zk/writing/soot.md

>That, or you're all here *early* because it's Dr. R's last shift on this rotation. Congratulations, my dear friend. Attention! Station alert level has been set to white!
> 
> The station is suffering dangerously high levels of glimmer, there are several active psionic threats, or there is another significant epistemic emergency. Turn off all glimmer probers. Seek psionic insulation. Psychics should report to the Mantis for mindbreaking.

Abby clutched at the armrests of her seat as the evac shuttle, still docked to the station, jolted with an explosion. Crates slammed against the wall. Lockers in the med bay, not yet bolted securely, wobbled and rattled in place, threatening to tip over. Everyone jounced in their seats, glasses and hats — many of them the insulated headgear the Mantes had passed out — clattered to the floor. She shrieked, though so did several others aboard.

The captain, still standing outside the airlocks, was shouting down the hall, voice weirdly distorted by the very strangeness of the air. It *sounded* sparkly. It *looked* too loud. Something about everything was just slightly off, as though two universes slipped and juddered against each other, sending flares of one reality through the other.

"815!" the captain hollered from the hall. "No, don't treat them here, treat them in the shuttle med bay!"

> Attention! Station alert level has been set to white!
> 
> The station is suffering dangerously high levels of glimmer, there are several active psionic threats, or there is another significant epistemic emergency. Turn off all glimmer probers. Seek psionic insulation. Psychics should report to the Mantis for mindbreaking.

"Mama, what's–"

"Hush, baby," her mother said, tucking Abby as close as she could across the safe distance between the flight chairs. It was at least enough for her mother to hug around her head, damping out the sound with one of her paws. "Hush. It just means things are going to feel really weird for a bit."

From across the aisle, her father's face, always so calm, crinkled into a smile. "It's alright, little Soot. The boom was just the prober going, which means that things will level out."

She nodded, watching as the captain chased the last of the paramedics aboard and dashed up to the cockpit. Her father's explanation soothed her in a way her mother's reassurances didn't. They worked together to settle her nerves, each coming from two different angles.

"We're still leaving, though?"

He nodded. "They'll have the advanced crew come through and get everything all straightened up, not us everyday ordinary chumps," he said, a chuckle rumbling beneath his words. "We couldn't get drainers done in time. Safest to just head out."

"Okay," she said, doing her best to embody that confidence. Settling back in her seat and tugging away from her mother's awkward embrace, Abby ran a paw through the unruly mop of white headfur — the only break in the otherwise all black coat she'd had since birth — to try and straighten it.

"Abigail?! Where's your hat? Where's the–"

> Attention! Station alert level has been set to—

There was no discontinuity.

That was the worst part, they would often think when they woke from yet another nightmare of that day a decade and a half ago. There was no discontinuity. There should have been some break in their — or her, as they thought of themselves back then — perception of time, some blacking out, some fading to white that presaged the shift.

There had not even been a perceivable decrease in the unnerving tang of glimmer in the air.

She had been there, sitting in her flight chair, running her paw through her headfur, just this twelve-year-old mouse her dad always called 'little Soot', and then she was at the cockpit in a wildly different body, sitting in front of unfamiliar controls.

She/he/this body cried out in shock and agony, for the captain, whose body she now inhabited, had been well and truly singed by the explosion of the prober, to the point where the CMO, the young and kindly Dr. R, was caught in the act of slathering ointment on the side of her/his/this body's face. They both — these two bodies no longer inhabited by the correct minds — stared at each other in shock and horror.

"No no no–" Dr. R/not Dr. R was saying.

Abby/the captain/this body wailed and clutched at the console, mashing buttons in a panicked attempt to find something, *anything* solid and known, something to anchor herself/himself/this body. The shuttle slewed sideways, back in toward the station and away from the FTL jump point.

None of the rest of that otherwise prosaic afternoon made it into their dream, and certainly none of the agony of the evening and months after, the reconstructive surgeries on their muzzle, learning to walk again, learning to live as two.

It always ended in silence, a warm rush of air to the face that blended seamlessly into the move into wakefulness.

