Shades Of Forever

"Dante. Dante!"

Frustrated, Margaret bangs the old-fashioned frying pan against the cast-iron stovetop, nearly spilling the steaming omelette within. Hovering in front of her, the holographic upper body of a blonde-haired woman shakes her head.

"I still don't see what you see in that creep, Mags. He doesn't appreciate you."

"He's... busy, June," Margaret scowls back. "Also, I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to call your boss a creep."

"I can call him whatever I want because he's suspended for misusing the lab and preventing us from vetting his work. Seriously, you can do better."

Margaret plates the omelette and settles down at her kitchen island with a sigh, a fork and some hot sauce extending up from within the surface of the floating slab of memory marble. She splashes the golden half-moon liberally with spicy red liquid and waits for it to cool, her eyes wandering to the simulated window currently showing a tropical beach, then she shifts on her stool.

"Look, I know you have reservations about him, but the way his mind works... it's fascinating. I've never met someone who sees the world quite like he does."

"That's because he's twistier than a corkscrew. We're still trying to figure out what he was trying to get the quantum tunneler to do. The math he's using doesn't add up."

Margaret slowly chews another bite.

"I'm sure it does to him. C'mon, June, you know Dante just wants what's best for everyone."

"He really doesn't, but that's your mistake to make. You're my best friend, Mags, and I wish you'd listen. Your track record with love sucks."

"June, that's not fair. Not everyone is as lucky as you and Hassan."

"That's because we actually pay attention to each other. I'd think you of all people would get that." A light blinks at the corner of the hologram. "Crap, I gotta go. More recalibrations. Have fun at your redneck family reunion thing."

"Have fun poking at reality. I'll call you when we get there."

Margaret touches the delicate silver choker at her neck and the hologram winks out. She stares at the half-eaten omelette in front of her, then pushes it away. Despite the expensive natural ingredients, she can't bring herself to keep eating it alone.

"Dante! Breakfast!"

Silence answers her.

"...dammit. House, make me a nutrient brick. Iguanaberry."

A thin rectangle extrudes from the island, laying atop a small plate. She grabs it with disgust and stalks out of the kitchen. She passes the small living room and pushes open the door of the bedroom that comprises the last section of her apartment.

"Dante!"

The rail-thin man pacing back and forth beside the bed doesn't seem to hear her, shock of brown hair mussed and a feverish focus in his eyes. Endless rows of mathematical equations hover in front of his face, moving as he does, and his hands swipe and poke at them sporadically, rearranging, adding, and subtracting pieces in incomprehensible fits.

He's also completely nude.

"Goddammit, Dante, you're not even dressed?"

His hands freeze, then he reaches up to the gold and black choker encircling his neck. A quick tap banishes the wall of symbols, his attention returning to the here and now. He grins sheepishly at Margaret.

"...oh. Uh, sorry. I had an idea on how to solve the zero-time tunneling architecture instability through-"

Margaret nearly throws the plate at him but manages to catch herself at the last second. She sets it down on the bed instead, not quite slamming the thin ceramic.

"We need to leave in five minutes or we're going to miss our pod! I told you to pack last night specifically to avoid this issue! Let's go!"

She starts flinging clothes from the dresser at him as he hastily dresses, picking out outfits that she won't mind cleaning dirt out of later. Even though her parents' compound is hermetically sealed, Margaret knows her dad is still going to want them to go 'hiking,' just like he's done with all her previous relationships.

Dante's wardrobe successfully handled, she takes a second to go through her own travel pack, checking that all the essentials are there. Three days of casual clothes, toiletries, rebreather and extra filters, all neatly stacked inside the durable backpack. Good. She looks up at Dante's muffled voice.

"Hey, have you seen my copy of The Book of the Law?"

Margaret frowns, hurrying over to stuff Dante's scattered clothes into his pack as he searches around beneath the bed, a trail of nutrient bar crumbs leading down the sheets.

"Why would I know where your book went? Don't you have it in your assistant?"

"Of course, but I need the original too. Otherwise I can't compare potential interference events."

A warning appears in Margaret's vision and she swears, jamming clothes in even faster.

"Dante, we need to leave-"

"Aha! Found it!"

Dante emerges from beneath the bed, triumphantly brandishing a thin book liberally festooned with paper tags sticking out at various angles. Margaret snatches it from him, shoves it in the pack, then closes the magnetic zipper with one hand while thrusting a pair of shoes into Dante's chest with the other.

"If you don't have those on in ten seconds I'm leaving without you and we are done. I am not missing my family reunion because you couldn't be bothered to care."

Dante scowls as he quickly works a shoe onto his right foot, then his left.

"It's not my fault I lost track of time, you know my research is nearing a breakthrough and-"

Margaret pushes him out the bedroom door, carrying his own backpack in one hand and fumbling hers over her shoulder with the other.

"Less talking, more moving. The pod's going to be here in thirty seconds."

The pair race to the front door, the small household butlerbot already unfolding from the wall to clean up the remnants of breakfast. "Lock up, House," Margaret calls out just before the door shuts behind her. An acknowledgement briefly flashes in her vision.

