Pavel Andreievich Chekov

[The scene: a roof. Which roof is unclear, but, judging from the book and notebooks visible in the dim glow of the network device's screen, Chekov was probably stargazing. Of course. What else would a sensible person be doing on a roof in the middle of the night?]

I have asked this question to individuals, but I am curious: what, generally, is the opinion on becoming attached to others here? From what I have heard and read, most seem to think that suffering the loss of someone they have become close to when they leave the City is a small price to pay for companionship. Then there are a few--or maybe there are not so few as I think--who would prefer to stay unattached to avoid being hurt. Is this assessment correct?

And those who, in theory, believe that it is wisest not to grow close to people... are they successful, or do they form attachments in spite of what they believe to be best for themselves?

[His tone is one of genuine curiosity. This is not a rhetorical question.]

I am of two minds on the subject, but I dislike the thought of being alone for however long I may stay here enough to make remaining unattached distasteful. And, when I am not theorizing and simply talking to others, it is impossible not to form friendships. Even though friends will leave and forget all experiences in the City, I keep making them, and it seems very foolish and maybe reckless when I think about it--making friends, I mean--but I feel it is better to accept loss.

It is like home, in some ways. I have always been moving and now, at home, I am in a position where having friends die is very possible and has happened. Is it different, losing a friend to death and having a friend leave the City? Logically, death should be more difficult to accept, I think, but I am not finding that so.

[A contemplative pause.]

The curse where we were turned into dogs--there was a little girl who was good enough to feed me, and I would like to thank her now that I am a person again. I think she was ten, maybe, and very pale, with light hair.

As to this last weekend's curse, no, Lucy and I are not married, although she is very kind and I mean no insult to her when I say that I am pleased to be unmarried again. Sincere apologies to anyone who was anticipating the reception.


[Filtered to the Deities // Unhackable]

Hello. When you have a moment, I would like to discuss another exchange with you, please.


[COMMENTS]

[The wee hours of Friday morning find Chekov, dressed in ill-fitting but time-period-appropriate clothing, on the roof of apartment building number twelve. He's sitting cross-legged on one of the long lawn chairs recently moved up there by Charlie with papers, pencils, a ruler, and goodness-knows what else in front of him and working by the dim glow of a light that, as far as the video shows, appears to be mounted on his network device.

Well, was working. Chekov studies the papers in front of him--what's on them will remain a mystery to the network--as he addresses his device, tone rather contemplative.]

Are there stories concerning what is beyond the City's barriers? I think that there must be something; there is a curvature to the horizon, as if we are on a planet. The area we may access would take up only a small amount of room on a planet, and I wonder what may be out there.

The sky, too, is peculiar. The moon and sun and stars look as they would on any planet with a rotational period of nearly twenty-four hours, appearing in the east and disappearing in the west. I do not think that this moon's features are the same as Earth's moon, but maybe I am mistaken. The stars flicker as they do on Earth when their light passes through the atmosphere. It is hard to see unaided, but I believe the stars are different colors--hot blue stars, cool red stars. It is all very like Earth.

What is odd is that I cannot find planets. Very few stars have only one planet orbiting them. [He looks up at the sky and then back down at the paper he's holding.] I cannot find familiar constellations, either, but that is to be expected.

With a telescope, maybe, I might find distant planets.

[Chekov pushes his papers and gadgets aside to stare at the early-morning sky, as if he can make sense of all of this by staring at it long enough.]

So that is all strange, but I am posting this mostly because I am curious: why would an advanced species--or whatever the deities may be--go to the trouble of creating an Earth-like planet with a moon and a sun and stars, but not put in other planets? Or, if this planet was here already, why is it so similar to Earth and why can we access only a small part of it? If the deities have trapped us here to observe our behavior, they constructed our cage oddly.

But then, of course, it is possible that everything beyond the barriers is illusory. Even a complex hologram would be relatively simple to create, given the right technology. I think that its maintenance would be problematic, but I am not a technologically or evolutionarily superior being with a human ant farm, so what can I know?

[He reaches for the network device and turns off the light. Little remains visible but stars and the faint glow of approaching daybreak.]

Deities, you are teasing us by showing us things we cannot reach. Very rude.

[petulantly] You might have also considered equipping this City with replicators.


[COMMENTS]