The dream clung to Soot like the whispers of spiderwebs caught in fur, little streaks of memory that would tickle a whisker here, the rounded rim of an ear there. Days like these, more than most, the long-healed scar of their reconstructed muzzle would itch and the lisp that came with it, one they bore proudly, would be all the more pronounced.

They would make their way through the day with all the same practiced ease as ever, and yet just below the surface, simmering uncomfortably, would be the dream. There, just beneath their skin, would be–

"Captain on deck," the automated system announced as soon as their ID was recognized. The faint chime that followed, a thing doubtless engineered to sound soothing and reassuring, always sounded inquisitive, as though the station was curious to hear their thoughts on the matter.

"Yes, yes," they muttered under their breath, though with their lisp, with the dream still dogging them, it came out a breathy *yeth, yeth.* "I'm here now."

The seats in the board room were, thankfully, all full already — or had been, as the rest of the command staff rose to their feat. Soot waved them off with a smile. "?{Thit, thit. Thorry I'm late. Couldn't dethide between the five identical outfit-th they give me,}(Sit, sit. Sorry I'm late. Couldn't decide between the five identical outfits they give me,)" they said breezily. They let their expression warm into a lopsided smile — though all smiles are lopsided when only half of your snout works. "?{That, or you're all here *early* becauthe it'th Dr. R'th last thift on thith rotathion. Congratulathionth, my dear friend.}(That, or you're all here *early* because it's Dr. R's last shift on this rotation. Congratulations, my dear friend.)"

Applause around the room. Earnest applause, too, Soot was pleased to notice. Dr. R's reputation as one of the kindest, most competent CMOs in the Delta sector was well-earned. The old man was positively beaming, the wrinkles on his face showing how truly, deeply he inhabited all his own smiles.

There were short speeches from all of the rest of command, all veterans. The head of security praised his efficiency in getting the crew back up and moving when they were injured. The chief justice praised his commitment to treating *everyone,* not just the 'good ones' on board. The logistics officer jokingly grumbled about just how much of a stickler he was about turning on suit coordinates, which so often degraded during cryosleep.

When attention finally turned to Soot, they smiled and stood, paws clasped behind their back, and said, "?{I've known Dr. R thinthe I wath a thild, and mutht thay that there are few who are ath cool under prethure ath he ith. I thertainly do my betht, but...well.}(I've known Dr. R since I was a child, and must say that there are few who are as cool under pressure as he is. I certainly do my best, but...well.)"

Chuckles around the table. Soot knew they had a bit of a temper.

"?{I will not thay 'thank you for your thervithe to Nanotrathen' or anything tho crathly capitalitht, but I *will* thay thank you for your thervithe to *uth.* We wouldn't be quite ath whole ath we are without you.}(I will not say 'thank you for your service to Nanotrasen' or anything so crassly capitalist, but I *will* say thank you for your service to *us.* We wouldn't be quite as whole as we are without you.)" They leaned forward and offered a paw to the old CMO to shake. "?{Earnethtly, thank you, Doctor. Congrat-th on being kicked up the ladder to Thentral.}(Earnestly, thank you, Doctor. Congrats on being kicked up the ladder to Central.)"

Applause around the table. An extra few boxes of donuts were set out, as well as an extra carafe of coffee for some and Kira's Special for others — it would probably not be a great start to the shift if half of command was sick from caffeine poisoning.

After a few more minutes of amiable chatter and yet more handshakes, Soot called the rest of the meeting to order. It was simply a sharing of tasks for the day, a report on the status of the station as left by the previous shift (new windows outside evac indicating a meteor strike, grime and wrappers *everywhere* indicating a lack of a janitor, and so on). 

They always kept such brief. There was little need for more bureaucracy, when many of them would also be dealing with paperwork throughout the day, and only a few of them found such enjoyable.

It was all part of their ethos, when they worked a command role such as this. They were a leader in some ways, yes, but they were most of all a support. They were an older sibling to the whole of the crew — or so they imagined, as they had been an only surviving child. One of the kind ones. One who might offer gentle ribbing, yes, but one who wanted nothing more than to see them succeed. Soot was one who helped buoy them up, helping engi with the thermo-electric generator here, helping med with chems there.