Outside, Dante is standing next to the guard railing that borders the apartment's public balcony. A sturdy metal rod stretches up and down in the open air past the railing, another connecting it horizontally with the other poles mirrored all the way down the building's side like a weave of prison bars. Round orbs zip along the metal lattice in abacus bead slides, stirring the thick orange air in warm blasts. One comes to a halt next to the railing, a hatch opening in its side, and the guardrail morphs into a small bridge.

Margaret watches Dante cross nervously despite the safety railings on each side, then joins him in the pod's comfortable interior, taking the cushioned couch opposite his and stowing her pack beneath it. The hatch swings shut and restraint straps slide around her body, then the pod accelerates smoothly downward. She taps a quick command on her neck choker and the top half of the pod turns transparent, revealing their descent through the city.

Towering buildings rise in all directions, all covered in the same grid of metal hosting countless conveyance pods weaving an immaculate tapestry of near-misses. She's always thought it makes everything look like it's covered in ticks, scurrying around and above and below but never through each other. The orange sky darkens as their pod descends to ground level, floor after floor flashing by in a smudged blur.

"Fire season's bad this year," she says, more out of a desire to start a conversation than to relay information the man across from her needs to know. Fire season's always bad.

"Fire season's always bad." He echoes her thoughts as a wall of golden numbers appears between them, incomprehensible even if they weren't reversed from her angle. "I'm going to... work on..." The symbology begins dancing as his voice trails off, hands conducting some symphony only he can hear. Margaret sighs. Maybe June was right. She touches her neck and brings up her own wall of words. At least the trip will give her a chance to catch up on the latest neurodiversity research.

The pod slots neatly into a gap on the ground level main maglev line and accelerates even faster; a single drop in a chain of beads zipping through the canyons of the city. Eventually they emerge from the shadows of the towering giants and enter the countryside - thick forests of trees hardy enough to withstand the planet's rapidly warming atmosphere interspersed with clear areas of tall grass and jagged rock, the maglev line cutting a straight path through it all.

The hours pass in silence, Margaret periodically looking away from her reading to watch gneiss and schist give way to sandstone and shale, oak and hickory spreading thinner and thinner until sweeping flatlands emerge beneath a sweltering azure sky, distant pyrocumulus clouds looming over the northern horizon. Orbital shuttles periodically pass overhead, adding their own puffy tracks as they carry would-be colonists on their long trip towards one of the other planets - maybe the red domes of Mars, or Saturn's dirigible settlements.

Halfway through the interminable sameness of the plains, she pulls out the prepared lunch she ordered the pod to store beforehand. Most of it is printed, some cubes of flavored vatmeat drizzled with a soy and ginger glaze along with some vitamin veggies, but Margaret allowed herself to splurge on some real blueberries and enjoys the sharp tang as they burst between her teeth. She thinks about offering one to Dante, but it's impossible to catch his eyes behind the sliding shells of numbers now taking up the entire other half of the pod, so she finishes them alone and returns to her reading.

Other pods join and leave the train periodically, whizzing off to their own isolated destinations along the metal arteries that keep this part of the planet connected, but Margaret and the man she's beginning to suspect she'll break up with when they get back to the city continue racing the sun on its endless journey around the planet. From another perspective, she thinks, we're desperately trying to stay in its focus as rotation tears us away.

Mountains eventually appear on the western horizon, baby teeth erupting into full-grown incisors and canines, the tallest capped with crowns of white. Before the train is even to their foothills, Margaret's pod peels away to the north, heading for a cluster of small two-story buildings. Deceleration starts imposing its force and she banishes her reading.

"Dante."

There's no response from the twisting golden dome covering the entirety of the other half of the pod. Margaret takes a deep breath.

"Dante, we're almost there."

Still no response. Another deep breath.

"Dante, I am trying to make this work, but I need you to work with me."

The silent gold continues to writhe. Margaret reaches down and very deliberately finishes the remaining water in her bioplastic bottle, then flings the small cylinder across the cabin as hard as she can.

"Ow!" The auric concealment wavers like heat haze then vanishes, revealing Dante petulantly rubbing his chest. "Why'd you... wow, there's nothing here. Interestingly barren."

Margaret is spared from answering with the pod's arrival at a short platform bordering the metal rail. A large, weathered man with his thumbs tucked into the belt of his rugged denim pants is standing next to a pile of boxes, sweat marks under the armpits of his red and blue flannel shirt. A spotless white Stetson hat bobs in time with a beat only he can hear, sun-wrinkled lips silently mouthing lyrics as one of his boots taps along. He stops as he notices the pod sliding to a halt, a wide smile creating deeper creases in his lined face.

The pod hatch swings open, letting in a furnace blast of air but Margaret ignores it, already leaping out with her arms stretched out.

"Daddy!"

She crashes into the bigger man who wraps her up in a bearhug, lifting her off the ground easily.

"Maggie! It's good to see you, girl. Been too long." He lets her down and looks over her shoulder at Dante, who's standing with all the grace of a wilted dandelion. "This the newest fella? Looks like he could use some meat on his bones." He extends his broad hand, which Dante reluctantly clasps. "Jeremiah Twithe, pleased to meet you." He pumps up and down, then frowns. "You got a grip like a dead fish, son. You do anything productive for a living?"

