The Oldwoods

    Another example of the rich variety of creation myths among the Native American tribes of the pacific northwest is that of the Nameless God. The tribe to which it belonged is colloquially referred to as the People of the Mist due to the fog that would form in the redwood forests where they lived; however, their real name remains unknown. They believed names to have a sacred power over their subjects and were understandably reluctant to give their’s out to westerners. Their deity has no name signifying that none can have power over it. Their reclusiveness, not only from the West but from other tribes as well, means that we know very little about them. In fact, this is the only myth of their’s that is currently know to be in record.

The Birth of the Nameless God

    Long ago before the growth of the forest, the God Which Has No Name created himself out of the strength of the earth and the life of the air. The God was the first to be born into the barren fields and for some time lived alone in peace. For many years it walked the plains, but soon the God grew weary of solitude and yearned for a companion. Out of the dust and mist, the God created the Bobcat. The Bobcat, being made as clever as it was elegant, asked the God why he was born. The God said that it was lonely and wished for some companionship. The Bobcat replied that he alone could not sufficiently entertain such a magnificent God.

    The God thought on this, and then created the Heron from water and grasses. The Bobcat saw this, and because he was jealous of the God’s power, began to plan against the God. The Bobcat said, “If you have two companions then should your creation have none? A bobcat as I is not suited for a heron. Will you make her a companion as well?”

    And on this the God thought and created the Flying Squirrel from the wind and bark. The Bobcat saw this and asked the God, “But then the Heron’s time will be split between you and the Flying Squirrel, and if you create another then you must create a companion for it as well and so on and so forth. Let me aid you. Tell me your name so that I may know your power and create alongside you.”

    And on this the God thought and decided to tell the Bobcat. With his new power, the Bobcat, in his jealousy, created demons to chase after the God’s animals. The God realized that he was betrayed, and in fear of the demons learning his name, struck all of the animals mute so that they could only crow and growl. He raised great redwoods from the ground to protect the animals and grew the forest large so that the demons would lose their way if they ever wandered inside. The God then created Man to live in the forest and keep the balance. For this, the God granted Man speech. Lastly, the God cloaked itself in darkness and hid in the oldest part of the forest where the trees scraped the clouds and destroyed his name.

–– An Anthology of Myths from the Native Tribes of the Pacific Northwest:

Anthony Hopkins

***

    The Oldwoods was, is, and ever shall be a wasteland. Usefulness doesn't really matter to us. We’re so quick to call a strip mine “barren” and “hideous” regardless of how much ore it produces because it’s all about the aesthetics – what we can visually suck from the early morning mist seeping around the redwoods. Gorgeous it may be, but I’m certain that the surreal beauty of the Oldwoods is’t ours to take.

     The name is a supposed haphazard approximation of the traditional name used by the natives. The indigenous tribe was historically reclusive and had a very isolated language. They considered the Forest’s True Name to be sacred and shared it only amongst their shamans and spiritual leaders. When they died out they took the true name with them, and “Oldwoods” was constructed from rumor and whispers.

    I’m not convinced that it resembles anything of the true name. Not enough is known about the Oldwoods tribe. It’s probably why a whole slew of new-age, nature worshiping potheads have founded so many religions based on the Tribe. I’d even go as far as to say that “Oldwoods” was their invention entirely. It’d be characteristic certainly.

    Well, I guess you could count me in with the stoners and shamanists as I found myself knocking on the door of a freshly trimmed log cabin, duffle bag in hand, not long ago. The sign above the door read “New Horizon Oldwoods Sanctuary” in a polite, hand-brushed script. The whole place could have passed for an old miners’ cabin tucked away off a bend in the gravel road out here in the middle of the woods, but on closer inspection the fresh construction gave it away. Too clean, too straight. That and the solar panels covering the roof.

    “Coming!” was the muffled shout from behind the door. I looked down at my feet. Funny how much my boots fit with the cabin – brand new hiking boots. They still had the fresh smell of factory leather. The opening door snapped me out of my preoccupation with their riveted lacing. “Ah, you must be Karl! Welcome to the New Horizon Oldwoods Sanctuary. The NOHS for short.” This he pronounced as ‘The Nose.’ “I’m Nicodemus, by the way. Why don’t you come on in?”

    The main room of the cabin was an uncanny mix of the reception area for a doctors office and ‘Little House on the Prairie.’ There was a stone fireplace set into the far wall and a small reception desk with a laptop near the door. The floor was paneled wood and the log walls were decorated with info-graphic posters about chakras and a stuffed jackalope.

    “Nice place,” I said.

    “Thanks. Here at the NOHS we, ah, cater to all your spiritual needs. Heck, we even have a sweat lodge down the way. I mean, there are a lot of different schools of New Age thought out there. We tend to focus on the teachings of The Tribe, but we certainly don’t dismiss anything,” said Nicodemus.

    “Makes sense. Given the location, that is.”

    “Oh certainly, the energy here is unbelievable. It’s no wonder that this is where the Tribe chose to live. Ah, but I don’t want to bore you with a dissertation on our philosophy just yet.”

    “Oh no, I would love it actually. Lemme fish out my recorder,” I said. He motioned me over to a couple of wooden chairs around an end table and sat down as I searched through my bag.

    Nicodemus was a very tall and very thin man who seemed to constantly shake as if he had just downed one too many cups of coffee. He had coarse sandy-orange hair and a thin goatee. A cross section of a geode hung from a leather string around his neck.

    I started by asking him for a little about himself. The piece I was writing was a pathos/ethos piece after all. He doesn’t say much though, just stumbles over a few memory snippets. He went to a college not up to the caliber he wanted but dropped out anyway; got a job working as a cashier in a New Age crystal shop; went to a Native American spiritual healer (who was really only one sixteenth Native American) and witnessed the power of ancient spirituality; saw the need for “spiritual cleansing” in people; and the rest is history.

    I finally got the idea that he wasn’t the one who handled the marketing when I asked him about the business itself. He kept tripping over his words and apologizing good-naturedly as he tried to explain the ideology behind the NOHS. It was almost disarming, and his earnest convictions about New Age made you feel like you should give the whole thing a try just for the heck of it. He finally gave up on playing public relations when I started asking about the land contract. He admitted to not being the best one to explain it and asked if I would be OK talking with his partner about that. I agreed and we set off down the road to the main campsite.

