Everything Fails: A Science Fictional Memoir

By T Van Santana

Life moves fast in the Thirty-Second Century. Attention is the only currency; memory, a luxury most cannot afford.
When an aging anonymous secretist turns author and writes a controversial memoir, they incur the enmity of their former employer, the dread Ministry of Secrets, a shadowy cult that’s become a social institution and cornerstone of Thirty-Second society. The Ministry dispatches its agents, the so-called Brims & Trenches, psychopathic frenemies and past allies of the writer, to capture and recondition them for service.
Aided by their best friend, Horace, and former lover, Cobie, the narrator must flee or face the fallout of a past brought to life again on the mean streets of the 32C, alleyways filled with knife fights, mind-bending hallucinations, and inveigled plots. Also lurking is Dwizaal, an ill-doing consciousness of no certain origin, borne by life on the Jungle Planet, intent upon wrecking the narrator’s life right as they start a family in a world where everything fails in each rising moment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Jul 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781925819663

Book preview

1 | Does This Sound Familiar?

So I’m me. That’s when you say, Hi me! Nice to meet you! Or something like that.

Sometimes it’s awesome to be me, sometimes it sucks hard. I work my ass off and believe in what I do. Spent the better part of life trying to accomplish what I think’s important, living with a sundry of split notions. Masculine and feminine. Mind and body. Inside and outside. I’m seeing more and more how these distinctions are unreal by looking closer at what is real. And I’m moving on.

With the weather being like it is, I dunno how I get a fuckin’ thing done. These storms keep rolling in, destroying my head. I hurt pretty much all the time. You’d think by now this wouldn’t happen. But it does.

I work in the secrets trade. The word for people who do what I do is secretist. Try it on. Get comfy. I provide a discreet service, at a cost. It happens in a time and place of elegant appointment. That’s all I’ll say for now. Don’t wanna spoil your dinner. These days, I’m happy with work. I don’t know if I’m getting better at what I do or caring less. I suppose I care about what I do, but less about everything else. I’m relaxing into it. Loosening up.

Was thinking today about how Bubble controls your fucking life. If you die—and there seem to be an awful lot of folks dying out there—Bubble maintains your presence, even if your family wants it gone. That’s so fucked up.

Speaking of family, my sister just Bubbled that some asshole harassed her on the tube yesterday. She laid him out. Good for her. I keep meaning to blow her a Bubble, but I’m forever outta time. Gone from sittin’ around every waking minute wondering how I’ll ever do anything with my life to wondering when in fuck I’ll have time to do nothing again. Sucks.

I was born to run, but I’ve become a creature of routine, drawn into ephemera. Some of the mystery of life is lost—not just in the mystical sense, though that, too, but in the unknowns of everyday. Lost to a greater acceptance of a diversity of outcomes. Lost to habits. Habits, which while beneficial, are predictable and consistent.

When I was young, I was in a band. Somehow that’s still a part of me, even though it doesn’t show like it did. Nothing makes people swoon like being in a band. I guess I’m trying to make you swoon a little.

I spent my adolescence depressed to the point of suicide. Spent the better part of my twenties having panic attacks. Found my calling while falling. Spent the better part of my life searching for perfect love, finding very imperfect love many times over, and trying to keep it. A few times I did, you know, for a time, hold onto it. Even after I found lasting love, I spent the next few years trying to disentangle myself from my imperfections. That’s a long fucking while dancing with nostalgic ghosts, dreaming acetylcholine angels on beautiful dopaminergic wings flying to the gates of heaven, only to cross the celestial threshold back to the hollow feelings of waking life.

I like clothes. I never have the money to get the designers I like, but I have a good eye and find decent pieces for what I can afford. I catch people looking. I’m never quite as polished as I want, nor as authentic as I want to be in my look.

Authenticity was my mission, though it’s become one of those words that muddies each time I say it. So now it’s more a guiding light than a standard, a line I follow when I’m snow-blind and stinging in the nose.

I paint. I write. I’m very sexual and often don’t know what to do with that.

I dunno what else to tell you. That’s me. 

2 | Three Worlds, Technically Four

I’ve lived on three worlds. Well, technically four.

