Hyperspace

In 2075, humanity discovered it was not alone. There were no mysterious transmissions, no dramatic requests to speak to a leader, and no cities glassed from orbit. Instead, a craft the size of a pre-space aircraft carrier slid up to the shipyards at L2, transmitted a manifest, and requested docking. When a group of major world leaders attempted to contact the aliens and determine exactly where their constituents would fit in the inevitable New Galactic Order they were stunned to find that instead of a diplomatic or exploratory craft they were dealing with the spacefaring equivalent of a tramp freighter.

Freighter or no, there were shake ups to go around. Along with a polite explanation of their true purpose, the ship sent along a list of technical documents and scientific theories they were willing to share… for a price. Companies hoping to get the edge on their competition took one look at the costs and blanched. Not having any up to date industries in galactic terms the price would have to be paid in heavy elements, and lots of them; literal years of human production for a few data files. But the US and Russo-Sino Alliance were together able to scrape together enough gold, platinum, osmium, iridium, and palladium to buy four pieces of information. The first was a rough map of the local galactic neighborhood complete with known territories and dossiers of other civilizations. The second was a high efficiency vacuum energy power plant design. Third involved plans for an inertialess drive capable of several dozen G’s of acceleration. And finally, there was the hyperdrive.

It turned out there were dimensions residing above the one we fondly refer to as reality. Each had a higher energy level than the last, but smaller overall size. So a ship traveling in one appeared to be going much faster to ships on a lower dimensional band. About 2.7 times as fast, in fact, for each band crossed. But the increased energy cost of breaking the walls between dimensions put a limit on the speeds a ship could attain. The highest levels Galactic ships could reach were the Kappa Bands with an effective velocity multiplier of 8,100. The tech humans were given was substantially slower.

Hyperdrives were not without problems. A ship in a higher band could be detected by its “wake” while ships below were effectively invisible. Translating in gravity wells became more and more difficult as the field increased. Upper level bands were blocked within light days of a G2 like Sol, and an Alpha translation would be impossible within 1.5 AU. Even gas giants beyond that distance could block jumps nearby. And any ship in hyperspace still had to provide its own acceleration. The dimensions only increased effective velocity and did not create that velocity themselves.

Regardless of its drawbacks, hyperspace travel was the only game in town, and humanity needed it. The governments of the US and Russo-Sino Alliance held that key, and formed the Confederate Nations of Sol (CNS) to represent Terran interests in the greater galactic community. And so ships carrying human traders, soldiers, miners, spies, diplomats, and colonists left the system of their birth. They brought with them their hopes and dreams, and the overriding drive for the Human Race to grow to fill its rightful place in the Universe.

83 Years after First Contact...

“Well, I suppose this was inevitable,” thought Admiral Katelin Petrovich, commander of 1st Fleet in Jovian orbit. The CNS had grown over the decades. Tau Ceti F was now formally known as Nova Terra and had been the site of the first human colony. Just 10 years earlier Volantis B had been renamed New Svalbard and became the second terrestrial world to colonized. And there were dozens of outposts in 7 other systems including Alpha Centauri, Wolf 359, and Epsilon Eridani. While no powerhouse, Humanity was a fast growing species, and already known for their materials extraction, light manufacturing, and mercenaries. The CNS had pushed technology heavily in those years following the initial data dump. And things had come a long way from the CNSS Adventurer plodding through the Gamma Bands at a mere six times the effective speed of light. Now, human built craft could reach the Eta Band for an effective velocity multiplier of 1,000x. Coupled with propulsive systems capable of sustaining a maximum velocity of 0.6c, Humanity’s ships could sustain N-Space speeds of about 1.8 lightyears per day.

“Not that that will do much for us here,” she mused, ironically. “The Kuprics can reach the Theta Bands, and have at least a 15% edge on us in acceleration. Top speed is higher, too.” The Kupric Collective, so known by humanity since their own name was unpronounceable by human tongue or writing, was by no means a major Galactic player. Other powers had tens and hundreds of times the weight in ships, armies to dwarf their forces, and technology centuries ahead of the Kuprics. Unfortunately, those powers were far too interested in what their peers were doing to worry about what a few upstarts were doing as long as they didn’t try to start anything with their betters. So the Kupric Collective had begun snapping up independent star systems. When that drew no response besides a handful of “strongly worded condemnations” they graduated to small interstellar polities. And humanity was definitely on the small side, though still the largest “acquisition” by a substantial margin.

Initially, there had been minor incidents. Ships would appear at the edge of a system boundary and warp out just before forces could reach weapons range. Comsats and unmanned probes were destroyed during lightning passes through system by high speed craft. Jamming devices were released from out system and allowed to drift into orbit around planets before going active and disrupting communications until localized and destroyed. Convoys reported being shadowed by unknown craft. And then, some convoys failed to report at all. None of which could be directly blamed on the Kuprics, though the CNS received numerous suggestions via diplomatic channels that the attacks could be stopped by the “improved security" joining the Collective would bring.

