Liv’s thoughtstream, 5/27/2147

Mirt pokes his face into my partition, jolting me out of whatever daydream I was having. I’ve already forgotten what it was. He’s got just the slightest bit of emotion- a crinkle at the edges of his lips, a slightly less furrowed set of eyebrows. Thawed on the sidewalk as opposed to straight from the snowstorm.

“Serlis,” Mirt whispers. “I need to show you something important.”

I slide off my bed, ruffling the sheets. Mirt’s finger flies to his lips, motioning for me to shush, so I pull on the slippers someone left beside my bed last night. I follow him out of the partition, out of the room- and there’s a dizzying array of hallways we could go out of, opening from every direction possible except for straight up and down.

Mirt places a hand on my shoulder, the hospital gown crinkling under his fingers. I hadn’t even noticed I was dizzy. Everything is dizzying, my body far lighter than it should be even with the artificial gravity, the planet spinning at a different velocity and threatening to throw me off because of it.

“Before every voyage,” Mirt says, guiding me down the rightmost corridor, “we have to spend a week in the back of a gym in a specialized chamber. We strengthen our muscles and acclimate ourselves to Earth’s gravity.” His grip on my shoulder increases, and we take a left turn, which leads to a spiral staircase I can’t see the bottom of. Or maybe that’s just my vision failing me. “Miralayans are not meant to live on Earth. Their… biological functions have deviated too far in the mere century and a half since we’ve split to survive for extended periods of time outside Mars.”

I want to tell him about Heavestone just to prove him wrong. Self-contained Heavestone, living in peace, removed from the world around it. I want to tell him about the people I came here to protect. They didn’t go through whatever muscle-building regime Amelia and Mirt and the other people went through, and they turned out happy.

Happy because they left Miralay, or in spite of it?

Parents do what they think is best for their children. My parents and Eponine’s left to keep us from being Providences. Whatever the risks, they thought that bringing us to Earth would be better than staying here.

I’m living proof that Mirt is wrong. But I’m not going to tell him that to his face.

We reach the end of the spiral staircase. I don’t feel dizzy anymore- at least, not until I look up and see how far we went in my reverie. Mirt nudges me away from the staircase and through a double set of doors. The lights change from fluorescent white to a dim red.

I instinctively take a deep breath. There are countless racks in front of me outfitted with tanks, spinning them slowly like a rotisserie met an aquarium the size of two adults laid out end-to-end. Mirt nudges me closer, close enough that I can just barely make out my reflection in the glass. Inside each tank is a myriad of tiny little grapes, all tethered to a mucus-like branch stretched out from one end of the tank to the other. Or maybe they’re fish eggs? I can’t tell. The light is too weak. They sway gently like a lazy ocean current is unsure whether it wants to blow over them or not.

“Is this how Miralay grows food?” I turn around, facing Mirt. “This is… inefficient. How do you deal with the lack of air? How do they get nutrients? How-”

Mirt shakes his head. “Look again.”

I turn back and take a second look, leaning close enough to the glass that my breath leaves fog. The grapes are translucent, each housing a little white streak inside. Some of the streaks are blobbier than others.

“I don’t get it,” I admit. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

Mirt takes my shoulder and directs me to the next rack. I take a look- the white things are more swollen but still unrecognizable. Grape cancer? Some new kind of food that only grows on Miralay?

I turn my head, glance at Mirt, hope for some kind of explanation. He gives none, just points me to the next rack. And the next rack, and the one after that, the grapes progressively growing more and more misshapen until I’m looking at sacs the length of my thumb and there are too many coincidental lumps inside each one to be anything else.

I am staring at an unborn Miralayan child in gestation.

Mirt must notice the curling of my lip, the revulsion and yet refusal to look away, because he clears his throat. “You and Eponine were never in these. The Providences always stay in their own mother’s wombs. They can detect a Providence as early as two weeks after conception. That’s when all the other babies are taken and placed here to grow.”

I shiver. “But why-”

“Thanks to this system, parents can work without having to worry about their child being injured in a workplace accident or dying thanks to a maternal illness or a miscarriage. Every child gets the nutrients they need. Every child gets an equal footing in life, and they get assigned a memory line at birth, and they spend their formative years learning to live up to it, and then they receive their memories and work until they die and pass off their lives to someone else. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it always will be.”

I’ve slipped to my knees. The racks still rotate above my head, taunting me with future generations. All the articles I found in my two-week obsession with birth as a twelve-year-old resurface, gasping for air. Babies bond better with their mothers if they have a natural birth, they all scream as they splash around.

How can you bond with a mother who your assigned memories say isn’t your mother? How can you bond with a mother when the concept brings up six or seven people who gave birth to people who were just your vessels?

Which one is the real mother? The long-dead one who gave birth to the first person? Or the one who contributed an egg and nothing else?