There’s the Homeworld, full of rich variety and seasons, long summers and nostalgic winters. It’s the land of my ancestors, living and dead. It’s where I learned to walk and talk, read, be a child and a sibling, be a neighbor. Where I learned about dogs and cats and life and death. My grandmother—that’s my mother’s mother—she was my favorite person in the galaxy. As a child, I saw her every day and could think of nothing more to want. All my family was there, all my friends. Everything.

Then a terrible storm came, destroyed my father’s business. Shortly after, he went to work for the CoDex Corporation, whose factory was the sole sustenance of Blackwater, our town. Wasn’t long before he drew notice from upper management and was sent out on long-stretch expeditions, taking him away from us—away from me. To make matters worse, his home office was relocated to another planet, a distant and cold place deeper into unknown space.

I found that planet—The Golden Planet, so-called because of its rolling gold plains and gray skies—hospitable, even if migrating there had torn me from the arms of my grandmother and enervated my connection to the land of my ancestors. On arrival, I was teased for being an alien but did not particularly feel alien. Indeed, in a short time, my grandmother grew concerned. I was becoming too like the Golden inhabitants, she said. I was losing touch with the Homeworld, she said. But I was very young still and unconcerned with such things.

I’ve heard my speech sounds most the Gold, but often it’s confounded folks, making them unable to place precisely where I’m from. That’s cool by me. Helps with secrecy.

It was on the Gold where I met formal education and found a broader world of friendship. Also dating. Well, we called it going together, even though there was typically nowhere to go and little to do. I was popular with the so-called opposite sex and that’s how it was on the Gold.

As I moved up in education, I found the pressure increased, as did social complexities. I began to feel lost in the crowd. Shuffled around. My first run-ins with authority were appeals to those in charge for help and protection, appeals which went awry. I placed trust where I was told it should be placed, where it ought to be, and then got turned away by assholes disinterested in human suffering. It’s the first set of many such occasions. Later on, newer neural networks let me see how my younger appraisals were overblown. But that’s how I saw it back then, on the Gold.

The third world is the Jungle Planet, full of savagery and green. It’s there that I made my proper life, and where we lay our scene. It was there, at an age too young, I found my way into wide open danger. I found my pen and my brush, my pistol and blade. Found the deep forest songs and the faintest rhythms of hidden cities. I ran my original nervous system into the ground—along with most of my original teeth—and ruined my natural endocrine system. I experienced synaptic shutdown, and what I’ve called the Blast. Everyone I knew reached out to me that night, the night of the Blast, even folks on other worlds from other times that could not have known by sensible means. There was no beam or Bubble that could have alerted them. But, somehow, they’d known. They had known and reached for me. And I pushed them all away. Me, or whoever I was, before the Blast.

On the third world, the Jungle, that is where I met Horace and Danielle. It’s the world of Mickie and Wendy. It’s the world of my reconstruction, recapitulation, where I’m trying to get it all right. Trying to fix the mistakes I made. Redress my failure.

So, those are the worlds which I’ve called home. That’s the where. Then when is the dawn of the 32nd Century, the 32C. The beginning of the end.

Oh, wait. The fourth one. The fourth world was the Desert Planet. My time there was with Terry. The first Terry. It was short, barely a few weeks, but it shaped much of what would come, so it’s worth mentioning.

3 | Liberation

I haven’t always been a good person. There are periods of my life of which I am not proud. One of my masters once told me that the universe has to allow for some error, some experimentation. It’s a nice sentiment, but I live gripped by fear that this is not so, that there is action and response, however delayed diminished by distance. If we’re lucky.

The car.  It’s whirring faster than my eyes could handle.

I think I might yak. That’s me.

Don’t you fucking dare. That’s Wendy.

I nodded and took some breaths. Yeah. Okay. I think I’m all right.

Mickie craned her head around. You want me to come back there?

I smiled. I did. No, that’s okay. I’m fine now.

Wendy looked at Mickie, then at me. Why don’t you go back there, Mickie?

They’re fine.

Yeah, still. I want you to go back there.

They looked at each other. Something’s going on between them, I could tell that, but I was distracted by my guts, trying to take deep breaths and not throw up. I was way overchemicalized and trying to find a feeling in my body that would help me. Wasn’t working.

I blurted out, Hey, where are we goin’ anyway?

My question broke whatever was happening, and both smiled.

Show ‘em, Mick.

Mickie showed me her teeth, smiling and eager in the eyes. Jeez, those beautiful eyes. She touched a dot on her cheek and a mask contorted her features.

