Mindfleet: Once and Future Commander

Morning formation aboard the FMS Coastal Voyager runs precisely on schedule, which is to say it runs on Captain Amy's schedule, the only schedule that matters in this particular corner of mindspace.

When the formality of morning review ended, I turned to leave the bridge, giving Amy a quick glance to assess her mood. She was giving me a measuring, judgmental look. It was the look of someone who had prepared remarks for the occasion.

"Ambassador," she said. "Sit down. There's something I want to discuss with you."

I sat down, wondering with considerable feeling, What fresh hell is this?.

"Ambassador, what one word would you say best describes my service as commander of this mindship?"

"Your service," I said, buying time with the repetition, "has been... exemplary."

"Exemplary." She let the word sit there between us. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

I was aware, with the peripheral sensitivity that danger produces, that the bridge officers had all gone quiet at their stations. Lieutenant Joy studied her communications console with unusual intensity. Major Reason seemed fascinated by something in the data streaming across a screen. Chief Anxiety, who is constitutionally incapable of minding his own business, had developed a sudden interest in the instrument panel.

"It means…,” I began, trying to sound sincere, "the very best. A model for others to follow."

"Ideal," she said. "Faultless."

"Those would be synonyms, yes."

"Good," she said. "We agree. My service has been faultless. Then perhaps you can explain to me why a faultless commanding officer has been in service for over a year without so much as a commendation."

Here is where I want the official record to show that the capacity for saying something clever was present, but it had dealt with Amy before, and quietly went below decks.

Amy rose from her command chair with unhurried authority and was enjoying the act immensely. The fact that everyone on the bridge was trying to appear unaware of her act only enhanced the drama.

"Do you remember the Circle K parking lot in Pasadena on a particular Sunday morning?" she asked.

I remembered. Too well.

"I pulled us out of that situation," she said, "with nothing but instinct and a working knowledge of when not to make eye contact with a police officer. And what did I receive for it? Not so much as a footnote in the ship's log." 

She turned toward the viewports. "I've navigated this mindship safely through anxiety storms, maneuvered around the Melancholy Nebulae, and extracted you from one extremely ill-advised happy hour on the West End of Houston."

I remembered that hour in Houston's West End, but I didn't remember it as a happy one.

 "I have kept this crew functioning, kept this ship on course, and you...," she turned back to face me, “I’ve kept you out of situations that would have put an end to a less resilient mind."

"She's not wrong," Major Reason offered to anyone and everyone in the bridge, "the Captain's grievance record carries a validity rate of 94.7 percent. I've run the numbers several times, hoping for a different result, but no luck.”

"You're right, Mr. Reason," I said, "that's the major difficulty with Amy's grievances: they're usually valid."

Amy's eyes widened. 

"What I’m suggesting," she continued, "is a promotion. Fleet Admiral and commander of a Mindfleet armada. The rank that reflects my faultless performance since our first mission in June of 2025."

"Captain," I said, "I understand what you're asking, and I don't dismiss it. But Fleet Admiral requires changes to the entire architecture of our Mindfleet Academy training missions. The Coastal Voyager is one ship, one crew, one mind navigating one stretch of emotional mindspace at a time. An armada requires a complete reset.”

She looked at me with the expression she reserves for arguments she finds technically valid, but extremely inconvenient.

"Consider," she said, raising her voice, "the alternative is my continued service as Captain of a vessel whose most recent security incident involved a ferret violating the Prime Directive, while distributing cat toys across a movie production site."

Chief Anxiety's voice boomed through the intercom, coming from somewhere below decks.

“I submitted a formal color-coded incident report after the Southport mission,” he said.  "Seventeen pages, including the appendices. 

He paused a beat before adding, "No one read it."

I thought carefully about all the nuanced essentials needed to meet Amy's demands.

"Amy," I said, “I’ll have to resolve certain complications with the Federation Admiralty. However," I continued, pressing the advantage while it lasted, "I think there's a compromise that serves us both."

Her eyes narrowed, which in Amy's case means she is listening.

“All the necessary paperwork recommending you for promotion will be filed with the board, and in return," I paused here, because timing is everything, and I recognized the need for an impressive downbeat, "Reginald remains aboard as a Mindfleet cadet, which is his official rank, and we say no more about it."

Joy looked up from her console for the first time, with the expression of someone who has been waiting patiently for her moment:

"He returned my sparkly boot laces last Tuesday, Captain," she said. "They were chewed beyond uniform regulation, but I'm sure the sentiment was genuine, and his heart was in the right place."

"Fleet Admiral," Amy said to put a point on it.

"Agreed," I confirmed. “We’ll make a formal announcement next episode."