How are you supposed to tell?


I’m crying. I’m sobbing because I alone got the chance to have a genuine mother-daughter connection and I never got to use it because my damn mother died while trying to escape from here and yet I came back anyways and spat on her grave.

Dead Miralayans don’t have graves. Dead Miralayans are harvested for implantable organs and then cremated in special chambers that contribute to the electricity supply. Miralayans help the colony to the very end.

I have to stop this. I need to stop this. This isn’t right-

But it is for the good of Miralay, isn’t it? It is the most efficient way to make sure that babies keep churning out. The most efficient way to stabilize the population.

Serlis. I understand your distress. But this is the way Miralay has been from the beginning. Time has proven this to be the best way. Natural birth is inefficient and dangerous for most Miralayan lifestyles. The lack of a bond helps otherwise emotionally brittle children who haven’t received memories yet move past the shedding of their parents. Miralayans don’t cry. They act.

Miralayans don’t cry. They act.

I’ve somehow managed to work and cry, but none of it will make me not Miralayan, not the Providence, not wishing that all this were someone else’s responsibility.

It’s so easy to say that I want to do what’s best for Miralay. But I have no idea what to do. And anything I could do would take generations to stabilize if the public even goes along with it and the next Providence might not be so weak and might reverse everything.

Mirt rests a hand on my shoulder. I’m trembling. I’m glowing. He asks me if I want to go back to the medical ward, says that I need to rest before tomorrow. I dry my eyes, my sore and throbbing eyes, and go with him, leaving behind the silent embryos in purgatory.

This is a breeding worthy of insects. Am I an insect? Am I a queen bee commanding all the worker bees? I don’t want to be. I want to be a human. I want babies to be born from their mothers and to grow up with their mothers. I want the inefficient way because Miralay was supposed to be humans propagating their race on other planets and maybe one day outside of the solar system, not a beehive.

I sound like Eponine. And Eponine hates Miralay and everything about it and will be subdued tomorrow and replaced with someone else entirely and so will I because it’s what Miralay wills, what Miralay needs to stay stable, what Miralay thinks is best.

I sound selfish. This isn’t about me or my dead mother or my feelings. This is about making sure that Miralay stays healthy and reproductive and primed for data collection so eventually Mordern can launch another Miralay clone on a different planet.

I have to preserve the system. This is my destiny, my birthright, my fate.

It’s for the good of Miralay.

Liv’s thoughtstream, 5/26/2147, second log

Everything smells like lemon window cleaner and the void of space and I’m still lethargic despite my limbs being liberated from the frost. My mind feels like a brick of concrete, neither human nor Miralayan.

What am I supposed to be? A doll, perhaps? A mannequin, maybe?

A hand brushes aside some of the hanging sheets denoting my partition in the medical ward, and then I see Mirt- first his face, then the rest of him as he approaches me and hands me a thin rectangle of shiny black plastic.

“What’s this?” I ask, turning to him.

Seeing that I’ve bothered to acknowledge him, he bows, keeping his gaze averted. “Serlis. You haven’t had any formal Miralayan education. Seeing that you’ll be receiving your memories in the near future, I didn’t think you wanted to spend your last few days before taking up status crammed inside of a classroom.”

Being crammed inside a medical ward isn’t much better. At least in a classroom- from what I gathered- there are teachers to listen to and knowledge to absorb.

Mirt gestures to the black plastic, taps it- and a screen comes on. “One of the security consoles the guards use. I thought it might be in your best interest to take a quick look around. I… can’t imagine the internet had much information on Miralay that wasn’t adulterated with mere speculation and conspiracy theories.”

I pick up the plastic… device. It fits perfectly in my hands. The screen has a neat little menu with muted colors and a basic font. There are hundreds of security cameras available for me to snoop around, all sorted by sector, purpose, resolution, latency. Too many options, so I go with something easy, something familiar.

The wide room that houses this very medical ward.

There are three cameras I can peer though, all of them designed to see through the curtains that keep me from snooping on the other patients, rendering the fabric as translucent gray shimmers. It must be a slow day for the medical crew- only about five or six people in here, including myself. Three adults I recognize from the outpost back on Earth; I don’t remember any of their names.

And a boy in the back with bandages over his eyes bearing soft little pinpricks of red stains and an IV in his arm and a quarter-size bald spot at the back of his head where the hair was shaved away to make for an incision site.

And the gauze taped to the space in between his eyes and up a little.


But I thought it would only be-

I look up at Mirt, and he clears his throat, already knowing my question. “Research done behind closed doors to try to emulate the brain-machine interface of the Providence. It won’t be as functional as yours has already demonstrated itself to be…” He shakes his head. “But we need to keep up appearances, and having a cripple as the Providence isn’t going to help much.”

Keeping up appearances?

Is there something wrong on Miralay?

Because then I need to fix it!