    “She’s really much better at the organization than I am. Ah, really the whole ‘business’ side of things actually. I’m more of the spiritual guide, I guess you could say,” said Nicodemus. We had just finished walking to the camp. “I’ll go inside and get her, you can sit on that bench over there if you want.”

    The camp was nice enough. A couple buildings were situated in a semicircle around a gravel roundabout and in the center was a large fire pit and some benches. Everything was framed by the massive redwood trees that consumed the horizon. It was quiet save for the background chatter of birds, silenced once or twice by the occasional eagle cry. I couldn’t see anyone walking about, but judging from the steam rising out of the wigwam-style sweat lodge I could guess where they all were.

    “Hello there! You’re Karl I take it?” said a female voice behind me. I was modestly startled by suddenness of it; I hadn’t even heard the door open. I turned around to see an average enough looking girl with an angular face and long black hair pulled back into a ponytail.

    “Yes, nice to meet you,” I said shaking her hand.

    “Well, I’m Lydia. Do you wanna come inside? Nic tells me you have some questions about the land contract.”

***

    I suppose I’ve put off explaining the land contract and why I’m in the middle of the pacific northwest for long enough. It’s a cliched story, really; your basic feel-good save-the-rainforest type deal. The NOHS managed to lease out some government land in the woods due to some odd clause in the state legislation that permits non-profit to lease such reserves for “environmental and or historical research.” They snatched it up believing that their specific patch of land was the homeland of the Tribe and the ground was therefore sacred. A plan to construct a highway through the area made it’s way onto the State’s House floor and was about to pass when the politicians realized the land was being leased. As you could imagine, this lead to a bit of an industry versus environment standoff. Looking back, I could already hear the victory cries of self-identifying environmentalists who’ve never actually planted a tree in their life celebrating when the bill was inevitably shot down. It wasn’t even that well-supported, but the public’s attention is fickle, and the magazine I was working for at the time wanted to run a big story on it. The plan was I’d stay with the NOHS for a day or so and hear them out, then I’d hike off into the center of the Oldwoods and camp out for a couple days to “embrace the nature” or something saccharine like that. I was all for it. As a fresh-out-of-college, green party wannabe working for an environmental magazine, I couldn’t get enough of the whole connecting with mother earth concept. And as a tenderfooted gullible idiot, I soaked up Lydia and Nicodemus’ garbage about the Tribe like a boy-scout on a snipe hunt.

    I won’t go into detail of my time spent at the NOHS. Nothing against them really, I just don’t find their gross misappropriation of everything from Chinese to Native American culture entertaining anymore. I’ll just continue my tale, starting with my trek into the Oldwoods.

    It is peculiar how the woods managed to swallow up sound. The moments I had spent on the porch waiting for Lydia had been misleading because as soon as the sweat-lodge session ended the camp erupted with shouting patrons. Half of them were tourists using the NOHS as an excuse to “experience” the wilderness of the Oldwoods, but here, only a mile in, everything was back to an acoustic calm. It was like a lull in a passionate rock song where you can hear your ears rushing in the silence.

    As I pushed though the damp moss and leaf litter I found that the awe at the sheer size of each behemoth tree I passed never lessened or wore off. There’s an old legend about the redwoods that says the trees used to be giants who were so tall they couldn’t see their feet. They got into an argument over who had the most toes and stood around for so long trying to count them until they all turned to wood. In that sense, I guess there is some merit to the name “Oldwoods.” It’s rumored that the oldest redwood in the world is somewhere in here. A group of scientists announced that they’d found it the other year but didn’t disclose the location in fear of vandalism. I wonder if I’ll come across it.

    Eventually, I got to where I figured was as good a place as any to set up camp. I fell asleep, and the next morning I was woken up by the light patter of rain on the roof of my synthetic blue tent. Everything was damp and muggy like waking up in a cold sweat and the sun had only just barely begun to rise. I fumbled about to my flashlight, flicked it on, and pondered over whether or not I should even bother going outside in the rain to get my food. Last night I had tied it up a branch so bears couldn’t get to it. It wasn’t long till my dry tongue in need of coffee decided for me, and I threw on some shoes. I attempted to unzip my tent even though I couldn’t quite feel the zipper with my numb fingers in the morning cold and managed to undo the front flap, only to step out to a dark shadow standing a meter in front of me.

    I froze. My eyes adjusted and I was able to see the shadow staring back. It was a bobcat. He looked at me with large grey eyes for a beat before turning his whiskered head and walking away. I don’t know why, but I decided to follow him. I guess you could call it intuition, but I think I just wanted to get a better look at a creature I’d never seen before. In retrospect, I could’ve gotten bitten for harassing a wild animal like that but I digress.

    I pulled myself free from the tent into the morning mist. It was thickest in the dawn right before the sun cleared it out. I could just make out the trunks of the closest redwoods – massive burgundy and umber pillars of wood wrapped in flaking conifer bark. I swam though the mist as best as I could in the direction I saw the bobcat go off in. My toes started to freeze as the water in the leaf litter soaked through my shoes. I tucked my hands into my pockets to ward off the ever present cold and pulled my jacket tight to keep out the rain. That pitter patter of drizzle was all that could be heard. Everything, even the birds, was silent.

    I walked on, completely forgetting about my breakfast hanging in a tree back at camp. I forgot why I was walking, even. Surely I had veered off course from the bobcat long ago. The woods was calming in a way, but the silence was uncomfortable – like I had just said something out of line at a party. I kept walking, maybe because I wanted to get away from the quiet, or possibly get closer to it. Maybe I just wanted to see the next redwood pass out of the mist like a spirit and marvel at it. Maybe I secretly liked the cold.

    I lost track of time. I think it was only a half hour, could be more. I don’t know. I walked and walked and still heard nothing. At this point the rain had stopped but the sky was still overcast and the morning sun was weak. Silence came down from the sky and grew out of the earth. I honestly felt like the entire world was being held up by the redwoods above me.

    I walked into a clearing and saw the Nameless God.

    It stood nearly fifteen feet tall, black as a panther, thin as a pine tree. It resembled a deer but with it’s back sloping up towards the shoulders so it’s slender legs were significantly longer in the front, and its head sat on a long tapered neck. The God had two pure white eyes and looked at me with an unbroken stare. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and I was terrified.

