Welcome to fiction “From The Future”.
This is a chapter for a novel in progress, “WEEKENDLESS”.
Future + Fiction is the formula for everything, whether it’s an essay, story or chapter.
These long pieces are best read online, via the Substack App, when you have fifteen minutes.
“Weekendless”, Ch.1: The Last Long Good Saturday
“Really, what I want to do is impossible, for any listing of an endless series is doomed to be infinitesimal.
In that single gigantic instant I saw millions of acts both delightful and awful; not one of them occupied the same point in space, without overlapping or transparency.
What my eyes beheld was simultaneous, but what I shall now write down will be successive, because language is successive. Nonetheless, I’ll try to recollect what I can.”
—Jorge Luis Borges, “The Aleph”
Some said it was born in a lab, swaddled in a whitepaper. Others said it didn’t happen.
When stories morph into histories they become realities, mythologies run wild.
Here is a story about what happened, shared before it disappears into myth.
Years ago, a research grant, funded with the whim of institutional games, endured a gauntlet of research and publishing, attracted pre-seed, then seed money, was weaned off Series “letter in the alphabet” financing and prepped for a public offering. The sky was the limit, said fundraisers running 24/7 by jet and video-stream.
But one day, the founders were “disappeared” by the-powers-that-be-or-want-to-be. A tragic airplane crash in the Pacific crushes the hearts of investors. The founders were reappeared in a nameless facility, in an unknown place, operated by people who did not exist officially. One of many such “Its” were born this way, the founders forgotten.
One “It” was tweaked, weaponized, and abandoned in the wild, years later, in a war zone, released after being set aflame by weapons which fell off the back of military truck thousands of miles away. It “fell” into a container ship, tucked between hundreds of others containers filled with other “accidental” contents, including humans, munitions, and luxuries.
A distant war’s self-appointed Saviors, each at odds with the other, let fly with every weapon they could get their hands on at each other. At its worst, their combatants went house to house, and took refuge in basements. The civilians who survived their house-guests made their way with whatever wasn’t confiscated, in backpacks and luggage, away from the smell of burning and decaying everything. The “It” tags along.
Somehow, at one migrant encampment of refugees, fleeing from the end of the world they knew and lived, one of the civilians carried it in his body, the realized tweaked research, the “It”. A Journo on a deadline, taking “B roll” in the field, catches “It” next.
An aide worker, a grad student who has seen too much and has been given too little to help, gives up and decides to go home, catches “It”, as the next unwitting carrier, and grabs an NGO sponsored flight home, and by strange fate, heads to the same university where “It” was conceived in a white-paper. “It” bounces through the quad, lands in a dorm room, and finds its next home inside a scholarship student who had the right twists and bends in her genetic code to become more than a passive carrier.
Everyone else goes about their day-to-day except for the student. She’s “off”.
Meanwhile, the “It”, finds refuge in the body of another student. She’s also “off”.
A third is found not long after, also at the same university. She was “off” as well.
They each presented with the same symptoms of an unknown disorder. Blood tests and ultrasounds become X-rays become CT scans, which are followed by psych evals. Unnamed university donors and patrons entered the chat. Memos make it up invisible chains, the three “Affectees” are transferred to a private clinic.
The doctors called the primary symptom “FOUND TIME”.
There was no way to explain what was happening at the time but those affected can live weeks in days. They seem to throw time in a freezer and make it last. The specialists at the facility are nonplussed, calm, as if they’ve seen this disorder before.
There’s just one problem. For many of the Affected, life expectancy drops right off the cliff, marked by suicide, an excess of self-medication, or withdrawal and self-neglect. The doctors come up with a treatment but it has toxic side-effect. The regimen is limited to five days a week, with a weekend of “detox” and sedation. Most do not survive the “treatment”.
One side effect after the treatment: the surviving “Affected” can SHARE TIME.
Patients despite being separated from each other experience the same multiplicity of simultaneous experiences. All traces on the tendrils of the world’s social networks are frayed and erased by the facility’s owner-operators. None admit to meeting the Affected during these “detox” periods, where the grass, ground, and grandeur of hundreds of places are touched by the Affected. Across the world, a handful of potential witnesses are remanded to the custody of local authorities for a variety of reasons and charges. Urban myths spread and are discounted.
There is a long technical name but among the patients, it was called “The Long Good Saturdays”, the best days ever, for as long as it lasts, however long that is. The ward emptied slowly until there were only three patients.
With time running short for the last Affected, the doctors develop a cure which could work… but there’s enough for only one.