Eponine is too still to be lucid- I can just barely see the faint up-and-down as his chest as he slumbers on, probably still hopped up on the buckets of sedatives they must have used to keep him calm. He’ll probably wake up confused and scared and very much like I was when I first crawled out of a sleeping pod and tasted life. A directionless larvae fresh from the egg.

I go back to the list of cameras. There are no classrooms- there really isn’t much point in learning more than the absolute basics if you’ll just get all the other knowledge handed to you along with a life plan. The memory shedding lobby is empty, and a plastic sign in the far right corner proclaims that no recording or camera devices are allowed in the actual shedding room. There’s a black curtain swaying gently from the breathing of the ventilation. It probably leads to where the shedding machines are.

I guess I’ll find out in a few days.

I change the scene. A sector pathway, a hallway, countless pristine doors marking off residential quarters with numbers in the triple digits. This is Sector Three. All of the doors are closed. It is the same in Sector Four and Five and Two and the other three sectors I don’t want to bother checking because I know they’ll all just be the same old sterile walkways.

There isn’t a throne room. There is a meeting room with slightly more adorned chairs for the Providences- one with a swirling red and orange back and one as a mirror reflection of its mate but in blue and green. I can’t tell which one is supposed to be for me and which one will be for Eponine. Maybe we’ll get to choose?

“The ceremony’s going to be on Sunday,” Mirt whispers. “You’ll receive your memories and then be prepped up and presented to the public. That’s where you’ll receive your uniform and your cohabitation quarters with Eponine and become acquainted with the various officials on Miralay.”

“So I won’t have to do everything alone?”

Mirt sighs and rubs his forehead. “Fortunately. There are seven officials that answer to you, one for each sector, and they each have a retainer who answers to them. They operate without you for the most part, but they’ll approach you and Eponine for the final word on important matters. And, of course, you can always intervene.”

I can always intervene.

But there are set rules somewhere, I’m sure. Like, I can’t just have anybody murdered on a whim, can I? Executed for treason? Could I be executed for treason if I decided one day that I’d had enough of being Providence? If Eponine became so unhinged that I’d have to force him to step down for the good of Miralay? If I didn’t want there to be any more Providences, period?

I don’t… I don’t know anything trustworthy about Miralay. About the Providence’s duties, about what memory shedding entails, about the culture I’ll have to mold myself into.

About myself.

But I have all the stories I read during my purgatory- of birth permits and mistakes, of kids illicitly born to parents without a birth permit who had to hide pregnancies for nine months and then were busted when they tried to smuggle the babies off to Earth or abandoned in a forgotten corner somewhere and mistakenly shipped off to Earth. Of people who refused to give up their memories to shedding and were forcibly strapped down and gagged, of people who refused to receive someone else’s memories and station in life and resisted to the point of suicide.

Someone received memories that weren’t supposed to be theirs and suffered through dysphoria all their life because of it. Someone who was my age tried to kill as many people in the waiting lobby as possible to save them from shedding. An Earthen smuggled themselves to Miralay, got someone else’s memories, was deported back to Earth, and spent the remainder of his days running around and proclaiming that he was a prophet.

I’m surprised that, assuming all these stories are true, there hasn’t been a fully-fledged uprising yet.

“Mirt?” I whisper at long last.

“Yes, Serlis?”

Can you make me a promise?”

He kneels beside my bed, his eyes focused on a point above my head. “What is it?”

“That once I become the Providence, that you’ll help me do what’s best for Miralay. And that you’ll support me. Even if it means that I have to commit treason to make things better.”

Mirt’s eyebrows go up slightly, but he closes his eyes anyways and puts a hand on his knee. “As long as it’s for Miralay’s benefit, you have my unwavering loyalty.”

My throat chokes up. I can’t force any other words out, so I softly whisper, Thank you.”

I pat his head- I think he tolerates it, but just barely, because he stands up again right after I retreat my hand and switch to a different feed. It’s the loading bay in Miralay, positioned countless miles above our heads at this very moment. Just small enough for a few ships like the one I came in; nothing hulking huge- but then again, it’s not like there’s dozens of alien civilizations we would need to cater to. Just shipments from Earth to Miralay and back again.

I wish Eponine could have been a pilot instead of the Providence. That would have been incredibly more helpful. But then… I’d have to learn to work around someone who might not be as loyal to Miralay.

Who might be too loyal.

I turn the device facedown on the sheets and close my eyes, leaning back until my head hits the pillow. The partition sheets ruffle. Mirt is gone, leaving me to rest, and I’m all alone without anyone to talk to.

I’ll get friends in two days. All the friends I could possibly want, and then I’ll never be alone ever again.

Liv’s thoughtstream, 5/26/2147

My chest cracks open like a wine cellar on a special occasion, wood creaking and whining as it separates from its ancient binds. I am an icicle freshly severed from its roof, fallen to the frozen hard ground, shattered into a million pieces all screaming out for some recognition in the land of the living.

