The Journal of Ingeborg P. Hoffman

May 3rd, 2106

The transmissions from the crew have still not arrived; the red light keep its metronomic rhythm; and we continue to be abused in the media. Such is my life now. 

    This morning I watched Frederick Loop’s flagship show, Exclusive Interest, which has been a persistent thorn in our side. This despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that Loop is no longer hosting because he himself is, of course, aboard The Majestic.

    Sure enough, the episode featured photos of Milosz entering a club in Lagos with an actress from one of Outersky’s studios. They were taken last night; he went even after I told him not to. (Don’t get me started on the arrangement between him and Ronny. I couldn’t live like that. There’s a reason why Milosz has had so many wives. And why, I suppose, Ronny, his sixth, has stuck around.) 

    I immediately scurried down the hall to Wiles’ office. I found him standing at his desk, utterly focused on a series of old wooden boards, linked together so that they covered the surface of his desk in a wide, flat plane. In each of the boards were hundreds of small holes, in which he placed different colors of wooden pins at various, shifting intervals. On the borders was the elegant script of High Sambat. All together, it looked like a cross between a massive game of Chinese checkers and an abacus. 

    I had seen him study these boards before. He explained their significance to me, but I couldn’t really comprehend the meaning. I know it was a kind of map. But it was not solely a record of the geography of the outersky. Rather, his map had predictive powers. He made the boards himself soon after he arrived on Earth, about a thousand years ago, when he realized he was stuck here.

    “Mr. Gregory?”

    When he saw me, his mouth contorted into what appeared to be a forced smile. Then he hastily dismantled the boards and stack them in an elaborately carved dark wood chest, another relic from his early days among humanity, which he locked with iron bolts. I’ve never seen inside of it.

    “How goes with my Chief Archivist?”

    I immediately felt bad for bothering him with such trivialities. I told him so.

    “Let me make my own judgments, please. What’s on your mind?” He said this with his characteristic sincerity, as he sat down gingerly. He’s a tall man, after all.

    “It’s just…” I was overwhelmed. “Okay, you should watch this.” 

    I turned on the scan feed and together we watched the rest of the segment on Milosz in Lagos. “How does he even find the time to do this?” I babbled. “This is not a rhetorical question. Like, how does he manage it?”

    The boss laughed so deeply that I swear I could see his eyes start to water. Then he said, “Is that all?”

    In short, he didn’t seem to think it was too important. I suppose he’s right, in the grand scope of things. Then we stood in a surprisingly claustrophobic silence for a few moments. Usually, our conversation was easy. 

    “I’m almost done with a new draft of your speech,” I said, just to fill the quiet. 

    “Good. I liked the last one.”

    “It wasn’t right. I’ll get it there, though. You’ll see." 

    “You haven’t failed me yet, Ingeborg. I see no reason to imagine you would begin in our moment of greatest chance.” (I have to say, I am unduly pleased by his compliments.) Then he rose from his desk and said, “I think I’ll go pray now."

    I watched the end of the program in his office, which has a full view of the entire launch yard, and the mountain, and the ocean. It’s the best one, of course. Loop’s replacement announced that the friends and families of the Outernauts have joined together in a kind of advocacy group, demanding the truth. Apparently, they are threatening to travel to Calliope Island to get the answers they so desire. Ha! Let them come. (That reminds me, I should tell Ester to keep her men on the lookout.) 

    But I have to say, I am sort of shocked by the lack of foresight of these capricious, opportunistic “friends and families.” Who do these think they are? Don’t they realize the incredible honor we’ve bestowed on their loved ones? That we’ve given them the greatest gift that is possible to give? 

    There aren’t words adequate to describe how much I wanted to go with the crew. Ever since that first meeting in Trena’s villa, when Wiles told me of his world, I wanted nothing more. Once, in the middle of the recruiting process, I finally built up the courage to ask Wiles if I could join them. 

    “You’re needed here,” he replied.

    “Why shouldn’t I be on the first flight? I know more about the Sambat, more about the Sec and the Fel, more about the Gial, and the three nations of Klax, than any other human alive. I should be there. I could be an interpreter.”

    “They need to be innocent,” he said. “It’s the only way they’ll be able to play it."

    “I even know of the Bakarians.”

    He hesitated then. “You won’t go. You’re needed here.” 

    That was that. I didn’t mention it again.   

    Another time, I asked Wiles why he believes in this mission so much. He told me the story of his hero, Xyrie the Alarmer. A Sambat Berserk (the lowest of the eight castes in Sambat society, like Wiles himself was when he was known as Xeno. From Wiles’ description, “Berserk” seemed quite a good transliteration), Xyrie lived in the midst of “The Bleeding Years.” In this time of great discord, a profound nihilism spread throughout the Union of the Planets, even among the Sambat themselves. The ideals that the Union were founded on were being drowned out by the voices of chaos and apathy. 

    Exceptionally loyal and prodigiously talented, Xyrie was a member of the Delphian Guard, tasked with protecting the life of the Sambat High Oracle (as such, the most prominent figure in their galactic government). But this High Oracle was a betrayer. Against the tenets of Sambat religion, the High Oracle regularly refused to adjudicate disputes among the worlds on the Union. Xyrie constantly pleaded with and begged the High Oracle to enter the fray, but he was ignored. Xyrie began to tell to anyone who would listen, that if the Sambat didn’t intervene now, it would be too late for the Union. Thus, he earned the name, “Alarmer.” (A bit unfairly, if you ask me.)

    In due course, Xyrie found proof that the High Oracle was a member of the Sambat Death Cult. He confronted the High Oracle about it, and was summarily cast from the Delphian Guard. But Xyrie fought back. With him was Horden Unwavering, another member of the Guard, of the race of stone-creatures known as Aumlots. Never before in recorded history had an Aumlot reneged on a contract, yet Horden renounced his allegiance, and declared himself for Xyrie. Together, they led a coup against the false High Oracle, and exiled him from The Crossing. There’s not time to tell this full story now. But, briefly, they (and many other significant actors) spent the next ten years in a desperate attempt to keep the Union together.

    Xeno Phillipyde, my boss, was born about a hundred years after the death of Xyrie. At that time, the Union was in worse shape than ever; poised to fall. Xeno’s warden (a parental figure in their society) told him the story when he was a child; it was famous among the Berserkers. Even though Xyrie’s work was ultimately futile - today, the Union is undone - for Xeno, there was a more important lesson. 

    “There is always hope, even when it seems least likely," he said. “Good people can always make a difference.”

    He does tend to speak in these sort of platitudes. Coming from the mouth of anyone else, they would make my skin crawl.