"Dad! Dante's working on cutting edge science!"

"So that's a 'no,' then." Jeremiah releases Dante's hand and turns to the boxes. "Guess they can't all be winners. C'mon, help me load the meat."

"Sorry about that," Margaret whispers to Dante, who shrugs. They both put their backpacks down and move to help Jeremiah transfer the pile of boxes into the interior of the pod, its couches folded back into the walls to create more storage space. Dante manages two of the heavy containers before he has to go sit down, overcome by the weight and intense heat. Jeremiah frowns again, but refrains from saying anything and they quickly finish. The pod hatch swings shut and it accelerates away from the station, leaving behind a deep silence broken only by the occasional birdcall.

Margaret soaks it in for a moment, relishing the sticky sweat along her shoulders and back that's starting to seep into her thin shirt. It feels like she's one small part of a vast whole, and while she loves living in the city and all it provides, there's a certain peace that hits her each time she comes back home.

"Fuck, it's hot out here," Dante grumbles. "When can we get inside?"

"Truck's parked over this way," Jeremiah replies, boots clomping against the wooden platform. "Let's get back to the ranch."

Dante staggers after him, leaving Margaret to carry both backpacks. She contemplates calling him back to take his share of the load, but holds her tongue. He's clearly physically fatigued and the packs are light as feathers after lifting the meat boxes anyways.

Jeremiah leads them to a large, four door white truck lifted above oversized tires, several toolboxes lining the sides of the truckbed. Dante climbs into the back seat, nearly falling on the way up. Margaret tosses the backpacks in after him, then shuts the door and takes the front seat. The interior of the truck is blessedly cold, air conditioning blasting full force from the dashboard vents, and Margaret groans in satisfaction. Jeremiah situates himself in the driver's seat and pulls away from the station, electric drivetrain emitting a slight whine.

"When you'd get an EV, dad? I thought you weren't letting go of Bertha until they pried her out of your cold dead hands."

"Damn Marxists on the planetary board finally made combustion illegal," Jeremiah grouses, engaging the vehicle's autodrive once they're on the main road. "Don't feel right, not hearing a truck rumble beneath you. And what happens when the dang batteries run out in the middle of the fields?"

"A fast charging solar sheet can easily-" Dante begins before Margaret interrupts him.

"I'm sure dad already has a solar sheet, babe. He's a big believer in being prepared."

"Damn straight. One of these days those commie Martian Marxists are gonna try something tricky and it's gonna be every man for himself."

Margaret tries not to sigh as her dad launches into his familiar rambling screed against communists, Marxist Martians, and the secret weather satellites funded by those Saturn hazehead hippies that keep making Earth hotter and hotter. She loves her family, but it never takes them long to remind her why she lives in the city. Jeremiah finally runs out of steam as he turns the autodrive off to take the exit for his ranch.

"So what's all your 'cutting edge science' gonna do, Dante, was it?"

Dante startles slightly, half-dozing against the truck's window.

"It, uh, well, I'm on the verge of breaking through the zero point quantum tunneling barrier via qabbalistic heuristics, which will allow us to harness the full power of non-causal interactions, since, as you know, we're currently limited to only instantaneous information transfer and-"

"You like football, son?"

"...I don't find myself with time for sport."

"Shame. I'm a Broncos man myself, but I gotta say, this might finally be those boys from Minnesota's year. Did you know they're still the only team who hasn't won the big one? Can you believe that?"

"I believe that meaningless contests of physical capability are-"

"How are the twins doing, Dad?" Margaret interjects quickly. "Still hellraising in town?"

"Annalee is, but Leeann's settled down ever since she married that Buford boy. No kids yet though, she says she wants to finish her third doctorate first. I tell her, how many doctors can fit in one person's body, but you know how she is when she wants something."

Margaret smiles at memories of her younger sisters.

"Yeah, I know. Remember that time she tried to ride one of the goats?"

Jeremiah guffaws.

"Damn near got her skull kicked in, but by god if she didn't eventually make that ornery bastard submit." A low dome appears in front of them, translucent triangular panels catching the sun's rays at their edges. "Cried her damnfool head off when it came time to butcher him." He glances over at Margaret. "Good thing you were still around to help her through it. You still doing that headology thing? Writing papers and winning awards?"

Margaret rolls her eyes.

"Yes, dad, I'm still publishing. My next paper is on stabilizing forces in isolated communities. There's lots of interesting data from the early off-world settlements."

"Hmmph, good, maybe you can use it to tell those damn Martians to stop being Marxists."

"...that's not- never mind. I'll send you a copy when it's finished."

"That's my girl." The truck reaches the dome, now revealed as a massive structure enclosing a small, one story house, several barns, and two long warehouses. Jeremiah guides the vehicle through the outer opening of an airlock built into the base of the structure, putting them in momentary darkness, then passes through the second set of garage-style roll-up doors. Dante looks around in interest at the transparent panels soaring overhead.

"That's a fascinatingly large geodesic dome. How did you solve the fatigue- ahhh, I see. Self-healing polymers. Clever."