    This was everything that Nicodemus tried to distill into marketable crystals; what the politicians wanted to envision in their road bill; what the hippies hope to find in the thank-you letter from the origination they donated to; what the bobcat looks for in its next meal; what the Tribe looked for in their stories; and what I was supposed to capture in writing.

    When it finally left all the feeling had gone from my legs. I don’t now how long I had been sitting there; I don’t even remember sitting down to begin with. I did notice the birds chirping again though just now. Isn’t it funny how people some people think birds sing for them?

    Whether it was a natural beast or something else I don’t know, and I never will. The next day I left the Oldwoods and told the magazine I couldn’t write the piece after all. They said they would fire me if I didn’t have it in my next month.

    I’m job-searching right now.

Seven Miles of Ice, Six Inches of Steel

    “With every second that passes, I’m more isolated than any other human has ever been.” This is what the man in the white jumpsuit thought to himself as he shot through the vacuum of space at twenty-five kilometers per second. In the past hour alone he had covered enough distance to circle the earth twice, and his mismatched hodgepodge ship, antennae and cargo holds jutting out at random ends, was only accelerating faster. Silently pushing the mechanical brute along was the faint cool glow of the ship’s ion thrusters, the pride and joy of NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory, ejecting ionized bismuth atoms thousands of times faster than a speeding bullet.

    Through the single window on the ship the man stargazed. With the lights turned off nothing was visible but the stars – trillions of bright specks washed across the void in a dense band like white paint flicked from an artist’s brush. From this unique vantage point somewhere in between Mars and Jupiter he could watch, unadulterated, the stars of his galaxy burning away. Each one creeping towards a supernova, consuming its hydrogen fuel in a cataclysmic nuclear reaction. From this point in space, in the still of the ship’s dormant electronics, where the planets were nothing more than indistinguishable pinpricks of light against the galactic backdrop, he felt as if he were sitting perfectly still, suspended among the stars. 
 

***

    To Rod, written in the bold letters on the front page of every news site was the best news he had ever heard in his life.

    “WE ARE NOT ALONE” read last Sunday’s New York Times. In light of the biggest discovery ever made, the Times started up its old print center to publish some commemorative physical copies of the paper – a publication that Rod immediately bought and framed to hang in his office. He sat there in his old swivel chair reading it again for the fiftieth time that day.

    “In what is the most monumental achievement of humanity to this date, the collective efforts of NASA, the European Space Agency, and the East Asian Aerospace Administration have answered one of mankind’s oldest questions, ‘Are we alone?’ Yesterday, February 24, it was confirmed that the Thalassa probe had discovered life in the sub-glacial ocean on Jupiter’s moon Europa...”

    “Rod!” Rod snapped back around from his article at the mention of his name. “Hey, congratulations on the discovery!” It was Mary, leaning on the desk in his cubicle in one of her usual technicolor Fair Isle Sweaters, this one composed of bright red and yellow bands with white and green snowflakes and argyle zig-zags densely ornamenting it.

    “It was just as much your discovery as mine. Everyone's, for that matter,” said Rod.

    “I know! That’s why I’m congratulating everyone,” she said – barely able to squeeze out the words as she hurried away.

    Rod heard Mary’s muffled exuberance of congratulations as she made her way down the cubicles of Nerd Row. Rod punched in a few keys on his computer and brought up the microscope slides of the single-celled organisms that he had patiently watched download for nearly forty-eight sleepless hours. He pressed play and the translucent globules began to move about on the screen. ‘They appear to have some sort of flagellum to propel themselves along, and those tiny dark spots floating around inside the cells could indicate the presence of some form of organelles,’ he thought to himself. As to the biochemical function of those spots Rod could only guess. The Thalassa probe was sophisticated, but not that sophisticated.

    An abbreviated message popped up on his phone with a polite ding. It was from Frank.

    “Be at the con room in 5 min. Big news!” read the text.

***

    “Well if it isn’t Dr. Robert Marino himself!” said Dr. Francis Karl as he stood up from a black leather chair to shake Rod’s hand. “Congratulations!”

    “We’ve been over this before Frank, and thank you,” said Rod with a sheepish grin.

    “Yeah yeah, just plain old Rod. You could at least take a compliment without deferring responsibility. You ran the astrobiological component of the mission, you deserve some credit!”

    “Does that mean you’ll give me a real office now?”

    “Oh, what good will that do? We both know you’d just spend your time huddled in the lab or camped out in the control room.”

    “I’ll have you know I just came from my office.”

    “Oh really? You remembered where it was?” Frank laughed. “Ah, take a seat. Take a seat.”

    “It’s good to see you kept your lame sense of humor among the top brass,” said Rod, jokingly punching Frank in the shoulder as he sat down.

    “Hey watch it, this suit looks like it could be Italian. But yeah, someone’s gotta deal with the congressional brickheads. Sometimes it feels like I’m condensing our work into picture book from so that they’ll understand enough to give us funding. Of course now that we’ve got something to rub in their faces – well I’ve already got offers for budget increases.” Frank brandished a few papers with the microscope slides printed on them and laid them on the table. They both stared intently at the familiar images. “Amazing, isn’t it. Look, I’ll bet you twenty bucks and my mother’s chili recipe that this mark here is some sort of nucleus.”

    “I’m still reeling over what their DNA equivalent would look like,” said Rod.

    “God, I know! The chemistry of the base pairs alone would revolutionize biology as we know it.”

    “So you said you had some big news?”

    “Ah yes.” Frank looked around the room. “Well, to tell you the truth, some other high level schmucks were supposed to be here for the announcement but it seems like they’re running late.”

    “Probably busy being assaulted by the press.”

    “Ah, what the hell. I’ll tell you anyways. Just act surprised when I ‘officially’ announce it later.”

    “OK?”

    “So with the apparent need for a more in depth study of Europa, we’ve decided to go ahead with a full manned mission. The details will be worked out later, but the main point is we want – no, need – to get boots on the ice over there. Or rather, under it. Given your unique experience, how would you like to be the first confirmed member of the mission?”

    Rod slowly leaned back into his chair as the full weight of Frank’s question pressed the air out of him. ‘I would be on Europa,’ he thought. ‘On Europa.’ Rod stared blankly off into space looking straight through the faux-wood paneled walls into the heavens – directly at the icy white moon wrapped in thin red fractures. He nodded.