I’ve already come back from death once. I don’t want to repeat it, but I have to, I have to, I have to-


I can’t move my limbs. There’s a light flashing behind the relative safety of my eyelids. I try to squeeze away the light- out of sight, out of mind, right?

Nothing is in my mind right now.

“Serlis! Answer me!”

Searing hot coals touch my skin, burn a hole straight through me like I were foam sliced open by a searing hot knife. I am split in two. Maybe I could send half of me back to Miralay with Eponine and keep half of me here to take care of the Miralayans-

A sob escapes my lips, a pitiful sound. My eyes crack open, and everything is foggy, worsened further by the tears threatening to freeze my gaze in place. A faint feminine shape- Amelia Rouge? Some other caretaker?

Maybe it’s my dead mom, and I’m at my funeral in a casket, and she’s weeping for me instead of the other way around, the way it should have been.

Hands grip my stiff sides and pull me out of the sleeping pod, muttering all the while. I’m positioned on a heated table, or maybe it’s a bed without sheets- I can’t feel anything beyond the constant frost. Someone’s calling my name over and over and over. I wish they would stop. It doesn’t do anything to abate the slow roasting seeping into my legs.

“Looks like hypothermia and slight tissue damage from the stasis pod caused by an incomplete thawing before revival. Her mental state is to be expected. Serlis should fully recover by the time Eponine is out of surgery.”


I’m on Miralay. I’m too far gone to figure out the time or the difference between Earth’s gravity and the artificial gravity of Miralay, but I’m on Miralay, and I’m going to be given all the care I’ll ever need. Nobody will ever shove me inside a sleeping pod to rot in obscurity ever again.

The lights change. I am an artisan glass ornament, polished in the fire, fragile, immobile. But I can open my eyes- I’m a newborn puppy seeing for the first time. Just the stone of the ceiling and the lights, flickering in between too fast for me to comprehend. I have the brains of a newborn puppy too, it seems. I think- I think I’m leaving the spacecraft? There are people escorting me out, keeping me out of the public’s eye. I can’t be seen. Not like this. It’ll lower morale.

“Serlis.” The voice comes from behind me. It’s deep. I don’t recognize it. “My Providence.”

“S… Say it again,” I manage to croak out, my tongue immediately going back to its rigid state once I get the words out.

“My Providence? My Providence.”

My breathing quickens. At this rate, my chest will melt and turn into liquid and float the rest of me away.

I am the Providence. I am his Providence.

“Our gift from the gods in the stars. Our loving mother and caretaker. I am so glad to have you and Eponine back on Miralay. Everyone here is. This is where you belong. This is where you will always belong.”

I am everyone else’s Providence as well. I have a purpose, and it fills me with a fire inside- but my limbs still hurt and my skin is still glass, so I can only manage a faint smile. My heart has left its chest, escaping the weak atmosphere beyond the underground complex, and has swelled up to the size of the planet, painting the planet more and more red with each heartbeat. Breathing life into the planet with each breath in my cracked open chest.

Man, I really am out of it. Maybe it’s best that I go in the medical ward for now and defrost.

Defrost. It makes me sound like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey ready to be roasted and served on a silver platter. In a way, I am- the spacecraft is the freezer, and now I’m being carried off somewhere to defrost and be prepared to be stuffed with someone else’s substance. But it’s for the good of Miralay, and I’ll still ultimately be me afterwards


Liv’s thoughtstream, 5/24/2147

The crickets stop chirping, and that’s when I know that the Miralayan ship is ready for boarding. The room falls silent, people dropping their cards and putting on their solemn faces and switching from the lively conversers they were a moment ago back to pseudo-military personnel. They’re not actually military- Miralay wouldn’t send civic officers to Earth, and what wars would Miralay fight?- but they carry themselves as such.

The door opens. My new retainer, Mirt, pokes his head inside. My face heats up. Mirt is six feet tall and modestly built and would otherwise be cute, but he’s so… cold. If people had multiple masks for their emotions, Mirt wears one that he got from a flea market some years ago and nothing else, except for the fleeting moment this morning when Eponine was cursing out another retainer and I saw the edges of Mirt’s mouth twitch. Pure disdain rolled off of him, so thick I could feel it. He wanted to say something, to intervene, I think, but instead he shook his head and carried on with whatever he was doing. But Mirt gets the job done, even if merely turning his head my direction and letting his gaze fall on me can turn my body into some exotic lifeless metal whose name I’ve probably never heard of before.

He scares the living hell out of me. Why did Amelia think he would be a good fit?

Mirt gestures to me. My heart flutters as I take a few steps forward. He leads me out of the room and through the jungle of hallways. He is soundless as a ghost as he does so, never once glancing behind him to make sure that I’m still following him.