"Cost an arm and a leg," Jeremiah grunts, "but it was worth it for a beauty like this." He gestures to the perfectly cropped grass extending on either side of the gravel road all the way up to the house, where it expands into a surrounding lawn so green it looks painted on the ground. Farther away several spreading oaks are allowed to grow amongst the waving fields of wild grass that extend all the way to the edges of the dome.

"It's for the summer months," Margaret explains for Dante's benefit, though she's not sure if he cares. "It gets too hot for the animals out there, so we keep them in here. The rest of the time Dad lets them range outside."

"Costs a lot to keep a cow alive these days," Jeremiah adds proudly, halting the truck in front of the house, "but here we do it right! Only reason I can charge the prices I do." He turns and winks at Dante, who stares back, nonplussed. "Alright, let's get you kids unloaded and I'll give you a tour of the house."

"Aww, Dad, do we have to do this every time?" Margaret asks, climbing down from the truck and opening the rear door to grab her pack. "It's embarrassing." Dante stumbles down after her, backpack giving him a rightwards list.

"I can't imagine there's much to tour. Do you live here by yourself?"

Jeremiah just smiles and ushers them to the front door, pulling it open. It leads directly into a modest living room, two armchairs facing an old fashioned physical screen mounted on the wall, an open-fronted hardwood cabinet filled with a china set below it. The top of the cabinet is covered in framed pictures of a young man and woman, their ages increasing from left to right, babies growing into children eventually joining them. The most prominent picture, however, is a larger one that shows just the woman smiling, looking at something slightly away from the focus, wind-whipped hair caught streaming towards the mountains rising behind her.

Margaret's heart aches when she sees it, just like always. Jeremiah tips his hat.

"That's Dorothy, my wife. She passed almost ten years ago. One of those new fungal infections that keep popping up. Caught it on a hiking trip to Antarctica and the docs couldn't figure it out in time."

"I'm sorry," Dante says softly, and Jeremiah claps him on the back.

"Why're you sorry? You didn't kill her. We had a lot of great years together. Wish we could have had more, but life's a bitch and then you die." He pivots, stepping through an empty doorway. "This here's the old kitchen. Don't use it much anymore." Jeremiah kicks the oven with his boot. "Doesn't work properly half the time, piece of shit that it is, but she loved it and I can't bring myself to get rid of the damn thing."

He leads them through the kitchen in three long strides and into a hallway with a door on the right wall, another open frame at the far end. Jeremiah waves at it.

"That's our old bedroom. You can stay in there if you want, but it's a bit dusty."

Dante looks at him in confusion. Margaret puts a hand over her face, knowing what's coming.

"Then where will you sleep?"

"Oh, don't you worry about me," Jeremiah grins. "I've got a little spot down in the basement." He pulls open the door to the right, revealing a narrow set of wooden steps leading down to an L-turn, lit by a bare bulb on the descending ceiling. "Here, let me show you." Dante warily follows him down the stairs, Margaret bringing up the rear.

As they turn the corner, the stairs descend to a wide dirt landing packed with old boxes, dusty and sagging, and some wooden chairs missing a leg. A dingy mattress half-covered with a wadded-up blanket is next to one of the unfinished walls, rootlets sprouting from the dirt like fine hairs. Jeremiah walks over to the far wall and turns, spreading his arms wide, a beaming smile on his face.

"See? I'll be fine. No bother at all to let you have the bed."

Margaret's cheeks flame red as Dante looks around slowly. "Looks uncomfortable," he eventually manages. Jeremiah's grin grows wider, perfect white teeth in gleaming contrast with his sun-browned skin.

"Oh, I didn't say I was sleeping here."

He taps the brim of his hat and the wall behind him shifts backward, then splits in half, bright light pouring out and silhouetting his form. A hubbub of voices accompanies the light, the unmistakable sounds of a party in progress. Margaret glowers at his dramatics, stepping past a stupefied Dante.

"Can we get on with it, Dad? I'm tired and I want to take a shower."

She punches him in the shoulder and he mock grimaces, then the smile returns.

"Let an old man have his fun, Maggie."

"It's old. You do this every time."

"And why wouldn't I?" Jeremiah points at Dante, who's still gaping at the sudden opening. "There ain't a show out there that compares to that expression." He nudges her with his elbow. "You remember that one girl you brought three years ago? Damn near thought she was going to piss her pants."

"You're embarrassing, Dad."

"Parents get to be like that. Come on, son," he calls to Dante, who lurches forward, mouth still hanging open, "let me give you the real tour."

Margaret follows him through the thick steel doors covered in a carefully applied layer of dirt, Dante holding her shoulder to keep his balance. The room beyond is an enormous open atrium plunging down three levels, metal doors studding each level at regular intervals, the ceiling covered in a flawless representation of the outside sky beaming light down. As they approach the chest-high barrier guarding the balcony edge, a large crowd of people becomes visible on the bottom layer, which is covered in that same perfect grass from outside. Groups of people are sitting on lounge chairs in various clusters, many with drinks in hand, while others are playing catch with a ball or chasing each other around. A huge pool is fed by a waterfall from an opening in the first level wall, and small children are shrieking and laughing as they splash around and leap from a diving board built into the second floor balcony.

