M ASTER

TEACHER

LY C E U M

O P E N
H A N D

Miguel Lopez Massif Press 2020

On Mariela,
In the
Constellation
Master Teacher reclines on a horrible
marble bench, watching the children run
and play. Never a kinder sound in the whole
of the galaxy than the laughter of children:
crystal-in-fall. Even those made in the image
of a monster had sweet voices.

“Master Teacher,” breathless, one of the

children halts his run at M. Teacher’s bench.
“Five more minutes of play? I am ‘it’ and I
do not wish to be!”

Teacher furrows his brow. “Now John, you

already had five minutes extra.”

John slumps.

Teacher makes a show of relenting. “So

then, what’s five more?”

John whoops and runs to his brothers and

sisters. They cavort around the manicured
lawn, blonde and lean.

The eldest plays slow, to let the youngest

catch them. The youngest plays until he
collapses, and then starts again. Master
Teacher watches them all, the young
principes. One to rule; the others, to die.

M. Teacher reclines on the horrible bench,

and plots and plans.

2
An uncanny thing to someone outside the
Constellation: All of the children are the
same, only at different ages. An ordered
brood fifteen years in waiting.

M. Teacher frowns. An uncanny thing. Why

that thought now, after so many years of this
work?

Because it was this fine summer, and the

grass was soft, and the blessed children
didn’t know of the world beyond the walls,
or why they were made.

M. Teacher sighs and turns his face to the

sky. He closes his eyes to the pastel wash of
Mariela’s watercolor sunset.

Just listen to the laughter of the children. Deny the

Congress their quiet request. Deny those bloodthirsty
Stewards their demand. A shuttle and a favor is all
you would need – they are only children.
And what of your life, M. Teacher? What
happens to you if you refute the Constellars’
quiet request?

Why, death, of course. His own –

Unavoidable.

Would that be enough to save them?

Perhaps.

3
The body contains all manner of
contradictions, no matter how deep you
tune it. No matter how elegant your bespoke
enzymes, how accurate your edits, how
complete your total genomic map. A person
is more than meat; and yet that is all we are.

Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or

what ye shall drink...

Observe:
M. Teacher, whose body is frail and needs
exoaugmentation to move, and rest even
from that. This decaying coordination of
cells and chemical impulses holds his mind,
a blade whose edge is ten thousand
kilometers long. Whose favor, even as his life
fades, demands favors.

Observe:

Fifteen children, the youngest not yet a year

old, rambunctious when there is dire need to
be serious. But tell them to play hide-and-
seek. To be quiet, lest they be found and
caught by the bogie-man.

Make their predicament a lark, and see

them calm.

4
Observe:

John the eldest, fifteen, and already he looks

like his father. His father, atomized, who
ordered offspring be made without a single
thought as to what the children could be,
just what they provided for him.

John the eldest sits strapped into a co-pilot

seat, nervous, watches Mariela disappear
behind him.
M. Teacher did weep as the shuttle cleared
orbit. The children would live.

“Should we come back for you?” The rough

voice asks.

“’Is not the life more than meat, and the

body more than raiment?’” M. Teacher
replies. He switches off his aurals without
waiting for a reply.

Later, M. Teacher reclines on his horrible

marble bench, eyes closed to another
Mariela sunset.

Footfalls across the lawn. Many of them,

heavy.

“That didn’t take you long,” M. says.

5
“Guns down,” the Midnight says. “Where is
the Product?”

“The children?” M. Teacher reaches out

from his robe and waves a hand towards the
coral sky. “Nowhere you’ll ever find them.”

The Midnight sneers, his blank face twisting

into a terrible mask.

“Search the compound,” the Midnight

orders his officers. “Bring me everything.”

The Midnight remains with M. Teacher,

and the two of them say nothing as the old
man’s house is torn to pieces.
*
On Mariela, when the sun sets, you can see
the rings of the world, its moons of emerald
and aubergine.
It is a beautiful world — the finest in the
Constellation – and the people it produces
are of equal beauty.
M. Teacher’s body is thrown in with the rest
of the compound’s waste and burnt to ash.