    “I’ll do it.”

***

    A large plexiglass cylinder cracked open, letting a few tendrils of steam escape before the rest were sucked away by the ship’s filtration system to be recondensed. Water was precious in space.

    Rod ran the small vacuum hose over his thinning sandy hair before pushing himself out of the shower. He enjoyed these few moments early in the day where he could freely float about in the microgravity of the ship – suspended in the sterile air like a dandelion seed. And like a dandelion seed, he would drift ever so slowly to the floor – a product the small acceleration caused by the ship’s thrusters. Though you could only notice it if you stood absolutely still.

    Rod opened up a white panel inset on the wall a few feet from the shower. Five identical steam cleaned resistive suits hung in a neat ordered row. Rod grunted as he worked his way into the stiff jumpsuit. The arms and legs had thin posable rods woven into the fabric to make movement difficult and prevent muscle atrophy. It reminded him of the bendable action figures he had played with as a child. Teal-caped Captain Galaxy would board his star cruiser to save earth from the Martians, all with a perfectly molded plastic smile.

    “Well, first things first, happy birthday!” said a floating bust of Frank. A telecom message from central base. Rod had worked his way up to the computer room and was going through his notifications. “Hard to believe that it’s been over seven months, right? And only three more to go! There’s not much to report from here, and no, Kowalski still hasn’t compiled that spectroscopy data. Don’t worry, I’ll hide some lab mice in his desk or something. Keep ‘im on his toes. But don’t think I didn’t bring a present. The probe just discovered another ice clinger! Get this – it has what appears to be an exoskeleton. Amazing, right? Here we were thinking all the life would resemble edicarian biota but this is clearly more advanced. I mean, like, wow! Augh! It’s so nerve-wracking waiting for your slow ass to get over there and run some real tests. Anyways, I’m sending all the files on the creepy-crawly over with this message. I’ll keep you updated. Over and out!” Frank’s apparition paused for a second. His eyebrows shifted as if he were trying to remember something he pretended to have forgot. “Oh, and there’s a message from your mother. I have it attached.” With a brush of static, the hologram disappeared.

    Rod turned to the control screen and queued up the file. A grainy hologram loaded in the view box. It looked to have been shot with a smartphone and was little more than a bas-relief, not true 3D, so if you looked at it from the wrong angle the illusion broke. Sitting in the center of the box was a thin and wrinkly old woman perched on a wheelchair. She appeared to be entirely held together by the pink wool knit shawl wrapped around her body. Her white hair was barely hanging on to her head and her eyes wouldn’t focus anywhere above her slippered feet.

    “Rod?” she asked, turning her head back and forth looking for him. “Rod. They tell me it’s your birthday. I’m so sorry I didn’t get you a present.” Her words were slow and strained. “I’m so sorry. It came up so quickly. It all does. I asked them to take me out to visit you but they just keep me here. Are you all right? They’re helping me send you a message. I’m not sure how, though. Oh, you’re growing up to be so old.” Her lungs lightly rattled as she caught her breath. “They tell me you’re on an important mission. I wish they would tell me what that means. Does that mean you got that job from NASA? I know how much you wanted to work there. Oh, Rod! I forgot to get you a present. And on your birthday even. What would your father say about this? I’m getting so forgetful. I’ll run out to the store later and pick something up. It all came up so quick. I can’t believe I almost missed it on my calendar. Well, you take care dear.” Another brush of static and the image vanished.

    Rod pushed himself two feet over to the “kitchen” and pulled a thermos off a rack. He pulled a dissolvable capsule of instant coffee from a breadbox-like compartment. One of his last ten.

    It was a special occasion after all.

    He filled up the thermos with hot water by plugging it into a wall dispenser and shook it up to mix the coffee. Opening up the breadbox again. he retrieved a plastic-wrapped pastry and green birthday candle. A joke gift that Frank had insisted on sending with him. Frank had even gone as far as to tape a crudely drawn microgravity flame to the end of the candle. A tiny alien sphere around the wick, glowing in a low blue-purple hue – the way they had seen during flame tests on the ISS.

***

 

    There are no stars on Europa. At least, not on its hospitable parts. The surface is so bombarded by radiation from Jupiter’s magnetosphere that even with proper shielding, it would be too dangerous to stand around for long. It’s only beyond the seven mile thick crust of ice, submerged in the deepest ocean on the solar system, you find safety. No light from the outside world penetrates this icy vault. It’s probably why the organisms of the icy moon took it upon themselves to create their own.

***

    ‘6:55 PM’ blinked on the display of Rod’s computer. Time didn’t mean much in this sunless ether, but it helped to be synchronized with the boys back on earth. His trusty digitized clock also helped him track how long he had spent there – wherever “there” was at the moment – and it helped discern the punctuality of the various organisms he was studying. Right now the time told him that the next Migration should happen very soon, and so he laid in wait in his submarine with the lights down low to not spook them.

    Rod pressed his face up against the glass of his only window to look out into the depths. It was an engineering marvel, the sub. Powered by state-of-the-art hydrostatic propulsion, six inches of a super-light steel alloy protected him from the crushing pressure of Europa’s ocean. Clinging to the ice above was a constellation of glowing life, a galaxy of thousands of organisms each marking their existence to the world with light, juxtaposed down below by an all encompassing maw of black. Staring into the void, with the low gravity of Europa, it was easy to lose all sense of direction. Up was down, down was up and everything was black... until a tiny white prick began to emerge through the veneer. Like the first snowflake of the storm, the light slowly rose closer. It split up as it grew closer and the individual pricks became discernible. The cloud steadily grew as the pioneers of the swarm first reached the sub’s depth. Scattered at first, then rising in number and intensity, the creatures flowed on until a dense column of lights, easily a mile across, surrounded the sub. Rod marveled at their internalized punctuality. Never early and never late, wherever they were was exactly where they meant to be.'

    Rod caught a glimpse of one of the creatures as it passed in front of the porthole. Squidlike in nature, its small body, no bigger than a thumb, formed a thin teardrop, and its wings filled its outline to a rounded arrowhead. In place of a squid’s eight tentacles it had a mass of short feelers – twenty-four to be exact. It was because of these feelers that Frank had wanted to call the creature Satan’s Nose-Hair. Rod opted for Hekatonkheira, a greek mythological figure with a hundred hands. Heka for short.

