Protocol 

Amelia, it is time for me to face the knife. This next round of cancer has drained me more than I can hide from you and your father. I’m sure there is a reality where I survive once more. Just in case we’re not in it, I am passing down my protocol for how to survive someone else’s death. First, the story behind it.

Twenty-five years ago, the Department of Supernatural Forensics had ordered me to investigate airplanes going missing in flight. Controlled reality-jumping was not a thing in this reality, according to upper management; to my knowledge still isn’t. I hoped that by taking this assignment that I could learn something about how to make reality-jumping a reality. Of course, I failed.

But the day I came closest to making reality-jumping a reality, I had just received my assignment and I was at an airport named after a man who died in a plane crash— Will Rogers Airport in Oklahoma City. The gate was nearly empty of passengers. The fear of missing planes was cratering the airline industry. Twenty-seven planes had vanished, twenty-seven being the age I was then, during the same year when my father passed away from his widow-maker. Dad was a helicopter pilot in the Coast Guard, and he worked for a major airline after being discharged. I could not help making these coincidental connections during this year. Dad, pilot, planes, and disappearances. God help me, I wanted to believe the assignment would lead to something that would shake reality and change it.

The gate for my plane was nearly empty of passengers, except for me, a few people who thought they had accepted death, and a young weeping woman. I tried to ignore the woman. I was trying to stay in the pleasurable melancholy I always felt at airports after my dad’s death; I wanted to sit and mull about mortality in peace.

Eventually I inquired, “What’s wrong?”

She wept that she was sorry to bother everyone, but she was scared that our airplane would disappear midflight. She knew it was statistically unlikely, but she had severe unmedicated anxiety. And what if?

I replied that I thought we’d be okay. I was from the government, and I was on my way to figure out why the planes were vanishing.

She asked if I had any leads.

I replied, “We don’t think it’s the weather or foreign interference. We don’t think it’s a mechanical failure, but we have never found a disappeared plane—just the bodies. It’s like the planes were deleted out of the sky.”

She began to weep again. “I have to make it to Charlotte. My mom’s real sick with cancer, and we don’t know if she’s gonna make it before I get there.”

Now that made me annoyed, because the last time I had flown I had been racing to see my sick dad before he died. I didn’t want to think about how I failed to make it. She went on and on about her mom being her best friend, and how she was always there for her, and how she had sacrificed everything for her. I hated her, and I hoped her mom died, and I hoped she would get stuck at another airport listening to someone else go on about their soon-to-be-deceased parent, so she knows what it’s like. But most of all, I hoped this would be the reality where we didn’t sit next to each other on the flight.

It was not, goddammit. We boarded the plane and took off into the wild blue yonder touching elbows. It wasn’t long before the woman had the audacity to have a panic attack about whether or not our plane would disappear. I thought, God, yes, please.

Despite my prayer, it was a total surprise when I found myself plummeting through the air. My first thought was to wonder if I could make the case to the Department to allow investigators to bring a parachute in the future. The next beat was terror — I screamed for my dad— and deeper terror— he was dead. Unless! I imagined wildly that he would show up. He would zoom out of a reality where he still lived, long enough to fly his helicopter out of the Smithsonian, warp to my exact location, and catch me. On the way home, he would give me a lecture about always having a back-up protocol. Even for the most unlikely things. He would remind me that his time in the Coast Guard had allowed him to see the consequences of the public’s dumb-ass decisions. Live like you want to have a long life, I imagined he would say, before departing.

But how? I thought, returning my attention to the actual reality— the reality where he was nowhere and nothing, and that fucking woman was falling beside me, her face rippling and her mouth blown open from the wind’s force.

My third and final thought was that this was the reality in which we have to save ourselves. I spread my arms and legs in an X and hit and poked the woman to do the same beside me. We hit a soft muddy field, leaving us-shaped stamps upon the earth.

We lived, sort of. Worse, the doctors put us in the same hospital room. The woman’s mother came during the first night, a shadow rippling on the divider curtain separating us. She touched her daughter’s face. I heard her say, “I’m so glad you survived. I’ll see you in the morning.” She departed soundlessly.

I couldn’t believe anyone could look at the woman and say that. The woman’s skull was a shattered globe. She would never move her arms or legs again, or speak. She would always have to look at the ceiling or the sky. Someone would have to close her eyelids for her, so the sun wouldn’t burn out her eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was glad she survived, knowing with all that.

Through the years of physical therapy, hunchbacked, brain-fogged, in pain, often agony, and the persistent mystery of why the plane disappeared, I hovered between two realities: First, the reality I invented out of memories of Dad and what I imagined he would say to me. Second, the agonizing, limiting reality I lived in, with my broken body and the knowledge that Dad never would have said anything wise or encouraging—he just wasn’t that kind of person. His advice was practical. But there was a little part of my brain that said, he would have said it, if he knew how. If he had said it to me, I would want to live, just a little.