Maybe Mirt is a ghost.

The sky is dark, and silhouetted in the middle of the parking lot in the glare of the building’s floodlights is a hulking mass of countless tons of metal and machinery. Mirt steps forward and taps something I can’t see on his belt, and then a whooshing sound- the loading hatch opens, a staircase unfolding for us to step inside the spacecraft. A few locks of hair flop out of the bobby pins holding them back and cover his eyes. He brushes them aside without so much as even blinking.

“You first, my Providence,” he intones. His golden pin with the Miralayan crest denoting him as a retainer glimmers in the light. I take a few tentative steps forward, waiting for him to follow me, but he stays put and waits. Only after I’ve crossed the distance and climbed the staircase and stepped into the front room of the spacecraft do I hear his footsteps behind me.

It’s like something straight out of a science-fiction movie- there are five doors, all made out of thick layered steel but swung open so I can see inside. There’s the front cockpit for the pilots in case of an emergency where they wouldn’t be able to use autopilot, a storage cabin in the back full of cardboard boxes stamped with barcodes, and three rooms where I can see nothing but sleeping pods. Everything is overly clean and sterile and nothing is left to the imagination.

“Are you ready to go into stasis?” Mirt asks, his voice raspy. The dagger on his belt clinks ever so slightly against the metal sections of his belt.

My gaze flickers among the three doors. He didn’t say which. Could I pick any of them?

Mirt mutters something under his breath before laying his hands on my shoulders. I seize up under his touch, and he spins me around to face the second door, several of the sleeping pods popped open and ready. But there’s a fundamental difference between what I grew up in and those- icy mists overflow from them, pooling on the floor before wafting away into nothing.

I step inside. There’s a whooshing sound beyond the walls- probably just the ventilation system drinking in the air, preparing for space travel. More heavy footsteps somewhere else in the spacecraft. Someone laughs, a hearty guttural sound.

The room spins. There are no windows.

I will never see Earth again.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I chose this fate for myself. I knew full well that there would be little to no chance I would ever romp around again underneath the vast blue sky once I took up my role. But sacrifices have to be made-

“Let go of me, you whore-faced crocodile!”


He stumbles into the room, another retainer whose name I don’t know with her arms wrapped around his chest, grunting as she tries to pull him into the third stasis room. Mirt turns his way, focusing his arctic stare on Eponine, which just makes him all the more frantic.

Eponine locks eyes with me. His teeth are bared. This is not the soft boy whose room I tumbled into my first day of being alive, who welcomed me in despite knowing full well what I was. This is a feral animal loose from his cage, out of his element.

“Liv,” he snarls as he struggles to get free. I flinch. “I’m going to kill you for this.”

The other retainer jerks him into the other room with a final yelp. Shouting and scuffling ensues, but it eventually dies down as I hear a snap and then a click.

I can’t feel sorry for this Eponine. I feel nothing.

I’m frozen in place, a statue, a life-size marionette that Mirt takes in his hands, positions, assists down into the cool sleeping pod like he’s laying a baby to sleep. My hands fit perfectly around the handles they are supposed to hold, and there are only a few inches between my feet and the end of the pod. Mirt throws me a smile- I can’t tell if it’s fake or not- before closing the lid and snapping the latch shut.

And just like that, I’ve been packed away like another piece of cargo, ready to slip through space and time just to make a trip in a day.

I watch through the glass lid of the sleeping pod as other crew members filter into the room and lower themselves into their respective sleeping pods, none of them shivering like I am right now. The lights of their pods fade slowly from green to yellow and then to red.

“Are you ready to sleep now?” a computer voice asks me, coming at me from all sides of the pod. I suppose “Are you ready to be frozen like a human popsicle?” would be seen more as a threat.

“Yeah, I guess,” I whisper.

“Please lay back and close your eyes.”

I follow her instructions, letting my neck go limp, my head push into the cushion right below it. A fierce winter breeze blows over me- the goosebumps on my limbs resist at first, but then eventually the world lets itself out the door like it’s repulsed by me and doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. I don’t blame it.

Darkness envelops me. My limbs are slowly going out of contact with me like they’re friends I’ve moved away from. And there’s no internet to distract me this time, and I don’t know how much more lucid time I have.

I want it to be over with already. To be breathing in the recycled air and meeting the people I’ll he helping and to have six people’s wisdom and lives make up for the void in my own.

I want to see the kind of person I’ll become. The kind of person Eponine will become. I want to be loved and adored and respected. Maybe they’ll respect me more because I chose to come back.

I want a lot of things. I want Eponine to be happy. I want to be happy. I want the people of Miralay to be happy.

I want…

Eponine’s notebook, undated

The absolute worst case scenario has happened and I could have prevented it and now I’m going to die because I didn’t bother to assert myself when Liv was bursting through my busted window.

