Shades Of Forever

I wake early, the first hints of leaf-shaded light drifting through the large window in Great Grandpa's sitting room. My sleep was restless, filled with fragmented visions of half-formed troubles, yet I feel perfectly rested.

I integrate-

"-all of my body's capacity, yeah yeah," I grumble, moving to a sitting position on Great Grandpa's overstuffed couch. "Why don't you integrate us some breakfast."

I am a combat variant, Sky, not a domestic. You'll have to make your own breakfast.

"...there are domestic reality integrators?" I try to wrap my mind around the idea of using non-causal expressions for everyday purposes. "What, like, they find the infinity where the crabroach milk didn't spoil overnight?"

Not quite that specific, but yes, domestic integrators help with tasks like child-rearing, cooking, cleaning, navigating non-causal transit systems, and other mainstays of everyday corpo life. 68.3% of the Galactic Diaspora's population uses some form of domestic integrator, as they are the cheapest integrator to manufacture.

Obviously, not having an integrator is a long-term death sentence in a non-causal society.

I wrap the blanket around myself, sinking deeper into the cushions to watch the light grow brighter. No one else is awake yet, and I'm enjoying the silence.

"So what about the rest?"

27.6% are industrial integrators, dealing with all facets of material extraction and refinement; 3.4% are administrative, overseeing the overall corpo business plan; 0.7% are combat variants, which I trust needs no explanation.

I scratch my nose with a limb, unwilling to unwrap myself from my blanket cocoon.

"Only zero point seven percent? That doesn't seem like very much."

In a population containing almost a trillion individuals spread across five distinct corpos, it is still a very large absolute number, Sky. The standing forces of each corpo numbers in the billions, with double or triple that in reserves and training.

"That's... a lot?"

A human mind literally cannot comprehend what a billion means, Sky. Yes, it is 'a lot.' Fortunately for us, the Galactic Diaspora is a very large place. I anticipate facing no more than fifty thousand hostiles in any single encounter for the near future.

I stare out the window for a bit. I should probably be panicking. That still sounds like waaaaaay more than we can handle.

"...okay?"

Don't worry, Sky. Even a ten level differential makes a significant difference, no matter the field. With more levels comes more potential reality expressions.

"Levels are the 'infinity expressions' I keep getting?" I think about it for a bit, then shake my head. "No. I don't want to deal with that stupid box anymore. You take care of it. Make numbers go up all you want."

I already told you, Sky, I am unable to collapse the quantum waveform. That's your job.

"No, my job is to figure out how to keep MacWillie from going insane so we can save her and the village."

...and how will you accomplish that particular miracle?

I reluctantly crawl out of the blankets and pad into the kitchen.

"I'm not sure yet. You should figure it out. I'm going to make breakfast."

Box doesn't answer me, no doubt putting all of its prodigious thinking power-

Flattery won't help you accomplish the impossible.

-towards the task I've assigned it while I assemble my cooking materials. I'm used to making the morning meal for Great Grandpa and myself, though I'll have to double the usual recipe for our guests.

Did you forget how big Chief Engineer MacWillie is?

I triple the amount of ingredients and get to work. First, the darkfern flour goes into a large bowl, along with a couple heavy pinches of baking powder and slightly less salt, then I crack in some pricklethrush eggs and add enough crabroach milk to make it all slightly liquidy. A quick stir to incorporate the ingredients and then I put the broad metal cooking sheet on top of the electric stove and turn it on medium. As it heats, I chop up some shimmerfruit into small chunks, setting them off to the side for later, and put the milk back into the cooling box, taking out a half stick of the less-refined crabroach butter that's used for cooking.

Once the metal is hot enough, I grease it with the butter, enjoying the savory smell, then start pouring small circles of batter on the sheet. A couple minutes later, after the bottoms have browned enough, I drop some shimmerfruit chunks on each circle, then quickly flip them over with the scraper. Another few minutes of cooking and I scoop the fluffy discs onto a broad serving plate, then repeat the process.