This changed when then Commodore Petrovich led her task force to mousetrap and destroy a raiding force around Wolf 359. Despite heavy losses, human forces shattered both enemy destroyers and hammered the sole cruiser nearly into scrap. Examinations of the captured cruiser showed without a doubt its Kupric origin, complete with the original mission orders in the central computer.

The Collective denounced the records as false, of course. In turn, they produced documents showing the craft were on a diplomatic mission that diverted in response to a human distress beacon. “Probably crewed entirely by women and children with a cargo of neo-puppies,” one commentator quipped. They further demanded the return of their cruiser and reparations equaling an entire year of Earth’s Gross System Product. And Petrovich’s head. Quite literally on that last point. Upon careful consideration, CNS HighCom did send back the cruiser. Or its hulk, stripped of every bit of technology and so structurally compromised as to be useless for anything but scrap. Inside the derelict’s bridge was a copy of a copy of the citation that accompanied now Admiral Petrovich’s award of the Navy Star.

They got the message.

Now, just a standard human month later, their fleet had arrived at Sol. Xenopsychologists predicted this would be their first target. When offended, Kuprics tended to go directly for the heart of their prey, and the “return” of the cruiser had been a very deliberately crafted insult. The response to that insult had massed about 25 light seconds beyond Jupiter, just inside the invisible line preventing ascension into hyper, and been moving closer for the past forty minutes. Humanity had always based its fleet at Calisto Station. From that location they were shielded from surprise attack by the gravity shadow of the gas giant, but able to trap any force intent on invading the inner system between themselves and the array of orbital defenses surrounding Mars and Earth. Rather than take the heavier losses a direct attack on Terra would incur, the Kupric Fleet chose to engage the human ships directly and hammer the planets at their leisure.

A pointed look from her flag captain broke the Admiral’s contemplations. She looked at the display in time to see a fleet outnumbering her own by three to two and with a substantial technological edge approaching Point November. There was nothing particularly special about November in and of itself, except it marked a section of space 9 light seconds from the hyper shadow’s edge and 10 from her forces. Considering effective energy weapons range was about a light second, it was as good a midway point as any on inevitable Kupric advance. “About time, do you think captain?” she asked.

“As good as it’s probably going to get,” Captain Stanford replied. “Pity we’re not closer, though.”

“We wouldn’t last ten minutes, out there. But I see your point. Still, there’s always the sensor feed.” Turning to look at the communications officer, Petrovich ordered,” Transmit code Fulton, lieutenant.” At her words, a superluminal broadcast was transmitted from the flagship. A few seconds later, it was received and acknowledged. Then the battle began.

The Kupric fleet had no warning. One moment they were hurtling through space, preparing for the skew turn they’d need to slow to engagement velocity with the hated human fleet. The next, eight human ships appeared at the interplanetary equivalent of knife fighting range and opened fire with beams and heavy shipkiller missiles. Which should have been impossible. There were no stealth systems in the universe capable of evading sensors at those ranges! And even if they had somehow been able to make the drop from hyper this close to a gas giant, they would have showed up like beacons on sensors in that higher energy dimension. But there they were, and their salvo had just destroyed a full tenth of the fleet and damaged twice that many. An enormously larger, if somewhat ragged, wave of return fire rushed to meet the interlopers and impacted… nothing. Missiles and beams crisscrossed in space that had until seconds before contained machine and man, but there were no hits.

Sensors focused on the area as confusion reigned on the Kupric flag deck. There was absolutely no sign of those phantom ships in this dimension or any one observable by sensors. What they did not know was the ships weren’t actually in any dimension those sensors were capable of scanning.

While news of the new human weapon would travel far and wide, the exact manner in which the ships operated remained a closely held secret for some time. It was only much later that anything became known beyond the basic facts. At that point, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth among scientists and defense contractors the galaxy over.

There was absolutely no new technology in what the humans had done. Instead, they took a page from the great naval campaigns of the 19th and 20th human centuries. Specifically, the submarines. Human scientists focused on three major points concerning the structure of hyperspace: ships in lower bands could observe ones in higher, but not vice versa; gravity shadows tended to be less pronounced in lower bands; and lower bands were slower than the higher ones. “So,” they wondered,” while everyone else is interested in going higher and faster, could lower and slower – and stealthier – be the way to go?” 

From that research, humanity became the first species to tap into subspace.