I could have said no. I could have told her that I would never submit to Miralay in a hundred years and that I wanted to spend my life wandering in books and preparing to be an artist of sorts when I was an adult. I could have told her to screw off and to take her “civic responsibility” and shove it up her ass.

It’s not the worst thing in the world that I can’t check in previous diary entries to make sure that I didn’t spontaneously change my life goal to something more tear-evoking just because the world is closing in on me and I’m suffocating under the ocean waves. No, not the ocean waves, but the cold, dead walls of the sleeping pod- borne on artificial waves of as much agony and misery as I can feel that bitch Amelia Rogue or whatever her name is punish me with, a hundredfold for every minute that I’ve spent in relative freedom away from Miralay.

And then the- the stalking? Skulking? Shedding? It’s a word I encountered in a book I loved a few years ago, one where a billionaire was emptying out other people’s organs so he could bring other rich people back to young and healthy bodies-

Shucking. Shucking is the word I’m looking for. I’m a shellfish and I’m about to have all my insides shucked out onto the floor and drained and have fluff from six other souls shoved into the empty space in my skin so they can be young and alive again. And they see this as normal. As desirable. And when Liv and I are eventually forced to marry each other at twenty and have children at the age of twenty-two, our zygotes will be shipped away to the central facility like everyone else’s and they’ll be able to see if the child is the Providence at birth and mark them for collection on their seventeenth birthday.

I’ll have to touch Liv’s body. Have to caress her, have to pretend that I feel anything but utter revulsion at the sight of her, at the reminder that one accidental discovery in the basement of a dilapidated dollar store led to my downfall.

What if one of our children is one of the next Providences? Will I have to look a son or daughter in the eye, a child with part of my face and part of Liv’s, and comfort them as they watch me die before their eyes? As they are yoked with my burdens and former dreams and grievances and all those of the Providences who came before me?

Will the last thing I see before I die be the image of my child writhing in pain in whatever chamber they use for the memory transfer?


I hate Amelia Rouge’s guts with all my soul and I’ll murder her if that’s what I have to do to get free of this place. I know that I read a lot of science-fiction books as a child and that I wanted to be on a space mission to another planet, and I know that I’d be practically drooling to read this cursed life as a story if it were happening to someone else, but I’ll be damned if someone forces me into a position of power and then expects me to follow all the blasted military morning exercises as well. Whenever am I going to need to jog for ten minutes straight as the Providence? Running to a fortified room as I blow up the memory backup server and free everyone on Miralay?

If they can ship off two adolescents and a cabal of adult Miralayans to Earth and back in a matter of days, then they can import skilled workers as well. And think of the costs saved on child-rearing when they let people live longer too! If they can build babies from scratch, then they can take care of middle-aged people as well.

I’m not going to be able to do any of this, am I? I’m just going to be a puppet for Amelia and the status quo, aren’t I?

I wonder how airlocks taste. What a poignant ending for a budding artist that would be– but I doubt that any of the personnel here would allow me anywhere near the airlocks or the controls or anything other than that damned sleeping pod.


Today’s the day. Today’s the day Amelia’s going to shove me into a metal coffin and freeze me up and ship me off like a packet of sardines. She’s going to be on there too, but the devilette’s probably going to turn down the temperature of my stasis pod all the way down to the raging stormy winter nights of Antarctica as revenge for not wanting to be the Providence. Stasis, not sleeping, because Mars is so far away that nobody wants to deal with biological functions and their byproducts.

And they want me to pick a personal retainer from the five that came down to Earth for this trip- I don’t want one because all of them will be loyal to Miralay instead of me and it’ll be like lugging around a GPS pinging all the time in my pocket as I run away from the government.

I want to tell Mom and Dad that I’m sorry. Sorry for discovering that sleeping pod, sorry for releasing Living Wasteland into the world, sorry for not fighting hard enough when Liv came and clobbered me into oblivion so she could drag my limp body across the backyard and to the park to betray me. I love you very much and I don’t want to be remembered as whoever they’ll shove into me but as the person I was.

I promise I’ll come back someday.

I promise.

a pilfered Mordern business log

Date: Sunday, May 21, 2147

Time: 02:43

Reporting Officer: Amelia Rouge

Location of incident: Unsure. Earth.

Description of incident:

I’ve found them. The missing Providences of Miralay. Sure, one of them is a clueless twat with the social skills of a six-year-old and the other is unconscious, but one will wake up in the next few hours and one will be rectified with the mind shedding.

Serlis Greenland and Eponine Westal were retrieved at Rotary Park at 02:00. Eponine was found in a comatose state and was diagnosed with a slight concussion due to blunt trauma. He is expected to make a full recovery. Serlis was found kneeling next to him murmuring nonsense and refused to leave Eponine at first but was eventually convinced to get in the vehicle and let my subordinates do their jobs.

