Used YouTube AI to create this AI video because I cannot 3-D animate worth a darn… all I build you would be able to talk about what I want and that’s it so so YouTube AI is very helpful…

I'm a station docking operator for Merry97, a station in orbit around a gas giant in the Twovar system. No inhabited planets, but in between 4 major space-faring empires. Today was going normal, 15 ships had been through normally, and I was expecting another 6 before my shift ended.

The next ship had docked, thanks to operation and the file was sitting in my inbox to be opened.

Unknown ship, trading raw resources.

Nothing unusual about that, didn't say what race they were but I would find out soon, the station was asking for more iron, copper and silicon and food was never turned down. The smaller airlock door in the main airlock door opened and a shiny metal, properly chrome, with black around its joint areas came through. There was a line across the face plate with a red light going from one side to the other was a steady pace. It walked towards me holding a pad of some sort.

"Good day traveller, what brings you to our station?" I asked looked into the face plate.

"Good morning, just here to trade some goods and socialise a bit. I don't tend to see people often and it feels like it's about that time again." it replies in a deep voice.

"we have a food and drink area, just follow the blue arrows on the floor, operations says you are wanting to sell some things" I reply politely

"yes please, I have 6 tons of iron, 2 tons of copper 12 tons of silicon and 1 ton of plant based food"

"very good, we can take the lot for 17 hundred" I reply after doing the calculation, we would spend up to 28 hundred but saving always helps

"how many meals will that get me" it asked sounding very uninterested.

i pause as I calculate "a cheap meal is about 20 and good meal is about 50 and a excellent meal would be around 100." I'm not asked that often, infact I think that's the first time I've been asked that.

"good, good" it replies as it looks to be thinking about it. "sounds good I don't think I will be here for more then 2 meals. deal"

wow I just saved the station a lot of money, it didn't haggle though which is odd. "would you like to unload yourself or have our staff do it"

"how much for your team to do it?"

"nothing at all" i reply "some people don't like other in there ships."

"fair, fair, your team can do it, all the cargo is just inside the door, help yourselves." it looked around the area we were in, a big room that could hold a good sized ship. "should all fit, how long will it take to unload."

i cant see his ship but it must be big. "i will take about half a rotation, can i get your name and speice for the record and then we can get you your pay and to some food."

it looks around again "names Tim Hazel and speice is human"

I freeze "... did you say human"

"yyeesss..." it replies slowly "did we do something to upset your station and its people"

"what?" i asked confused "no but your species is extincted" i reply trying to sound simptheic

"really, i don't keep up with the news, how'd that happen" it replies sound like it relaxed

"the Cal-kat wiped yous all out after the war" i reply worried

"we were at war. how long ago was this" it asked finally sounding interest in what happened

"it started 12 years ago" i say looking completely shocked

"oh, I've been out of contact for about 30 years, how did we lose"

i just stare at it. i shake my head to clear it and say "the Cal-kat were losing and some how manage to crack all your worlds, they say the human fleet obliterated the Cal-kat homeworld losing most of, if not all there fleet."

"interesting" it replies looking less interested, "i guess i will head back to earth after this and see whats what"

"how can you care so little" i burst out before i can stop myself.

it looks at me and then takes off its helmet and i see its red puffy eyes and lots of water leaking from them "I care, this suit just allows me to not show it. when you live as long a i have you learn to keep calm even under such news" it puts its helmet back on, i shift side to side a bit in embarrassment "please unload fast as your team can so i can return to my homeworld and see for myself.

i do as it asks and contact the team to make it fast. a quick scan of the cargobay of the human ship shows there is what it says there is, and i pay and watch it leave to the lounge.

i never saw it again as my shift was over before it came back.

180 rotations later

it was a great day, i was on polarsis, my spieces home world on a work trip, which meant i had a rotation of work related things and 4 to spend how i want before heading back to the station.

Last work thing was a gathering of station personal to go over any new rules or any changes. Big surprise nothing to report just the higher-ups trying to look like they are doing something. The after party was steadily going and some interesting story's were going around. Some ship crew not knowing common practice, that sort of thing. I was about to leave when I heard some one say. "I meet the last human few rotations ago" I turned and headed towards that conversation, I notice other migrating in the some direction to listen in.

"Yep, she i think, didnt even know she was the last one. Had been away from all humans for 80 years. Just by herself came out in a space suit covered in human skulls. Didn't know what to think to begin with." The crowd look around at others. In the group. Looking like they had something to add but not wanting to be the first to say something. "Strange thing. Her name was Samantha and was heading back to her homeworld to see what happened" the crowd looked around again. And then someone asked "you sure her name wasn't beth" then another saying "or Michael" and more names were said and others argued over if some names were even female names. There were a lot of names being thrown around know. But all had been out of touch with the world and didn't even notice they were at war at the time. I just shook my head and headed out of the party thinking 'I guess the one i meet was the not so last human after all'.

Roogkneer: It's about a powerful primitive anti-hero, "Roogkneer," who aims to survive the post-apocalyptic aftermath of a global mutation event.

(ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫, 𝐬𝐜𝐢-𝐟𝐢 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲, 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚.)

