Out of your Bubble

A year or so into my transition, I went over to a few friends’ new apartment for dinner. They were a (cis) lesbian couple I’d been friends with for years, and the night might have been simply enough lovely evening with friends, if it wasn’t for one thing which means now, years later, I still think of it.

I think about it because of their neighbour. She was a very straight, very cis woman who had just had her first baby. They’d apparently helped her with something not long before, and this particular night she happened to pop by and have a glass (or three) of wine with us.

As I mentioned, this was pretty early in my transition. I was quite lucky in the amount of cis-passing privilege I had developed very quickly – my body took to oestrogen running – but like almost anyone who’s been misgendered or clocked as trans in public, the fear of that happening had stuck with me. Still has to do this day – being misgendered is almost never a thing that happens to me, yet I still have low-key anxiety that it’ll happen.

My friends were, of course, supportive and had been from the start. But this random woman… I had no idea. She seemed very typical. She was confused by these two lesbians. She’d never really met any lesbians before, seemingly. She even asked the staggeringly awkward question of “who’s the guy in the relationship?” which, yes, it turns out still get asked of lesbians.

I made the decision to out myself. It was something I did then and still do now in a lot of social situations – I’d rather be open about who I am. If there’s going to be awkward transphobic responses, I’d rather it happen quickly and be dealt with.

The reason why this interaction stuck with me, though, was that her response to me coming out to her as transgender was by far not what I had expected.

I’ve gotten lots of reactions from people, from polite nods to genuine shock to them clearly having just had their suspicions confirmed, and of course the typical and uncomfortable non-compliment response of “Oh! I’d never have known!”

When I came out to this woman, she looked me up and down, furrowed her brow, then asked, simply, “Which way are you transitioning?”

She had no idea if I was a trans woman or a trans man. (I highly doubt the notion of me possibly being non-binary was something that entered her mind.)

As it’s relevant here, it’s worth noting how I was presenting at that time: very feminine. I was even then fairly curvy, wearing a dress showing some cleavage, with makeup on. Whatever anyone thought of me, it’d be hard to read my style that night as anything other than ‘very feminine’.

“I’m a trans woman,” I replied to her.

“Oh,” she said. “So does that mean you were… born a woman, and won’t be in future?”

This threw me even more, but I decided rather than correct her with the nuance of ‘being born’ a specific gender, I’d just ignore that and answer simply. “Born male.”

She didn’t seem surprised, in any way. Just curious.

The idea that she would have been entirely believing of the concept of me being a trans man stuck with me. She knew so little about the very idea of transitioning that the idea of someone with a (for lack of a better term) feminine body, wearing dresses, makeup and keeping long hair, might be a trans guy. It’s possible, of course – there are so many social reasons why someone may present in a way that’s not how they’d prefer to present. This, however, clearly didn’t come from a very progressive place of “I will not presume your gender on the basis of your body and presentation”; it was instead from a place of absolute lack of understanding.

I’m not a stranger to getting questions which showcase someone’s complete lack of knowledge of biology, bodies, hormones and transitioning, of course.

I once had a cis woman ask me if I could get pregnant.

Another time, a guy asked me “when I had my surgery”. At first thought he was just very rudely presuming I’d had lower surgery, but it quickly became apparent he presumed I’d had breast implants, and perhaps in even facial surgery to ‘look female’. The idea that hormones make trans women develop breasts same as they do for cis girls (and with as much variation in shape and size) was something he simply didn’t know, nor that someone with an androgynous face going on oestrogen might also end up looking quite feminine without surgery.

I don’t think about those questions, born mostly of ignorance as to hormones and biology, anywhere near as much as the woman who wasn’t sure if I was a trans man or a trans woman. I suppose because it showed a different level of ignorance – that the very idea of presenting in a way that you might feel comfortable despite your body had not occurred to her.

It made me realise how privileged my social circles had been, even before I had out trans friends, never mind realised I myself was also trans. I was used to people experimenting at least a bit with their presentation – men with earrings or eyeliner or even dresses (albeit mostly at parties), women presenting as butch as they pleased.

So even now, years later, I think back to that woman, because it reminds me just how little many people know about transitioning. Just how foreign the concept is, and how assuming even a baseline level of knowledge from people is likely unhelpful.

It made me think that even the inaccurate and problematic narrative of “born in the wrong body” was something she didn’t know, and how even that would have at least put her vaguely in the right ball-park, if not exactly totally on the money.

When you are queer or trans, it’s very easy to vanish so completely into a queer-literate, trans-literate and even poly and kink-literate spaces. So much so that it’s sometimes jarring to poke your head out of that and realise how how foreign all of this must be to people for whom the very idea of questioning their gender or even their sexuality, or the road map from dating to marriage to kids and a white picket fence, is foreign.

Super Cute

A friend sent me a picture – a sketch, related to the conversation we were having.

I replied, saying it was super cute.

Then I stared at that phrase for the longest time. That’s super cute.

It’s not uncommon, either – I sometimes find myself focusing on something I have said, or something I have done. I do this when I notice something which is so very, very clearly not something I would have said or done a decade ago, before I accepted who I was or transitioned.

Of course, there are a lot of these things. From the everyday and simple, like putting on a bra, to changes in empathy or language, or even which kinds of media I seek out for relaxation and enjoyment.

I usually, however, end up focusing not just on the little things such as a single cutesy phrase, but on things past-me might have resented, or even mocked when I was at my most resentful of the world.

I hated the term ‘super’. I’d never have described anything except, maybe, a little kitten as ‘cute’. I was so bitter that a simple act of expressing delight at something nice would have made me eye-roll.

I focus on terms like these because it makes me realise not just how much I’ve changed as a person in the past half decade, and mostly for the better.

Of course, some things remain the same. I am, despite sometimes enjoying the Doctor Who metaphor of having ‘regenerated’, still actually the same person, of course. I may have new interests to compliment or replace ones I’ve had my whole life, and I may look different and often communicate slightly differently, but I am the same person.

