Transition, p.11
TRANSITION, page 11
Neil squints his eyes and furrows his brows, “Bambi? Like the cartoon deer?”
“Yes, correct, try to follow along. Look, I’ll tell you what I know, but don’t pass out on me, okay?” I pause and Neil takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax, and nods. “Apparently, this whole station is a simulation. Or all of them are.” He opens his mouth to interrupt, and I raise my hand. “We do not exist in reality, beyond a circuit board back on Earth. As Bambi put it, parallel processing was the only way to solve all the problems humanity faced, and build the ships needed to ferry those lucky fucks, which includes the frozen bodies of you and our good friend Dr. Klein by the way, off the island.”
“What? What are we then? What is this me, if another me already exists?”
“Those are great questions that I’m quite certain we lack the time and deep background in philosophical implications to answer properly. Look, the ships already left. Bambi is some thing that kept all these simulations running smoothly, but now he’s too far away to do it effectively.” I wave at the door to the lab. “Which gets us to our present state, where the laws of physics and the simulation are literally breaking down around us. We are both going to die, or whatever it is that happens when the simulation finally crashes. It’s unavoidable. So here’s the deal, the crux of the whole thing: Bambi is keeping this small space functioning only to see if we can get this technology working, and if we can, he will resurrect me into someone else’s brain on the other side. Which sounds absolutely insane when I say it out loud, but if it means I get to live, then I’m pretty willing to try and get it to work out.”
Neil opens and closes his mouth several times in some bizarre fish pantomime. I check for gills. The simulation hasn’t broken down that far yet.
“Neil, look. There is a time to think, and a time to act. This is no time to think. Now, can you program the change?”
The ask for technical support seems to short-circuit something in Neil. Like it accesses a different part of his brain, a place where he is cooly competent and confident. His mouth takes on the slight upward turn of someone who loves a challenge.
“I think I can figure it out. I’ve studied coding, and even though Dr. Klein kept it tight, I know the basics of his program. Honestly, the interface handles most of it anyways. Go get the surgery suite ready.”
I was not made to lift heavy things. I am a creature of grace and beauty. I repeat these two sentences to myself as I grunt and heave against the semi-circular laser array.
Not made to lift heavy things.
Grace and beauty.
Fuck this is heavy.
Protrusions stick off either side of it that need to be inserted into the surgery table, and when I raise one to the right height, I notice the other has fallen slightly and is jamming up the whole operation. At which point, with shaking arms and my heart pounding in my throat, I set the whole damn thing down before I drop it, and try to catch my breath. Then I repeat.
Neil walks into the surgery suite, staring down at a tablet in his hands. “Coding’s done. Dr. Klein had done the majority of it already. Were you two planning this? Let’s see…oh no, don’t drop it!”
Neil rushes to my side and grabs the other end of the laser array. With his steadying hand, we guide it until it clicks softly into place.
“I almost had it.” I say after several panting breaths.
“Sure. Just like the door. Now take a look at this and tell me what you think.”
Neil puts his tablet screen in front of my face, and I find my face recreated there. It spins slowly, a disembodied rendering with a blank gaze and an absolutely killer nose. The humped bridge of my Roman beak has been replaced by something more petite, something delicate and pretty. I reach up to my face and poke at the protuberance, confirming it still exists the way I remember it. This nose on the scream is what I was always meant to have.
“It’s perfect. Small, but appropriate to my structure. Less distracting than it is now. Did you do the shaping?”
“No, no… that is far beyond my skill set. The computer program recommended it based on your facial structure.”
“How did it have that?”
“Oh, it has a database of everyone on the station.”
“Of-fucking-course it does. We’ll gloss over how actually creepy that is and focus on the positive outcome then. What happens next? You put me under and I wake up looking incredibly more beautiful than I already do?”
“Well, so, that was what I came to talk to you about.”
“Why do you look concerned?”
“Look, Micah. I’m very qualified to sedate our lab rats for surgery. It’s a procedure I’ve done countless times. I know the dosages we should use for their weight, and how long it should have them under for. I know the side effects, and most importantly, I know not to give them too much.”
“You seem to be leading to something, but I can’t quite tell what it is you’re trying to say to me right now. We have to function on mutual trust and understanding here Neil, we’re likely the last two humans alive on this space station. Or programs alive in this simulation? You know what, let’s not think too deeply about that. The walls are closing in. Out with it.”
“It’s too dangerous for me to try and anesthetize you. The risk is too high. What works on the rats very likely won’t work the same on you. I just don’t have the background to do it successfully, and I’m too worried I’d launch you into a medically induced coma. Or worse.”
“Does it matter if none of this is real?”
“I don’t know, why are you asking me?”