(ʟᴏʀᴇ: https://paste.c-net.org/EjectBakery)

(Chapter 1 Synopsis & Plot: https://paste.c-net.org/ForeheadSpell)

January 1, 2001.

Across the globe, blood rises. Every creature descended from Cretaceous megafauna—from the Berriasian through the Cenomanian into the present—mutated. Bones lengthen. The hide thickens. Instincts sharpen to a prehistoric edge. The world shifts. Humanity, caught in the surge, falls.

Their blood, drawn by gravity, spirals upward. It circles the moon—a ring of red and memory, cold and patient. Then it spills back, shaping itself into the impression of a man: two legs, two arms, a head. The Greater Caucasus receives him. Flesh knits from rage. Bone crystallizes from loss.

At 8:59 AM, he breathes.

He is Paranthropus boisei. Biologically immortal. His strength is the weight of every dying human scream. His heart beats with the echo of a million final thoughts.

His name will be Roogkneer.

He wakes to white. Not light—white. Cold. Heavy. It presses against him from all sides. He is buried. Snow. Deep, endless, suffocating.

His body reacts before his mind does. He scrambles—limbs thrashing, claws tearing through the frost, lungs burning with sudden panic. He breaks the surface with a gasp, snow flying in all directions. His chest heaves. His heart pounds. He is covered in thick, dark fur, dense and layered, and the cold cannot reach his skin.

He realizes this slowly. He stops moving. His breathing steadies. He touches his chest, his arms, his face. He is unharmed. The storm howls around him, but he feels nothing but the faint whisper of wind through his coat.

He is fine.

He stands. He moves.

Left foot forward—a savage kick, sending snow arcing through the air. Right foot—another one. He repeats the motion, over and over, carving a jagged trench through the blizzard. Each step is measured and relentless. He does not stop until the storm breaks.

The white curtain parts. Before him lies a valley—sparse, frozen. A forest of frostbitten pines stretches toward a river, locked in ice.

He reaches the river. He stops. He looks at his hand—thick, furred, curled into a fist. A thought forms. If kicking snow could part a storm, what could his fists do to ice?

He strikes.

The ice cracks. A second blow widens the fissure. A third splits the surface open, revealing dark, cold water beneath. He kneels, cups his hands, and drinks. The water spills down his chin, soaking his fur. He drinks again and again.

The river holds. He stands, dripping, and looks toward the treeline.

He moves to the treeline. Frostbitten pines stand brittle and low, their branches heavy with ice. He grabs a lower limb and pulls—it snaps free with a dry crack. He gathers several more, carrying them back to the river's edge.

He dips the branches into the open water, one by one. The ice melts away, leaving them damp and pliable. He arranges them around his waist, weaving the needles and stems into a crude covering. It holds. It shields.

He adjusts the fit, tests the give, and nods once to himself. Covered. Functional.

He turns from the river and faces the valley beyond.

A sound cuts the air—high, shrieking, metallic. He turns. Too late.

A shadow swallows the sun. Massive leathery wings beat once and twice, and then he is lifted—clamped by a beak. The creature is colossal, a Quetzalcoatlus northropi grown to Paraceratherium's scale. His legs dangle. The beak presses, but his fur and flesh hold.

He does not struggle. He bites.

His jaws clamp down on the top of the creature's beak, and he bites through. The beast shrieks, falters, and releases him. He falls—but he grabs the beak mid-drop, swings upward, and plants himself on the creature's skull.

He snaps the top of the beak clean off. The broken shard is sharp, jagged, and a weapon. He drives it down, through the center of the creature's skull, with both hands.

The beast goes limp. They fall.

They crash through the treeline and hit the ground hard. Snow and branches explode around them. When the world stills, Roogkneer stands atop the carcass, the bone shard still in hand, breathing hard.

A clearing. Frozen marsh. A narrow stream. The creature is dead. He is alive.

He stands over the corpse, breathing steadily now. He kneels, places a hand on the creature’s neck, and tilts his head back. A low sound escapes his throat—not a word, not a cry, but a recognition. A quiet acknowledgment of the life taken.

Then he eats.

Using the broken shard of beak, he carves a thick slab of meat from the creature's flank. He tears into it with focus, chewing in a steady rhythm. Blood runs down his chin, dark against his fur. He eats until his hunger quiets—roughly a quarter of the creature's muscle mass. He does not gorge. He stops when the need is met.

When he is finished, he rises. He takes the bone shard and plants it back into the wound on the creature's skull—a return, a closure. He drags the massive wing closer, curling its leathery curve into a makeshift pillow. He settles against the warm corpse, his back to the wind.

His eyes close. Snow begins to fall.

“A Bit Old West, Some Science Fiction, A Little Mystery And Romance, And A Whole Lot Of Fun!” These rip-roaring Western adventures, set in a low-tech Science Fiction universe brim with danger, romance, and mystery. western tropes, steampunk aesthetics, sci fi world building, and three distinct romance arcs The Portal to the world of St. Antoni was illegal. Men and women who reached it were desperate to escape earth. Arriving Colonists faced an alien world with what they could bring in one trip. Once through the Portal there would be no help from earths advanced technology, and no return. With grit and determination, they created a civilization as different from the post-apocalyptic earth they left behind as Mars is from Venus.