###

6
The voice
Wakes you
From a
Dream.
The voice wakes you from a dream.
Bronzegreen light and soft grass.

“Lincoln-339, please step forward.”

You do, and a moment of shock – You had

been asleep standing up.

“Lincoln-339, please state your rank and

unit.”

“Colonial Compliance Officer,” you say,

groggy. “Legion III Alhambra.”

In the mess hall, you hunch over a bowl

curry and rice, shoulder to shoulder with
other tan-clad officers.

The food is good, and you are quite hungry.

The man next to you is trembling. Mid bite,

curry spills from his mouth, plopping onto
the plastic table. He turns to you, all blue
eyes empty.

“I can’t remember my dream,” he whispers.

His spoon lifts, spills, scrapes, and lifts. He
does not eat.

You remember what you are to do if this

happens. You raise an arm, and two medics
come and take him away.

8
The man’s voice drifts into a mewl, and he
does not resist.

“Pull your mask down,” an officer says.

Shouts, to be heard over the rumble of the
APC’s engine. You were away again. The
field. Someone was with you.

“You cover up. You’ll be alright Lincoln.”

Do I know you?” You ask the officer.

“Nah,” the officer says. Shakes his head. All

you can see are his eyes out from the dark
balaclava. He straps on his helm, and even
those go away. “You don’t.”

You spill out from the belly of the APC, its

main gun thundering crowd-shot over the
heads of the Ungratefuls.

“Line, line, line, form a line!” a PA shout

from the backline. Iskander-CC.

A shield strapped to one arm. A

supercompact nullgun in the other hand.
You know how to use these things.

The Ungratefuls surge against your shield,

crashing into the line you and your fellows
formed. You stab your subcomp forward

9
and fire blind into the mass of humanity.

Screams, screams. The pop-fizz of gas

canisters and snap snap snap of a few
parting nullshots.

The tide retreats, the dead dead? And

moaning left behind.

The mess hall again. Stained with dirt and

sweat this time. A newsreel plays along the
ceiling. More riots throughout the city. More
burning flags.

A man sits next to you, sighing content as he

sets his tray next to yours.

“Helluva morning, huh Lincoln?”

Blue, blue eyes.

“Crack a skull or two for me?” Blue Eyes

asks. He chews around his words.

You regard him for a while, spoon in hand,

as he chews and smiles and waits.

“Do I know you?” You ask.

“Lincoln, of course you know me!” Blue

Eyes says. He shakes his head, laughs,
elbow-nudges the officer next to him. Cocks

10
a thumb towards you and says “This guy
huh? A real joker.”

Blue eyes, bronzegreen field.

“Roosevelt?” You ask.

Roosevelt laughs.

You and Roosevelt sit side-by-side in the red

dark of the APC, rumbling through the city
to the next barricade. It is hot and stinks of
sweat. Your subcomp and shield clatter
against your knees.

“Hellyeahfuckingright, hellyeah
crackaskull,” Roosevelt says, over and over.

The APC snorts and grinds over ruined

cobblestone streets. Shakes to a stop and the
rear door opens and the whole world comes
in on light and sound that your helm
dampens.

You hold the line, steady against the rain of

stones that clatter off your shield and bottles
that break on your helms.

“Hellyeah hellyeah,” Roosevelt screams over

and over. He’s grinding his teeth so hard
that his head shakes. He slaps his baton

11
against his shield, some ancient thug, and –

“Roosevelt, no!”

He runs, shield thrown to the side, baton

raised high as he charges across no-man’s
land.

Shots from both sides. Flat, no pop-fizz,

cracking like bones like ice like rocks split
open by lightning. Roosevelt is torn between
them and scatters across the hot ground.
Ungratefuls cheer, molotovs splash open
next to his corpse.

The big Lanny cracks a shot into the crowd.

Cheers turn to screams. They flee, you all
charge. Everything red. Roosevelt’s body is
trampled out

Back in the mess. You wear your undersuit.

Some blood has soaked in. The curry is
warm.

“Helluva day,” Roosevelt says, sitting down

next to you. He is whole and fine, his hair is
perfect.

You stop eating. You look over. Roosevelt

grins, his dumb blue eyes.