You don’t need to transition to go through personal growth, of course. It’s just that transitioning generally comes with a set of new and very different experiences that might affect the course and intensity of that growth.

Something that always springs to mind is what I mentioned earlier – that I as so very bitter and angry before. I’d have, when describing myself before, used the term ‘jaded’. In retrospect, that’s not the case. I was confused, angry and bitter to be sure, and perhaps jaded about my response to certain kinds of media, but I had no idea just what ‘jaded’ was until I’d begun to experience year after year of sexism, homophobia and transphobia. In TV shows, movies, in person, in the news… at a certain point exhaustion and jadedness blur together when you feel like progress is so slow and sporadic that it almost doesn’t seem worth fighting against.

Especially when you begin to recognise that a lot of those changes I began this post talking about… are because of those things. Because of sexism. Because of Transphobia. Of homophobia. Some of it internalised, some of it external and inflicted upon you.

Last year, I found myself in a meeting with a room full of mostly cisgender men. I had a suggestion, which I thought was correct, but I knew might run into some resistance. I made it, but I realised after I did so that I hadn’t declared it as a suggestion… I had raised it as a question.

Why did I do that? When did I start doing that? It’s an incredibly common thing. Had I begun doing that because I saw other women doing it and subconsciously adopted that method of communication? Had I done it because I’d spent years freshly adjusting to men questioning my ideas or statements more than they ever had back when they saw me as One Of Them?

A lot of these small changes seemed to happen subconsciously, with me only realising I was doing them years later. I learned the hard way early on that being too warm, or too kind to a guy can result in him thinking that you’re hitting on him.

So despite my natural urge to smile and be polite, I adopted a more guarded tone, even a cold one, when talking to men I don’t really know. But not too cold, of course – then I might be accused of being a bitch.

All these changes, shifting to an environment and to people who now treat me entirely differently, happened slowly, and as I realise I’m doing them, I feel that growing sense of jadedness.

I didn’t just change how I spoke, I also realised I was having my own sense of value and confidence shook. Years of people (even other women sometimes) presuming that because I am not just a woman, but a very feminine-presenting one with dresses and makeup, I must not be a technical person. People question my statements about something involving a programming language I’ve used since 1998, and when that keeps happening, you even begin to question your own knowledge and abilities.

I double and even triple-check things I am confident about now, before I dare post a declarative statement of fact about them I would have just blurted out years ago.

I can’t tell if that’s good or not. The reason for doing it – a growing lack of confidence in my own capabilities and experience – is clearly bad. I’m just not sure if the actual results have even a slightly beneficial side-effect.

These things, when I notice them, are definitely fairly extreme. They affect how people relate to me, how I relate to them, and how I think about myself.

Yet it’s that’s super cute that sticks in my head more.

I think, because unlike the other things, this is clearly a positive shift. Not that I used that language specifically, but that it came from a genuine place. I saw something, felt a little moment of joy, and expressed it, figuratively and literally smiling.

This was not something I was able to do before. I might have gotten that little bit of joy at seeing something pretty, cute or otherwise aesthetically pleasing, but I’d never have expressed it so simply, clearly or emotionally. Because that was just not how men did it.

Shedding the more toxic aspects of behaviour I was mimicking in order to fit in, and recognising that I’ve done it, is a wonderful thing to realise.

So many people, regardless of gender, seem to be afraid to express joy at the tiniest little positive experiences. I’m sure for some men it’ll be for a similar reason to why I did it – to try and fit in when society tells you Men Behave This Way. Or perhaps for young women it’s as a rejection of the inverse – that a cutesy phrase is expected of them, and they want to be Cool instead.

I’m not saying I think everyone should use cutesy phrases, of course… just that I am glad I now feel comfortable doing so.

It’s super cute.

Video Games & Travel

I’m flying at about 4,500ft, south of Canberra, heading towards Cooma. The autopilot is on and I’m just sitting, watching the world go by. Then a buzzer goes off. I hit pause and answer the door – it’s a package that needed delivering.

Good thing flight simulators can be paused.

I, like, a probably an actual majority of people, have found myself very nearly house-bound throughout most of this year. At best, largely bound to my own suburb. It’s a beautiful suburb. Leafy and spacious. But at a certain point, every street feels like I’ve walked down it a hundred times, and I find myself itching to travel. Not even in that “tinder profile of person who notes how many countries they’ve been to” way, just in the “going for a train trip out of the city” way.

My standards, I suppose, have dropped.

But it does mean I’ve been playing video games more than I think I ever really have before. I had sort of lost a lot of interest in gaming in the past few years, but with little else to do, I’ve been burrowing deep into games that let me be somewhere else.

Mostly open-world games – ones I’m fond of, or ones I haven’t played. And Flight Simulator 2020, of course – which has been a balm in an awful year. What I found, though, is that my favourite games are ones that take me to places that truly exist, if in a more real form than the condensed versions of cities and spaces we see in video games.

I very quickly found, however, that the places I most wanted to ‘go’ in these video games were places I have been before.

With a mod tacked on to play GTA V with my VR headset, I drove, in the rain, to the virtual Santa Monica pier and just stood there, watching waves crash and people run for cover.

I found myself remembering what the first cocktail I had at that pier had tasted like. How accurately the bird poop on the hand rails were modelled. The feeling the humidity in sprinkled rain.

Then there was my flight down past the, uh… optimistically modelled Lake George, over Canberra, Cooma and finally into the Snowy Mountains. I’d just stare out the window, and it was there I saw a small farm. A large house, a shed, a water tank, a dirt road leading down the gentle hillside to join Jindabyne Road.

Memories flooded back of visiting a family friend’s property, decades ago. The crisp, cool air and the smell of the bushes. Trying not to tread in rabbit-hole while hiking about. The odd sheep-skull from long-past flocks of past owners. The odd mixture of a very cool breeze coupled with the warmth of the late afternoon sun.

Flights over Hawai’i brought back similar memories – cooking dinner in a cheap motel in the rainforest just out of Hilo, being amazed by the intense green of the little lizard that crawled by on the outside of the flyscreen.