So, less than 90 seconds later, the ships reappeared and launched yet another salvo. Again, the shots flew true and left the fleet with just over two thirds of its craft in battle worthy condition. The High Admiral in command frantically ordered a retreat. They couldn’t fight ships that appeared as if from the mists of legends, only to fade away when fired upon! They were sailors, not demon slayers! But the laws of physics were inviolable, and having spent 40 minutes building velocity, the ships were moving at a fair rate. A smart commander might have ordered all ships to increase forward thrust in hopes of shooting through the kill zone as quickly as possible. A calm commander would have kept in mind the standard human fleet now accelerating towards his own when making his calculations. But, while competent in most matters relating to squashing minor nations, the High Admiral was neither calm nor particularly smart. Instead, he ordered a 180 degree course change and full acceleration.

The ghost squadron appeared three more times to rake the Kupric battlefleet with fire. Following their last run, a mere fifth of the once might force were left capable of independent movement, and most of those only slowly. Faced with the prospect of undetectable killers in their ranks and the now larger and more powerful fleet moving in from their rear, these ships promptly surrendered. At least their leader was spared the humiliation of personally transmitting the message, his flagship having eaten a three gigaton penetrator during the fourth attack by the human squadron.

Following the complete capture or destruction of a fleet comprising half of the Kupric Collective’s effective space combat power in such a spectacularly one sided manner, the Oligarchy in charge was promptly overthrown. Not that this resulted in any real changes in how the nation was run, the new leaders merely being the political rivals of the old. But it did give eight systems the opportunity to break away from the Collective while its capability to project power was heavily reduced. Each system signed mutual defense treaties with the CNS, and at least two became outright signatories to the Confederation charter. With their fleet in shambles, systems defecting, and the one attempt to recapture territory turned back by the sudden appearance of four human subspace ships the Collective sued for peace. And thus Human power made its first true showing among the stars. 

It would not be the last.

For All the Silent Readers Out There

It was a funny quirk at first, but the more Jake kept on with it, the more concerned I got.

"'Berta, you really don't see them? Honest to god, you don't?"

I put my hand on top of Jake's and squeezed, "I always just assumed it was a quirky thing you did, maybe you were trying to get attention?"

Jake looked at me, "Now Alberta, does that sound like me?"

I punched his shoulder, "You know I hate my full name!"

Jake leaned and spoke over my shoulder, "She really does hate that name, though she hasn't ever explained why."

"Stop it!" I yelled.

I had known Jake for nearly a decade, since we were both around the age of fourteen.

"Don't worry, this is the just the set-up, the backstory. You'll get to the big stuff soon enough."

I frowned at Jake, "Who are you talking to and why are you saying that random stuff?"

He winked, "Seriously, any time now."

In the decade I had known him, he had always spoke to some unseen entity that he insisted on calling the reader. In our teenager years it wasn't a big a deal, but now that we were both in the real world it was starting to cause Jake issues with his work. He was on his last chance at his current employer and had already been let go by two others.

"I really don't want to see you lose everything to this, Jake. I want your life to work out, I want you to be successful and meet a nice girl and all that other stuff we are supposed to do."

"You're a nice girl, 'Berta," Jake said.

"Oh, hush that," I blushed slightly.

"No worries guys, this isn't romantic. It isn't going to turn sappy. Neither of us have any kind of feelings like that," Jake said, past me.

"Damn it, Jake, say those things to me!" I yelled.

He stopped looking past me and looked directly into my eyes. The sudden shift in mood caught me off guard and left me wondering if we had ever made eye contact like that before. He always seemed to be looking off somewhere else. He had a surprisingly piercing gaze.

"I just want you to stop for a moment and listen to me," he said, concentrating on every single word, "Can you trust me?"

I sighed loudly, "We've been through this, Jake. This isn't about trust, you know I trust you as much as I trust anyone."

"All of these different stories in all of these different cultures say we are being watched by someone else," Jake said. "They all claim a higher power is up there, somewhere. You don't down those people; you don't call them crazy. It just so happens that I see you. I don't mean you, 'Berta, I mean you, the person reading this right now. I see you sitting there, staring at your screen, taking in the words. 'Berta, you can see them too, I know you can if you just really try. It isn't even that hard, they are always checking in, any time anything interesting is happening. I know you're going to see them, 'Berta, I know it because that is the only interesting possibility that is left for this moment. They only stop in when something big is going to happen, and you're that something big this time."

I stared into his eyes the entire time he spoke, those sincere, honest eyes. My mouth was left open for far too long and I was beginning to feel self-conscious about it.

Finally, I decided to play along with him, "Alright, Jake, fine. Let's just say you are right. What do I do?"

"Just narrate it. You're writing this story."

I exclaimed, "Jake, I don't know what the hell that means!"

He smiled, "You've been doing it this whole time, right guys? You've heard her? You've heard what she is thinking? Just think it."

