thought about lunch.

One bottle in a million. What could it possibly matter?

As Nathan lifted the bubbling drink. Cold glass kissed his lips. He thought never again and drank anyway.

Halfway down, the world did a belly flop. The jukebox sang in colors. The floor stretched. His arms turned into light.

“Oh,” Nathan said, his voice echoing across galaxies. “Shit.”

Nathan grabbed the drink, raised it high as the crowd whooped, and swallowed in one gulp. His Adam’s apple bobbed. The shard of alien metal coalesced with the minerals of the bottle as it dropped down his throat with the liquor, unseen.

He slammed the glass down, eyes watering, face red, but grinning.

The bar roared with laughter.

But Nathan wasn’t there anymore.

He was everywhere.

Galaxies spun inside him, fireworks caught in amber. Time peeled back, layer by layer, as bad wallpaper in a condemned house. He could hear particles smashing into each other at the edges of creation — a low, endless hum, akin to the buzz he’d woken to that morning, only now it was the universe’s own throat clearing.

Nathan drifted through it, drunk on infinity.

He saw places — endless places. Cities made of crystal floating above suns. Oceans boiling with creatures a mile long, singing to each other in thunder. Worlds that looked like his, only sharper, brighter, better. Worlds where people didn’t live in trailers with moldy laundry and half-dead waterbeds.

And for the briefest moment, Nathan thought of himself.

Of his trailer, his dead-end job, his promises broken before they even left his mouth. He thought of how small his life was, how it had always been small, and how he’d never been anywhere. Never seen anything.

His chest ached with longing.

God, if only I could go there, he thought. If only I could see all of this…

The thought bloomed outward and with that single, hungry wish, the universe bent. Holes tore open, not one but millions, bright tunnels punching through the dark. Wormholes bloomed as dandelions in spring, each one a road to somewhere else.

Across the stars, entire civilizations gasped as new doors yawned open in their skies. Traders launched. Pilgrims wept. Empires cracked wide to meet each other.

Nathan didn’t even know he was doing it.

He just wanted to go. He just wanted out of his little, broken life.

And so, without meaning to, Nathan, briefly infused with godlike power, made the universe smaller.

Then it was gone.

He toppled off the stool, cheek to sticky floor. Puke filled an ashtray. His head throbbed with a hangover wrapped in barbed wire.

But under the pain — clarity. A strange lightness.

Nathan woke in his trailer.

His head throbbed similar to a marching band in steel-toed boots. His mouth tasted like an ashtray left out in the rain. He groaned, rolled over, and for a moment thought about never moving again.

But when he dragged himself outside, barefoot in the dirt, something felt different. The sun was brighter. The air felt thicker, alive, humming with the sounds of the power lines overhead.

Old Mr. Jenkins from next door waved, and instead of ignoring him, Nathan actually waved back. Even smiled.

For the first time in years, a thought bubbled up that didn’t taste bitter: maybe things could be different.

He spat in the dirt, scratched at his stubble, and limped toward work.