So here is our protocol, Amelia. Whatever you imagine I’d say to you that helps you live, tell me now, and I will say it to you, word for word, in the reality where I wake. And if it turns out differently, face reality, not too much, and do your best to survive.

Letter From Under The Bed

Dear Adam,

I am writing this letter to cordially invite you to come under your bed. I have an opportunity for you, and it is one that can only be given face to face. You will have to move your grandfather’s shotgun and ammunition in order to fit underneath with me—your full-sized bed won’t fit both a fifteen-year-old and a 300-year-old—but once we speak, I think you’ll agree you won’t need them anymore.

But what am I doing under your bed? My name is Gill, and I am classified as an Ogre subcubile, or, a monster-under-the-bed. I fill the eco-psychological niche of detritivores. Like your beloved earthworms and vultures, we recycle rotten emotions into nutritious fodder for your subconscious, so that emotions turn into messages. I sup upon your nightmares, slake my thirst with tears. The sediment of the worst parts of the day as they ferment in your sleep nourish me. It is my pleasure to perform this service. I have had a stellar three-century career hiding under American beds. Most recently, I have dwelt beneath beds used by three generations of your family. My kind has a great taboo to not interfere with our “providers”. Our legend comes from those that broke the taboo to frighten you, to have more negative emotions to eat. But this unbalances the ecosystem of feelings and allow for creatures you should be afraid of to take over. I don’t wish to frighten you, which is why I’m introducing myself by letter first. Go ahead and wave hello; do try not to rip your stitches or twist your IV line bending down; and please don’t be too shocked at how I look. The fangs, claws, and neck ruff are vestigial.

To the point: I fear for you. I can taste from the quality of your tears your despair—a bitter, charred taste. It is impossible to live beneath a bed and not want to help my neighbor.

To the other point: fear not. That your teacher calls on you when she knows you don’t know the answer, that the one girl who was nice to you rejected your invitation to the dance, that the boys are lifting your shirt over your head, taking pictures, and posting pictures online with the captions “bitch boi does a little dance in da dewdew room…” One of these things is not like the others.

Mrs. Ling didn’t know you hadn’t studied when she called on you; maybe study instead of getting mad at her? Chioma has a right to reject any offer she pleases. Though it stings, consider what may make you more attractive. Start with not describing in length the process for taxidermying deer, or find another girl or boy who is into that sort of thing. (You have a friend in me). You’re beginning to treat all negative things as equally bad, and seeing malice everywhere.

It is only the boys who hurt you who have malice. They are the type who need to feel powerful. Power, they’ve discovered, can come from being a jerk. Their power relies on onlookers minimizing the harm they cause, excusing or ignoring their behavior. What those boys did to you deserves justice, and your family must pursue it with you.

…which I doubt they will. Your grandfather is the same as the boys. He was an unlikeable child. Scrawny, pimply, and stupid as they come. Undesirable qualities, but not his fault. People constantly teased him for it. Like you, he lost his parents when he was ten, and was raised by his grandparents, who had… different ideas about how to live. When he tells you not to be a little bitch, he is speaking to himself.

But I fear your grandfather is taking the wrong approach. With your hospitalization and your teachers’ testimony, I hoped he would admit he was wrong. I had also hoped that when he took you out to cheer you up that you were going for ice cream sundaes or the newfangled boba tea, but when you pushed the gun case under the bed… Did he take you to the gun range? I hope you didn’t steal it. From a certain angle I can see your computer screen on your desk. I know what you’re looking for. You are scaring me.

Firstly, if you take nothing else away from my letter, know that I’ve dwelled beneath the beds of many cowards, and their fears are sour with regret. It is hard to be courageous, even when you know something is terribly wrong. But you fought back! It was impressive that there were five of them against you, and they had been training all season, and you had been languishing in your room on obscure political forums. You bit an ear off! I think they understand well not to mess with you now. There is no need for further action.

Second, I will repeat my invitation to join me under your bed. I can give you a workshop on how to process fear, resentment, and rage into beneficial humus. And if you become infatuated with my role, who knows? You may be asked to be a carrier. We have to get from bed to bed somehow. We need understanding comrades who can help us do the work of making sure nutrients cycle through the world, and you are well-positioned to excel in this field, with your interests. And I’d like to think Ogres subcubile are a noble, unsung species, with humble but welcoming arms.

Third, know this. It is lonely to be misunderstood and undesired, yes. But it is worse to be someone whom others have every right to be afraid of.