I rolled my eyes, "Alright, we'll see."

I thought very hard about the reader and the way they were listening to my story, when suddenly, I didn't feel so alone. Slowly, I peered over my shoulder, and with eyes wide with shock, I locked gazes with you.

Jangan Pulang ke Aceh

     "Ibu baik-baik saja disini, merindukanmu.
     Jagalah Ayahmu. Jangan pulang ke aceh.

                                                    Tercinta,
                                                     Ibumu

Singkat. Hanya sehelai kertas yang dibungkus amplop. Ini adalah surat pertama yang kuterima dari Ibu. Surat ini pasti tak ditulis Ibu. Seseorang menuliskannya atas permintaan Ibu. Kalau bukan Iskandar pasti Ratna, teman SD-ku yang kebetulan tinggal di sebelah rumah. Demikianlah bila aku tidak ada di rumah biasanya Ibu memanggil salah satu dari mereka untuk membacakan koran yang dibelinya. Sejak dulu ibuku memang tidak pandai menulis atau membaca.

Hampir dua tahun aku meninggalkan Ibu di Aceh. Semula, aku pergi ke Bandung sekedar menjemput Ayah. Beliau sudah tujuh tahun menitipkan cintanya pada kami berdua melalui penantian yang tak tahu kapan berakhirnya. Kami jaga cinta Ayah dengan kerinduan pada setiap desah nafas yang dihembuskan angin. Pohon jambu yang ditanam Ayah sudah beberapa kali berbuah, seolah tangan Ayah menyodorkan kemesraan tiada tara.

Sembilan tahun sudah Ayah merantau ke tanah Pasundan, menukar keringat dengan harapan yang dibawa tetes embun pagi. Aku tak pernah tahu persis apa yang dilakukan Ayah sebagai bakti pada keluarga. Yang kutahu Ayah selalu mengirim uang dan bingkisan lainnya, walau tidak teratur.

Ketika terdengar kabar bahwa Ayah sakit, Ibu menyuruhku untuk membawanya pulang kembali. Empat malam perjalanan darat kutempuh dari Banda ke Bandung membawa pesan dari Ibu. Di Bandung tiga malam. Perjalanan pulang empat malam. Jadi menurut rencana hanya sebelas malam kutinggalkan Ibu di Aceh.

Matahari baru muncul mengendap-endap di antara pegunungan timur tatar Pasundan. Dingin masih menyelimuti pagi. Belum sempat kuinjakkan kaki di Bandung, seorang penjual koran membawa kabar tentang api yang berkobar dari rusuh di Aceh. Aku menukarnya dengan beberapa rupiah bekal dari Ibu. Bocah penjual koran kembali berteriak tentang rusuh di Aceh, menjajakan derita. Aku tertegun oleh kabar bahwa beberapa orang terkapar di jalanan pusat kota Banda. Tertembak senapan yang selalu menyalak, menghentak derita pada setiap rusuh yang tak pernah usai. Toko pamanku terbakar dahsyat. Penghuninya terpanggang. Tak ada yang selamat.

Sudah tujuh orang kerabat keluargaku menjadi korban ganasnya huru-hara yang makin merajalela. Terakhir, aku harus kehilangan empat orang kerabatku sekaligus. Tak ada yang bertanggung jawab, semua merasa benar. Rasa benci menaiki kepala, melelehkan sisi kemanusiaanku. Kupandangi orang di sekitarku dengan tatapan tajam. Saat itu aku ingin menerjang, menghantam satu demi satu. Tetapi bukan mereka yang menabur kobar, mereka sudah empat hari bersamaku dalam perjalanan.

Masih di koran itu, siaran resmi pemerintah menuding bahwa pelakunya adalah kelompok separatis. Di alinea berikutnya pihak separatis membantah siaran pemerintah. Bahkan menuding balik bahwa pihak aparat pemerintah sengaja membunuh rakyat sipil dan membakar toko pamanku. Alinea berikutnya tak mampu kubaca lagi. Muak.

Ayah menangis mendengar kabar kematian adik satu-satunya. Seolah dengan sengaja aku datang membawa kabar tentang kematiannya. ”Kenapa setiap bertemu orang Aceh, selalu saja ada yang mati?” Ayah bergumam di sela isak tangisnya. Sejak berita itu tiba, dua tahun sudah kami hanya bisa merindukan Ibu. Setiap kali kami akan pergi untuk pulang, bus tujuan Banda selalu membatalkan perjalanannya dengan alasan keamanan. Mudah bagi setiap orang untuk hengkang dari tanah rencong. Tapi untuk kembali, berarti harus siap bermandikan darah. Setiap orang yang meninggalkan Aceh seperti kupu-kupu yang memasuki jilatan api, hangus tak dapat kembali.