12
The voice wakes you from a dream.

“Lincoln-339, please step forward.”

You do, and a moment of shock. You had

been asleep standing up.

“Lincoln-339, please state your rank and

unit.”

“Colonial Compliance Officer,” you say.

Something here is wrong the voice from the
away-field interrupts your bite of curry.

It is breakfast and lunch and dinner all at

once, and your knuckles ache from where
they beat the eggshell skull of the
Ungrateful? Roosevelt? Wall?

“Something here is wrong,” you say out

loud.

“Yeah, no shit Linc,” Roosevelt says. “Get

your mask on, we’re nearly there.

You blink to clear your vision, pinch the

bridge of your nose, cough. The APC’s red-
bathed belly is thick with the stink of fear
and sweat. You can hear bricks and bottles
rattling off of the outside of the armored
machine.

“Where are we going?” You ask.

13
“Pandemonium” Roosevelt says. “The
Line.”

Sweat stings your eyes, welted already from

the gas and the man’s fingernails from
where he grabbed for purchasefucker

No, that’s – you have guns and they pry up

the cobblestones of their own world to hurl
at you.
You need a drink, or sleep, water, to rest.

This time you wake up on a cot, third from

the ground in a stack of six. The barracks
are kept cool by a soft, humming machine
hidden behind the wall. Your body hurts,
which is how you remember it, which is
good.

hello the voice whispers and you almost

scream but! You knew it was coming.

Back in the APC again. It is the same one –

odd, unusual – and you know this because
you checked how the voice told you to
check: Rose + Linc, Alhambra - Don’t Blink!

A stupid note to say you were alive before

you were alive. How many lives have they
forced on you? Oh no. The voice you’re
hearing is your own voice. What are ya gonna
do now, Linc?

14
You’re third out from the APC with real guns
this time.

Why?

A house. Nice house in a nice neighborhood

in the Green Zone.

“Got an Ungrateful cell inside,” Kennedy

barks. “Anything moving that’s not us – you
kill ‘em.”

Nods all around.

The first floor and you’re on point. Boarded

windows fill the house with darkness.
Walkup – elevator dead – five stories storeys
and you can hear madrassan being spoke
and a song on the radio.

Ah fuck you can’t shoot these people.

Second floor and third floor. The worst

thing about your gun is that it is a) yours
and b) an instrument of total-absolute-full-
stop DEATH, BABYhellyeahfuckinright

Ok next floor. Get a grip, Linc.

Your team leaves a big mess behind, lots of

bullet holes in walls and borded up
windows, but no bodies. There’s no one
here for the boys to shoot! You leave little
beams of warm sun to light the house
behind you.

15
You earned your place in the stack: 5. Dead
last. Topfloor. Your head hurts.

Topfloor. It is bright. Skylights. It’s a kind of

greenhouse up here, but all the plants are
dead. The sound of citybirds cooing and
panicking at the sudden sound is a lot.

You all storm in hollering and shouting and

waving your guns at one old man.
“Hello, Linc-” and then your boys shoot
him to shit. Drag his ventilated body over to
the wall slam him up against it and tip his
head back for the camera. All you see
though is his

Blue Eyes.

No one takes the picture. Youall stare at the

old dead Ungrateful. Kennedy outside is in
your ear hollering about clearing out because
more are on the way and isn’t that just
fuckin’ annoying--

Helm off. You first and the others follow.

“Didn’t know we could get old,” one of the

grunts says. Roosevelt, 2.

“That’s me,” a different Roosevelt (3) says.

“Me too,” a third (1).

Nice moment ends as Kennedy kicks open
the door with his gun chattering, chopping
open poor old Roosevelt 1 (standing closest
to the body) into gristle, hollering “DROP
YOUR WEAP –”

And it is you – You! – who shoots officer

Kennedy, the bastard. Two shots to the
neck, just like you were trained, punching
through the soft no-cut padding.
Officer down. What next!

The stippled grip tape around the butt of

your subcompact presses into your cheek.
The tremble in your knee. How have you
not stopped exhaling?

This is how you know you are alive.

You lower your gun. You peel off your helm

and balaclava.

After a moment, so do the remaining

Roosevelts. You all look around at each
other.