"This... how... why...?"

Jeremiah nearly doubles over at Dante's loss of speaking abilities.

"Man's gotta have a hobby, son, and once Dottie passed, I had a lot more time on my hands. Those Marxist Martians are gonna invade us one of these days, but there's nothing saying a survival bunker has to be uncomfortable."

"I... there's no..."

"Anyways," Jeremiah continues, leading them clockwise along the balcony, "your rooms are on this level, in the family section. That's this one right here," he pushes a door open, revealing a well-lit hallway with alternating entrances on each side, some with green lights over them, others red, "and feel free to take whichever empty one you want. Those are the ones with the green light," he adds.

"I know, Dad," Margaret snaps, dragging Dante behind her. "You can give him the rest of the tour later." She marches towards the first available room, ignoring the spluttering sounds from Jeremiah.

"But I haven't even shown him the pantry yet. Or the armory!"

"Later, Dad!"

She ignores his continued protestations, hauling Dante into a comfortable bedroom with attached bathroom that wouldn't have looked out of place in any upscale hotel back in the city. Once the door closes she throws her pack on the bed and lets out a frustrated breath.

"Sorry about that. My dad, well, he can be a bit much."

"It's... remarkable," Dante responds, setting his own pack on the bed and sitting next to it. "Does this place have access to the qnet?"

"You think he'd build something like this without a qnet portal?" Margaret scoffs. "He probably had them bury an entire gateway somewhere out there." She steps into the bathroom and turns the handle for the shower. "I'm going to get clean. We'll meet the rest of the family downstairs."

"...okay."

Margaret showers quickly, enjoying the luxurious feel of real water instead of sonic waves, but she doesn't overindulge. Her sisters are waiting, and if there's any hope of salvaging her current relationship with Dante, she needs to get him out of his head and paying some attention to her. A couple minutes later, she turns the water off, wrapping a towel around her short dark hair and using another to dry herself off.

"Hey, are you..."

Her voice trails off as she emerges into the bedroom and sees a now very familiar golden shell. Her eyes tighten, and she lets the towel fall away, revealing her naked body.

"I'm naked," she announces loudly, "you want to fuck?"

The incomprehensible equations continue their endless dance, and her bubbling anger shifts to mounting sadness. Yeah, she thinks silently as she starts putting on a bikini beneath her light winter dress, this relationship is the only thing fucked in here.

"I'm going downstairs. You can join me. Or not. Whatever."

The golden light remains solidly fixed in place.

Margaret leaves the room without bothering to hide her passage, letting the door click shut behind her. Out in the hallway, she leans back against it, trying to force down the ache in her heart. She reaches up to her throat and taps the choker at her neck.

"Hey, Mags, how was the- oh shit, what's wrong, girl?"

"I'm pretty sure it's over, June." Margaret tries to keep her voice from breaking, because if she lets it, she's going to start breaking too. "He spent the whole trip working on his damn 'formula,' and he's still at it even when he knows I wanted him to meet my family."

The blonde-haired hologram winces.

"Damn. That's a level of creep behavior I didn't think even he could achieve. Now I really regret introducing you to him at that party."

Margaret wipes at her nose.

"It's not your fault. We had some fun times, but I guess I'm just not the priority in his life I wanted him to see me as."

"I don't think he was ever going to see you like that, honey."

She sniffs.

"I know, but I was hoping."

A light flashes behind the hologram and she pouts.

"Damn, I gotta go, Mags. More of these stupid calibrations. Hey, I cycle off this stupid rock in a month - when I'm back in the city the drinks are on me. Go try and have some fun at your hillbilly hoedown."

A small smile finds its way onto Margaret's face.

"Thanks, June. Enjoy Ganymede's ocean. Love you."

"Love you too."

The hologram winks out and Margaret straightens up from her slump against the door. She's sure Dante could have heard her entire half of the conversation if he cared, but the metal slab stays firmly shut. She wipes her nose one last time, then heads down to the party.

Jeremiah greets her as she steps out of the stairwell, blue jeans and flannel replaced with an obnoxiously loud Hawaiian shirt and swim trunks combo that shows off the tan-lines at his wrists and neck. He's still wearing the cowboy hat, and he taps it when he sees her alone.

"Where's your man? Still getting ready?"

"...I don't think he's coming down, Daddy. He's more focused on something else." She smiles ruefully. "Just another failed attempt at meaningful intimacy, I guess."

Jeremiah scowls.

"Little pissant. You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I've had plenty of practice."

"Hah. Tell you what, let's get you a real, honest to god sirloin cheeseburger and a beer and see how you feel from there."

Margaret wraps him up in a hug, pressing her face against his chest.

"Thanks, Daddy. You're the best."

The next few hours pass quickly, Margaret's mood improving immensely after the promised burger and five beers. She eventually finds herself sitting with her sisters by the pool, regaling them with her latest tale of woe as the screen overhead shifts to an amber sunset.