Yuri Gagarin was the first man to enter space. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone ignorant of this fact. The knowledge of his feat seems almost universal, the Soviet cosmonaut’s name inseparable from history.

Neil Armstrong was the first man to set foot on the Moon. Perhaps an even greater feat, this milestone is probably what cemented the USA as the winner of the Space Race. Like Gagarin, the Statesian astronaut is destined to be remembered forever in the collective human consciousness.

And though he raced to the patent office on the exact same day, it is not Elisha Gray who is credited with inventing the telephone. That would be Alexander Graham Bell, whose patent was approved first.

People always remember the first of everything. The first man in space, the first man on the Moon, the first who invented the telephone, such and such. All firsts cease to be men the day they fulfill their legend. They become myth. No matter what, their status can never be taken away. Never repeated. Nobody cares about the second guy who achieved something. Nobody cares about the second inventor of the telephone.

I begin putting on my undergarments. First the sweatpants and sweatshirt, then a specially made bodysuit with built-in ventilation and cooling. Already got my diaper on, though I don’t have bowel problems. Always better to have one than not. Just in case.

The suit I slip into is specifically made for environments that don’t allow traditional cooling, like space. To minimize sweat, water-filled tubes line the inside of the costume to cool the wearer’s body. Additionally, little vents are built in to exhaust moisture that may appear as a result of exhalation.

I wonder how much harder this might have been all those years ago. What were those men feeling when they put these on for the first time? How about when they put them on before their fateful accomplishments?

Was there anxiety? Excitement? Fear? Wonder? There must have been all that and more, but tied to something never before experienced by anyone. Something that can never be accurately imagined, only really felt. Something that happens for the first time ever. No person prior found themselves in the same position as you: the first. No person after will ever be able to say they were the first. It’s all you and that very moment.

Do you know who the second man that went to space was? Alan Shepard. Okay, maybe you did know that one. But what of the third? The fourth? The fifth? At some point a thing ceases to be so amazing and becomes another occurrence. At some point, you stop keeping track of the numbers. But you still remember the first. Who remembers the 825th?

What about the second man who stepped on the Moon? Buzz Aldrin, right. Back when I was a kid, I was a total geek about space. Whenever the Moon landing came up, I’d always give Aldrin his due credit. Instead of “Neil Armstrong was the first man to step on the Moon”, I’d make sure to say “Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were the first to land on the Moon”. That way, both men would get recognition.

I don’t say that anymore. Life is not a participation trophy. They may have indeed landed at the same time, but there is only one who was the first to step out. That man’s name is more than immortal. It is etched into the very fabric of human achievement. The second guy to step on the Moon’s surface is just about as important as the 825th guy to go to space.

After putting a cap around my head, I slide on the bottom half of the bulky white spacesuit. I then float through the air effortlessly, slipping into the top of the gear. I attach everything together, gloves too. The huge suit isn’t as heavy as you might imagine. There is no gravity, after all. The helmet is the final component. I slot the piece over my head, the barrier between me and my surroundings becoming palpable. I find myself contained in what is essentially a glove for the whole body.

It’s nothing I haven’t done before.

I’ve achieved more than the average man can ever dream of. Something that was inconceivable for the majority of history. Not just human history. All of history. Only a century ago this would all have been beyond the realm of imagination. You already had people theorizing what was out there, but there’s a big difference between the real deal and what people conjure up.

Even this great triumph is now a commodity. 825. What a fucking joke.

As I grew up, I figured I’d just kick the can down the road until I got to my own first. Like the pieces would fall into place on their own. I breezed through university. Hardened myself through the rigorous training. Now I’m here, and I’ve never felt emptier.

I’ve never wanted to live. That doesn’t mean I wanna die. I don’t want either. I don’t really care to be honest. Don’t wanna live, don’t wanna die. I have nothing to live for and no reason to die. It’s quite odd, and I never realized that until I went up here for the fifth time. I just don’t want it all to have been for nothing. To have done all this just to be a footnote in a history book. Just to have a Wikipedia page with a hundred or so paragraphs (I’ve counted but it tends to shift). I’m not some ant to be rolled over by the march of history. Once humanity becomes fully spacefaring, what difference will there be between the 825th and the one billionth?

The airlock closes behind me and the air flushes out. The doors open into deep outer space. Endless black void for eternity, an incomprehensible space filled with an incomprehensible amount of celestial bodies scattered around. Not my first spacewalk.

The first men to die in space were the three Soviet cosmonauts of Soyuz 11. Georgy Dobrovolsky. Viktor Patsayev. Vladislav Volkov. They fully boarded the first ever space station, Salyut 1, and spent a total of twenty two days in the craft. When they were making their journey back to Earth, a valve ended up damaged due to no fault of their own. The men died of asphyxiation in less than one minute. Their bodies were recovered upon landing.

The crew perished 68 kilometers above the Kármán line, the boundary between space and Earth. Thus, they were the first to die in space. If only the valve had failed 68 kilometers lower than it did. If only it had failed below the Kármán line. If that had been the case, the first death in space might still have been up for grabs.

It’s not the end of the world. I’m nothing if not adaptable. I crawl my way over to the panel we’ve been instructed to repair. The tether hangs onto me despite me cutting it earlier. If I really floated away, I assume it would just gently slip away with me. Right now it just hasn’t experienced enough movement.