“Hi,” you say to them. “My name is

Lincoln. You guys been having those dreams
too?”

###

17
It was
Nighttime
Aboard the
Open Hand,
Save for a skeleton crew awake to satisfy
cycling regulations, the bulk of the organic
personnel were still under stasis.

The boy was awake.

He wanted to be up; despite the worlds he

had already visited, he had not yet seen a
blink station — Keeper usually had him
under the long sleep well before transit.
That, and it was his birthday, and he could
do what he wanted.

The boy sat wrapped in a blanket on the

Open Hand’s CIC, tucked into a crew chair
too large for him, just under the ship’s pilot.
The CIC was nestled deep in the core of the
ship, contained in a hardened blister, walls
lined with an essential-perfect fidelity
projection of the space around the ship. The
boy’s chair floated as if in space. The effect
was so strong that in his gut he felt if he
pushed off he’d fall forever, even if he’d only
fall about three feet before hitting the
bottom slope of the blister.

He leaned forward, clutching his blanket

around him, peering between the crew
chair’s stirrups at the vast space below. He
let drip a fleck of spit, watched it fall, and
splat below on a distant star field.

“Young John,” a soft voice in his ear said. “I

19
can see you spitting on my display.”

“It’s ok,” the boy said, his voice small but

loud in the cavity. “You can just send a little
drone to clean it up.”

Indeed, one had already been dispatched.

“See!” the boy said, pointing at the small,

humming machine. “Easy. No big deal,
Keep.”
Keeper, a tall, muted-blue projection,
emerged from the starfield. They walked
through the air, stopped at the drone, knelt,
and regarded the little machine.

“The scale of the response — how easy it is

to clean up a mess you made — is beside the
point,” Keep said. “What matters is that you
did it in the first place.”

“Can I not have a lesson right now?” The

boy said, sitting back in the crew chair. “It’s
my birthday.”

Keeper watched the drone go about its

work, taking a moment for themselves. They
were occupied at all times: at that very
moment, Keeper watched over the Open
Hand’s crew, monitoring their vitals as they
slept. They maintained a pleasant and
breathable oxygen mixture, managed fuel
systems, monitored radiation levels. Keeper
advised the pilot just above the boy and
double-checked figures for the navigator,
assisted the engineer two decks down, and

20
walked through the ship’s fresh food
inventory with the head cook — they
counted the fresh citrons, loaded not three
days prior to their most recent departure.

“Happy birthday, John,” Keeper said.

“Would you like to know how old you are?”

The boy searched the starfield. Somewhere

out there was the gate, and beyond it,
another world in his Purview — the empire
that would be his. He did not know what
that meant, but it felt nice. Like every day
would be his birthday.

“Legally, you are one hundred and ten years

old,” Keeper said. “But to everyone on this
ship, including me, you’re only eleven. Isn’t
that fascinating?”

John grabbed the crew chair’s sidestick and

pretended to fly the ship. The pilot, prior to
John taking the seat, had severed its controls
from the primary system, so the boy’s
inevitable fiddling would not throw the Open
Hand off course.

“I find it fascinating,” Keeper said. They

pushed a repetitive routine to the little
cleaning drone, stood, and flashed in place
next to John. “I’ve ordered cake for you,
John. Would you take it here, or in your
room?”

“Here,” John said. “When did I turn

eleven?”

21
“Four hours ago.”

John said nothing. Keeper placed a glowing

hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Think of all the worlds you will see, and

know that you bring much hope and joy to
all of them. Your birth, right now, is being
celebrated by hundreds of millions of your
people.”

“Really?”
“Really.”

“Cool.”

Keeper smiled.

The cake arrived without a candle.

“When we reach the next world,” John said,

mouth full of cake. “I’d want to take Maggie
and Edwin and Ben and have a real party,
like, with a candle.”

“We can do that,” Keeper said.

John smiled.

“At the rate we’re going,” Keeper said. “We

have many birthdays to catch up on — you
should be around one hundred and fifteen
by the time we arrive.”

22
“That’s really weird,” John said. “Can I get
another slice of cake?”