After a few weeks of this I realised something – it had become my primary purpose when I played games. I’d been seeking these out – ways to trigger intense and positive memories through video games.

I can’t see my friends in Seattle. It’s likely I won’t be able to see them for some time yet – but I can walk through its streets in Infamous Second Son, giving me pleasant memories of whiskey bars, rainy mornings, craft beer and walks through nearby forest trails.

I can even bring back weird memories of Schoolies Week in Byron Bay two decades ago, by playing Forza Horizon 3.

When I go to virtualised spaces in a video game, based on places I’ve not been, I am making my own memories. I have feelings and experiences visiting the Mumbai streets in Hitman 2, but they are entirely about that game. They’re about the fictionalised, violent world of contract killing, not memories of the real place brought back from the game – as I’ve never been there.

So I keep playing more games set in places I know and love, and realise something else: these video games are making me want to travel more than any advertisement or even most any movie.

They’re letting me travel, and they’re a gateway to my own memories – in a time when it feels like memories are really all I have.



The Podcast

Like a lot of people, to say I’ve been struggling this year would be a dramatic understatement. But, I think, like a lot of people, I’ve also avoided talking about it. 2020 is, for many of us, the year that brings “Oh I shouldn’t complain – others have it so much worse” so far wedged into your mind that it seems like an impossible mantra, never to leave your head.

The worst part has been that I couldn’t quite figure out why I seemed to be coping so much worse than other people. Of course, the first answer to that is – I’m not. And if you only know me through twitter, it’s likely you didn’t even realise I was particularly down. I’m long past the point of feeling comfortable expressing too many genuine feelings on twitter. I smile. I make jokes.

I once posted one of my truly awful puns, and a reply to it ending in ‘haha’, while my face was entirely stained in tears and my hands were shaking.

Yet that problem still ate at me. Why was I sobbing in loneliness, anxiety, and dealing with genuine (if mercifully fleeting) self-harm ideations for the first time since I transitioned 5 years ago? Why was this so hard?

There’s never a simple answer to these things, but I began to put the pieces together during, of all things, a podcast. I have been burying myself in podcasts about film. I would pick a filmmaker who I found interesting, and listen to every podcast I could that they had guested on.

This one was Diablo Cody, and she was talking about horror – specifically, her (so far only) foray into explicit horror, the underrated classic and personal favourite of mine, Jennifer’s Body.

What mattered, and what hit me like a freight train in a Tony Scott movie, was this observation of hers: “The one thing that I remember about the friendships that I had [in my teen years] is they were incredibly intense. Moreso than my romantic relationships that I was starting to have with guys. I was just completely enamoured with my best friend, and yet there was these forces conspiring to tear us apart. Because, you know, as you get older you don’t have the space in your life to nurture those friendships any more.”

The Bad Times

For the past few years, since my transition, I’d been living in a sharehouse with (not counting the usual sharehouse comings and goings) more or less the same group of people. I had been planning to finally move on myself this year, but when the sharehouse unexpectedly dissolved in late January, I finally had to make a decision.

After an entire life of living with family, partners or flatmates, I wanted to try living on my own. I am quite an extrovert, to put it mildly, but figured as long as I was seeing lots of my friends with frequency, living alone was something I should try at least once.

I wasn’t quite financially ready to move out on my own yet (what the buying of new appliances, etc, atop the usual moving costs) but with the sharehouse collapse forcing my hand, I figured fuck it.

By February I was living in my own one bedroom apartment, alone, for the first time in my life.

By March, COVID-19 was tearing across the world, and I found myself very quickly not just living alone, but in contrast to my intended coping strategies for living alone, I was seeing… nobody.

Without being too hyperbolic… it was a few of the worst months of my life, and I found myself crying myself to sleep at night, desperately wishing I could hug or even just briefly touch the people on the other end of the regular video calls with friends that have now become a staple of life in 2020.

It hit the point, some weeks in, where I put on makeup… because a courier delivering something. I had no reason to impress some random courier who’d see me for a grand total of 5 seconds, but I wanted something – anything – as a reason to do something I used to do all the time.

The After Times

Since then, things have changed. I’m lucky enough to live in a city that’s doing… okay. In fact, in the grand scheme of the world, we’re doing remarkably well.

Apart from limitations imposed on very large gatherings, new seating labels for public transport, the understandable social pressure to wear a mask, and signing in when you got bars or restaurants so you can be tracked… things are supposed to be closer to normal. We can go to bars and restaurants. Holidays are being advertised (albeit domestic ones and always in the same state).

It’s even possible to have a conversation with someone and not have the global goddamn pandemic be the single thing you can talk about.

But we’re all still being cautious. Most of my friends who still have jobs outside of retail or hospitality are working from home, and it’s looking like that’ll be the case with every vaguely rational office employer for potentially a good year or so to come.

Single White Female, 35 or older

When I moved into this apartment, it was one of several I applied for. For the first time in my life, I not only got the one I wanted first time – but got every one I applied for. I got to pick which of the several apartments I had applied for I truly wanted to live in.

I was extremely confused, and a friend of mine who’d worked in real estate explained it to me. “You’re the perfect tenant. That’s why. You’ve got a full-time, white-collar job, you’re white, female, living alone and in your late ’30s. You’re old enough that you’re less likely to fall pregnant and suddenly be moving out to a larger, baby-friendly place, and you’re white and female so statistically they think you’re more likely to keep the place in good condition.”

That was a jarring thing to hear. A reminder of the sexism, racism and uncomfortable pragmatism of capitalism and the rental market.

But, given the gross biases against me in almost ever other facet of my life as a queer, transgender woman, finding the one instance where some of those things could work in my favour was not a gift-horse I was going to dismiss.

It was a ‘category’ I’m now a part of that would enter my brain more and more as the year wore on.

The Pods

Even as things begin to re-open in my city after the first wave of COVID, while technically I could still be going to bars, parties, going on tinder dates or doing all the usual things that were part of my life pre-2020… the fact is that’s not the case.