"Have you ever considered you're looking for a project, not a partner?" Annalee asks, waving her rum and cola around. "You keep bringing home these broken minds and then acting all sad when they are who they are and it doesn't work out."

"You're such a bitch," Margaret snarls, but there isn't any venom in it. "What do you and June do, compare notes?"

"Hah, now there's someone I wouldn't mind bringing home," Annalee chortles. "Too bad she's firmly on the other side of the fence." She downs her drink in one long gulp, then leans sideways off the chair, glaring at the shouting children in the pool. "If I catch any of you little shits pissing in there, I'm gonna stick you in the water purifier myself!"

"Only if you can catch us, you old bag!" one of the older kids yells back, and Annalee's lips peel back in what could charitably be called a smile.

"That's it, you little punks! Buford, give me your gun!"

The bearded man with close cropped hair sitting next to Annalee's identical twin sighs, then reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks and tosses a small pistol at her. She catches it neatly and drops to a knee, sighting at the boy laughing at her from the pool.

pop

A burst of compressed air fires a tiny gel-covered sphere, its surface ablating as it covers the distance until it fully dissolves, releasing the droplet of water just in time to hit the boy right in the center of his forehead.

"Pool fight!" shrieks a younger girl, and the horde of unruly children pull out their own weapons from ledges beneath the lip of the pool, sending a barrage back at Annalee. She curses, rolling smoothly to the side and flipping the lounge chair in front of her to act as cover.

"You goddamn traitor, Buford," she barks in between shots, fine mist spraying all around her, "you weren't supposed to give them waterguns too!"

"Seems only fair," the bearded man says quietly, a soft smile lighting up his features. He looks over at the woman lounging next to him, her smile a mirror copy of his. "Right, Leeann?"

"Absolutely, babe," she agrees, giving him a kiss. As she pulls away, Leeann smirks at her twin. "Start shit, get hit, right?"

"Betrayed by my own family," Annalee gasps dramatically, pegging another kid in the forehead, who falls back into the water with a squeal of laughter. "How could you?" She darts away from the upturned lounge chair, snapping off shots in between weaving steps. "I'm going to use your bodies to balance the pH levels!" she yells at the firing line of children trying to gun her down. "Where are my reinforcements?!"

Margaret giggles as other adults enter the fray, producing waterguns of their own in a surprise flanking maneuver, the impromptu battleground devolving into a chaotic mess of individual skirmishes.

"I still can't believe you haven't sold that and made, like, a trillion credits," she says to Buford. He shakes his head once, a sharp motion.

"Too dangerous. They're programmed to not fire unless the shot won't cause significant damage. All someone has to do is reverse that and..."

He shrugs, as if unable to explain the obvious, and Leeann kisses him again.

"And that's why I married him. My Buford, the gentlest soul I know."

Margaret tries not to feel jealous at their obvious love, but doesn't really succeed. She looks around to distract herself, familiar faces from her childhood everywhere.

"You know," Leeann says offhandedly, "if you're looking for someone to fuck because your date turned out to be an asshole, Randy Chan's always had the hots for you. Bella Martinez, too."

"Leeann!" Margaret feels her cheeks heating as Buford shifts uncomfortably. "I'm not going to screw someone just to spite Dante!"

Leeann shrugs.

"You should, but oh well. Your loss. Randy's sexy. I bet his epigenetics are fascinating."

Margaret finds herself following the movements of the chubby man moving like a dancer through the melee. It doesn't seem possible he should be able to change direction so quickly, but not a single pellet finds his body.

"Look, I appreciate the sentiment, but that's not what I need. I just want to get drunk and enjoy being home as best I can."

Leeann groans, draining her own drink.

"Sis, the entire town is here, and me and Annalee are the only ones related to you. If you don't want to fuck Randy, fuck someone and get it out of your system. As a double, soon to be triple doctor, I recommend this as sound medical advice."

"Bitch, only one of your doctorates is in medicine," Margaret shoots back. "Genetics doesn't count for fucking purposes."

"You sure?" Leeann waggles her eyebrows suggestively and Margaret bursts out laughing.

"Fuck you. I'm getting another drink."

The rest of the party passes in a pleasant blur, the overhead screen shifting from sunset to twilight, and then into evening. Fireworks are displayed at some point, children pass out in their parents' laps, and people vanish back to their rooms alone or with others. Eventually, Margaret finds herself standing in front of the door to the room with Dante in it, her hand half extended.

I don't have to do this. I can find another room. He didn't even come down to eat.

Her treacherous hand opens the door and her traitorous feet guide her inside.

One more chance. That's it.

The room, surprisingly, is dark, not a trace of gold to be found. Margaret swears as she jams her toe against a wall, then fumbles at her neck for the light command. Gentle illumination fills the room, revealing Dante curled up on one half of the bed, packs still occupying the other side.

"...Dante?"

He shifts, then unfolds, revealing his thin book clutched between both hands, as if he was cradling it in his sleep. Feverish eyes greet Margaret.

"I did it," he croaks, chapped lips showing clear signs of dehydration. "I finished the equation."

Margaret's heart jumps in her chest.