“Bambi! Does it matter?!” I shout at the walls, but there’s no answer. “So what? I have to go through this awake? That’s what you’re saying?”
“It’s the only way to be safe.”
“Neil, how much is this going to hurt?”
“A fair bit, I’d imagine.”
“Goddammit.” I sigh, close my eyes and stretch. “Not much of a choice though, is there?”
“Not really. Here, you’ll want this to bite down on,” Neil says, holding out a leather belt still warm from circling his waist.
I take it and move over to sit on the surgery bed. “Make me beautiful, Neil.”
People, exhaustingly always from the majority, think criticism and discrimination against the marginalia of society died out sometime in the past. We all collectively moved on, recognized it’s okay to be different, if not before then certainly after they were specifically protected in legislation. Had they been from a marginalized group, or counted them as close friends, they’d know that has never been the case. Intolerance persists. It lives on past laws, past social norms, and certainly past those well intentioned, rosy-colored memories.
When I worked at the dockyards, a towering man with a Slavic accent punched me in the face. I never knew if it was the flamboyant flirting, or the incorrigible wink I directed at a beautiful man who sat next to him. That one had been making eyes at me over the past weeks, it was the obvious thing to do. It felt like the end of the world at the docks, and I just wanted to have a bit of fun.
That hulking bear of a man, who with clear hindsight I now recognize as my dear friend Casimir Petrov from Administration, screamed in primordial anger, his face turned purple, and he yelled at me in a language I didn’t understand. When he finally switched to one I could decipher through his accent, I found out I was a sin, a stain on humanity, an abomination.
How boring.
I probably shouldn’t have rolled my eyes at him, but it’s so hard with these sorts.
But I did, and no sooner had I completed it than his fist slammed directly into my face. I swear, it was against the laws of physics for a man that big to move that fast. For my part, I immediately fell down and curled into a ball. Fight, flight, or fetal position. Thankfully, our cook Shi intervened and he didn’t continue. The pain was immense. I was certain the bastard had broken my nose, even had a bewildering hope that I might need cosmetic surgery to fix it, but after the swelling went down it was no more angular than before.
This is the closest pain I can remember to what I’m experiencing now, but instead of the single hit, this is like a continuous punch to the nose. Again and again, the jolts of pain blast across my face until it feels like it’s melting. They sear across the plates of my skull and down into the roots of my teeth, which are currently clenched tight and trying to chew through the belt Neil gave me. I clamp my eyes against it so hard I’m unsure if I’ll be able to open them again. Tears stream from them, soaking my cheeks and collecting in the hollow of my collarbone. An electric tingling that started at my face spreads across my body, making my fingers and toes twitch and convulse.
I will myself to pass out. Just fucking pass out, you idiot. Isn’t that what people do from too much pain? Can’t I please just knock myself out? Come on brain, don’t fail me on this. My thoughts then make a marvelous turn to images of rats exploding on this surgery table.
Is this it?
If I open my eyes, will I see my body horribly distended with rampant cell growth?
Is this how I die?
From some far-distant galaxy, Neil’s voice breaks through in an incessant chant. “It’s almost over, it’s almost over.”
And then, finally, it is. The tingling sensation stops at once. The fever-pitch of the pain mellows, and dissipates into a steady throb. I unclench my jaw, and slowly let my eyes come back open.
“Are you okay? Micah? Say something.” Neil’s face swims into my vision. His concern is cute.
“Neil, I demand you learn anesthesiology. I promise I am going to find you in the next life and force you to.” My voice is hoarse, and I think for the last eternity of the procedure I might have been screaming. He smiles, and starts to loosen the bonds holding me to the table.
“Well, congratulations, I guess. You’ve proven the technology works on humans. Does that mean you’re safe, now?”
“I don’t know, where’s that fucking rat?” Blinking through the tears still in my eyes, I scan the room, but don’t see a sign of Bambi. What I do see makes my stomach sink. The corridor beyond the surgery suite, the access to the rest of the lab, is gone. Beyond this room is the void of space.
“Neil, the doorway—”
He sighs. “Yeah, I saw it.”
“What do we do?”
“Either wait or walk into it, I guess, but I’m not one for the latter,” he says, exasperated. My binds removed, he turns and leans against the table. Then I see the tears silently tracing lines down his cheek.
“Would you like to come lay on this table with me?”
He nods his head, and wipes the tears away. I roll over onto my side, and he curls up beside me. A little spoon. I sink into that wonderful heat of human connection, and pull my body next to his. He cries quietly, shaking slightly against me in some mixture of fear and depression.
“I’m scared, Micah.”
“I am too. Dying’s easy though, kid. Living’s harder.”
He chuckles through his tears, and presses back against me. “Did you just give me an inspirational quote, here, of all times?”