Of all the departments, though, they paid attention to epistemics, the department that tracked the intersection of anomalous events with this world, the one in which they inhabited. Trauma will ever do as it does, and they had no desire to ever let happen what had had happened to them so long ago, that accident that tore at their face and tore at their identity, leaving them ever in two, ever as Soot and Abby, command and kid. They'd credit it with being the driving motivation for who they were as Soot, and at the same time, they would credit it just as much for the childish immaturity that remained in their other self.

Not that they did not also love Abby. 

It was just that *now,* they were Soot. Soot had work to do. Soot was the one who got a job at Nanotrasen, had studied hard and passed all the qualifications, had wormed their way into the ranks of command.

Abby had her own work to do, and that was work of comfort and processing.

Thankfully, today, epistemics was well-staffed, and by some very bright researchers at that. Of note, the mystagogue was someone Soot trusted would be nearly as paranoid about glimmer as they were.

Such was not always the case, as they had found out so long ago.

Epistemics was itself a curious department. These two universes, slip-sliding against each other did so differently across space. When, it turns out, you are a corporation spanning the larger part of an arm of the galaxy, that has real, knock-on effects, for what worked in one location may not in another. Worse, this changed over time, rendering some research moot even from one shift to the next. You learn less about how best to make a universal micro-reactor fusion cell and more about how to most efficiently *research* micro-reactor fusion cells.

Other sectors even named it the science department rather than epistemics. They named the lead the Research Director rather than mystagogue. They named the person in charge of investigating psionics users something far more plain that the Psionic Mantis.

The Delta sector, however, was something else. Here, the veil was far thinner. Here, whole religions sprung up around this very fact, to the point where many stations had a chaplain, as well.

Here, glimmer was a problem.

That simple measurement of the friction between planes, a number that started at zero and yet which had no upper bound, became a way to tell just how bad things might get because of that friction. At 500Ψ, the point at which the station moved to code white, auditory hallucinations became possible, as did seeing spectres of the dead. As glimmer climbed, so too did the effects. Those with psionics would succumb to headaches and nosebleeds, new psionics users would appear, and, as Soot had witnessed firsthand, wide-spread psionic chaos might ensue, such as the mass swapping of consciousnesses.

Several things might raise glimmer. Using psionics. Researching anomalies or artifacts. Glimmer mites and wisps, pests that they were. Even just running the glimmer prober, a device which conducted small-scale research within its shell, generating some of the knowledge required to accomplish tasks around the station, would up glimmer.

Soot, conservative as they were, instructed that the prober to be turned off at 300Ψ and that psionics users stop relying on their "powers" at 350Ψ except in case of an emergency. If it climbed higher, if they hit code white, a request for psionics users to voluntarily take mindbreaker toxin was put out. They would throw up, they would get dizzy, and their psionics would disappear, but glimmer would drop.

Those who refused, those who sought for whatever reason to cause a spike in glimmer, were subject to more drastic measures. After all, the Mantis carried a psi-breaker pistol and knife for a reason. Some were careless, some were traitors.

If Abby was at front, if she was not along for the ride simply as a passenger, she worked as a Psionic Mantis.

The job was not so drastic as the training made it sound. Mostly, she would just walk around and talk with people. She would listen to their stories. She would giggle and run circles around them. She would sit in chairs and tell them about whatever her special interest was for the week.

Sure, she would also send out the occasional metapsionic pulse — one of the defining features of the job, and the deciding factor as to who would be Mantis for the shift — to find out who around her was a psionics user and take notes just in case, but mostly, she just...talked. She just existed as the station's sibling — though perhaps less an *older* sibling, as Soot thought of themself. She was still childish, still, in some weird way only twelve years old, despite this twenty-five year old body she inhabited. She just mingled with her family and helped how she could.

Soot did not know the specifics. They were not a doctor — or at least not a psychologist, for they were also a fully qualified CMO — and so they did not even pretend to. They just knew that sometimes they were Abby, that remembering things that happened while they were Abby was like reading a story, ill-conceived and more often than not a picture book, scant on the details. They imagined it must feel similar to Abby, too: perhaps she remembered what happened to her as Soot was akin to remembering a dream.