It didn’t quite make sense to me at first. I was seeing friends, if usually only one on one. So what was different? Why was I turning into an emotional wreck?

There are many reasons for this, I’m sure, and many are things that have been discussed in every article and Facebook post we’ve seen for months now.

The anxiety of the world being changed and having no clue, even if those we love around the world do all survive it, when (if ever) we’ll get to resume anything even slightly like our previous lives. When our life goals or dreams will start being possible again. If we’ll still be employed in a week, a month or even a year.

But there’s another aspect to all this which hit me as I heard Diablo Cody’s comment in that podcast.

“Because, you know, as you get older you don’t have the space in your life to nurture those friendships any more.”

My friendship pool has shrunk enormously in the past few months.

Even friends I do talk to, many of them I just don’t see any more. Even ones who live a short walk from my new apartment.

People are becoming insular. I saw it described as ‘pods’. It’s a bit like polycules, in a way. We all pick a few friends we’re seeing in person, and sticking largely to that group.

I can’t even tell you fully how I picked my own little ‘covid pod’. It’s not even necessarily that they are the current closest friends in my life – there are other factors. Perhaps I don’t see some people because they’re immunocompromised, and they’re isolating even now. Perhaps they’re just not the right kind of friendships for me right now. Or perhaps I don’t feel we’re close enough that I want them seeing me at this extremity of my life.

There are some people I wish I could see, but for whatever reason they don’t seem to feel the same way about me. They haven’t haven’t chosen to see me. It stings. I don’t blame them for it – as I’ve said, the people I’ve chosen to see aren’t some perfect measure of the people I care most about. It’s some strange subconscious selection process my brain seems to have done based on everything from proximity to the kind of things we used to do together. I may not blame them, but it still… hurts.

Friendships are gone, or minimised.

Those people I mostly saw casually at parties and caught up with while hammered at 1am in the host’s kitchen helping to clean up… they’re gone now. Not in my life.

You see, it feels to me like by this point even if there is a vaccine magically mass-produced tomorrow and the risk of COVID is gone within a year… things won’t be the same. Some friendships are gone, never to come back.

Some people I’ve reached out to randomly had moved house. Gone through breakups. I likely won’t see them in the same social groups again, even of some shadow of those groups survive this.

People are hunkering down with their partners and families.

Which brings me to the next bit, and one of the main reasons I feel broken right now.

2020 is the very worst possible time to be single – or, at least, to be single and not want to be.

I’ve never been very good at being alone. To my detriment I’ve often stayed in relationships until long after their expiry date being passed has been obvious to everyone in my life but me.

I’ve had a habit for years now of saying yes to dates on tinder out of sheer loneliness, rather than because I was truly into the person. This is made worse because I am not only a sapphic transgender woman, but also one sort of vaguely situated somewhere on the asexual spectrum. Not entirely to one side… but enough that hookups and empty sex are not a thing I can do.

So in the past when I’ve gone on a million dates in the past, it’s been out of a desperate desire for intimate emotional connection, not to try and get laid.

This… doesn’t always work, to put it mildly.

I’ve been on a few dates since things “re-opened”. Careful ones, of course. One was even at a bar, as uncomfortable and strange an experience as that feels post-covid.

I’ve even been casually seeing someone, even if it’s not quite at the point where we’d put a label on it like ‘girlfriends’, and I’m not sure if we’ll ever get there.

But in every functional way that people refer to being ‘single’… that’s what I am.

So here I am now, and the closest people in my life are non-sexual friendships.

These are people I cherish dearly, and I know the feeling is mutual, but they also have partners. Romantic, intimate or even domestic partners.

I don’t. So when I have a breakdown, like the entire of this week, I talk to friends, and that’s it. When they have breakdowns… they go to their partners.

I’ve stopped watching lesbian romance movies – they’re too depressing. Instead I’ve been watching movies about complex female friendship. Life Partners. The Spy Who Dumped Me. Even Jennifer’s Body. At least those, even the genre ones, are a bit easier for me to relate to.

It’s hard to describe just how strange and depressing it is having the people you truly love in your found family not be actual romantic partners, in a queer community dominated by polyamorous relationships, during a time when friendships are so often vanishing and slipping by the wayside as people huddle in close to their partners and wait for this all to blow over.

To have nobody there when you wake up crying at 1am after yet another awful dream.

There are days when I genuinely don’t see how I can survive this – my life goals were ruined by this pandemic, maybe never to quite be a possibility again. Dating is even tougher than usual.

I’ve “been” to two funerals this year. Both via video link. In each case either I was too far away, or not “close enough” to the deceased – so not invited to the service.

It’s hard to describe just how horrible the feeling is of crying during a funeral service, seeing your family & friends without being able to hug them, and when the service is done, rather than going off to a wake for a few cathartic drinks with other mourners… the video link cuts out, and you’re left crying alone in your apartment.

More and more, as time goes on, I find my growing fear of dying alone is bleeding over from my nightmares into my casual thoughts.

But who am I to complain? I have a job, and a roof over my head, which is more than many people have.

So much of the week, though, I miss waking up in a busy sharehouse, having random beers with housemates whose plans fell through. I miss after-work drinks at bars. I miss house parties. I miss the weeks looking forward to them before going. I miss live shows. I miss dressing up to go out. I miss waking up next to a partner. I miss animated discussions about where our next holiday will be.

I miss life.

So I sat here, quietly, sobbing almost once every day since February, not letting myself admit just how much my life has been torn apart, and how I miss having even the tiniest little shred of hope for the future.


The Floating Casino

Some time ago, I began a project to write a future history. That is, I wanted to write a coffee-table book full of stories about space-going disasters… but written hundreds of years from now.

This story is one of the chapters from this work in progress, Hull Breach. The idea is a series of interconnected stories from the earliest years of humankind’s colonisation of space to the later years of warfare, disaster and faster-than-light travel.