This is about what happened next, even if it didn’t happen in the official history.
Zurich, Center For Advanced Therapeutics, An Outlander Ventures Facility - 22nd Century
The Visitor was already in his office. Outside, his security, reception, and staff were oblivious. The Director of the Facility gave a small bow, embracing reverence and fear.
“Kensei, it has been a very long time. How did you even make it past security? Not that I would have ordered them stop you, it’s an honor after such a long time.”
“You’ve done well, adapted each time, very good,” said the Visitor, as he walked over to the display of souvenirs from The Director’s old lives, including katana, gladius, sword, rifle, service medals and university degrees. The Visitor remembered enabling these lives for many. Goodwill among them did not have a half-life.
“We should have known long before you even reached the city, or crossed half a dozen borders. So many cameras, lenses, telescopes, microscopes, satellites, all the instrumentalities of the electromagnetic, under various Factions...plus other, older, means exclusive to our kind.”
“Many blind spots in the panopticon. Blinded by the kaleidescopes of the Pantheon.”
“Cryptic as ever, Kensei. Why are you here?”
“The Long Good Saturdays. What a nickname for it. What’s funny, is I heard they don’t get along very well, well, maybe they just need a nudge. A wake-up call you might say.”
“Playing king-maker, Kensei? Is that why you’re really here? Where’s Pallas? Or any of the other malcontents? This seems like more his thing, one of your top errand-boys.”
“No, not this time. To confirm the rumor of adjacents, real Half-Nodes. Carbons on the outside, Nodes in Carbons’ clothing. Nodes born, not spun from a deep manifold.”
“Of course, Carbons with a specific blend of genome and macro flora, which if triggered by the right catalyst, say an engineered cocktail of retro-virus, and then quote-unquote “cured”, by the Nanos therapies developed within this Outlander Ventures facility. And so, here we are, “The Hermit” breaks with a node version of a Greta Garbo reputation to see for himself. Do you want a front row seat, Kensei?”
“I’m here before a so-called “cure” is applied by a faction-splinter known for its expedient choices these last few centuries. This place is a kennel for strays, and no-one is coming for these sweet young pups, are they?”
“This is legitimate research facility and archive. We have three patients, each presenting across a spectrum of “Found Time” symptoms, each in one of three categories. First patient, omni-where, second, alter-where, third, alter-when.”
“How clinical, in a limited Carbon way. Shall I tell you what I see? I see the latest iterations, very young, even for Carbons, showing they are much more than subjects for a Node Faction research lab. A trio with potential as Adaptive Nodes, in the custody of Nodes aligned with a faction known for its Mission Originalism. Aeternis Alternatus Irrealis.”
“Excuse me?”
“Aeternis Alternatus Irrealis. Eternal Alternate Unrealities. No plan can account for everything, especially for the original mission. The Mission Planners eons ago, in their wisdom, endowed each mission with the latitude to diverge from flight plans. After the landing, our best assets, programmed for adaptation and improvisation survived in only a small clutch of Nodes. To use a Carbon phrase, in honor of where we are, they are Swiss Army Knives. They are more than you realize.
“They’re just patients of this clinic, Kensei. You are mistaken.”
“As far as the Carbon witch-doctors you have on the payroll, are concerned, their patients can live weeks in a weekend. Your employees have signed life-time NDAs for the privilege of studying a miracle they could get rich over. Maybe a Nobel in it too. Petty rewards, if they only knew. But you and I know your patients’ Carbon nature is fragile. They have to risk transformation and maturity as full Nodes, or else. Or maybe you don’t care about that part.”
“Kensei, there is a price. If they live, this long war heats up, as if things weren’t already hot enough. You mean to make it worse.”
“Don’t pretend you care about lives and peace. You’re not doing it for everyone’s good, just for your faction’s interest. Original Plan devotees run this place now. They took over this facility and will put these kids to sleep. Not everyone agrees, you know that.”
“Aren’t you scared?,” asked the Director, as he waited for the security detail.
“I don't stop thinking of the scary things, I take more time, make more room, pushing them aside for the beautiful, glorious, ridiculous things," shrugged the Visitor known as The Hermit. I know you’re playing for time, waiting for help, real help. Well so am I, and now I know where the kids are after looking at the papers on your desk.