"...so you're going to spend the rest of the weekend with us?" She fumbles her light winter dress over her head, too tired to go to the bathroom and brush her teeth. Sleeping in a semi-wet bikini is fine and definitely won't have future consequences. "You'll meet the family tomorrow?"

The packs hit the floor heavily as she swipes them off the bed, and Dante's sleep-fogged eyes gain more clarity.

"Be careful!" he hisses, scrambling off the bed. "My athame is in there."

Margaret watches in disgusted fascination as he scuttles over to his backpack, digging through its outer pocket for an ugly-looking blade with a black handle.

I didn't pack that. When did he pack that?

"Are we going to bed?" she yawns, stepping around him so she can sprawl back against the fluffy comforter. "It's been a long day."

"A long day..."

Margaret raises her head at the poisonous tone of her most assuredly not anymore boyfriend.

"Do you even understand the complexities of the universe I've been unravelling?" Dante shakes his head violently, greasy hair flopping back and forth. "No. Of course you don't. How could you possibly understand the fabric of everything."

"You're being a real shitfuck," Margaret snaps, blood boiling unwanted sobriety in her veins. "I wanted you to meet my family and you've been a fucking prick about it."

"And what the fuck does your stupid family matter against the salvation of us all? I solved it, you stupid bitch! I have the key!"

Margaret pulls the comforter around herself, struck with a sudden chill.

"...I think you should go sleep somewhere else tonight. I'll get you a pod for the morning so you can leave."

Dante cackles, raising the twisted blade in one hand, the thin book in his other.

"You think time is going to matter? How quaint."

Margaret prepares to defend herself against the madman looming over her in the heart of her family's home, but the unrecognizable figure slinks into the bathroom, contemptuous words trailing his self-enforced isolation.

"They're going to finally appreciate me. What I've worked so hard for. I will fix what's wrong."

The bathroom door slams shut, and Margaret lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her arms and legs shake, chills traveling up into her torso as she tries not to hyperventilate.

I need to tell Daddy. I need to do something. Why can't I move?

Soft grunting issues from behind the bathroom door and she shivers uncontrollably.

I don't want to be here. Please.

A hologram appears in front of her, the weathered features of her solid rock appearing like an angel.

"Maggie, what's going on? That pissant's burning through the qnet bandwidth like a nicojunkie on his last cancerstick. What the shit's so important on Ganymede?"

Ganymede. June.

Margaret clutches frantically at her neck, scrabbling at the delicate silver choker. One hologram disappears, replaced by another.

"...ngghh, hey Mags, what's the emergency? I was sleep-"

"It's Dante," Margaret whispers desperately, trying to infuse her words with the urgency pounding her heart against her ribcage. "He did something. Said he 'solved his equation,' and now he's sending petabytes to Ganymede over our qnet."

June's lightforged eyes widen, taking in something Margaret can't see.

"...oh, fuck."

Reality suddenly rotates around a three-hundred degree circle, hysterical laughter accompanying the wrenching displacement, and Margaret, along with every human being in the solar system, witnesses the birth of something, regardless of distance from the point of origin.

It starts as a fitful crack. The stop-motion spread of a separation that doesn't make sense to perspectives constrained by the four axes of length, width, depth, and time. The intrusion extends along planes not yet named, and then reality is there. A window that is a door that is a journey that is a beginning that is an ending that starts once more collapses into a singular point that pulses relentlessly across an endless sea of universes.

June's hologram fixes me with a horrified stare.

"I don't-"

Ganymede explodes implodes vanishes as if it was never there and then the thing darts ahead of the system shock like a snake fleeing a cracked egg. My best friend disappears, caught in the backlash of whatever the fuck it is my shitfuck former boyfriend brought into existence and now it's engulfing my home.

I try to reach for her memory but everything is happening all at once.

"What-"

I'm suddenly on the front lawn, witnessing the calamity I gave shelter celebrate its false ascension beneath an ill-kempt sky. The oppressive weight above churns in a constant boil of sightless eyes, scarlet deadlight streaming down from the gaps between them.

"Yes!" Dante screams, bloody arms raised. He's carved jagged symbols across his flesh, a pale imitation of language. "It finally worked! I can see it all! The meaning of-"

His head explodes in a silent pop, crimson droplets turning crystalline and angular as they stream into an eager mouth that chews its own way into existence above him. His arms remain outstretched for a second longer, then the decapitated corpse topples over like a felled tree, the horrendous maw disappearing as violently as it appeared.

I guess I don't need to break up with him, I think, staring at the messy lump lying on the manicured lawn. That's nice. The overly green grass grows arms and starts tearing away chunks of waxy skin, rippling and undulating like something alive, so I pull the curtains closed in case any of the children are watching. I'm in shock. I should do something about that.

"-the fuck-"

I'm in the armory, staring at my dad. He has a grim expression on his face, loading shells into a shotgun laid across his lap. Buford hovers uselessly nearby, caught between his instincts to defend and destroy. Daddy loads the last shell with an emphatic push, his grizzled face set in determination.

"The Petersons aren't here. I'm not going to leave Jake and Mark to whatever the fuck Martian Marxist bullshit is happening out there."