    Off to the side Rod spotted a larger heka. Easily a foot long, it was the largest specimen he had ever encountered. He grabbed the sub’s controls and maneuvered it to get a better look.

    It appeared to be struggling to move. Its wings were tattered, the light at its tip had taken on a yellow hue, and it was missing a few feelers. Rod felt a certain rush of excitement at finding the dying animal. He never had a chance to observe their life cycle, and how they aged was a complete mystery. Did they continuously grow through their life? Did they have a set life span? How did they change as they develop? Rod extended the mechanical suction tube arm eager to find some answers.

***

    Rod wiped down the plexiglass window encasing the operating surface – a hermetically sealed box to protect against contamination, complete with arm length rubber gloves built right into the window. Inside the chamber was the dead hekatonkheira, bloated and swollen from decompression, medical equipment neatly laid out aside. Rod put his hands into the gloves, picked up the scalpel and began to work. He traced his knife down the center line of the creature, splitting it open like a frog in biology class.

    “OK... Notochord appears to be slightly deteriorated and the muscle wall is slightly atrophied,” Rod said aloud to the computer recording his notes. “Most other organs seem to be in place.” He began to carefully pin out each individual system. “Except...the egg sac is greatly enlarged.” He cut it open. “Oh, wow. It appears that this one was ready to deposit eggs. Large and developed.” Rod picked up one of the fingernail sized orbs. “Holy...it appears to be a fully formed fetus – almost identical to the adult. I guess that means the heka fertilizes internally. I’m setting a few aside for further study as well as taking biopic samples of the egg sac.”

    Rod pulled himself out of the gloves and sat back to look over his discovery. It was almost neo-gothic, really. The disassembled alien lying in its chamber like Frankenstein’s Monster.

    The parade of light outside was still going strong over an hour after it started. Rod thought that he deserved a coffee about now. Only six left.

***

    Rod had always been fascinated with biology. He still remembered packing his backpack up with magnifying glasses, notebooks, and granola bars before trekking off into the woods to camp out and watch the ants forage for food. A pulsing stream of skittering back dots betrayed the entrance to their hive, a sign he easily learned to pick up on. He would simply lie down on his Captain Galaxy blanket and track the individual ants as they carried bits of food back to their hive until his mother would call out to him,

    “Robby! Bedtime!” He was still called Robby then.

    Once on his way to the usual spot he stumbled across a cricket trying to disguise itself on the bark of a tree. It’s bumpy and molted brown body was enough to fool almost anybody. Robby crouched down and held his breath, slowly extending a cupped hand towards the insect’s blind spot. He didn’t ignored the picker bushes pressing against his leg as he stalked his quarry. With a swipe he managed to trap the cricket.

    Ten year old Robby picked off its legs and brought it to the ant hill. He dropped it in the ant’s path and set up shop on his blanket with a magnifying glass and juice box. The hive quickly swarmed the cricket once a forager ant stumbled across it. Quickly and efficiently they pined down the much larger insect and began to drag it back to their hill where it would be divvied up and fed to the group. The queen would get the largest portion as it was her role to produce the next generation of workers. He had read that in a book somewhere.

***

    “Twenty-four, twenty-five... and twenty-six,” Rod counted aloud, taking the number of orithyia hanging onto the underside of the ice. They had shiny black carapaces segmented into bands like a trilobite; however, their heads peeled away from their belly and stuck out into the water revealing two large compound eyes. On their backs extended two serrated arms folded like a praying mantis’ and pointing away from their legs. The creature was able to see and catch its prey while holding onto the ice with its many legs. In fact, that was exactly what it was doing.

    “OK, twenty-six total and seven still feeding.” Rob noted to the computer. The orithyia closest to him was gripping onto the remains of a heka, periodically bringing it up to its crablike mouthparts to tear off a chunk of flesh. “With the latest migration, it appears my hypothesis that the orithyia feed solely on the hekatonkheira is supported. The orithyia, it seems, feed only once every few months during the migration.”

    ‘Not unlike crocodiles and wildebeest,’ he thought to himself. Rod couldn’t help but smile as he looked back at the glossy black exoskeletoned creature demurely eating its prey, oblivious to him. There was a certain elegance to the balance of it all – birth, life, and death. The organisms here simply went about their business, they didn’t question it. How could they?

***

    “Two years,” breathed Rod as a small cryobot zipped around the sub and docked to the structure in front to him. A fully functional permanent base, assembled over the course of two years by robots. Something that Rod had supervised while conducting his research on the side. Two years under the ice living alone out of a cramped submarine and three years away from earth if you counted the time spent in space travel. Rod carefully maneuvered the sub to the docking station underneath the base.

    “Hey Rod, I got your report. Good to see that the base is in working order. One less thing to worry about,” said Frank’s hologram. Rod had given the ship a full inspection the night before and sent word to headquarters. Frank’s message must’ve come overnight. “Look, I’m not really supposed to say anything since everything about this situation is up in the air still, but you have a right to know. Washington is in another political pissing contest over the budget and we’re on the chopping block this time. Whatever happens we’ll still have plenty to get you back home but as for sending out the second crew... Well, the launch date in two months is still set and we’re going ahead unless they explicitly tell us not to. Hopefully it’ll all settle down quickly, but just in case someone decides to make a stupid decision, I’m giving you a warning.” Frank let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his eye with the palm of his hand. “The other thing is about your mother. I saw it in the files we’re sending to you. You know I have to preview everything and...ah, a piece of paper like that is so cold, inhuman really. The hospital says that her dementia is getting worse. They...they don’t think she has a whole lot of time left. I just thought you should get this in person. I’m sorry. If you need anything, let me know. I’ll do my best.” The hologram flickered out and all that could be heard was the creaking of the base from shifting currents. Rod leaned back against the cool plastic of his chair before standing up and walking over to the cupboard, pulling out a small capsule of instant coffee. As Rod brewed his last cup he looked at the man-sized cryopod that was designed to shuttle the new team members to and from the surface. He decided to make a trip.

***

    In three hours it would be safe. Rod sat waiting in his spacesuit, a bulkier version of the resistive suits he’d been wearing. It had taken nearly twenty-four hours to reach the surface and in a few more Europa would be far enough away from Jupiter's magnetosphere tail to be safe enough to step out of his shielded pod. Rod sat quietly as the minutes slipped by. He didn’t think much over the recent events, he didn’t want to. Soon enough, a buzzer went off signaling that it was finally time.