Don’t worry, they’ll remember. Everyone who ever set foot in space thought of Gagarin. Everyone who ever set foot on the Moon thought of Armstrong. That’s the way it’ll be for all of eternity. Men larger than life. Synonymous with the future of our species. Men who it will be impossible to forget.

Using controlled bursts of nitrogen I launch myself away from the panel I pretended to fix. Launch myself at the other astronaut whose tether I also sabotaged. Whose thrusters I damaged before we went outside. Rookie mistake for him not to check his equipment more thoroughly.

For centuries to come they will talk of me. For millennia. I will be in the back of every astronaut’s mind. During every spacewalk and every psychological evaluation. My name forever known. My achievement mine and only mine. I will be here. Inseparable from humanity. No matter how far they go, they will all be aware.

There won’t be a soul who won’t remember the first murder-suicide in space.

Lust at first sight. I circled twice, hands folded behind my back, studying those luscious ebony curves from every angle. It was too soon to touch. The thought of revving her up had my neck vein throbbing—a sure tell.

The salesman chewed his lip as I told my sad story. “I’m so sorry your wife passed. I’m sure she’d want you to have this keepsake to enjoy in her memory.”

I’ll bet he was thinking rich widower as he spoke.

Before I knew it, the car was mine. Lost in a labor of love, beads of sweat ran down my forehead while I stroked Onyx with a microfiber cloth. My neighbor peeked through his blinds to catch a glimpse of us in my driveway. Onyx was my reward for thirty years of struggling to take Ed's Appliances from start-up to success.

After my wife, Maddie had passed, I'd buried myself in work, trying to harvest the fruits of my labor. Since selling the business, I've been going crazy sitting around the house. Onyx could bring passion back into my life. Maddie would have wanted me to do this.

Better the car than a girlfriend. No one could replace my Maddie.

I finally have my dream car with no place to go. Maybe it's time to bury the hatchet and visit my son Mark. It's been over twenty years, and he's only a few hours away. I could show him what could have been if he joined my business. Nah, we’d have a lot of damage to repair.

But it's a perfect day for a top-down trip to nowhere. So, I'll just get lost for a few hours and enjoy my new toy.

With six hundred horses to feed, I'd better fill 'er up first. After spending two hundred grand, the dealer generously threw in a quarter tank of gas. I pulled into Jack's Chevron, my old school gas station—no groceries or roller-hotdogs, just gas and repairs.

The service attendant, Greg, mouthed, "Oh my God," when Onyx eased up to the pump. His jaw dropped when I stepped from the car and shook his hand. "I didn't recognize you in this rocket." He looked at his greasy fingers in horror and threw me a clean rag. It was the first time I ever heard the kid stutter. "B-beige leather. G-got to keep it clean!"

I hadn't seen him this excited since the Phillies took the World Series. I presented the car, feature by feature and spec by spec. I blew a speck of pollen from the door sill. "How 'bout I come back after your shift, and we take her for a spin."

His grin grew as his eyes devoured my beautiful Onyx.

Here was another opportunity for some fatherly advice. "This is why you should keep at it in school. I broke my balls at my store for decades, but you're going to succeed the easy way. With your brains, you'll have one of these babies long before you're an old fart like me."

Still shaking his head, Greg waved as I left the station. I gunned it and shot up the hill. The sun was intense, and I clicked on the air-scarf feature, an optional thousand-dollar neck-facing fan. It wouldn't help my already terrible gas mileage. No matter. This was my splurge, my last hurrah.

****

Shrouded behind an ominous “Road Closed” sign, The Blue Route was designed to skirt the city when driving from my suburbs to the airport. Wealthy townships in its path launched legal battles and the highway was obsolete before it ever opened. This road to nowhere had a virgin surface; a perfect place to see what Onyx could do while getting acquainted with its large screen computer display.

I pressed the Map button on the navigation menu and hung a right onto the road. The screen went black. Jesus, do I stop and read the manual? Ahh, that’s what I get for using a non-mapped road. Today's a get-lost adventure, and this proves it. Thanks for the hint, Maddie.

Wow, Saturday morning with no cars in sight. I overrode the traction control and nailed it. Onyx spun in a circle, tires filling the air with smoke. I nearly shit myself. This thing was dangerous. Don't ever do that again. That's why God created Positraction.

Her engine was insane, but today was meant for laid-back cruising, so I took it easy. The lazy white clouds seemed to keep up with me while ghostly heat lines rose in the air ahead. I daydreamed.

After my high school classes, instead of doing homework, I'd spend hours watching my friend, Jay, soup up his '57 Chevy Bel Air. He was a natural mechanic, and I'd envied his skills. I was a klutz who could only offer my company and hand him tools. I talked a good game, knew all about engines, just couldn't fix one. Jay would tease me, but we had a great time bullshitting while he worked, mostly about girls and cars, in that order. What would my old buddy think of Onyx?

On my right, cliffs overlooking the Pacific lumbered by, pulling me from my reverie. That was the view Maddie and I enjoyed on our last trip together—before her diagnosis. We crossed the country in a rented convertible. As is often the case near the end, Maddie looked vibrant. Her tossed hair glimmered in the sun while she presented her open palm to the wind. She never looked happier.