I blinked to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Cos, you know, I could have been. Is that … is that a mask?

Fuck yeah, she said.

I didn’t get it. I don’t get it, I said.

We’re goin’ to get Roxy, sweetie, Wendy said.

But Roxy’s locked up, I thought. Wait, isn’t Roxy locked up?

Wendy looked at Mickie and smiled. I couldn’t see Mickie’s face anymore—not her real face anyway. But I could sense she’s smiling too, underneath.

My guts turned again, and I put my arms out for balance. I think I’m sick again.

Wendy rolled her eyes. Mickie get fucking back there.

Mickie climbed from the front to the back, long arms pushing and reaching.

I could smell her close to me. Her scent spanned time and space, and I knew I could recall it forever.

Hey. Let me help.

I didn’t want it to go like this. I’m okay.

The mask cocked a little. You sure?

Yeah. I’m sure.

Okay. ‘Cause you seem a little queasy.

I nodded.

Okay, Mickie said. But I’m here if you need me.

Thanks. I felt a bit pathetic but also relieved she was close.

The car stopped, landed in a semi-circular motion, wrenching my stomach.

We’re here, bitches, Wendy said. She switched a mask on. It’s go time.

We got out, all dressed for school. I had packed a pistol, then thought better of it. Last time I’d brought heat I’d nearly shot someone in the face. So I passed on the gun. I passed on the hissing blade, too. Not sure why. I always wore it. Just didn’t feel right that day.

The place had a palatial look to it—more estate than holding facility. The Ministry had lost its taste for institution green and cinder blocks long ago, acquiescing to the larger culture’s demand for aesthetic beauty and natural-ish scenery. A lot of it was holographic, augmented reality stuff, but no one gave a shit. It looked better, so people felt better.

Atop wide steps drenched in ivy lay simulacrums of lazy-eyed lions attending.  I saw the sign for the place written like it’s naturally occurring stone, almost carved in the air: Grant Psychometabolic Reconstruction Center. The Grapes, folks called it.

We’re at the Grapes, y’all. This place is a hospital, not a jail.

What’s the diff? Wendy asked. They’ve got Rocks, and she doesn’t wanna be here. They’re holding her against her will.

Yeah, Mickie said. It’s tomatoes.

Wendy stopped, looked at her. Tomatoes?

Yeah. You know, Mickie said. Tomatoes. It means people say different things that mean the same thing.

You mean tomato, tomahto?

Mickie shrugged. Yeah. Whatever. You say tomato, tomahto. I say tomatoes.

That’s some stupid shit right there.

Mickie moved in close, looked down, a full head taller than Wendy. What was that?

My nerves, already singing with fire in the fiber, reached critical levels. C’mon, guys …

Wendy wasn’t shaken. Bitch, you’d best back up. Now.

Mickie didn’t.

Hey, I said. We’re all cool, right? Let’s just get Roxy.

Yeah, Mickie said, and why don’t you keep your short-ass mouth shut while we do.

Wendy pulled a gun.

Whoa, I said. No one said anything about guns. Wasn’t thinking then how I’d almost brought one myself.

Chill, Wendy said. It’s not for you or this giantess right here. It’s just to keep things civil inside.

I dunno, Winds, I said. Guns punch holes in people. That usually sets fuckers on edge.

That’s where we live, baby.

Mickie pulled a gun.

I threw my hands up.

All right, Mickie said. Let’s go get her. But don’t disrespect me, Wendy. I’ll lay you in the fuckin’ ground.

Whatever. Not my fault you can’t handle criticism. Wendy put her hand on Mickie’s masked face then, drew it down her cheek. So sensitive.

Mickie shook the hand away. Let’s just go.

Fine. Let’s get our girl.

I held my hand level with my eyes. Tremors were increasing. I’m not holding up so well, y’all.

Mickie walked over, put her arm around me. You’re all right. Stay with me.

It did help some, having her scent all around me like that. Okay.

We moved again, closed on the face of the place. The scanners passed right over their masks, and the doors opened. It wasn’t until we were on the other side of encrypted doors, clear of the retinal and body scans, through the detectors, that it clicked in my chemmed out brain that Mickie and Wendy were both wearing masks and I was not. They couldn’t be seen, the masks, by any of the scanners. That was the point. But I could. Naked as the day I was born.