    With a hiss of the pod’s hydraulics, the door swung open and Rod stepped out seeing the surface, of Europa with his eyes for the first time. On the surface, ice was frozen to the hardness of granite in the extreme cold. Rod stepped across the chipped and scarred surface looking up the sky. Jupiter hung overhead taking up most of the sky, its swirling gasses of red and orange clearly visible from his distance. It shone like the harvest moon, casting Europa in a soft yellow glow – a gentle light for the frozen airless desert. Behind it were the stars, that familiar band of milky way galaxy wrapping around everything. Rod had never imagined he’d see anything like it. It was so easy to forget being a member of the human species.

    Another buzzer in his suit went off, politely letting him know he was running out of air. Rod hadn’t noticed the three hours pass. He slowly began to make his way to the pod and was about to step in before he bent down to pick up a shard of ice. He sealed it in a baggie from the pod and shut the door. Samples.

    Rod flicked the red toggle that initiated the decent to the base. Back to work.

Melodramatic

    I find it interesting that we have to write stories to show our inner selves – hide our insanities behind allegory. I find it interesting that a puppy symbolizes hope and black symbolizes grief. I find it interesting that music can convey more emotion through notes than a book of words and that the most profound truths in art are meaningless while the most mundane tasks carry the weight of the universe. I find it interesting that perspective everything. I find it interesting that I abide by nonexistent rules.

    A year ago I was walking through the woods behind my house when I came across a tree, a twisted and contorted behemoth with shattered teeth for branches opening its maw to the sky. A grey and heavy sky hovered dangerously low, just barely clearing the treetops, the air groaning under its weight. It was obvious that the tree held some sort of significance as the rest of the forest faded away into an impressionist painting around it. Blotches of green and brown glowed in the background, fell back, and curved into the clearing. Walking up to it, I put my hand out and braced myself against the trunk. The cracks in the bark were far enough apart that I could spread out my hand and feel only the smooth coolness paper. The tree smelled like earth and the earth beneath smelled like leaves. A knot twisted in the back of my mind and I pulled out my pocketknife; faint cursive lettering on the side of the handle spelled out “Buck.” In a crude imitation I decided to leave my own “makers mark” and began to hack my name into the tree. Like those lovers names carved into a trees at the park, the ones framed in little hearts, except there was no heart, no second name, and definitely no park. I finished and stepped back to inspect my handiwork.

    No, no, it was all wrong! I dug my knife back into the tree and began again. Another failure and another attempt – again and again. Sap coated my fingers and clogged the joint of the knife as I worked and reworked my name around the trunk.

    Eventually I had completely girdled the tree with graffiti. Letters folded over each other in an unrecognizable band like a profane lexicon. I stepped back to admire my work. I couldn’t decide if it was hideous or beautiful. But as any horticulturist worth his salt would know, such an amount of bark removal is detrimental. I returned a month later to find the wooden monster dead.

    None of that ever happened and I don’t know what it means. A few years from now I might look back and pretend I never did either.

 ***

    ‘Melodrama serves a purpose,’ I reasoned to myself as I prepared myself to do something equally stupid. I hadn’t slept the night before – what with the lack of thought screaming around in my head; keeping me up. I couldn’t think enough to distract myself.
    She was pretty, I guess, but explaining my attraction in terms of her red lipstick seemed superficial. The tense excitement in my gut was more than the faint scent of her perfume – a warm embrace reminiscent of freshly baked cookies – or her elegant slim figure.

    Melodrama came in the form of a passing smile, biting her lip in conversation, as we talked about the most trivial aspects of our lives. It came when I couldn’t tell what was genuine attraction and what was wishful thinking – mentally pacing back and forth until the tracks became worn into my sub-conscience. Naturally I came to the correctly illogical solution. I would make the most absorbed melodramatic gesture possible.

    “Do you think you would like to go out with me sometime?” I thrust the question out eager to rid myself of the words. Words that had been clawing that the back of my teeth for three months. The sharp chill of early winter bit down on my fingers I had shoved in my pockets. Expectantly, patiently, eagerly I waited for a response as she looked down at her feet – drawing clockwise circles with her left foot on the sidewalk.

    Needless to say she said no, and life returned to normalcy as I systematically removed my affections for her. It’s funny, but sometimes I wish that story was true as well.

This is Your Final Notice

    One after another, the keys of Craig Brunswick’s worn keyboard clicked away; arguing with people from thousands of miles away about whether or not the leaked specification for the next generation of IBM computers was accurate. These other ghosts of the internet never materialized beyond text on a screen, but that didn’t really matter as they were all “uneducated morons who weren’t old enough to remember coding in PASCAL and don’t even have a comp sci degree.” Craig looked at the clock. 2:00 AM.

    “You’re late again, Brunswick,” barked Barry O’Neil, his boss. “You’re walking on thin ice here, boy. One more slip up and you’ll be gone.”  Craig just looked on; his boss made threats like this every other week. Nobody had been fired yet.

    Barry stared him down from behind sunken eyes and thin low set eyebrows. Barry had a harsh, sallow face which was not complimented in the least by his yellow collared shirt. After he felt that Craig had been sufficiently intimidated he went back to leafing over official looking documents. And with that minimal interaction Craig walked a few feet over to his cubicle, powered up his computer, opened minesweeper, and proceeded on with his workday while absentmindedly picking at the eroded cork board next to his computer.

    “That damn bum is still sitting outside the front of the building” he heard Craig complain through the walls. “I told him if he wanted to sit there and stink up the place he could shine my shoes and I’d pay him five bucks.”

    “Mm hmm. And what did he say?” a feminine voice replied.

    “Nothing! He just sat there and looked right through me like I wasn’t there.”

    “Your sympathy for the less fortunate aside, these documents pertaining to the Cambridge account need your signature. You probably should read them as well.” There was a rustle of papers as the files were arranged on Barry’s desk.

    “I really should call the police. It just isn’t right.” He had called the police though, at least a half dozen times over the past week. Each time they said they agreed with Barry, that it was a significant problem, and each time they didn’t show up. Barry didn’t like being ignored that way, so each time he pretended it was the first time he called.