Begitulah, kami tidak bisa mengalir seperti air memenuhi sungai. Bagi air, apapun yang menghalangi, ia akan selalu bisa menyelinap, menyeruak, mencari celah-celah hingga sampai ke tepian kebebasan pada bibir pantai yang mempertemukannya pada keluasan alam. Aku, Ayah dan Ibu adalah orang-orang yang saling mencintai, memancarkan kerinduan. Namun di antara kami tegak berbaris orang-orang yang mengumbar egonya masing-masing.

Ayah tak kuasa lagi menonton TV, mendengar radio, ataupun membaca koran. Ayah selalu menitikkan air mata yang seolah tak pernah habis, deras membasahi seluruh kesedihannya. Tubuhnya tergolek lemah, matanya menerawang, melayang menghinggapi langit-langit rumah kami yang berdesakkan dengan rumah sempit lainnya.

Dokter tak mampu mengetahui jenis penyakitnya. Ayah hanya dianjurkan untuk banyak beristirahat. Aku sendiri selalu bingung, tengah malam Ayah bicara sendiri. Seperti mengigau. Menyebutkan nama-nama kerabat yang telah wafat. Kakek disebut paling awal. Kakekku tewas karena menolak rumah warisannya dijadikan markas militer. Kakek dianggap pengkhianat. Kemudian senapan menyalak memuntahkan timah panas menembus jantungnya. Di ujung nyawanya ia masih sempat membaca mantera kematian laa ilaaha illallah. Nenek menyusul diterjang laras sepatu. Tewas. Tak lama kemudian muncul segerombolan pasukan mengguncang kesunyian. Tembakan menyalak. Kampung dicekam ketakutan. Beberapa bangunan terbakar. Kakak perempuanku tergulung seribu api di dalamnya. Tewas. Begitulah cara kematian mendatangi orang-orang di dekatku. Selalu ada senapan, api, darah. Lalu mereka terkapar tak bernyawa.

Suatu malam Ayah tidak mengigau. Sunyi berlalu tanpa desah. Hanya suara gemericik air di selokan belakang rumah. Malam berkabut. Kuperhatikan Ayah. Matanya tertutup rapat. Bibirnya terbuka. Seperti itulah Ayah tidur, biasanya. Kutunggu ia mengigau. Tapi Ayah tetap diam. Aku tak bisa tidur. Menyaksikan langit hitam yang terus memudar.

Pagi menjelang. Ramai orang lalu lalang. Langkah mereka memutar bumi. Riuh menabuh kebisingan kota. Aku menghadap timur, menyaksikan matahari yang mulai merangkak melambai menapaki langit. Keramaian semakin menjadi. Gedek rumah kami tak pernah mampu membendung bisik apapun. Namun Ayah belum mengigau, belum juga bangun. Aku tak berani membangunkannya.

Pak RT datang. Dia heran, karena tak sedikitpun mendengar igauan Ayah semalam. Rumahnya hanya terhalangi dua rumah kumuh dan sempit. Menurut Pak RT, igauan Ayah selalu menyayat. Pilu. Mengingatkanmu akan kematian, katanya. Sebenarnya aku merasakan hal yang sama, tapi aku tak kuasa mengatakannya. Aku tak mau menambah beban kemiskinan tetanggaku dengan kepedihan dari malam-malam yang kami lewati.

Kukatakan bahwa Ayah belum bangun. Segera Pak RT menghampiri Ayah. Memegang lehernya. Menempatkan jari di bawah hidungnya. Tak lama Pak RT mendekatiku. “Tabahkan hatimu, nak. Ayahmu sedang beristirahat panjang. Panjang sekali.” Katanya sambil menepuk pundakku perlahan. Kulihat Ayahku masih diam. Bahkan ketika rumah kami ramai oleh tangisan para tetangga yang berdatangan, Ayah masih diam.

Pak Ustadz datang, langsung memeluk badan Ayah. Tak ada luka tembak. Tak ada bekas parang. Tak ada darah yang mengalir. Ayah belum mati, bisikku. Kematian selalu ditandai rusuh dan darah. Yang kutahu semalam kemarin hanya kesunyian dan senyap yang ada menghampiri kami. Namun, Pak Ustadz memastikan Ayah mati.

Berulangkali aku meyakinkan kematian selalu diawali letusan dan bersimbah darah. Berarti Ayah belum mati. Semua orang diam. Hening. Pak Ustadz mendekatiku lalu menerangkan kematian menurutnya. Aku menyerah. Berarti Ayah mati dengan tidak wajar. Aku kabari Ibu dengan sepucuk surat.