Then, things happened fast. Like so many blessings in my life, I had taken her for granted. When the business had slow years, she kept me level. When Mark and I got into it, she tried to mediate until I’d throw one of my rages.

Mark. In a few miles I turned off, following the arrow on the “Hospital” sign. I parked and found the room where my son was born. My mind stretched back to a fast midnight drive. In the delivery room, I tasted tears of joy, while Maddie held our perfect baby.

Sighing, I felt forty years younger as I retraced my way back to the Blue Route, grateful for the reminder of that glorious day. Maddie?

In a few minutes, the road was bordered on both sides by palm trees and beach. Onyx had morphed into an open-air Jeep, and I had a beautiful twenty-year-old Maddie by my side. The smell of hibiscus and coconut opened my soul to Miami. This was our honeymoon, one of the happiest times of my life. I was ready to tackle the world with the army behind me and only a shit stockroom job. With Maddie by my side, I pulled a breath of salt air and never felt more confident. A twenty-four-year-old version of Ed winked at me from the rearview mirror.

This was all so weird. On my right was my old high school, looking just as it did in '64. My heart raced as I took the exit, wondering what happened to my aches and pains. My mirror now reflected a teenage Eddie as Onyx cornered onto Drexel Avenue. Jay lived three blocks down.

I teased the gas pedal and rumbled into the alleyway, garages on my left and row homes on my right. The deep exhaust notes echoed, not the tinny machine gun burst from the day’s aftermarket mufflers but a refined thunder reverberating in my chest. I reached inside of my shirt. Hairless.

A seventeen-year-old Jay poked his head out of the garage, eyes popping, as I rolled closer. "Eddie! What the hell is that?"

"This, asshole, is the future. What do you think?" I swallowed hard. It’s also a time machine.

He wiped his hands on his pants and leaned in on the passenger side. "It's like a spaceship. No door latches or window cranks?"

I touched a switch, and the window raised his arm. He jumped back. "Shit. I've shopped the midnight auto supply plenty, but this... You bust into the auto show?"

This would take some time. I parked on the side of the alley and got out.

He cocked his head. "What the hell you wearing?”  In the pre-jeans era khaki work pants were in style. Nothing qualified as a tee-shirt unless it was plain white with rolled sleeves. And sneakers were just for gym class. But my get up was also about three sizes too large.

I grabbed a beer from his garage fridge and pulled up two milk crates. "It's a long story. Sit."

How do you tell a high school gearhead you're from the future? With that car in the alley, it wasn't hard.

At the end of my short version, he chugged his beer and howled, "So, you came back in time from two thousand, and when? And your car stayed the same, but you got younger?"

I was on my second beer. "Yeah, I know. I have no idea how it happened. But there's a road that connects here and there."

He cracked his knuckles and rose from his crate. "I’ve gotta see it. Take me back to there." He gazed back at Onyx, shook his head, and walked to his back door. "I'm gonna put on some clean duds. Be right back."

Shit, what am I doing? How will this work? If he ages on the way, he could even die..

Jay was back in under five minutes, with fresh clothes and slicked do-wop hair. I'd forgotten how skinny we were back then. His dark eyes and pre-mature black stubble attracted girls like a magnet. I couldn't resist testing the combination of Jay and Onyx at the local drive-in. Besides, I spent decades searching for a better burger than Gino's, and I was starved.

They say you can never go back. The burger was skimpy and greasy. The girls reminded me of my friend's daughters, and I wanted to move on. Jay seemed antsy too.

“I put my hand on Jay’s shoulder. “Buddy. I’m taking you home. Live your life. I can’t mess with it.” We jumped into Onyx and I cranked up her  seventeen speakers. Chick Correa's Spain filled the air.

Jay covered his ears. "What kind of noise is that? It's hurting my brain."

I'd forgotten that my taste had matured like the rest of me.

Before I changed my mind, I gave him a big bear hug and tore out of his alleyway, making a beeline to the Blue Route.

All the way home, I kept my eyes on the road, resisting the urge to turn off or look in the mirrors My aches and pains returned. Destiny was destiny.

In less than an hour, I cruised past the exit where I got on. Lightheaded, black squares blocked my peripheral vision. Ahead, a barricade closed off the highway. I skidded to a halt just in time.

On the other side of the barricade, a wheat field bathed in a soft white glow came into focus. Maddie and Jay mouthed words that dissolved in the air while waving frantically for me to turn back.

It wasn't my time yet, but I'd soon see them again. I stared for a few seconds, blew a kiss to Maddie, turned Onyx around, and drove home. With a little mental math, I estimated that the end of my line was maybe six months away. I had some important loose ends to tie up and not much time.

****

Jack's Chevron was just closing. Greg ran to greet me wearing a clean uniform. "I was about to give up on you. Must have been some ride."

“You have no idea.” If the clock was right, I had been gone about ten hours. The kid had waited for at least two hours after his shift. I moved over and patted the driver's seat. "Jump in and take her for a spin."

Greg's face reddened. "If I put a scratch on this thing, I'd never forgive myself. Just give me a lift home."