"-is happening-"

Daddy is gasping in my lap, strange growths extending from his body, tumorous and tentacular in nature. The truck leaps away from the house in bounding strides, swatting away the few radioactive livestock still instinctually hovering around the grounds. The Petersons sob their thanks behind me, hugging each other tight, but I wave them to the shelter - it's not safe to be outside. The soon to be corpse in my lap grins at me, pristine white cowboy hat somehow still clinging to his bulging skull.

"We take care of each other, Maggie, no matter what. Remember that."

I promise the dead body in my lap that I'll remember his words for eternity.

"-to the-"

I'm speaking to my sisters, all our faces pinched and drawn. The blasphemous sky is dead, our solar and wind stifled beneath its wretched red suffocation. The qnet hasn't acknowledged anything for years, and we're running out of supplies in the shelter. The purifier no longer works despite everything Annalee tries, the very ground lashing out at us in mockery of Leeann's genetic manipulations, and the survivors are growing panicked.

"His notes might give us a solution."

I hate the words coming out of my mouth, hate that I'm giving him any sort of permanence, hate that we have nothing left to try, but it's the last thread I can grasp.

"He broke everything and I'm so sorry I brought him here. Maybe we can fix it."

We spend the next decade studying Dante's ridiculous book, his endless scrawls drawing unfounded conclusions, rationing our very lives as everything warps and twists around us. Trying to keep hope alive as we decipher the ramblings of a sociopath, reverse engineering the fits of madness that brought us to the brink of extinction. Trying not to despair as water and land continue failing despite our best efforts.

"-world?!"

All of us are gathered outside the battered exterior of our parents' single bedroom house, geodesic dome long since flown away into the gnashing sky of hate and madness. To stare too long at it is to invite insanity. We've finally cracked his code.

I bring the knife down on my forearm, inscribing the symbol for safety, and fix my gaze upwards. Accepting that impossible vista. Following in the footsteps of my worst lover.

Attempting to bargain with what he labeled a 'daemon.'

Perception is everything.

"I tie my life to yours, and yours to ours, through bonds unbreakable by time. As above, so below, and as below, so above. We are your shield and your safety. Accepting of everything that comes, trusting in everything that has happened. The pact is offered."

the pact is accepted

The world shifts along axes Margaret doesn't have senses to comprehend, yet she feels them just the same. She hands the athame to the figure on her left. Annalee makes three quick swipes, then hands the athame back, her body already shivering in crouched supplication, skin shifting to bone-white bark, crimson leaves sprouting along dissolving hair. With the last breath in her lungs, she gasps out the words.

"I offer life."

i accept life and return it

Her mirror repeats the motion, Leeann using the same bloodied blade to offer the same pain. The transformation engulfs her, eyes downcast, hands clasped in front of her stomach.

"I offer health."

i accept health and return it

A roar of pain bursts from behind the three. Buford steps in front of Margaret, bushy beard bristling, tears at the corners of his eyes, wicked blade already scarring his flesh, interrupting her before she can claim herself as the third sacrifice.

"Me! Take me too! I won't leave Leeann to that fate alone!"

i accept love and return it

His form pauses mid-stride, palms outstretched, ossification freezing him into a forever statue, the knife dissolving into dust. Margaret stifles the unbearable ache radiating through her chest, so much more than she imagined. Buford, gentle soul, was supposed to utter the final words, but the ritual must be finished.

"...I offer sanctuary."

i accept sanctuary and return it, with knowledge earned

Aeons take Margaret in their grasp, offering the briefest fragment of who she communes with. They dance among nebulae, dine on supernovas, sing frequencies that vibrate galaxies. They walk amongst the saplings, loving each other in ways indescribable, and slowly, oh so slowly, the tiny shoots grow, immortal bones fallen to sprout in mortal soil until their canopy shades an entire forest, waiting for time to lay claim to its denizens once more.

They live, they love, and words fail to encompass what they feel.

An endless second later, the sliver of eternity is gone, wrenched away by outside forces.

remember. what was. what might be. our hope

Margaret hunches over her desk, aged to senescence, caught up in temporality once more. Outside, she hears the bustle of a thriving village beneath the trees, a home carved out of the end of the world. It's not as perfect as they all imagined, but it's good enough. In front of her is a book, awaiting nothing more than a title. She remembers writing it over the past decades, or did she dance it among the stars? Maybe it was a waking dream. Was any part of it real?

She remembers the embrace of sanctuary, and even if it was a dream, she knows it is a dream worth pursuing.

No matter. The recollection must be named, a future made manifest. She reaches for her pen with shaking fingers, then laughs.

"I'm such an idiot. All of this, resting on a book."

Still chuckling, she gives the book its name, two simple words that contain so much more. She puts the pen down and shakes out her cramped fingers, walking over to the window overlooking the village square. Children laugh beneath blood red leaves, content villagers going about their lives, and that's how their life has always been. Protected, peaceful, alone. She places her hand on the pale trunk that forms the final wall of her study.

"One day," she whispers, "there won't be any outsiders."

She fancies the leaves rustling overhead whisper their thanks, and then she turns to leave, eager to join everyone else below. There's still daylight left, and there's so much living to do before she dies.

The village will survive.