Rasa cemas menghantuiku. Bisa jadi telah terjadi sesuatu yang tidak beres dengan Ayah sehingga harus mati dengan cara seperti itu. Dosa Ayahku hanyalah mencintaiku sekaligus Ibu tanpa henti. Karena itu pula Ayah meninggalkan tanah rencong menuju Bandung. Melalui catatan yang disimpan Ayah, aku tahu ada harapan yang ingin Ayah bawa pulang. Pijar kedamaian yang akan menerangi masyarakat kami, untuk tetap berharap. Apakah itu salah? Berdosa? Sehingga Ayahku layak mati tak wajar.

Sudah seminggu Ayah dikuburkan. Setiap hari aku selalu mendatangi makamnya, berharap tanah diatasnya bergerak dan Ayah bangun lagi. Aku masih tak percaya Ayah mati. Batu nisan tak bergeming. Tak ada tanda-tanda pergerakan di dalamnya. Begitulah, aku terus datang bersama rasa cinta yang pernah dititipkannya pada kami, menjenguknya di bawah pohon flamboyan yang meneduhinya dari kabar tentang rusuh di Aceh. Sesekali aku bicara padanya, meski tanpa sahutan. Yang ada hanyalah gundukan dan batu nisan Ayah. Tanpa tanda lahir. Semua menatap dalam diam. Hanya aku terisak. Pelan.

Di hari ketiga belas, ketika aku sedang bercakap dengan flamboyan yang mungkin saja akarnya bisa menyampaikan resahku pada Ayah, seorang bocah datang mendekati dan menyampaikan surat dari Aceh.

     "Walau begitu Ayah akan tetap mati. Ayahmu memang telah mati
     Agar seperti Ayah juga, kamu harus tetap tinggal di Bandung.
     Jangan pulang ke Aceh."

                                                                              Wassalam,
                                                                                 Ibumu

Mungkin Ibu keliru, karena suatu saat nanti aku akan pulang ke Aceh.

Di sana, aku dan Ibu bisa mati dengan cara biasa.

Petty Crime

James was the average man of his age; he grew up in a poor family with five siblings, got conscripted into Vietnam where he made friends and lost some too, then came home to a family of his own. Unlike his parents, though, he decided to have just one child- he saw both how much his parents struggled and how little affection they showed with such massive time constraints. Supporting that many children is no simple task, and comes with sacrifice. The six of them returned the favor later in life, visiting and helping take care of their parents until old age took them from this world.

Now, James is seventy-two; wisps of grey hairs poke out of his head like fading memories. His life is dull, his back and hips are worn out to the point he can't garden for long or fire a rifle properly anymore. Old age takes a lot of what you once loved from you, including the people around you. Three siblings lost, and a wife that passed too soon...

But his son is enough to make it all worth it. The light of his life; the sum of his existence. The culmination of years spent nurturing, like a sapling sprouting into a thick, strong Oak tree.

     ***

James lazily flipped through channels on the TV, earning grumpy shouts of refute from the other elderly people sitting in the rec room with him.

"Keep the damn channel still, you're going to give me vertigo."

He shushed her. "Quiet, Doris. My son might be on TV again and I need to find him."

Channel 5 was the jackpot.

"Breaking news, brought to you live: during an armed heist of the local Bank of America, one man took down five burglars single-handed. It's unlike anything we've ever seen before- no hostages were harmed, and the money has been returned safely. We'll keep you updated as time goes by."

The helicopter camera panned out over a crowd of bystanders cheering and police taking the robbers into custody. Just barely, as James scooted forward and squinted, he could see his son waving to the crowd.

"See, Doris! That's my Kevin! I told you he'd be on TV again!" The old man lit up like a Christmas tree on a dark, December night.

"That's not even impressive. Frank, I want to watch the cooking shows. Change it back already."

His smile faded, twisting into a frown. "What the fuck am I doing in this place? I'm not Frank. Here, Doris, watch your cooking shows."

He changed the channel, went back to his room and put proper clothes on. How long has it been? A year, maybe more? Two years? I can't wait any longer. I need to see my baby boy again.

Rifling through his closet, there was a carton of old love letters from his late wife. He looked at them and smiled, but underneath them was a .22 pistol that no one had caught during his entry inspection. He slipped it under his belt and walked up to the front desk. "Melissa, I'm gonna go for a walk today."

She looked up from her cell phone and lazily waved a hand at him, buzzing the door open. He pretended to follow his usual path, hobbling on his cane, then deviated and slipped through an opening in the brush out back. He made his way to a gas station.

"Give me your money. Just a few dollars is fine," James shouted weakly, gun trembling in the air.

The cashier was calm for the situation. "Sir, put the gun down. Let me help you, okay? What do you need?"

James' voice began to crack. "Please, give me some money and call the police."

"Sir, j-"

"DO IT," he screamed, firing a shot to the right of him. Glass rained down with bits of cardboard and broken cigarettes. The man lifted his arms up and obliged, then handed him a hundred dollar bill.