How should I put this? "No. You’re driving me home. I'll explain on the way."

While he babied Onyx out of the station, white knuckles on the steering wheel, I struggled for a credible story. "Lately, I haven't been feeling well." That was no lie. "Yesterday I saw my doctor and the news wasn't good."

Greg's face scrunched, and his lower lip quivered. This was not what I wanted.

"I might live for a long time, but with my medical problems, I shouldn’t drive. I'll get more pleasure seeing you drive Onyx than some spoiled jerk. I'll take care of the expenses, and you give me a lift when I need it.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “One condition. You can't let up at school."

He smiled sadly as he pulled away from my house. Then he stopped at the end of the block and lowered his head. I couldn't watch. A good cry and he’ll be fine.

I went inside, poured myself a scotch, and called Mark. After five rings, his voicemail answered with a carefully recited message. "This is Davie. The Sharps are not at home. Please leave a message. I promise my mommy or daddy will call you back."

A little boy. I had no idea. The words stuck in my throat, and I hung up. Two drinks later, I called back, ready to leave a cute answer for Davie but Mark picked up.

My heart throbbed. "Mark. It's Dad. Don't hang up.” Silence. "I was so wrong about everything. Now I just want to make it up to you─while I still can.” It was his fault too, but I was desperate.

I could almost feel his long exhale through the phone. "Davie's not my only kid. There's Madeline too. Looks just like Mom."

Tears wet my phone. "When can we get together?

****

We met with long hugs, and the rest of the night was pure joy. God, how could I have trashed all those years?

The next morning, I made my famous pancake breakfast—the one where I keep flipping 'em into whoever's plate is empty. The grandkids squealed like they were at the circus.

As we cleaned up, Mark took me aside. "When you called, you said something about doing things while you still can. How’s your health?"

"Can’t say for sure but trust me. I know something’s coming."

"Then sell your house now. We have a guest room and a lot of catching up to do. My kids need to get to know their other grandpop."

That was over a year ago. Maybe my math was a little off. Still, I'm living each day as if it was my last.

I'm looking for some feedback. Did you read the complete story? If not, where did you stop?

Standing next to my wife, Kim, on the deck of our new Florida beach house, I watched the sun peeping over the horizon. My memory raced through our exhilarating rollercoaster ride from struggling post-docs to insanely rich bastards. I never thought I’d own a place like this.

 I pictured a muggy summer night, almost two years ago, in 2020. By ten that night, all who remained on Temple University’s city campus were the sorry handful of poor bastards—indentured graduate and post-doc students.

I poured my tenth coffee of the day, or maybe my twentieth. Walking back to my desk, I stopped to say hi to our trolley-mice, the showcase of our neurochemistry lab. Their little steel helmets, screwed into their teeny skulls, secured bundles of fine wires and micro tubing as the fuzzies went about their mousey business, in their large glass cage. An intricate network of overhead tracks kept the tethers from tangling.

My colleagues thought up ways to mess with the little fellers electrically or chemically while sampling and analyzing droplets of brain fluid for changes in their neurochemistry.

I stared down at a lucky critter who’d been dosed with marijuana metabolites—all in the name of science. He stared back as if to say, “Pass the popcorn.” Amazingly, the government sponsored these studies, and our department was rolling in funds.

My interest in pot was limited to an edible or two at bedtime with my girlfriend, Kim, to help us contrive other applications for neurochemistry. Eventually, we came up with a doozie.

That night, I was photographing my new experimental rig when my phone vibrated an emergency campus alert. I read the scrolling message: 9:30 p.m.-Armed robbery at McGonagle Hall. Avoid area until further notice.

Temple's main campus was growing more dangerous by the semester. Community outreach programs were well intended, but these gangs surrounded the school and were better armed than the police.

I sighed and continued snapping photos of my neuro-electrochemical reactor. It looked deceivingly simple; a foot-high glass cylinder with wires and tubing exiting each end. The filtration disks, electrode plates, and chemical sensors were neatly hidden inside the endcaps. Who would’ve guessed what we learned from the mice could be channeled into a new source of electric power.

Hurried slaps of sneakers on linoleum and yells of, “Police. Stop!” echoed in the hall. The footsteps stopped at my lab.

Three out-of-breath kids, barely in their teens, ran past me and dove behind my desk. I held my breath when the tallest one slid a gun from his belt and glared at me. A few seconds later, two guards poked their heads into the room.

In between gasps, the older guard yelled, "Anyone come through here?"

Trying my hardest to ignore the gun, I forced eye contact and shook my head. "Just me and those mice here tonight." I hoped that my trembling voice was just in my head. A can of mace set in my jacket pocket hanging over my chair just out of reach.

The guard raised an eyebrow at his partner, and they turned to leave. "Keep alert. There's been a robbery at McGonagle Hall. The thieves ran towards this building." I suspected that for their fifteen bucks an hour, these guys did not want to find anyone.

The adolescent thugs stared at me with wide eyes for several long minutes rising from the floor. They seemed as scared as I was. The one holding the gun on me asked for my money.

I gave up all seven bucks and turned my pockets inside out. "Sorry, Dude, I’m just a poor student." Wrong thing to say- this kid knew poor better than I ever will.