Keeper ordered another slice of cake to be

brought up from the mess. “As many as you
like. And then it’s time for the long bedtime
after the gate, okay?”

John nodded. He finished his slice and,

while he waited for the second, Keeper had
him tour the route they were taking,
accelerating the blister through a projection
of local space.

The boy and the ghost flew through space

for a little while. The gate, when they came
upon it, was the biggest thing John had ever
seen, and then it was gone, and then the
ghost sent him to sleep for another few
years.

Ulsincielo never had clouds. That was the

interesting thing about this world, according
to the planetary governor. Never formed
clouds on account of how hot it was. That
and the lithium playas, which could be seen
from space.

Horrible.

John walked with the planetary governor,

the two of them lumbering across the
crumbled earth of the solar fields, sweating
in their cooling suits. Keeper walked a
respectful distance away, projected into the

23
body of a local subaltern. Behind them, a
retinue of guards, attaches, and
functionaries followed in a wide delta of
similarly lumbering, suited people.

It was 76.5 degrees celsius. Horrible. But

John had learned early on how to guard his
face. He struck a brave and pleasant profile,
so practiced that it looked natural, and
listened to the governor prattle about how
many cubic tons of lithium Ulsincielo’s
army of drones and their engineers have
scraped from the playa this season. He grew
exhausted after a few minutes of the
diplomatic exercise.

“Capital,” John said, clapping the governor

on his coolsuited shoulder. “Governor —
you and your world do the Armory proud,
sir. I’ll not forget Ulsincielo’s raw majesty.”

The governor beamed, the cameras flashed,

John waved to the crowd, and then left with
Keeper and his guards. The shuttle waiting
for him back at Cielo City painted in the
Open Hand’s livery was a fine and welcome
sight. That Edwin, Maggie, and Ben were
there as well only made the ride back to the
Hand all the better.

“You three get into any trouble down

there?” John asked.

Edwin cut off Maggie and Ben before they

could start. “No, your grace,” the old
legionnaire said. “Nothing worth reporting.”

24
“Perfect,” John said, sweeping past them
into the shuttle. “Don’t tell me about it until
we’re outside of Ul-sin-whatever’s local
space.”

Maggie and Ben laughed along with John,

following him in.

Ulsincielo disappeared below, and then for

good, the Open Hand burning for even more
distant stars. Aboard the stately dining hall,
around a projection of the ship and her
escorts, the four young legends talked.

“How big is the Purview, anyways?” Maggie

asked.

“Seems like it grows by the bolt,” Edwin

muttered. He stretched out across the dining
booth, closed his eyes, and sighed out his
fatigue.

“You’re not far off,” Ben said. He swept a

hand over the table dismissing the miniature
display of the Open Hand. A second gesture
brought up the image of a bubble of space
around the ship. A third zoomed it out. “See
these lights here?” Ben said. “Four new
worlds added by the good stewards between
now and our previous visit.”

“Four more trips for us to make,” John said.

He drank, but he was of age now, and no
one would have told him otherwise. “And in
that time, how many more worlds will they
add?”

25
“It’s like they never want you to come
back,” Maggie said, voice low.

“I think,” John said. “You are correct.”

The four of them sat in silence until Ben
dismissed the galaxy map.

“Where are we headed next?” John asked.

He slouched down on a free seat, boots up
on the opposite chair.

“Yivny-Boldampur,” Ben said. “Currently

home to… ten thousand souls, and one city
by the same name. Primary export will be,
uh, beryllium.”

“When we get there,” John flicked the

transparency wall on and off, revealing the
dark void of space outside. “Will there be
anything interesting?”

“The population will have increased

tenfold,” Ben said, shrugging. “And there
will likely be another city.”

“Maybe a war,” Maggie offered. “I’ve

always wanted to see a Sherman in action,
or a Saladin. I would like that very much —
I’m quite the pilot in the sims, you know.”
She mimed shooting with a finger.

“Sure, Maggie,” John said. “Maybe a war.”

He toggled the transparency wall open, and
watched the stars stretch across the endless
dark.

26
They reached Yivny-Boldampur and found
no war there; there was no Yivny-
Boldampur.

Keeper and Edwin had urged John not to

head to the surface. “We should continue on
while our escort investigates below,” Keeper
said. “Yivny-Boldampur is irradiated, and
there are no transmissions on any bands.”