They shook their head to clear away the cobwebs and lingering threads of last night's dream and instead smiled to the vulp looking eagerly for approval, a young critter looking quite proud of their TEG setup.

"?{Betht burn I've theen in a while, actually,}(Best burn I've seen in a while, actually,)" they said, spending a moment cherishing the look of elation that came across their face.

"Thanks, cap!" they said brightly, bouncing on their toes — at least as best as one could in an atmos hardsuit. "Should keep us going through the whole shift."

"?{The volumetric pump ith at...?}(The volumetric pump is at...?)"

"Five liters per second."

"?{Ith that the lowetht you could get it without the pump backing up?}(Is that the lowest you could get it without the pump backing up?)"

Their expression fell slightly. "Yeah. But I did the math, and it'll still last us."

Soot smiled reassuringly. "?{Then that'th all I care about, if you're not worried,}(Then that's all I care about, if you're not worried,}" they said, resting a paw on the vulp's shoulder. "?{Jutht make thure you're not overfilling the hot-loop nektht time, and you'll have your Thee-E thert on the thpot.}(Just make sure you're not overfilling the hot-loop next time, and you'll have your CE cert on the spot.)"

They laughed and nodded. "Want me to pull any plasma out of the hot loop?"

They shook their head. "?{Like I thaid, I'm not worried if you aren't.}(Like I said, I'm not worried if you aren't.)"

They nodded and, hearing the call for help in putting the anti-matter engine to sleep for the time being. The AME made a good initial source of energy, and a necessary backup, but was too expensive, fuel-wise, to run the whole shift.

*"Cap, can you come to epi?"* the mystagogue whispered through command comms. *"It's not super urgent, but..."*

They frowned and toggled to command on their own mic and murmured, *"Heard,"* in return before smiling once more to the rest of the engineering team and walking station-north to epistemics.

As they walked, they pulled out their PDA and tapped to open the glimmer monitor.

389Ψ.

They stopped walking and started jogging. They worked to keep their expression level, doing their best to look merely busy and not panicked. After all, seeing a captain run through the halls wasn't *un*common...

"?{Thtatuth,}(Status,)" they said briskly, bowing to the mystagogue, a frightfully competent young human named Cleo.

"Prober's off," she said breathlessly. "Found a mite wedged in behind it. I *hate* that sound."

They grimaced. "?{Tho do I. Did you grind it?}(So do I. Did you grind it?)"

She immediately brightened and nodded. "Oh, yeah, of course! I'll never turn down free ectoplasm. Did you know–"

"Cleo," they said, smiling faintly. They knew well the urge to infodump, and it took a certain type of mind to want to be MG. "Glimmer?"

"Oh. Right. Uh...yeah! It's been rising steadily. I called you out here to get some more direct input. I was going to stop research, and Marcos has already put the call out for psionics to stop."

"?{Good, yeth. Thtop rethearth,}(Good, yes. Stop research,)" they said. Their lisp always seemed to get worse when stressed, and few things stressed them out worse than high glimmer. They pulled out their tablet and pointed at the sharp rise on the graph showing glimmer levels. "?{At thith rate, think you might go code white onthe it hit-th 450?}(At this rate, think you might go code white once it hits 450?)"

She balked, frowning. "Usually I wait until 500. That's SOP, right?"

Soot straightened up and forced a smile. "Right. You're right," they said, taking a deep breath. "?{We'll thtick with 500. If the call'th already been put out on the thide thannel, hopefully people lithen.}(We'll stick with 500. If the call's already been put out on the side channel, hopefully people listen.)"

Cleo rolled her eyes. "Most, I think, but if you give people what's essentially anonymous telepathy, people are going to use it to be assholes. There's someone — and I think Marcos knows who — who has been mass-sleeping people near them just for funsies who doesn't want to stop."
(Glimmer keeps rising)

(Mantis critted, but revived, talks of hearing lots of mites)

(Throughout, memories of Abby, plurality becoming more evident)

(Finally, near the end of the shift, botanist caught trying to anchor a second prober, found by telegnosis)

(After shift, on shuttle, sits out in the common area rather than bridge to talk, Abby starts to take front, the usual moment of confusion, then talking with Dr. R)