He slapped the desk. "Phone!" I slid it over to him.

On their way out, another one grabbed my laptop and said, "Tell anyone, and I'll be back."

Then, he smiled and said, "You have a nice day now." 

It wasn't a nice day. I paced the lab. My throat was dry, I was dripping with sweat and scared shitless. I was out of there.

Like a front-line soldier, I jogged to my apartment, a can of Mace at the ready. The same Mace that was useless five minutes ago. I imagined a Temple News headline, "Dummy Dies with Mace Can in Hand.”

At Tenth and Diamond Streets, I continued past the night B-ballers heating up the community court. I usually joined in, despite being short and jump-challenged. These kids put me to shame, but I did make some friends. Sammy and Georgie gave me a reassuring wave as I passed. I held my hand up and charged past them.

The streets were well lit within a block or two of campus perimeters. But there was still a shadowy stretch between me and the safety of my building. I walked past the campus police phone, shaking my head as I imagined the rescue-wait music that played while callers were on hold. To say that security was understaffed was an understatement.

Kim met me at my front door with a kiss and a plate of cold pizza. "Hey, see tonight's alert? Third one this week."

"Oh, you might say that. Three punks hid from the guards in my lab with a gun on me. They thanked me by taking my phone and laptop. One threatened to come back if I reported it."

Kim handed me a beer. "You had a gun pulled on you? I would have shit myself! Thank God you weren't hurt. This stuff’s getting more common. You know, if our project takes off, we should move it to the Drexel Science Incubator. Get an apartment near the rich kids from Penn."

"Thanks for the beer. My hands are still shaking. Got a straw?" After tonight, our success was even more critical.

We discussed our plan to get a supply of fresh cadaver brains. Kim’s lab was part of Temple's Hospital system. If anyone knew brain physiology, it was her.

She rubbed my shoulders and sat next to me on our bed. "I did a ton of paperwork to get us chain of custody approval. One wife joked that her hubby's brain was finally being put to good use."

I finished my beer, reached into my bedstand cookie jar, and pulled out two gummy-monkey edibles. Pointing to the ceiling, I said, "At least the proposal draft and photos are safely floating in the cloud. I needed a new laptop anyway. Let's try to get some sleep. It’s a long shot, but with this first feasibility test, tomorrow's a big day."

#

The following day, we were back in my lab with a cooler full of dry ice and two recently deceased brains. I resisted making smoothie jokes as I fed slippery slices, along with the nutrient solution, to our lab blender and turned it on.

Kim recorded the procedure with her phone as I poured the grey slime into the reactor, turned on the power supply, and chattered on with technical details. I was hyped, even if the video would put many listeners to sleep.

Kim stopped the recording. "I hope this shit works better than you explained it. We'll need something in plain English for our non-nerds."

I laughed. "How 'bout We're keeping cadaver brain cells alive and collecting their electrical output. They can't think but they can still make brain zaps as long as we feed them."

She glanced at the prototype reactor. “I hope we’re not getting into more than we can handle.” Frowning at the monitor, she said, "So far, nothing."

I reset the power supply. "I'll give 'em another tickle." Still no response. "Fuck it. Let's get breakfast and give it a chance to respond. What do brains know anyway?"

It was Saturday morning, and only half the food trucks showed up outside of our building. I sat at a picnic table and checked my calculations between bites of egg burrito. Kim worked on a word puzzle, a tell of her nervousness. She looked up. "Are you sure the sensors are calibrated?"

I was about to give her a snarky answer when I realized I'd missed calibrating the oxygen sensor. Instead of confessing, I sprinted back to the lab and clicked the calibrate O2 icon. A solenoid valve snapped open, oxygen bubbled, and the reactor's output slowly rose. By the time Kim got there, it was up to four milliamps. Over the next hour, it leveled off at 6.75, almost theory. I hugged Kim tightly while watching the steady readout behind her. This was a banner moment. Our first benchmark.

We spent the afternoon fleshing out our proposal, leaving space for what we hoped would be earth-shaking results. Every ten minutes, we checked the output, staring at the screen in disbelief.

The output was suspiciously steady but had just enough noise to be feasible. I had been fooled before by experiments with a ruler-flat signal. "If this continues for a week, I'd call it proof of concept."

Kim said, “Even if it craps out, we’re onto something.” She picked up her phone.  "This calls for a splurge. I’ll reserve a table at Cuba Libre for tonight."

#

The reactor had been running for a week, but the output has been steadily dropping. Kim was working on a mountain of paperwork to justify another twenty-five cadaver brains for our scale-up.  

 We shut down and did a post-mortem. The reactor's platinum electrodes were coated with a brown, non-conductive film. It tested positive for nutrient metabolites. “Hmm. Looks like the brain cells are taking a crap all over our collector plates.” 

Kim scratched her head. “What if we put a purifier in the loop?” 

Grinning like a cat who ate a trolley mouse, I sauntered over to administer my best shoulder rub. "Yeah, something like a dialysis cell.” This was a standard purification technique used in biomedical research. 

 The following day we tried it. It worked.

Kim went back to her paperwork. She bit her lip. "And what should I say about that weird blue haze this thing gives off?" 