“They’re all dead, John,” Edwin said,

cutting to the quick. He dragged live images
of Yivny-Boldampur’s ragged surface to the
CIC’s tacpanel. Stark shadows, shattered
domes, long strings of craters.

“An orbital campaign?” Maggie asked.

“Those craters are massive.”

“We should continue on,” Ben said. “I’m

sure the legion is on its way—”

“No,” John said. “It is one of my worlds,

even if it is dead. Prepare a shuttle — and
bring me my armor.”

Keeper looked to Edwin, who nodded an

ok.

John walked the surface of Yivny-

Boldampur in his hardsuit, leading Maggie
and Ben and Edwin and Keeper and a
handful of legionnaires. They all carried
weapons, but Edwin’s read of the world was
correct. Nothing remained but craters and

27
the steady clicking of John’s integrated
radiation meter.

The little party hiked through what

remained of the city. Not a thing moved.
The only evidence that people once lived in
this flattened colonial metropolis were the
shadows burned on the few walls that
remained in the rubble. Maggie was silent,
and walked some distance away behind Ben,
the two of them peering into the depths of a
crater at least a hundred meters across.
“Keeper’s report is ready, sir” Edwin said,
standing next to John.

“Let’s hear it,” John said.

“A civil conflict,” Edwin said. He spoke on a

private channel, privileged information.
“Keeper found silos open on the opposite
side of the world, and all munitions
expended.”

“They did this to themselves?”

Edwin shook his head. “Surface-to-orbit

weapons.”

“A ‘civil conflict’?” John asked, turning away

from the city. He looked back towards the
Open Hand’s shuttle, crossing his arms.

“Who were they shooting at?”

28
Edwin grunted. “Us. They declared their
independence from the Purview. Steward
Council disagreed.”

“How long ago?”

“Does it matter?”

John glared at Edwin. “If I ask you a

question, Colonel, you will answer me.”

Edwin stared back at John, level, with a

rigidity the legion trained into him decades
before the boy emperor had been decanted.

“Colonel?”

“Three years prior to our arrival,” Edwin

said. “We were at cruise, and could do
nothing to prevent this.”
John nodded.

“The Purview grows,” Edwin said. “And

growth is not without some pain. There are
many worlds under the Aubergine, and
many more souls.” With a light touch to
John’s shoulder, he leaned his helmet in
close. “Yivny-Boldampur will live again. It is
a necessary piece of a most grand project:
perpetuity. An endless humanity, united.”

“Unless?”

29
Visor to visor, the ruins of Yivny-Boldampur
dropped away. Only smooth clearplate and
the air in their helms separated the two
men.

“There is no ‘unless’,” Edwin said.

John saw only steel. Edwin spoke with the
calm voice of a killer; his protector, and his
guard.

“I understand,” John said. “I’ve seen

enough. Let us go.”

###

30
I was made to be a good steward.

A good steward. Did my father mean for me to rule,

or was I just created as insurance?

In his greed he bade the Constellars make more than

a dozen of us just like him. I do not know what
became of my brothers and sisters, though I do know
that many have died — killed by the Midnights, or
hunted by the Steward Council. Some, no doubt,
have returned to Ras Shamra and bent the knee.
Others, I am sure, are hidden across more distant
stars.

I hope those who remain do not live my life; I hope

they never return to Ras Shamra.

Ras Shamra. The rock that my power is built upon.

In the halls of that world the names of the people I
have come to love are not known, unless they are
known as resources. Units and figures to be collected
and spent in the pursuit of acquiring more. I am
loath to perpetuate this process. I am loath to have it
done in my name.

I am John Creighton Harrison III, the Ageless, and

I have seen the whole of the Purview. When I return
to Ras Shamra, I will be as unstoppable as dawn.

The stewards will watch me shine like the sun, and

I will shape my world to my vision.

– JCH.III, Ageless

31
Cover art provided by the
Metropolitan Museum of Art
Title font is League Spartan
Semibold; header and body font is
Baskerville Regular

Copyright Massif Press, 2020