James sat down outside the building and waited for about five minutes, staring at the clouds go by. Soon enough, his son arrived, like he always did.

"My son! I knew the city's superhero would make it here to save the day."

Kevin groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Dad, I'm not a superhero. I always tell you, I'm just a cop who does his job well. Come on, why'd you go and do something this drastic? Where'd you get the gun? Someone could've really been hurt, Dad."

James looked down, answering meekly. "I wanted to see you again. It's been several years now, you're always so busy."

Kevin took a deep breath as his father began to cry. "Come on, let's take you back to Glowing Meadows."

James lit up again, the hope of a younger man glinting in his eyes. "Can we play checkers?"

Kevin put an arm around his father, helping him into the car. "Yeah, we can play checkers. Just get in the car while I explain this to my supervisor, okay?"

"Sure thing, Kev, my man. I can't wait for you to tell me all about your job, and your love life. You need to get married and give me grandchildren!"

"Yeah, Dad. We'll talk all about it when we get back."

     ***

He shut the cruiser door and walked up to his superior officer. "Sorry, chief. My-"

"I heard the whole thing, son. You don't visit your father? I oughtta put you in jail. Respect is something the elderly earn."

Kevin' gaze shifted to the dirt, and he began to tremble a little. His voice was low and weak, barely audible.

"I just visited him three days ago, sir."

Curse of A Hundred Words

There's two things I've learned over the years; two rules to live by above all others. The first is to keep quiet. The second is, if you can't keep quiet, keep count.

As rules go, they're admittedly pretty easy to abide by. See, I have this curse. Well, really, It’s more like I’m cursing others, rather than being cursed myself. If I ever speak more than one-hundred words to someone, they will die. So the first rule is especially simple: I can't speak more than a hundred words to anyone, but I could write them the text of War & Peace just fine. In the world of emails, text messages, and social media, that gets most of my bases covered. When you have to speak, short, terse sentences might seem rude, but are perfectly acceptable. Plus, it turns out that, with a few notable exceptions, most people just don't care what I have to say anyway.

The second one is trickier. I mean, if I follow the first rule, it doesn't really matter anyway. But of course there are times I don't, and then it's essential I keep track of everything. There's a little spiral ring notepad I keep stashed in my left pocket at all times I use for it. Each time I talk to someone new, they get their own page, with tally marks to keep track of every word. Most of them are sparse; some kid across the street has one from when he almost got hit by a car playing basketball. The landlord's got seventeen, since you were kind enough to do most of the talking. Some cop who pulled me over once has around twenty, my boss has forty something, mostly from my interview, the doctor has about slightly over fifty, and you've got...well, you've got the most. I know you're proud of it, but I hate saying the number. It terrifies me.

Back to the point: Keeping quiet, and keeping count. The two central pillars I follow to keep you and everyone else out of the morgue. And I like to think that, for the most part, I had it down to a science. Headphones in public to keep any talkative folks at bay, curt nods at the office to kill off any conversations before they start. First day at work, I sent a mass message to the office asking to ONLY communicate with me through email, no exceptions. Did everyone think I was an asshole? Sure, but it's better that than being the friendliest mass murderer in the company. As for everyone else, there's not really many people you need to talk to. I spent most nights at home, I ordered most everything I needed online, I don't have any family left to speak with, and I certainly didn't spend much time outside. And like I said, for most people, there's just not enough interest in what I have to say for it to become an issue. But you've never really been “most people”, have you?

I still remember the first time we met. It was possibly the most cliché thing that's ever happened. Bumping into the cute new girl in the apartment building as she's carrying her boxes up the stairs? It's out of a bad RomCom, and we both know it. Of course you apologized and introduced yourself after, and of course I said nothing and kept walking. The rest of the apartment already wrote me off as a jerk; even if I said hello, I figured someone else would convince you of it eventually. It was the first time I'd doubt your perseverance.

It was about a week later when you cornered me in the elevator. By instinct, I popped my headphones in and hoped you'd get the message. But I underestimated your tenacity, and instead you asked me who I was listening to. You've never been very good at picking up signals, you know that? It'd be something to work on. I kept quiet, but you stayed insistent on getting SOMETHING from me. Eventually you asked me if you could at least know what my name was.

To this day, I'm not sure what I was thinking in that moment. Every instinct was to say nothing. Every strand of common sense screamed to say nothing. The ghosts of everyone who ignoring common sense and instinct had cost me pleaded to say nothing. But your eyes wanted me to say something, and for reasons my head didn't understand, my voice decided that trumped all.

“Thomas.”