The story of the loss of the Forrestal is a unique one amongst space-going disasters, for several reasons. Firstly, it was one of the largest vessels ever lost in space outside of combat. Secondly, it was one of the largest economic losses in a single disaster ever. Thirdly, and most strangely… only a single life was lost, and many people have argued that the life lost was not technically part of the same incident, even if it was an unintended consequence.

So what happened?

Crime is present wherever humans are; it’s just the scope that varies. Draconian measures are often taken to stop small crimes from happening, while for the most part, since formal laws have existed, large-scale crimes of all sorts have been committed, and will continue to be.

But the scale of this crime is, at least logistically, probably one for record books.

Let’s meet the SV Forrestal. As the name might hint at, Forrestal did not begin life as a civilian vessel. She was, at the time, one of the largest military transports ever built. Part of what was initially known as the Jerodd M. Kane class until the unfortunate destruction of the vessel bearing that name, Forrestal was a unique vessel. Constructed in 2167 at the Titan Ship Yards in the Sol system, she was one of the largest and most clumsy-looking jump-capable freighters ever created.

See, the problem is – she pre-dated what we now know… that dependant on the energy input to the jump field stabiler, de-structuralisation of certain elements toward the outer edge of the field could take place, as explained by Svetlana Medrov’s famous Third Theorem of Space-Time Compression. In short? She was too big for her jump drive, and over time the outer segments of her sprawling hull began to lose structural stability.

She began to literally fall apart.

Thing is, every ship in her close, obviously, had this problem. In fact it was what destroyed the lead ship in her class, the before-mentioned J. M. Kane.

Of the eight military transport vessels in her class, the Forrestal was one of only three that survived into retirement. Neither she nor her sister ships were given a clean enough bill of health to fly again, but due to various engineering issues throughout her career, the Forrestal had performed significantly fewer jumps than the others. As a result, where the others that survived past the publicisation of Medrov’s theory were scrapped, the MTS Forrestal was sold to a civilian owner and re-registered as the SV Forrestal. It was considered too dangerous or her to fly deep into space, and her jump system had been removed after she was declared unsafe for jump travel, but this didn’t matter to the owner. Surprisingly, it was sold for a mere 280,000,000 credits… and not to a ship broker.

The new owner was an import/export specialist and self-made billionaire, quite famous at the time, by the name of Nami Tristram. She owned stakes in numerous import/export concerns, but outside of her own private yachts, owned no ships – certainly nothing commercial.

You see, the famous billionaire had a specific in mind: it may be unsafe to fly, but the Forrest was still an enormous structure with fully functional life support systems and heavy armour. Nami Tristram bought it to turn into a freeport.

A freeport is the same now as it has been for centuries – an unintended consequence of law. When carrying goods, be it between countries in the era of sea-going vessels or between solar systems in the era of the intersolar colonisation, taxes are almost always required to be paid on arrival, usually a percentage of the cost of the goods you’re shipping.

So when a voyage has multiple legs through individual state bodies (say, carrying goods from Sol to Alpha Centauri then finally via a different vessel to Lorthal), one would legally have to pay tax on entering AC sovereign territory, despite it not being the intended destination.

As a result, freeports exist. Spaces or buildings which, not unlike embassies, have unique laws applying to them, different to that of the host nation. Usually, the upshot is this: you can store your goods at a freeport and not pay tax. The theory is it’s just temporary, but historically there has not been much of a limit on the amount of time you can store goods somewhere, as long as you’re willing to continue to rent the space.

So, the Forrestal travelled for the last time under its own power to the Barras Orbital Facility around Alpha Centauri B. One of the largest space station structures outside of Sol, she was notable for being a very popular mid-way destination between Sol and the outer colony worlds, and something else important: its gravity was generated by internal centrifugal spin, not by rotating the whole structure.

The reason for this makes perfect sense – as a trade hub, some spaces needed microgravity for human habitation or storage, where-as others might be better kept as near to zero gravity as possible.

The upshot, however, was this – the Barras facility had a non-moving exterior hull, allowing very large ships to dock comfortably. So, a long-term lease taken out on three of the largest airlocks on the stern section of the outer rim of the facility, the Forrestal was docked for what was to be the last time.

She then her interior rebuilt, knocking out walls and replacing the thousands of bunk beds and industrial storage spaces with various sizes of cargo compartments.

Within six months she was almost always nearly half full of goods coming and going.

Five years later came a very important historical event – the collapse of the Lalande Federation. With the power structure gone, people with money fled. Many of the richest, however, saw the writing on the wall and got out early. Before the Lalande economy collapsed taking its dollar with it, many of the richest people had left, translating their soon-to-be-worthless Lalande Dollars into something that would still have value. Then, as now, a good way to store large amounts of money in a small amount of space is this: rare gemstones, artworks, and other things that not only cost an enormous amount of money, but occupy little space and are highly unlikely to depreciate in value.

The problem is, if you’ve just bought the famous “Portrait of a Solar Explorer” work by Spandas Kai for nearly a hundred million converted credits, you don’t want to take it with you only to pay, say, an 8% import tax on its value.

The result? The Forrestal’s internal storage space, registered entirely as a freeport under Alphan law, went from mostly-full-of-cargo to absolutely stuffed to the brim with expensive, portable objects of great value.

It became a tax haven of sorts. It’s estimated by one fraud specialist that nearly 78 billion converted credits worth fo goods were stored in that  hulk at its peak.

Unfortunately for the owners, certain people began to figure this out. It began, as a lot of big moments of theft do, with a combination of opportunity, and need. As it happened, one of the dockmasters of Barras was, as his deputy later put it, ‘lousy with gambling’. His name was James Dreign, and he loved cards. He owed money. Lots of it. And he began to realise something: being a freeport on an already-protected station, the Forrestal was nowhere near well-guarded enough to house the many, many expensive goods they had aboard.

The problem is that getting goods off the ship might be easy, but getting them off the station would be hard. Security checkpoints, scans, license checks – all for ensuring people don’t evade import duties, of course – would make that part too difficult even for an insider to pull off.

So he forgot about the idea. It might have passed into history as just another random idea from a disgruntled man, except that within six months he would be fired from his job, at least nominally for drinking on the job.