Twenty minutes later I pour the last of the batter onto the sheet, a large pile of finished circles on the plate next to me, and the sounds of a waking house filtering past the sizzle of the stove. A freshly showered Huckens stumbles into the kitchen and takes a seat in one of the two small chairs set near the wall, bracketing a matching wooden table.

"That smells really good," he yawns, "are those pancakes?"

"I don't know what a 'pancake' is, but these are stove circles. We have some bloodberry jelly to put on top if you want."

I finish scooping off the last stove circle onto the serving plate and take the glass jar of bloodberry jelly out of the cooling box. Huckens eyes me and the bright red jar warily, but walks over and serves himself a plate nonetheless. I offer him a fork and he takes everything to the table, hesitating slightly before trying a bite. His eyes light up in pleasure.

"Hey! This is really good!"

"Of course it is," I roll my eyes, "I made it. Do you want water or crabroach milk?"

He indicates the first, and I fill a glass of water from the sink, serving myself a plate in the process. I settle in across from him, attacking my own plate of stove circles. They're perfect, as usual - I've been making them since I was old enough to reach the stove. Great Grandpa says my mother used to make them all the time, but as with everything he tells me of my parents, I was too young at the time to actually form my own memories.

"Huckens," I say, after we've both devoured over half our plates, "is there any way for someone to lose levels?"

He looks at me curiously.

"Why would you want to do that? The more levels you have, the stronger you are."

"But aren't you worried about going insane?" I mirror his confusion. He shrugs.

"Everyone loses it eventually," he replies in an even tone, taking another bite. "The more levels you have before you go, the better off your family is afterwards. If you get high enough, you might even be able to buy your family's freedom for a generation or two."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"That's right," he blushes, "I forgot you don't know anything about the corpos." He finishes off his last stove circle and twiddles the fork around between his fingers. "Way it works is, the corpos pretty much own you until you pay off your lifedebt."

"Lifedebt?"

"Price you pay to live in their part of the Diaspora. They keep the reality incursions under control, provide basic food and shelter, and then everyone owes a share back. Kids can't legally work until age eight, so you've already racked up a significant lifedebt at that point unless your family's rich." He scowls. "My family weren't rich."

"But why would a child need to justify the care required to raise it? That's what the village is for. Eventually that child will be an adult that helps raise another generation of children."

"Yeah, well, out there aren't your village." He picks at his teeth with the fork. "Anyways, most jobs don't pay enough to clear your lifedebt, but once your mind goes, your integrator can still keep earning for you for as long as your body lasts. Higher level you are, the higher level your integrator will be, better chance it has of clearing the lifedebt and maybe even making some extra for your family."

I push my last stove circle around the plate, appetite suddenly gone.

"That sounds horrible. People should help the village in a fashion they enjoy and are fulfilled by."

"Like I said, out there aren't your village." Huckens scowls. "And that's not the worst of it, not by a long shot. See, if your integrator can't pay off your lifedebt before your body breaks down, and most can't, then the debt gets passed on to the rest of your family. If they can't pay it off, then it keeps getting passed down to their kids, and then their kids' kids. Real easy to be born with a mountain on your back these days."

"That's awful. Why doesn't anyone do anything?"

His scowl flattens out, turns into grim acceptance.

"Like what? The corpo's got all sorts of math they say justifies what they're doing, and even if it doesn't, who's going to tell them otherwise?"

I fall silent, unable to formulate an answer. Everything he's describing sounds completely opposite of what I was raised to believe, the traditions that have kept us alive out here for so long. I force myself to finish the last stove circle, not wasting food, then take our plates over to the sink and begin washing them.

"Morning... whoa, who pissed in the breakfast bars?"

MacWillie steps into the kitchen, noticing our glum moods. Huckens turns to her.

"Was explaining lifedebts, Chief."

"Aye, that'd do it," she agrees. "Any particular reason the topic came up?"