That was the first word I said to you. I cursed myself for it; first words were the worst. First words meant having to add another name to my spiral notepad. First words were the first step towards last words. First words are something I've dedicated my life to avoiding. But first words had never caused a smile like the one you gave me before, so at the time, it almost felt worth it. Almost.

That first word became second, which became third, which became fourth. Once the first leak in the dam cracks through, the rest peak out not long after. It was like a kind of guilty pleasure, at the time; you were still a stranger then. I knew I shouldn't be speaking to you, but I figured I could let just a few slip out, here and there, before cutting you out of my life safely. I set the limit at thirty; thirty words with the cute girl down the hall. It was the closest I had to flirting, I suppose.

Later, of course, those were the words I regretted the most. Wasted words like

“How's your day?”

“Nice weather”

“Take care”

that took up tallies on your page that could have been saved for better, more important words. You told me that, without them, we might have never become close enough for that tally to matter, but I'm not so sure its true. Even then, something about you seemed to know how important those words were. Maybe something in my voice gave away how precious and guarded they were. Of course, you'll tell me you're just a talker, but every little question got large answers. You'd describe every detail of your day as we walked up five flights of steps and then killed time in the hallway, my nods enough of a contribution for you to keep going. Little by little, you started to become the closest thing I've ever had to a friend.

So that's why I had to tell you. Again, I couldn't tell you why if you put a gun to my head, but something about you compelled me to write you a note to tell you everything. Why I could never say more than just a few words to you during our “conversations”. How it had cost me my parents, two teachers and about half a dozen classmates to learn that. How I was a stupid, selfish idiot to ever endanger you by talking to you in the first place. I wrote all this down in a note, and, before I could second guess myself, I slipped it under your door one night.

You thought it was horseshit, of course. I would too, after all. You asked me if it was a joke, and said there were easier ways to say I just didn't want to talk to you anymore. But knew you'd do this; again, I couldn't blame you. So I showed you my parents obituaries, along with my teachers and classmates. I showed you how they had all died in their sleep, with no real explanation as to how. I explained it all with notebooks and written words; for the first time, you were quiet, and I couldn't stop talking. When I was done, I was sure you'd get up and leave. Instead, you asked me if this meant that I'd been spending my whole life alone. When I nodded, you took my hand and told me I shouldn't have to.

I looked you in the eyes; you looked back and smiled. I know I shouldn't have, but again, my voice couldn't help it.

“Thank you.”

I was at about thirty words when I told you everything; from then on, my every word became even more valuable. For the first time, something other than tally marks went in my notepad, as I'd finally write the answers to questions I'd always meant to give you during the weeks before. I went out and saw the world with you; really saw it, for the first time in years. We went out at night, we walked through the woods during the day, we did everything together. You handled all the talking, to my eternal gratitude. I'm not sure when exactly we went from two friends to something more, but when I first took your hand in mine, and when we kissed each other for the first time, it felt to me like something that had been waiting for me my whole life.

“I love you.”

Words 41, 42, and 43 right there. I said it again after our first year anniversary, bringing us up to an even 46. The first time had been spontaneous though; the light caught you in just the right way, and I knew it was the right moment.

“Will you marry me?

That took us to 50; I won't lie, I was always pretty happy the way that worked out. I also had to use up about forty words with the guy at the jewelry shop; let's hope I never have to go there again.

“I do.”

That was 52. They're also the only words I could say definitively I would never take back.

“I love you.”

Anniversaries always brought those words; our first, second and fifth all had me say them. I wished I could have said them on the third and fourth, but we were on the wrong side of fifty, and even with just those we were up to 61. The ten year probably would have been the next time.

“You okay?”

62 and 63. You had been coughing for a while at that point, but this time was the worst. When I saw the blood, that settled it. I had to add '911 Operator' to my notepad after that.

“I love you.”

Waiting for the results brought us up to 66.

“I love you.”

Getting the results made it 69; it didn't seem to matter then.

“I love you.”

72; I held your hand for as long as I could as they wheeled you into the operating room.

“I'm sorry. I love you.”

77.

We're sitting in the hospital room now. The doctor just left; he's at 53. Normally I'd wonder what he'd think about someone being this terse when discussing their wife, but even under normal circumstances I think this would be a time when there wouldn't be much to say.

Even though its so much more slender and fragile now, your hand still fits as perfectly into mine as it always did. Somehow you manage a smile, though I can tell by the tired look in your eyes you're doing it for me, not because you want to. I return the favor the best I can.

I start pulling out my notepad; I want to talk about where to go from here now, and what sort of options we might have, but you stop me. You push the pen out of my fingertips and tell me it doesn't matter. That none of the options are as appealing as going to sleep after a long conversation with your husband. And that nothing would make you happier than hearing my voice.

For the first time in my life, I don't have to keep quiet, and I don't have to keep count.

And I don't know what to say.