“I did, Neil. I really did.”
We laugh into the face of imminent death, and then contemplation takes us both. Behind my head, I feel a familiar form curl up, and lay down. A particularly misshapen rat whose wisps of hair tickle my neck. Despite it all, I reach back and pet him, and he presses into me in thanks. What an asshole. What a complete and total fucking asshole. But I think maybe Bambi is the only real friend I ever had. The only one that believed in me. The only one that pushed me to live. And I cry then, finally, after it all. Happy to have experienced this all, happy to have died to get a chance to live again. Finally happy to have life feel meaningful and rich.
Even if none of it was real.
We laid there for a minute, or a day. I can’t remember, looking back now. I don’t see the end, or remember how it felt. I don’t remember the moment space filled our final room, and sent us all into the void. I see the three of us on the table, the last life raft adrift in the ocean, space filling the doorway at the corner of my vision.
We’re warm together.
And then, nothing.
Eighteen
Not Micah
The end. Or their end. It’s a beginning too, of sorts, although that will take much longer. I keep Micah with me, held in stasis and incorruptible. A final image before the dark took him, a memory of warmth and connection. I’ll spare him the fear that comes for every man at their true end. And when this ship lands in its place amongst the stars, when its denizens awake from their long cryo-sleep, he’ll be reborn. Implanted.
The technology waits for him there. It will shape his future, and shape the city. It will make some men into monsters, and make others beautiful. I never told Micah, but it won’t save anyone. Or not in the way the Doctor thought it would. It will shape my future too, ultimately, but that’s a story for another time. I see it there, in the course of the timelines I’ve chosen. I see its terminus, and work towards it.
This is the long wait. Alone in my kingdom, adrift in the cosmos, I close my eyes, and wait for the future to start.
Thank You
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading Transition. This story was born out of conversations overheard at bars, a lingering obsession with simulation theory, and a wife that wouldn't let me leave Micah alone. He reminded us both of a friend we lost too soon. So I set out to write a story of someone given a second chance, someone that decided to live. Three books in now, I've realized much of The Narrator Cycle deals with a loss of agency in one form or another. They are stories of people claiming that agency back from the world, in some small way. I hope these themes resonate with you, too. Please consider leaving an honest rating and review, they are so immensely helpful to independent authors like myself. As a writer, I love engaging directly with my readers. Want to ask me a question, or tell me how this story affected you? You can find me on most social media platforms, and I'll answer.
Acknowledgements
I've been incredibly lax in publishing acknowledgements in my books, and although I thank most of them regularly, I wanted to immortalize my appreciation. I've had so many people involved in this weird experiment from the early days. The community I've built from writing and publishing has been one of the most rewarding parts of this journey.
Thank you to my wife, Angie. She's my biggest supporter, my earliest reader, and she always pushes me to be better. Without her reading Transference and telling me it wasn't shit, this whole journey might have died on the vine. Thank you to my friends and close supporters, my early readers, the ones who keep showing up—Phil, Jesse, Sarah, Yves, Haley, S.J., Beth, Johanna, Ignacio, Nathaniel, Emma—having your support means the world. Thank you to my dad for reading everything I write and telling me he's proud of me. I wish my mom was here to see it, but I know she'd be proud too. Thank you to my local group of artists, and Jacqueline specifically, for creating a space where we can all grow together. Thank you to Jeffery and the entire staff of Poor Richards for supporting me early on, getting a review of my book in the paper, and always hyping me up. Selling books in my childhood bookstore is a dream to achieve. Thank you to Colorado Humanities for honoring me with the Colorado Book Award in 2025, I'm quite literally still in shock. Thank you to all the wonderful authors I've met along the way, my little community of weirdos, there are too many of you to list specifically but I treasure all our friendships. Thank you to my editors Melinda, Emil, and Colleen. Without you my books would be a shade of what they are today. Thank you to my cover designer, illustrator, and friend Barış Şehri. I always knew I wanted covers that were beautiful and unique, and working with you has been an absolute dream. Thank you to all the ones that I forgot in the writing of this entirely too early in the morning. There are so many who show up to support me again and again, and it makes me so damn happy.
And thank you, dear reader, whoever you are, for going on this journey with me.
Ian Patterson is the award-winning author of The Narrator Cycle. He writes stories that couldn’t happen in the hopes they won’t happen. He’s also an engineer, cyclist, foodie, coffee lover, cat dad, human father, and reader of books. Preferably, thick books that deal with strange things and big ideas. He's wearing his daughter's sunglasses in this image, and thinks it's hilarious. He hopes to be a writer when he grows up… but it’s unclear when that will be.
Newsletter / Fiction Blog:
https://ipatterson.substack.com/
Ian Patterson, TRANSITION