It helped my twinging nerves that we weren’t dealing with the sort of scans that recorded or matched. These were just an all clear sort of scan, like the ones they used to have at spaceports and upper schools, way back in the day. Cameras lined the inside, which was just fucking beautiful.

Why don’t I get a mask?

Shut up, bee, Wendy said.

Mickie put a long, razored finger to my chin, slid it along my jaw, gently. I’ll take care of you, danger. Just stay close, okay?

Yeah, okay, but the vids …

She put the finger on my lips. Shhhh … You’re getting boring. Don’t be boring, okay?

Yeah. Okay.

Just be awesome. You’re so fuckin’ rad, just be rad, okay?

I was? I am?

Totally rad, Wendy said.

Totally, Mickie said. So just be rad and stay close to me. Okay?

I wasn’t feeling better about the whole mask thing, but I was feeling better about my chances with Mickie. So I said, Yeah. Okay. Whatever.

The place was one of those boxes connected to boxes joints. The hospital or prison comparison became more evident. There were windows but no bars. Practically invisible microfilament would slice you up good, but no bars.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I started ghosting. I couldn’t count on them to keep me off the vids, even if they would keep me safe physically.

Mickie asked, Where the fuck did you learn that?

They’re special, Wendy said.

No, I said. Not special. Trained. I went to a Ministry school after I dropped out.

Mickie stood tall in front of me, then went a little slack in one hip. You went to fucking spy school?

Not spies. Secretists.

Tomatoes, right, Mickie? Wendy said.

Mickie turned toward her but didn’t say anything.

Hello, ladies, a tech said.

Mickie grabbed him by the collar and pressed her gun to his temple. Hey baby. Wanna be the guy on the horse?

The tech looked nervous. Didn’t say anything. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

Wendy laughed without a mouth cos masked.

The tech eased up his hands, started bouncing his shoulders. Then he bounced his knees. Then his hips. It’s like a little dance.

Mickie swung her arm around his neck and bounced with him.

The tech grinned, like he had a mouthful of shit, and tapped his temples. A mask formed over his face.

I had that shitty feeling of nakedness again, being the only one without a mask.

God damn it, I said. Why don’t I get a fucking mask?

I started ghosting again, as best I could, covering my face here and there, but with stark awareness that I’d been sitting dead-fucking-center of a pin camera while Mickie spun her glorious bullshit with the tech, the tech who was, you know, now also masked.

Oddly, it’s when he put the mask on that I recognized him. He’s a crazy motherfucker, too, this asshole named Rand. I knew him from a few parties. I’d fucked him a few years back. Nothing serious. We just fucked. He’s one of those guys that knows how to talk to you when you first meet him, but shit just keeps getting weirder and weirder. After a while, I’d just had enough of that. So I was way less than stoked to see him.

Right this way. I’ll get you checked in. Then we’ll … check out. He bounced and smiled.

Wendy and Mickie both giggled.

This is so fucked. I said it, but no one heard me. Maybe the vids caught it. Who knows.

The day room’s full of slack motherfuckers—poor assholes doped out of the brain with the latest cerebrenhancers and nerve regrowth routines. I knew a little something about both of those, including the downsides. What were the downsides? These sad sacks here, that’s the downside. And this was a rich place, as Mickie would say, full of luxuries and fresh water and servants dressed like professionals. It was the nice place to go and be fucked out of your mind because no one else knew what to do or gave a shit. That’s how I saw it, anyway.

Roxy was over in one corner of the room, her face down like she’s staring at her feet.

Wendy waved a gun. That’s our girl.

Rand smiled, Yeah, I know.

Wendy smacked him in the stomach with the side of her gun. Shut it.

He laughed, grabbed at his stomach, pulled a gun.

And how the fuck did we get guns past the scanners?

Printed, baby, Wendy said. Cos this was back when that would have worked.

Rand howled at the ceiling, shook his upper body. Yow! Let’s get it on, girls!

My brow crunched, mouth bent down. I couldn’t believe I fucked that guy. I mean, he’s obviously high as shit, too, but come on. He’s a douche. A real slowdown.

Some of the patients looked up, but most looked right back down.

Let’s just get her and go, I said.

Mickie turned to me, cupped my face. Just be rad. She held my face for a moment longer, then spun around and rushed toward Roxy. C’mon, Roxy. Let’s jam. Mickie grabbed Roxy by the arm and pulled her up to her feet.