Dreign went from a nice stateroom befitting his status as Senior Dockmaster of one of the biggest civilian ports outside of Sol, to a tiny rented hotel room in the lower levels of the low-spin section of Barras.

Hung over and bitter, his mind wandered back to the Forrestal. He would later describe this in an interview (then under a pseudonym) for the Proxima Centauri Buzz, a scandal rag doing what may have been its first vaguely-serious article.

Dreign claims he went to his gambling associates and told them he could pay off the debt he owed them, but not in cash. In a tip. A huge tip.

It took him a week to convince them to go ahead with his plan, and it’s not too surprising anyone would think he was mad. The plan? Steal the Forrestal. Entirely.

While docked to the facility every sensor and security officer would be trained on the vessels presently docked, even long-term hulks like the Forrestal. But if they got it even a few thousand metres away from the station… most of the external sensors, which are designed for docking security, would no longer be able to detect them as they stripped her of everything that had value.

It was a plan so grand and absurd that it’s a wonder that even one other person got involved. But the relatively low risks (for the people bank-rolling the operation, anyway) versus the high financial reward was enough to convince at least two still-unnamed grey figures from the facility’s huge population to front up the cash, equipment and manpower for the job.

The plan was simple: cut the vessel free, use tiny manoeuvring thrusters to push her well-wards away from the facility and toward the planet, then unload her precious cargo in the hours before she would burn up on re-entry into the planet.

Now, on almost any other station this would have been impossible. If nothing else, people would look outside their portholes and see that the biggest ship docked with the station was gone – or floating outside, at least. But this was where Barras’ unique design benefited the thieves: she had no external portholes on the lower, non-spinning stern part of her superstructure, and nothing else docked there but for the Forrestal.

Instead she had external cameras, which could in theory be set to loop the same footage, at least buying them a few more hours.

So, in practice that wasn’t simple. Many things needed to be dealt with.

Dreign would have to call in favours with people he once worked with, paying them off to disable the docking sensors on the three airlocks. He’d need the person in charge of the life support system to let him sneak in a hack so that the ship wouldn’t fire off alarms when the pressure outside airlocks 67a, 67b and 67c all registered a huge drop within moments of each other.

Beyond this, he also needed to do it when the one watch officer on the otherwise-lifeless Forrestal (it was mostly defended from thieves by an electronic security system which would need to be disabled) was taking a break – a longer than usual break, funded by some of Dreign’s new business associates.

Another problem he had to contend with is that one big danger for the Barras facility was ships burning too close. RCS was not allowed to be fired near the station, and certainly not main drives. As a result, heat sensors were set up all along the exterior of the hull. So using cutting torches to remove the small stubby airlock links between Barras and the Forrestal just wouldn’t do.

As a result, they snuck in some cold-cutting torches, normally used for specialised repair work in dangerous atmospheres. These would reduce the temperature of a specific part of the metal airlock hull so they could be cut apart. Temperature alone wouldn’t easily do this, of course – a space craft’s hull, even the airlock stubs used at stations, are meant to operate at temperatures far below zero. But by reducing the temperature of just small patches of the metal, the integrity of the hull would be sufficiently ruined to allow the tiniest amount of pressure to tear the airlocks free.

It is said that this enormous heist’s initial stages – getting the hulk away from the station – would involve merely eight people, including organisers such as Dreign. Seven of them would eventually be sent to jail.

On a night three weeks later, every piece was put in place. Two members of the C-shift docking staff, not knowing what they were being paid off for, ignored or shut off certain sensor readings. Four people with low-power emergency MMUs departed via another airlock on the Forrestal, mounted ultra-low-power ion drive vents in the right places on the hull, then began to cold-cut the airlock tubes.

Two hours later, in what this author considers one of the most underrated acts of spacegoing engineering ever, the Forrestal began to drift free of her moorings.

The air pressure from the airlocks was enough to give the giant vessel a tiny push away from the facility.

What happened next must have been one of the most stressful moments for everyone involved – they could not fire the ion drives for some time, until they were sure even a tiny burn wouldn’t trigger the heat sensors on Barras. So they had to wait for the huge thing to open to at least a hundred metres. Given how little of a push she’d been given by the venting of air, this took hours.

With the external camera feeds on loop and the Forrestal now drifting away, people both inside the facility and still floating outside in MMUs must have waited with baited breath.

Then, mere minutes before it was considered a safe time to make the minor burn to send the Forrestal descending down to the atmosphere of the planet, something unexpected happened: an unscheduled boat got picked up on sensors.

An emergency beacon was on – the boat in question, the Mavis Marr, had suffered a minor electrical fault and had, just two days after leaving Barris, come back for repairs.

Realising there was now a chance worker bees would leave the station to help the Marr back to port, and that the Marr herself may indeed notice the enormous ship drifting away from the station, someone made the call to burn early.

As it happens, the decision may not have, for them, been the right one. Heat sensors did indeed go off as the Forrestal’s makeshift ion thrusters burned – just enough that the specialist in charge of thruster safety, Tara Xing, was woken up by the shift officer.

Five minutes later, she was at her post, performing sensor scans, wondering why a decent-sized burn had been detected, consistent with (ironically) station-keeping burns by large vessels.

Within half an hour, Xing’s by-the-book scans showed anomalies, and she ordered both a reboot of the external sensor systems (including the cameras) and heat sensors.

While that reboot was taking place, she then ordered an active radar sweep, something rarely done by a commercial station in peace-time.

At first, seeing the huge object appear on the sensor station, Xing thought there was some kind of computer glitch. Surely someone would have noticed if a ship the size of a small battlecruiser was a mere kilometre away?

When the cameras came back on, Xing realised right away just what the object was.

Within moments, alarms were going off and a security cutter had been ordered to head straight for Barras.

Interestingly, as nobody considered that anyone in their right mind would try to steal a giant space craft like the Forrestal, the first thought (and the only thought until some time after it burned up in atmosphere) was actually just that there had been some kind of catastrophic emergency with the docking systems in the rarely-used well-ward section of the facility.