The Providences have been successfully transferred to the outpost in southern Minnesota. Medical officials in Miralay have been instructed to begin decreasing the potency of the current Providences’ life extension therapies without informing the populace until the identities of the newly-found Providences have been confirmed with DNA testing. This is to ensure that a state of undue panic or general unrest does not arise and cause disturbances.


Date: Sunday, May 21, 2147

Time: 13:38

Reporting Officer: Amelia Rouge

Location of incident: Minnesota Outpost. Earth.

Description of incident:

Eponine Westal had a mental breakdown before breakfast that required multiple subordinates to hold him down to prevent him from doing harm to himself. He complained of what I suspect to be heat flashes and hallucinations caused by extreme stress and threatened to cause harm to himself if it would prevent him from fulfilling his role as the Providence. Attempts to reason with him were unsuccessful, so after half an hour of throwing a fit and cursing at the staff, I had him sedated and escorted to a private room.

Serlis Greenland is adjusting well to the sudden change. Despite her extreme clumsiness, which I suspect is due to errors in judging distances caused by her supposed imprisonment in a contraband sleeping pod, she is exceedingly polite with everybody with only a few occasional outbursts. We had a delightful breakfast and lunch.

Reports have been submitted to the legal authorities concerning the Providences’ disappearances from their neighborhoods. Due to the limited information contained in their legal files, there is not much action that can be taken against the parents. Keeping fingers crossed for a neglect case.


Date: Tuesday, May 23, 2147

Time: 17:54

Reporting Officer: Amelia Rouge

Location of incident: Minnesota Outpost. Earth.

Description of incident:

Preparations are now underway for a return to Earth. Judging from the improvements to the hyperdrive, we should be back on Miralay by this Friday. Eponine’s behavior continues to be frantic and self-destructive. However, giving him a notebook in which to write down his thoughts and emotions instead of screaming them and disturbing the rest of the Miralayan workers seems to temporarily quiet his fretting. He is monitored during his writing sessions, and the notebook is confiscated when he is finished for safety and security reasons.

I do care for these children- because they are children, after all; Serlis growing up without parental guidance and Eponine, from what I can tell from Serlis’ testimonies, being raised isolated from the rest of the world. There is something deplorable in having pride in one’s lineage suppressed, and I fear it will take Eponine a while for his phobia of all things Miralayan to subside. Hopefully his therapist will help him through his exceedingly morbid thoughts that he writes in his notebook as well as his separation and performance anxiety.

Although, this morning, Eponine did attempt to use the excuse of being the Providence to try to order me out of the room during the morning exercise drills. It’s a start, at least.


Date: Wednesday, May 24, 2147

Time: 09:28

Reporting Officer: Amelia Rouge

Location of incident: Minnesota Outpost. Earth.

Description of incident:

Eponine continues to exhibit suicidal thoughts as displayed in his notebook, which will be submitted to the psychiatrist upon return to Miralay. This has not been disclosed to him as I fear it would cause him to cease writing truthful thoughts down and feed us information that we want to hear instead of need to hear. The more that he spills in that notebook, the better treatment he can receive on Miralay. In addition, I have begun setting up an appointment to get his Providence dot surgically restored to make up for his maiming at the hands of his parents. Purely for cosmetics only, as the brain connections have been severed for far too long to reverse the withering of the brain-machine interface.

Serlis remains emotionally stable despite full knowledge of Eponine’s paranoia concerning her and all things Miralayan. I believe she has picked Mirt as her personal retainer. A fine choice if I do say so myself; Mirt seems to take her unrefined emotions down a few notches with minimal effort. Eponine refuses to respond to any requests and only comes out of his bed to go to the bathroom and for meals. If only I had another Mirt to give him.

We will leave for Miralay tonight after dinner. The ship is being prepared as I write. Everything is running exactly as planned.

Liv’s thoughtstream, 5/21/2147

My father’s room remains quiet as I slip out of my bedroom and close the door behind me. The rest of the house is a cacophony of noise- electronics quietly hum as they execute their jobs, the air system shimmers like fairies are running through it, and the vents growl.

I tiptoe my way down to the office. My heart leaps as the green glow of the status lights on the computer greet me, and then a pang of guilt- why am I so happy to return to my purgatory?

No. This is different because I have a white nightgown brushing against my ankles and I’m sweating and I can hear my breathing loud and clear, even as I slide onto the chair and wiggle the mouse to wake it up. The screen is a physical thing I can touch, and I’m not limited by the speed I can think but how fast my fingers can fly across the keyboard.

They can’t move fast enough.

Mordern’s home page sits in front of me, too professional for comfort. Sterile and clean with sharp edges I might cut myself on. But there is a support link, and I click it, immediately coming face to face with a myriad of phone numbers for all the things Mordern does: tech support, business requests, press interviews.