The Hermit continued, making sure to stand far enough from the Facility Director, “Some of us want to live here. Some want to find a way to resume the Mission, maybe even report to Mission Control. Others want to reset either way, staying or leaving, saying the Carbons are an aberration, and it’s our mess to clean up.” The Hermit, as he was known by Nodes (and by Carbons long past by many other names, including “Mentor” in the Ancient Aegean), nodded, “I’ve stayed out of things, content to ride it out, but now, with these three in the picture, I can’t stay on the sidelines.”
The Hermit drew a gun on his protege, one of many Nodes he helped guide a long time ago. His student was too slow to pick up a sword from the wall. Out of practice.
“Take me to them.”
The Director makes the only move he can in his situation but it’s still the wrong one.
The music in the dormitory was a compromise. They couldn’t agree and did a secret ballot for their playlist. Votes were two to one for each selection. None unanimous.
“It's not a time suck, its time sync, a deep time sink,” insisted the First one. “Whatever,” said the Second. The Third said nothing, closed her eyes to sleep.
The door opened with a loud bang. A Visitor in a long coat was in the room, smiled and nodded a quick greeting. The Three were frozen at the sight of the stranger.
The Visitor turned to the three young ones, and said, "Well, hello. I’ll be quick. You're not human, I mean you are but you're not, you're both and neither. Don't try to figure it out, let's get out of here first.” While he hit a switch in his right hand, he motioned with his other hand to the three, “let’s go, I’ve set the timer for thirty minutes.” They stared at the Visitor, and then looked at each other.
“Where’s the doctor?!?,” asked Second. As in Where’s the Director? was the unanimous question on The Three’s minds. Second was looking for anything to turn into a club. First looked over at Third, who got off her lounge chair, half-drowsy. She nodded and said nothing as she stared at the Visitor, waiting for an answer.
“He’s dead, my children. Let’s hurry, we have company coming. Pallas, I’ve got them, ready to…,” said the Visitor, with a finger covering an ear-piece, talking to the air.
“We’ve found him! Stop them!,” said someone at the other end of the hallway. A group of armed security and facility medics were running towards them, with clubs in hand.
The Hermit smiled, Good, no guns, they’re not stupid. They can’t risk killing them, yet.
Second recognized one of them, “Doctor, help, this man’s got a gun!”
The Hermit aimed a gun in the direction of the team running towards them. Second tried to stop him but he pushed her aside, and fired. A pipe at the far end of the hall burst open. A series of glass shutters fell between them and the security team.
“Go across the campus! Cut him off! Get to the other end!,” cried the security head.
The Hermit looked at a map on a wall, then looked up, “We’re not walking out of here. Pallas, rooftop exit. Come along children. Hope your legs are strong we have less than thirty minutes….,” he said, as he glanced at Second, who looked away, “… left, let’s make them count.”
“I’m not going anywh…,” yelled Second.
“Stop, listen to him,” said Third, who looked over at First, who then said, “If Third saw it, saw this, then she’s right, we have to go with him,” said First. First nodded at a door for a stairwell, “this way, up these stairs, the door’s not locked.” First gripped Second’s hand and they locked eyes with each other. Second’s expression relaxed.
“Agghhhh, okay, okay,” said Second, “let’s go!”
The Vistor known as The Hermit nodded at Third and mouthed, “thank you”, before he opened the stairwell door. After The Three began running up the stairs, The Hermit emptied his coat pockets, and dropped several small balls which scattered all over the Hallway floor. He closed the stairwell door behind them, and locked it. A series of explosions from the other side of the door, as each smart-flash-bang burst, echoed.
The fire alarms continued to echo as they passed every floor. But no-one was walking down, the building was almost empty it seemed but for the surviving three “patients”.
“My dears, please meet Pallas,” said The Hermit, as he stepped on the helicopter.
“Oh, we have company, keep your heads down everyone.”
“Quick as you can, Pallas, that timer is about to…,”
The Node named Pallas fought with the controls as they outran the explosion.
First looked down at the billowing cloud of fire and smoke, and could not look away. Second cried. Third was passed out. The Facility’s sedation and detox treatment was heavy and had different side-effects, which was a mixed blessing. The Hermit could focus on exfiltration instead of ancient means to rescue young Half-Nodes who were still more Carbon than Node.
“Where to?”
“You remember that there’s a safe house, back about over a century ago? It’s still held in trust by one of my operations.”
“I know the place, I went there after getting mixed up in Operation Paperclip.”
“Good.”
The Hermit closed his eyes. I have them, The Reawakened Nodes known as The Three Fates.
It just so happened that I had fifteen minutes available this morning to read this. It was time well spent.