    March Rothsman walked out of Barry’s office and past Craig’s hidden cubicle. She was the brains of the building more than anything. If you asked Craig what the company did he wouldn’t be able to give you an answer. He’d just blankly stare and say he though it had something to do with logging, though he couldn’t be sure. Even Barry would struggle with the question, though he’d pass it off and jumble something together about brokerage accounts and mechanized consulting. In reality, he just signed the papers that middle aged March Rothsman, in her bright red sweater, handed to him.

    Craig checked his inbox – spam, spam, a notice about the menu change in the cafeteria, and nothing. It was presumable that his job position had once held some importance, but the title ‘Senior Assistant to IT Manager’ lost all relevance when the actual IT manager was laid off and the position outsourced to another department during a merger five years ago. Somehow his position was neglected to be erased from the files and when his job application was put in front of the toady boss, it was signed without much of a second thought.

    Not that it mattered much. GreenwichCO, the parent company, was a massive conglomerate, especially compared to the measly office space that Craig’s location held on the seventeenth and eighteenth floors of a slightly neglected office building in the city – indistinguishable from any of the others next to it. Craig sipped a cup of stale coffee and went back to playing minesweeper.

***

    “Excuse me sir, could you spare a dollar or two?” The man who said that was none other than the bum outside the building, talking to Craig as he walked out the door on his way home.

    “Hunh?” Craig was a bit startled by the encounter. The bum had not so much as looked at him in the past week that he had been staying there.

    “I asked if you could spare some change, brother,” the old man croaked in a weathered voice. “I find you can tell a bit about a person whenever they’re in the act of giving.”

    “Ok,” said Craig as he handed the man five dollars. “What can you tell about me?”

    “That you’re more generous than that skinny toad-man in the yellow shirt!” the bum laughed.

    “You mean Barry?”

    “Is that his name? Never mentioned it. Just told me to ‘move my bum ass off of his building!’” The bum gesticulated in mockery of the shaky way Barry waved his fist when he wanted to make a point. “Ridiculous!”

    “Well, you have been sitting here for a week.”

    “Oh no, I stand too. And every now and then I walk as well.”

    “That still makes you a bum, doesn't it?”

    “I’m not a bum! I’m Arnold Kepler, pleased to make your acquaintance.” The bum held out a scarred hand covered in a glove with the fingers cut off.

    “Craig Brunswick.”

    “A man of few words, I see. Don’t worry, I have enough to go around for the both of us!” The man laughed as he said this. Craig looked him over again. He had a long graying beard that began to twist into his molted scarf. He wore a scratched and torn retro leather jacket and a pair of dirty jeans. He looked to be in his 60s.

    Just then a pigeon landed next to him to peck at a stale loaf of bread. “Ah, hello again, Charlie!”

    “Is that your pet?” Craig asked.

    “More of a friend really. We both share the same cage!” He laughed at his own wit, then paused for a second. “The stars are beautiful tonight, would you like to hear your horoscope?”

    “Sure.”

    “Alright let me just...” Arnold rummaged around in his bag. “Ah! Here it is!” He exclaimed as he pulled out a newspaper. “Well, let’s see here... ‘Opportunity is right around the corner but you run the risk of missing if! Try to live freer and be wary of falling into a rut and something wonderful will happen.’ Sound accurate?”

    “Yeah, sure. But I don’t really put too much weight in those things.”

    “Really? What’s your sign?”

    “Scorpio.”

    “Oh, I’m sorry. I read you the one for Sagittarius. Guess it’s not for you then!”

    “What’s your sign?”

    “Don’t remember! I just read the ones I like best!”

    It might be worth noting that, especially in this section of the city, it was impossible to see any stars.

***

    Back to work, back through the commute, through the glass revolving door, up the elevator, past the front desk, and across the ugly carpet; Craig returned to his cubicle like every other day. He preemptively opened minesweeper and went to check his email. Ultimately is was nothing more than the useless drivel that managed to worm it’s way into his inbox. At least he thought so until he read his way to the last unopened message. It was from his boss – marked urgent. It read, “At 12:00 today, before lunch-break, meet me in my office.”

    Odd enough, it could very well be ignored. Craig could delete it and go on his lunch break as usual and Barry would probably not say a word otherwise. ‘It’s nothing,’ he resolved and proceeded to play minesweeper.

***

    “I would like to thank you for agreeing to meet me at such short notice, Mr. Brunswick,” Barry said from behind his particleboard desk, drumming his fingers against the laminate. March Rothsman sat on a chair in the corner of the room next to the door, passive aggressively checking her phone every now and then.

    Barry, stared intensely at the bandage covering Craig’s thumb. “How did you get that?”

    “Peeling a potato.”

    “What do you mean ‘peeling a potato?’ That’s a big bandage for a small mishap.”

    Craig, sat and considered for a moment. “Ever get so mad at something that you just lash out, even though what you do has no bearing on the outcome?”

    “I can make you a list longer than a yard of things that fit the bill.”

    “Odd, what causes those outbursts really. Last night I just happened to be peeling a potato at the time.”

    Barry gave him an odd look before averting his gaze. “Do you know what your job is?”

    “Senior Assistant to IT Manager.”

    “And do you know what that means?

    “That he gets to play solitaire professionally,” March chimed in, looking up from her phone.

    “Minesweeper actually,” corrected Craig.

    “Shut up!” interjected Barry, more than a little peeved at being spoken over. “Look, it’s probably no surprise that our days here are numbered. The ole’ mothership is still working out the kinks from its most recent merger, but as soon as they realize that this wing is extraneous they’ll cut us off and leave us to die. I’m proposing that we take what we can before that happens. Remember, they are the ones doing this to us – we have a right to what we’re owed. Of course, we’ll need your help though. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

    Craig just stared on in blank bewilderment until March clarified “He’s talking about breaking the law – embezzlement to be specific. We create a few extra employees in the record books and replace a few that we lay off. With a few tweaks with allotted expenses we can have a lot of money flowing to people who don’t exist. We pocket the money and fudge the records so nobody can tell. Then we get laid off and pretend it never happened.”

    “I assume it’s my job, being the sole remaining IT guy to create the ‘ghost’ employees?”

    “There ya go!” exclaimed Craig, trying to beat March to the punch. “Rothsman here will send you the details of what needs to be done tomorrow. Get it into the system and you’ll get a twenty percent cut. For now, take the rest of the day off.” With that he leaned back, put a cigar in his mouth, and tried several times to light it unsuccessfully.