Sincerely,

Someone Who Would Know

Review of the Instant Pickler

If you’re staying on Earth, I wouldn’t recommend the Instant Pickler. This machine is most valuable to people going beyond the asteroid belt, say, for black hole research, like I was when my parents bought it for me as a going away gift. Deep space chefs, this one’s for you. And also, my parents, who liked eating and product reviews.

One star for price. My parents sold their deli to buy it for me. They were retiring anyway, but still.

My parents bought the Instant Pickler a couple of decades ago, so I’m giving it five stars for longevity. Earthside folks are living twice as long as folks in my generation did, but I don’t know if my age counts, because time gets weird in space travel. I was twenty-one when I left Earth, and I’m physically thirty-five terran standard years now. But my mom told me that eating fermented and pickled food every day will keep me young, so I can’t say for sure how old I really am.

Three stars for size. The Instant Pickler looks like a white dorm fridge and is about the size of one. It has a dial like a bank safe’s. The dial goes from one day to one year. You prep your food, put it in its container, stick that in the Instant Pickler, and turn the dial to however many days it’s supposed to sit. One day is compressed to one minute. Sounds like the loudest microwave ever when it’s turned on, and it sucks down energy like you wouldn’t believe—accidentally shorted the power system in the living quarters when I tested it. Thank God we’re nuclear-powered. People were screaming mad. You almost killed us for dilly carrots? They quieted down when they tasted them. Now everyone wants pickles, and the size limits how many we can make at a time. Nothing gets people on your side better than good food, to quote my dad, who bribed his children with stroopwaffles.

What the Instant Pickler takes up in space and energy, it makes up for in usefulness in morale and nutrition. Pickling extends the longevity of fresh produce, spices, and herbs. Every bit of payload matters, so the farther the kitchen can stretch what we have, the better. With the Instant Pickler, I can offer better, gut-friendly food with a flavor hit, instead of only rehydrated meals. The more I use it, the more in awe I am at my mom. She never had one and made pickles in whatever jars she had.^[1]

But speed and nutrition aren’t the only reasons I’m writing this review. This device gives the most value to people who have to deal with extreme time dilation. Like, say, if you check one of the boxes:

• Your parents die during your voyage, and their graveyard is swallowed by the rising ocean before the ship returns to Earth.
• People who will see their brothers and sisters have children, see them grow grey, then their children have children and go grey themselves, and so on.
• People who will become their family’s ancestor because a century passed on Earth and only fourteen passed on your ship (and because your effing grand-niblings put the ansible screen on the family altar!)

I guess I recommend the Instant Pickler is because I see something of my situation in it. I get twice-weekly (twice-weekly by my ship’s standards) ansible calls to Earth, and every call looks like I’m opening the door to the Instant Pickler to check on the contents. Except, it’s my brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and their kids in there. My parents died only a few calls after the voyage began, and I was like, “No, I’m still a baby! Come back!” And I’ll be home in a few weeks by Earth standards, and my grand-niblings are technically my age.

I’m not good at explaining things that are food very well, so here’s a comparison. If you stick a cucumber inside the Instant Pickler, it definitely becomes a pickle. But is it still a cucumber?

Are the microbes on the ship the same species? They’ve only gone through about fourteen years of changes. Earth lettuce, pepper, and shrimp changed during climate change. Kimchi, cheese, wine, miso—none of it tastes like it used to back in my day, according to Mom before she passed. The lettuce, shrimp, and pepper varieties on my ship have gone extinct on Earth.

This is all to say, if you stick a dude in a spaceship, is he still family to the ones who went ahead in time? This ship acts as a metaphorical pickler itself, preserving everything inside, but changing it simultaneously. So is Earth, changing and preserving my family.

I took the deep space chef job because my family needed the money, and still do. My great-grand people still call me and give me the family news—restaurant booms and busts and scholarships won and lost. They told me about the new foods coming out and rise and fall of celebrity chefs, and send me recipes to try on the ship. There is something still recognizably us, even 100 years later: we’re still broke, we all love eating and cooking and pickling, and I’m still the eldest son.

But this is where the Instant Pickler promises to change our fortune, and the fortunes of all deep space chefs, former and future. This is where I recommend spending your advance, selling your furniture and your house to pick one up if you are going on a deep space voyage—and to also buy whatever produce you can grow in space.

I still have grapes when all of Earth does not; the Instant Pickler can also ferment wine. I’ll be home soon.

[1] If you decide not to get the Instant Pickler, please at least get proper canning jars and lids.

About the Author 

Erin Fuller is the short story category winner of the 41st Annual Adult Creative Writing Contest hosted by the Tulsa City-County Library and received an honorable mention in the young adult novel category of the Oklahoma Writers’ Federation Annual 2018 Writing Contest. She has work published or forthcoming in the Tulsa Review, Metaphorosis Speculative Magazine, Hexagon Speculative Fiction Magazine, and more. She lives and works in Tulsa, OK.