Miralay inquiries. That’s the one I want.

My father’s landline is right next to the computer on the desk. My hands tremble as I reach for the mouthpiece, paranoid that the mere press of a button will wake my father and get me thrown back into the sleeping pod. I press it against my ear- just a faint hum, even when I begin pressing buttons.

The ringing is as loud as gunshots, but still my father does not stir upstairs.

“Welcome to the Miralay inquiries hotline,” a chipper woman says on the other end of the call. “How may I help you?”

My throat closes. I forget how to speak for a few full seconds, mind racing with a million things I could say, until the woman clears her throat and I’m pulled back to reality.

“I’m the Providence.”

I can feel the caller lady thrown off-guard, her surprise thick and heavy across the line. “Is this a prank?”

“No!” I messed up, I messed up, I messed up- “I’m Living Wasteland, but my father calls me Serlis, and I’ve got a dot on my forehead, and I might be developing weird powers, and I was kept in a sleeping pod for seventeen years, and my mom died so my father and I could escape, but I need to get back to Miralay so Mordern will be appeased and won’t go looking for any more escaped Miralayans.”

Thick silence between the two of us, and then she speaks. “I’ll check the birth records.”

“Please don’t tell my father,” I whisper almost reflexively. “If he finds out, he’ll lock me up in that sleeping pod again for the rest of my life.”

“I won’t tell,” she promises, and then the elevator music comes on.



I startle awake. The phone is in my lap- I hold it back up to my ear. “Hello?”

“Is this the same girl who was claiming to be the Providence?”

My voice shakes, but I manage to get out the words, “That would be me.”

What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Dad is going to kill me-

“Hello, Serlis. I’m Amelia Rouge, second-in-command at Miralay Colony. I’m on Earth right now on official business.” A shuffling noise, probably papers. “So you claim to be the Providence.”

“Can you call me Liv?”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t like the name Serlis.”

“Your supposed birth records on Miralay display your name as Serlis, so that’s what I’m going to address you by. Does your computer have a webcam?”

I quickly check the desk. Sure enough, a camera sits on top of the monitor, its glassy lens watching me like a hawk. “Yeah.”

“Make sure it’s turned on and go to Mordern’s support page. There should be a chat link. Enter in your name and I’ll make sure the request gets sent to me.”

Her instructions are easy enough. A blank square appears on the monitor- I’m such an idiot, thinking I could work a webcam in the dark. I drop the phone in my lap and fumble around the desk until my fingers slip on a lamp switch- and the sudden light burns makes me flinch away just as the woman’s face comes into view.

I cover my eyes with my fingers, allowing myself a sliver to look through, and peek at her. Red hair and a slim face and stern eyes. She looks so much like me, but she can’t be my mother because my mother died to get me here only for me to be entombed alive.

Would Mother have made Father raise me normally?

Her eyes widen. Her mouth forms a perfect O before she covers it up with her hands. She’s staring at my forehead, at the red dot. I know it.

“You look so much like your mother,” she says at long last, struggling to regain her military-like composure. Her voice comes through the phone, although I can’t see it on her end. She takes a deep breath and sits up straight, a gesture that I unwillingly mirror. “My Providence. It will be an honor to take you home.”



It sounds so simple when she puts it that way, like I’d just be moving to a different state instead of a whole different planet.

My hands fall down to my sides. I try to keep my face blank. When are you picking me up?”

“Anytime in the next two weeks. I take it your location is…” Her eyes shift to the side for a moment, looking at something off-screen. “The unused lot near Rotary Park. Your location must be off by a few miles. Is that within a safe distance?”

I nod my head, willing myself not to sweat, wondering if maybe she can sense my thoughts through the screen. The park is too close to Heavestone for comfort. It’ll have to do. I don’t know where anything else is.

Report to Rotary Park in two hours. I’ll escort you to my lodging and we’ll decide on a plan of action from there.”

This is it. This is my chance to tell her about Eponine. I open my mouth-

“There’s another one.”

Amelia Rouge perks up. “I beg your pardon?”

“I know where the other Providence is. He lives close to me.”

Heat floods my face. Stupid! Stupid girl, thinking you can make choices that important for other people!

I’m the Providence. This is my job. This is for the good of Miralay.

Bring him as well,” Amelia Rouge adds, and then the image fades.

I close down the computer and phone and turn off the lamp and slink back to my room, pondering for a moment what I’ve just done. My hands shake, and then they suddenly pull me to my window, unlocking the window as if I had done it a million times and pulling me onto the dewy lawn. It is chilly and damp and my face is full of dirt as I become a marionette for some invisible master and amble across the backyard to the road.

Eponine’s house is just a few streets away.


Eponine, future unwilling Providence of Miralay, will hate my guts if he doesn’t already. But in a land where I can expect everyone to love me, I suppose I could use someone to be the opposite.