***

    Arnold Kepler was still siting there beside the front of the building when Craig came out, feeding another pigeon “Good afternoon Mr. Brunswick,” he said.

    “Mr. Kepler,” acknowledged Craig. “What’s that pigeon’s same?”

    “Why this is Charlie!”

    “That isn’t the same pigeon as yesterday, though.”

    “Why of course not! But you can’t expect me to tell apart each and every pigeon in the city, can you? I just treat them all as my friends so I don’t embarrass myself in case I’ve forgotten meeting one.”

    “Well, that’s noble of you.”

    “I read in the paper that Venus and Jupiter will be visible tonight. I’m really excited to watch.”

    “Is that so? I’m not much of a stargazer myself.”

    “That’s sad. I can’t imagine life without the stars.”

***

    Craig’s hands sweated as he opened up the employee database. The directions were clear, all he had to do was follow them. “Thomas Johnson: Age 34...” He continued to copy the information down from March’s files creating a new person each time he hit enter. Suddenly a voice startled him from his seat.

    “You look nervous Brunswick.” It was Barry, though in reality he looked more nervous than Craig. “Don’t worry, I have this operation running smoothly. There won’t be any slip ups now, will there?” He stared at Craig, doing his best to look more intimidating than his grave face would allow.

    “Nope.” Craig went back to work, attempting to digest the pit forming in his stomach. It was almost too easy. There weren't any mishaps, nobody telling him to stop. There was no officer in his face saying, “No, you cant do that.” No officiator of the universe saying, “No, you’re not some accomplice to a ridiculous crime or stupid adventure. You’re just Craig, the man who eats too much ramen and lives with his cat in a cheap apartment.”

***

    Apparently it wan’t too easy, because after only a few weeks of attempting to ‘stick it to the man’ they got their first angry letter.

    “You took it too far.” Barry was glowering from his swivel chair. The three were sitting in his office sipping on the profane brew that the office temp had called coffee. Barry kept repeating that line, “too far, too far.”

    “In all seriousness sir, you did supersede my advice to not expand after last week,” March pointed out.

    “That doesn't matter! So I screwed up, what we need to know is what do we do about this!” ‘This’ referred to the notice from GreenwichCO that, paraphrased, politely and forcefully asked for them to stop hiring so many damn people.

    “Why do anything?” Craig asked. “I’m assuming that since they’ve taken the time to send us this letter they would’ve looked into our division and via extension of that, know that, as a whole, we accomplish jack.”

    “And your point?” glowered Barry.

    “My point is, they know we’re useless but can’t do anything about it for the time being. Through some sort of legal web we’re safe for the moment and nothing we do will change their final decision to axe us. So we do nothing. We sit on the ghosts we have for now and don’t hire more so as to not prompt a real financial investigation”

    Barry kneaded his forehead, evidently still displeased. He sighed in acceptance. March continued to fiddle with her phone.

***

    “Hello again, Arnold,” said Craig, as he addressed the old man.

    “Oh, hi there Craig!”

    “How was Jupiter?”

    “Hmm?”
    “A few weeks ago you said something about being able to see Jupiter. I never asked how it was.”

    “Oh, that! Yes, it was lovely. Actually tonight, Mercury should be in good position. I think it’ll be a good night to watch.” It was overcast at the moment. “You don’t look so good. Are you alright?”

    “Oh, I’m fine. Just drank some bad coffee.” He paused before blurting out, “Have you ever stolen something?”

    The old man pondered for a moment. “Just the heart of my high school lover!” He laughed and winked his creased, weathered eye.

    “I meant more like physical possessions.”

    “Hard to say, I remember taking things that weren’t mine by the conventional standards, but I was a different person back then. And I’ll be a different person tomorrow I suppose!” He smiled until he saw the serious weight on Craig’s face. “I don’t suppose your question is allegorical?”

    “In a sense.”

    “What did ya take?”

    “Money.”

    “Oh, well that’s not so bad. But between you and me I’m not the best with financial matters. Never quite got the concept.” Another Charlie landed by Arnold and he began to feed it some stale bread.

    A moment passed before Craig asked, “Would you call yourself a religious man?”

    “Yes, I guess you could say that. But I’m not a Christian though. I’m a Jainist.”

    “What’s that religion like?”

    “I haven’t the slightest idea! A man once told me I should be a Jainist. He seemed nice, enough so I said OK – and here I am!”

***

    For the next few months life continued on like this. All Craig would have to do was update the database records every now and then. March did most of the work, but she had managed to force Barry into agreeing to her fifty percent cut. And until the second letter, it was physically bland in spite of some emotional or moral instability.

    The second letter wasn’t from GreenwichCO though. In spite of March’s caution, the IRS has managed to smell some of the siphoned money, and were looking for their cut.

    “I thought you said that your records were flawless!” Barry angrily stated. The three once again in conference at his office.

    “I said they were good. I said they were better than good, but I never said there was no risk,” rebutted March.

    “You–” Barry stopped himself before he raised his voice too much. Through clenched teeth he then spat out, “Your job was to make sure this doesn't happen!”

    “So I screwed up,” she responded sarcastically.

    Barry then went on to pin the blame on whatever he could make a reasonable connection to, including the weather and ‘the bum outside the door.’ They continued to argue over what they should do, and how they could cover it up, without noticing Craig sink lower and lower into his chair, incredulous about the inevitable future.

    Oh, they tried desperately to throw off the IRS. They all worked overtime brainstorming ways to throw them off their scent. Craig saw less and less of Arnold, until his commute to work returned to the sleep deprived reenactment of a zombie film it once was. March grew more and more biting with her passive aggressive comments, and Barry all but lost it, binge drinking whiskey in spite of his intolerance for alcohol, sleeping at the office, and generally doing what he perceived a movie hero would do in his position.

    And yet, week after week a new letter arrived, each one less polite than the last until the final one came. It was as acidly uniform as the rest, until the very final line. It said simply, “This is your final notice.” And of course, they didn’t have anything to respond with. Craig walked home, locked the door, powered up his computer, opened minesweeper, and proceeded to do his best to forget he was anything more than Craig, the man who eats too much ramen and lives with his cat in a cheap apartment.

    When the police arrived with an arrest warrant they found him standing in his kitchen making dinner – peeling a potato.