"Sky wanted to know if there was a way to lose levels."

MacWillie gives me a penetrating look.

"And I can imagine why young Sky asked, for all the good a misguided inquiry like that would do."

"Chief, why did-"

"There has to be another way!" I burst out, flinging the scrubroot brush into the sink. "You saved the village! It's not right to ask you for more!"

Huckens glances between us in confusion.

"Chief, what's Sky talking about?"

MacWillie takes her time before answering, loading up a towering stack of stove circles and slathering them with bloodberry jelly. She leans back against the wall and chews one in contemplation, fork tiny in her scarred hand. Finally, she swallows and looks at Huckens.

"I leveled last night, lad. After you fell asleep. Cycler finally broke through, figured out how to tap the trees."

Huckens' eyes light up.

"But Chief, that's great news! You haven't leveled in so long! Did you get anything new that'll help us?"

"Aye, lad, some increased efficiency in non-causal power manipulation, but that's not the point. The level I reached was ninety-nine."

The excitement fades away from Huckens' youthful face, replaced by dawning comprehension and horror.

"...Chief, you never told me you was level ninety eight! Why didn't you ask for retirement?"

"I told you, lad," MacWillie says gently, "retirement isn't a choice for spacedogs like ourselves. Every engineer joins the engines some day." She scarfs down another stove circle. "It's only a matter of when."

"But, Chief, you don't have to work on the engines no more! We're not on the ship! I can learn how to work these trees for you!"

"Aye, lad, I appreciate the sentiment, but there's not enough time." Her face hardens. "Asides, a MacWillie always honors her word, even staring down the never-god herself."

Heavy silence fills the room, broken only by the periodic gentle clink of MacWillie's fork as she continues eating. Huckens is clenching and unclenching his fists at the table, and I'm scrubbing the cooking sheet hard enough to wear a hole in it.

A light tapping heralds Great Grandpa Axe's arrival, his polished cane clicking on the hardwood floor. He looks around the kitchen slowly, taking in our expressions, his wrinkled brows raising.

"Sky, did you use spoiled shimmerfruit in the stove circles?"

I bang the cooking sheet into the drying rack with a clatter and turn to him.

"It's Chief Engineer MacWillie, Great Grandpa," I exclaim in frustration. He sits at the table across from Huckens as I make him a plate and explain the situation. When I finish, his lips turn down as if he's in pain.

"Sky is right, Chief Engineer MacWillie," he says in his quavering voice. "We cannot ask you for more. You have already saved us once, despite not being from the village. We will find another way."

MacWillie takes my place at the sink, washing her dish.

"And I'm telling you there's no other way. This isn't something you can run from with what you have. The corpos are going to come for the Old Man's ship, and they're going to find you and these trees." She places the dish in the drying rack and turns around, folding her arms across her chest. "I told young Sky I'd help protect this village, and that's what I'll see done. That's my choice, not yours."

Great Grandpa Axe sighs, picking at his stove circles.

"You're right, even though I wish you'd choose differently. But," his face turns momentarily fierce, a glimpse of his younger self peeking through, "if that is your choice, then you owe it to all of us to delay your end as long as possible. Each second you live is another second you can uphold your vow."

MacWillie looks startled, then bursts into her raucous laughter.

"Aye, and aren't you feisty for someone closer to the grave than myself." She smiles and tilts her head at me. "I can see where young Sky gets it from. You have yourself a deal, Axe Memoriam. Asides," she marches over to the still-sulking Huckens and hauls him out of his chair in a headlock, "I have to teach the lad enough so he doesn't embarrass me when I'm gone."

"Hey!" Huckens yelps, trying to pry himself away from her hair-tousling grip, and I feel a small smile slip involuntarily across my lips, the dark mood suddenly banished. Even Great Grandpa Axe is chuckling softly, caught up in the moment.

The house feels more alive than I've ever seen, and I want to hold onto this sensation forever.