The cutter was six hours away at high speed, and that may well have been enough. The people in the MMU had a small skiff waiting for them, and that time alone could have been enough to get at least the most valuable items from the freeport aboard and get them fleeing for safe port somewhere else.

Unfortunately, something else went wrong: the four emergency ion thrusters were not well-maintained. How could they be? They were unable to be legally bought for obvious reasons, meaning they were salvage.

And one… didn’t work properly. So somewhere in the middle section of the bow of the Forrestal, an ion drive slowly continued its burn, not only continuing the enormous vessel’s descent toward the planet’s atmosphere, but also beginning a slow turn. The Forrestal began a slow, ungraceful arc, spinning so much within moments that the salvage team no longer felt they could get aboard.

So, making a call of self-preservation, the skiff boarded the engineers in MMUs and began to get out of there before the cutter arrived.

They wouldn’t make it. A warning shot and several communications were all it took to get the skiff turned around and back to Barras for jail and trials.

Meanwhile, with nothing else to do, the Forrestal continued to spin faster and faster as she descended into the atmosphere.

She would burn-up as the Barras crew and, by this point, the whole solar system, watched in horror. She took with her an estimated six hundred works of priceless art, jewellery, not to mention the usual stash of everything on its way to other ports, from electronics to freeze-dried foodstuffs for outer colonies.

All but Dreign were caught within a day for their part in the attempted heist.

Dreign used his knowledge of the station to make it onto a freighter bound for Proxima, where he finally made several interviews (likely for the money) before attempting to vanish into obscurity.

His body was found, stabbed repeatedly, six months later in a backwater space station, making him – arguably, at least – the only human casualty of the famous attempted heist. Nobody was ever tried for his murder.

As for the financial loss? In the end the insurance payout was made, but not enough, due to the circumstances, to cover the enormous value of the goods on the hulk. In fact, the total amount of the insurance payout is believed to be in the order of just a few million, to the Forrestal’s owner, Nami Tristram.

So, given she bought the hulk for under a million converted credits initially and presumably earned much that back in operating profits anyway in the several years it’d been a freeport… Nami Tristram may in fact be the only person to come out of this incident in a better financial situation than when she went in.

Tristram never made a public statement on the disaster, and never went back into the freeporting business.



Raindrops careened from the sky, smashed into the awning outside Black Annex, and those that didn’t then slide off it on their own were instead shook off by the loud bass roaring out of the club.

Rax stood, inspecting his own hair in the custom-built mirrors that stood on the wall outside the club. He tilted his head this way and that, admiring the way the new Spritz hair wax made his hair shimmer different colours in the rain.

A woman wearing bespoke leather clothes exactly a half-size too small for her approached, exaggerating the swing of her hips.

“Oh, hey, man,” he said to her, huffing on his e-Cigarette.

“How’s it going?” Tyff replied, pulling out her regular tobacco-filled kind.

“Oh, you know. Same old. My boss tried to fuck me yesterday.”

“Did you let him?”

“I’m not into buff guys, really?” Rax said, like he wasn’t sure whether it was a question or a statement. “Buff women are fine though.”

“Too bad, he’s tres fuckable for a guy,” Tyff said, lighting up her cigarette with a gold lighter stylised like it’s a little antique blow torch.

The flame was a special job, designed to burn down instead of up and auto-matching its flame to the hue of whatever she was wearing.

This time, it chose a nice deep purple, bordering on mauve.

“You know, you should really, like, try these new eCigs, Tyff. These ones? They change flavor as you smoke them.”

“Yeah, but they’re not the real thing, and umm… I’m, like, a fan of being authentic,” she said, straightening part of her top where it was bunching up and failing to correctly show off the work the auto-surgeon had done last week to make her stomach wash-board flat.

“Your loss, dudette,” Rax shrugged, just before his jaw disconnected from the rest of his head in a spray of blood.

A look of surprise appeared on his eyes as he the eCig, tip glowing a stylish orange, fell from its position a few inches from where his lips had once been and into a puddle on the ground.

It was about then that Tyff noticed the figure in the slate-coloured trench coat running by the wall of the club, probably in a hurry to avoid whatever had just damaged Rax’s designer face, and ended his life.

“WARNING,” a police drone droned. “A violent citizen is nearby.”

A second shot, of the same variety as the kind which had taken down Rax, wizzed by Tyff’s head, forcing her to drop her authentic cigarette and duck closer to the ground.

The drone slid along the street, a dozen other club patrons out there to be seen smoking near Black Annex’s stylish logo scattering as it passed by, continuing to shoot its blaster at the figure.

One shot knocked out the first ‘a’ in the club’s famous logo. One blew open a bystander’s ribcage. Yet another ripped an arm off an underage clubber, the limb and its associated viscera skidding to a halt in front of Tyff.

Finally, two more cop drones and three dead or dismembered club denizens later, and Tyff opened her eyes.

The ground was red from all the human detritus, and her cigarette lighter had been wedged in the ‘on’ position, helpfully selecting a matching tone of deep scarlet to fit in.

Tyff stood up, stepping over Rax, removing some jaw fragments from her cleavage and flicking them aside.

“I fucking hate Saturdays,” she sighed, walking off home.

I was having a conversation with a friend the other day and discussing my complete inability to write short stories. This is, when I began to think about it, quite untrue. I’ve written quite a few, even recently, I just tend to rarely come up with ideas for them. The format I came up with for my sci-fi history stories felt almost like a cheat. They’re technically short stories, but not conventional ones as they’re in an article form – a format I’m more comfortable with thanks to a few years of working as a media critic.

But as I was denying I’d written short stories, I remembered this piece. It was written for the (rarely read) PDF manual for my second video game, Metrocide, a cyberpunk action shooter. It wasn’t given much of a title at the time, so going back to it, I’m just calling it Metrocide.

When I mentioned it to the friend I said I wasn’t sure what I thought of the story but… for a short piece that’s basically black comedy with a morbid punchline, I kinda like it? Makes me want to delve back a bit more into cyberpunk. Not so much the dead serious variety, but something a bit more morbid and comedic, like this.