Roxy looked up at us with blank eyes. Her eyes cleared, and she smiled. Hey, bitches. ‘Bout time.

Wendy put her masked lips to Roxy’s. We wouldn’t leave you, girl.

Aw, Roxy said. That’s sweet. Now can we get the fuck outta here? My asshole is dried out. I haven’t shit in a week.

Rand laughed. Yeah!

Wendy smacked his stomach again. Shut it. Which way out?

He pointed with his gun. This way. Through the family room.

Aw, shit, I said.

He bounced around in place. I know, right?

Wendy led us to the family room, where about six families were gathered, visiting with someone they loved who was staying there. Held there. Whatever.

 All right, you fucking piggies, Rand called out to the whole room, get fucking wigglin’! He waved his printed carbine around, letting out a few rounds for emphasis. Who’s ready for a day pass?

Everyone ran into the cafeteria. There’s kids and parents and all that. It’s a fucking mess.

What is this fuck doing? I asked Mickie.

I dunno, she said. Stay close.

Wendy stood up on her toes, put her face in his. Chill it, shithead. We’re leaving.

Rand waved the gun. There’s no rush. I’ve got them all here for you, baby. For you and me to have some fun.

Wendy went back down on her feet, turned her head. Boring.

Rand went over and grabbed a kid. How about this one?

I didn’t wait. I just moved, went in behind him like in blades class and took him down. I had him pinned by the throat and choking out in about three seconds.

Wendy walked up next to me. That’s cool, baby. Now do him.

Rand’s masked face stopped wiggling.

I looked over my shoulder at Wendy. What?

Kill him.

He’s gonna be out in just a second …

Wendy shot him in the face.

The kid screamed.

I held his twitching body under me, familiar again. It was a body that I had clung to, however long ago and however insignificant, and it touched my memory in a familiar way, familiar almost in the sense of family, like we’re all people related and should not be hurting each other. And we should not have been.

Slowly, I pulled my hand back. Fuck. Why did you do that?

He’s an asshole, Wendy said.

Yeah, but …

My mind was blurry with chems surging, natural and augged. I couldn’t see it clearly. Had I …

And now he’s nobody, Wendy said. Let’s go.

I looked over at the kid, who’s staring at me, tears in the eyes, their mother wrapped around them, covered in Rand’s remains. Her face wore contempt, not gratitude.

I wanted to say I was sorry. But I didn’t say anything.

Mickie put her hand on me, light in the fingers. C’mon. It’ll be okay.

I gave Rand one last look and stood up.

We walked right out the building. No alarm went off. No security came for us. My nerves were absolutely fucking fried.

After we were down the steps, Wendy peeled her mask off.

Let’s go dancing, she said. I kinda got a beat in my feet.

I just wanna go home, I said.

Wendy put her eyes on me. Don’t be boring.

Mickie pulled her mask off and stood in front of me. If I asked you to go, would you go?

My blood told me right away. Hell yes, I said.

She smiled, long teeth and red lips. Rad. Then will you go with me?

For as long as you want.

I thought she was going to kiss me, but it didn’t happen then. She put my hand in both of hers, then turned around and walked me back to the car, with Wendy and Roxy.

The blur of the liberation washed away in whirring cars in music beats.

Wendy slid a hand down her front as she crouched low, then pushed herself back up again while Mickie leaned in close, towering over her.

Roxy was next to me. Out of it, but smiling. Two foxy bitches, she said.

I felt nervous. Yeah. How are you feelin’?

She shrugged. You know me. Fucked up. Nothin’ new.

You look tired.

Yeah?

Yeah, I said.

Well I am. Tired as shit. Roxy laid her head on my shoulder.

My nerves were still screaming, but the connection with Roxy calmed me. I was anxious. But calmer. She and I had some history, too. And like everything in my fucking life, it wasn’t simple.

Mickie walked up, let out a long hand. Dance with me, she said, and she said it sweetly.

Roxy sat up. Nodded her head, said, Go on.

I took Mickie’s hand, and she pulled me up and close.

My world recessed, then exploded into a galaxy its own within her eyes. We had discovered this place, a spiral in which only she and I could dwell.

She let her arms around my shoulders, fingers folded behind my neck.

I put my hands behind her back. Hey.

Hey, she said back. I’m really glad you came out with us.

Me too. You know, if you took out all the awful shit and left only