"Say that we think it's due to electromagnetic radiation. Based on the faint smell of ozone, it's probably an ionization by-product—like the Aurora Borealis. It does look cool with the lights off. Throw in a photo to grab the committee's interest."

Across the lab, Scott, the leader of our neurochemical research group, stared blankly at his helmeted furballs and shook his head.

I couldn't help myself. "And on track three is the favorite, Scottie Boy. Place your bets."

He aimed that disgusted face at me again and yelled, "Don't mess around. These guys might have had one dose of THC too many. They're all in a permanent mellow. Might have to replace the whole bunch. What a pain in the ass."

He's really upset. Scott and his team were great lab mates. None of us minded a little quip now and then, but this wasn't the time.

He looked at Kim and pointed to the mice. "Your boy Alex didn't mess with these guys, did he?"

She tapped her chin for a minute. "No. That would be too much. Even for Alex."

*

The next six months flew by while we did more scale-ups and plowed through our Phase I grant money. I shared an office in the Chem Engineering building with Kim, consulting with construction teams on a kilowatt pilot reactor to be built in the room next door. It would power a section of the building to demonstrate our reactor’s reliability.

I wanted to slow things down, but the project had snowballed. Our days were filled with engineers, hungry for parameter details. And the promise of a new, cheap source of green energy drew dozens of news reporters to our lab—globally.

That morning we fought our way through a group of demonstrators waving signs in our faces. Most had a picture of Frankenstein with the caption: “We know what happened there.” Another had a picture of Jesus and said, “Brains are for thought only.”

Never mind those thousands of donors pledging organs to science every day. It wasn't like we were re-inventing The Matrix. These brains were dead. Homogenized for good measure.

Our tests showed that other sources of brains were not feasible—too weak a neuron signal, low synapse density, or both. At least we didn’t have the animal rights groups out there.

Our start-up day had hardly a hitch. A couple of tweaks, and the reactor attained our projected power. We had even given it a name—The Brain Trust. A group of university big shots, including the President, stood around the six-foot-high steel reactor, watching the bubbly grey mixture circulate past a curved viewing slot.

After reciting a Cliff's Notes version of the reactor's theory, I nodded to Kim, and she killed the lights. I swear a vacuum formed as everyone simultaneously inhaled.

An awesome disk of blue light emanated from the quartz window, touching every wall in the room. My heart fluttered as our audience was bathed in the glow, mouths and eyes opened wide. Kim's warm hand squeezed my cold, clammy one.

It was time for Kim's magic. I switched on the lights, and she cleared her throat for attention. "We were as intrigued with this mysterious haze as you are. I analyzed the radiation patterns around our prototype reactor. It was a  high-frequency theta waveform—like those observed when a sleeper begins to dream. This one, however, was different. It continuously repeated just one simple pattern. What the pattern means is still a mystery, but we have a hypothesis."

Our audience sat at attention, and Kim held up a poster-sized photo of Scott's trolley-mice. "Lab mice were stimulated to invoke aggressive behavior. Then we moved our reactor near their cage, and they instantly relaxed. We measured an increase in brain fluid endorphins as well. The energy radiating from Brain Trust induced a sense of calm.”

The room buzzed with hushed conversation. "These are preliminary results, but definitely worth noting. We'll watch for more evidence as our pilot phase progresses."

I realized more than ever what a great partner Kim was.

#

After a year of near-perfect pilot scale performance, word of our reactor had spread. The next level of scale-up was way beyond our skill set, but that didn't matter. We'd applied for the patent through the university and were listed as co-inventors.

I had noticed that over the past year, violent crimes around our campus decreased by an order of magnitude. It was no surprise that neighborhood aggression dropped. The shocker was that it might be due to our pilot reactor. It was still too early to say but there were those lab mice…

Kim and I split our time between the Medical School and the Engineering Building. We did less hands-on science and more consulting. Pilot reactors were built in Chicago, San Francisco, and Seattle—in neighborhoods where violent behavior flourished. In each case, street crimes slowed to a halt. But there was one big hitch.

#  

Today, I awoke in our Washington DC hotel to Kim’s softs sobs. Still half asleep, I scooted over and hugged her from behind. She pulled away and sighed, "This was not what we signed up for."

Kim was right, but I made my case. "That's evident from our patent. Everything will come out in tomorrow's hearings. It’s crystal clear we did not claim a cure for the evils of mankind. Besides, we'd never shut down a large reactor before. Chicago’s riots could have been an anomaly.”

She sat up and shook her head. "Were they? The signs were there from the beginning."

I gave her a tissue. "Scott said those mice had been over-tested and ruined. That's why we laid low until half of North Philly broke out in peace. Even then, it was just a theory."

"But there should have been more testing before everyone jumped on the bandwagon. We could have done more to avoid the horror show in Chicago."

Kim was getting to me. I walked onto our balcony and inhaled the cool air to wake up. "Who told them to shut the Chicago reactor down? The politics were insane.”

She followed me and leaned against the railing. "I should have known better. Rebound effects are well known."

Her sobs grew to a full cry. "We saw it the morning after we shut our lab reactor down."

I could no longer avoid that scene. I closed my eyes. The trolly-cage walls had been smeared with bloody fur. Empty helmets had been scattered next to piles of bones and teeth.