I am walking through a parking lot, toward the supermarket in my suburb. I pass numerous people, but one of them is different. He’s someone I know – someone I knew for 15 years. We’re heading toward each other, and I have this brief moment of surprise at seeing him – his is a face I hadn’t seen in the better part of a decade. We used to have sleepovers as a kid. We dated the same girl once. (Not at the same time, and, uh… it caused tension. To put it mildly.)

He walks toward me, and in a second he obviously realises I am looking at him. Not too directly, but I am clearly looking in his direction. He stares at my face. He eyes me, looking me up and down. For a moment, I think he’s recognises me, then I realise he’s just staring at my tits.

So I guess he hadn’t changed much.

In the past I’ve described some of my life now as being a bit like someone gave me the wrong memories. I remember being [deadname]. I remember how people reacted to him – strangers, friends. It’s totally different to how I am treated now. It’s a bit sci-fi, really. But I think I’ve found another way to describe this strange experience:

I feel like I am haunting my past life.

I remember it. I lived it. I know all those same people, but it’s like they don’t see me. Or if they do, they see someone totally different. Being perved at by someone I used to have sleepovers with isn’t a specifically trans experience, I know, but it’s not the first time this has happened.

It’s strange enough, seeing places and people once-familiar to me, that I increasingly fantasise about moving city. This place feels strange to me now. I avoid suburbs I used to frequent. I feel weird seeing places I used to know. I run into people, like this tit-staring pervy ex-friend, who make me feel like either I’m being haunted, or I’m haunting them.

I think of the underrated and touching show I used to love, Dead Like Me.

Georgia Lass is an 18 year old girl who dies, and is brought back as a reaper. She walks around the world, performing tasks, but people see her as someone else. So she sometimes runs into her family – and they do not recognise her.

It’s yet another instance of the feeling that, post-transition, conventional dramas or novels are less relatable to me now than fantasy or science-fiction. My life is often more surreal than real.


Am I Adulting Yet?

When I left home, I moved into a sharehouse. From there, in with a partner who I would spend the bulk of my ’20s with. After that, when I began transitioning, I moved back into a sharehouse. What I’m getting at is this: I have always lived with other people. You can… probably guess where this is going.

I’d been planning to try living on my own this year. For the first time in a decade, I have a stable full-time job. Not the best paying in the world (it’s game dev, after all) but one where, frustrating bugs aside, I enjoy the company I work with and the company I work for.

So I’d been saving up. Figured out the suburb I wanted to move to. Thing is, it wasn’t supposed to happen until June or July.

Sometimes, the best things happen to us when our hands are forced. I had to borrow money. I had to scramble a bit, but suddenly knowing I had merely two weeks to find somewhere to live… I managed it. I found a 90% perfect apartment in the suburb I wanted, my application was accepted (in fact, my application for my backup apartments were accepted to – unlike every other time I’ve been apartment-hunting in my life) and just 9 days from first finding out I had to leave… I am living here, in this apartment, alone for the first time in my life.

I’d say I was about 80% excited and 20% scared. I’m quite an extrovert, and I need human contact to recharge my batteries, so to speak. So living without housemates outright terrified. But I am moving to within walking distance of about 6-7 very close friends, so that softened the blow a bit. Plus, I figured, who knows when I will get the chance again? I am dating right now, but the people I’m seeing… it’s quite casual. There’s no domestic partner on the horizon for me right now, so it seemed like the best time to give it a go. Who knows – maybe I’d love it?

It’s weird suddenly realising that I am alone here. No housemate to run social events by. No partner to check in with before buying new appliances, crockery or throw rugs. It feels… amazing. Not that I wouldn’t love to share my life with someone again, but right now, this feels like everything I needed.

I spent the last four years living with friends, who in a way acted as a buffer. I had little contact with real estate agents or the like, so I could quietly transition and get used to my new life.

Well, I’m used to it now, and things are… easier. I realised that before I transitioned, dysphoria’s attendant social anxiety, for me, meant that I would do anything to avoid interacting with strangers. Neighbours, shopkeepers, even delivery drivers scared me.

Not any more. I smile at my neighbours. I voluntarily go to a normal checkout at the supermarket rather than seeking out the self-checkout lane.

Is this… adulting? I hate the term, but life doesn’t scare me now. I can do all the household things, I can deal with my real estate agent, make smalltalk with the kid working the til at the local supermarket.

I don’t think I realised how much dysphoria-related anxiety had affected my life until recently. But now, it feels like I can be, with little care or fear. They’re just other humans.

So here I am, in The Sims buy mode, making my house and preparing to play single-player for a while.


The Nostalgia Offset

I had a bad day yesterday. Emotionally, I mean. New Years is always a rough time for me. It’s the anniversary of beginning my transition, amongst other things, so for me the usual new-year ennui gets magnified into, sometimes, full-blown despair. Yesterday was that. When I get like that, I can tell myself a thousand times that things aren’t that bad (and they aren’t) but I still need to find a balm until it passes.

That balm is usually nostalgia. So I engaged in numerous forms of it last night. Now, I’m… Generation Modem. On the cusp of Gen X and Millennial, and yet not quite either. So for me, my nostalgia salve was these: An old-style video game I love. A ’90s low-budget film about feelings. A playlist of ’90s music. Listening to a pile of ’90s .mod, .s3m, .xm and other tracker files.

As I bathed in these and began to feel a little bit better. Then as I watched “Singles”, Cameron Crowe’s sophomore and one of many little ’90s films about Feelings I hadn’t seen before, and “Slacker”, a film I know I love… I had a funny realisation.

Image result for slacker movie vhs

Four Years

Exactly four years ago (probably close to the minute – I was incredibly fastidious about taking my pills on time early on), I began feminising hormone therapy.

I still remember being terrified – I planned to start on the 1st of January, but after utterly failing to sleep on the night of the 30th, I decided ‘fuck it’, and began early.