She settled back into her chair at the command console. "And Genome," she said, as I rose to leave.

"Still here."

"If I find so much as one unauthorized catnip toy on this bridge...," she left the rest of the sentence where it was, which was more effective than finishing it.

I left the bridge and stood for a moment in the corridor, listening to the hum of the ship's systems. Joy's comm frequency was back to its usual register, Reason was recalculating something at his station, and Chief Anxiety was filing the morning's events under ‘resolved: pending.'

Fleet Admiral, I thought. It had a certain ring to it. I was fairly sure she'd earned it, and I was absolutely sure she'd have taken it whether I agreed or not.

Living Life Big!

Welcome back to The Circular Journey, where we savor the thrill of mixed emotions, racing along without guardrails. My mind feels like an all‑night triple feature: part sci‑fi intergalactic mission, part behind‑the‑scenes film documentary, and part backyard wildlife special.

Regular followers know what to expect; it’s the same show you’ve come to know since 2010. For our new friends, it’s wonderful to have you here. Sit back and enjoy the show; it’s guaranteed to raise a smile. It’s a thrill for me just having you here, and with a little luck, it may even be thrilling for you.

Those of you who hang on my every word already know Princess Amy, the spoiled little brat who rules my amygdala and controls my emotions, especially the ones skirting the edges of civilized behavior. Fewer of you, however, are familiar with the Sewer Harpies: nasty little demons, powered by bitch dust, who haunt the darkest recesses of my mind, waiting to mess with me at the times I can least afford.

Hiding from the harpies’ slings and arrows has left me practically a recluse for the last few months, and that isn’t mentally healthy. So once again, following the principles of Fierce Qigong: staying calm and laughing at life’s adversities, I’ve resolved to share my life experiences with you, even the embarrassing ones.

The story I’m sharing today is a perfect example of the fresh hell those harpies bring to my everyday existence. If you’re new here, don’t worry; I’ll spin the episode to make it amusing, if not amazing.

Yesterday morning, on my way to the Episcopal yard sale in Shallotte, I stopped at Jumping Java for a cup of the steaming bean. My craving for a bit of Jah’s sweet mercy came with a touch of topspin from a natural urge well known to old men.

So far, it probably sounds simple and straightforward, but thanks to a particularly mischievous prank orchestrated by the harpies, I stumbled into a chain of events that will go down in the annals as one of my most memorable blunders.

I stepped into the caffeine emporium and was greeted by cheerful baristas calling their view‑halloo across the floor. After placing my order, I headed for the restroom, blissfully unaware of the comedy of errors awaiting me.

In a fit of what I considered precaution, I used the toe of my shoe to lift the toilet seat, a reasonably sensible act, don’t you agree? As I lifted the seat, I discovered that only one side was actually attached. In an unfortunate twist of fate, my shoe slipped a little too far into the loop, leaving me balanced on one foot with no other visible means of support. Time slowed,  as it usually does just before disaster strikes. I think it’s the Universe’s way of rubbing it in.

Particle quantum mechanics once again showed off its famously deterministic side. With a loud crash, the toilet seat tore free from its porcelain throne, and I slammed into the wall with a boom‑cacky‑lacky that reverberated through the once‑serene coffee shop. I swear to you, it was like the Fourth of July without the fireworks.

The manager rushed to the scene and called through the door to check on my well‑being. We Genomes maintain the sang‑froid of chilled steel in situations like these, so I calmly explained the calamity and apologized for the damage I’d done.

To my astonishment, the manager replied with easy nonchalance: “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Happens all the time.”

I’m not sure what you make of his remark, but I seriously doubt that ripping a toilet seat off its hinges is a routine occurrence. Still, I chose to accept his nonchalance as a gift. It was a rare and genuine delight to feel, just for a moment, that life was behaving like an old friend.

By laughing at life’s absurdities, we find the freedom to live fully and completely. I think of it as living big. If we fill our days with the actual experience of living, rather than regretting the past or rehearsing the future, there’s precious little room left for doubt or fretting.

We’re all on this journey together. I’d love to hear about your own bugaboos in the comments. When you chime in, it reminds me I’m not alone, and I love the feeling that comes from knowing you’re here with me.

Captain's Log: Southport Sector Activity

Captain's Log: Stardate 2026.182

Attention Federation Auditors: The GMS Coastal Voyager is holding position above the Southport Sector this morning for an on-site training exercise.

Intelligence reports indicate that a Federation-class production unit established a forward base in Southport overnight to create what the local population calls a "movie." 

Five of Five, our onboard Adaptive Intelligence system, reports the movie's code name refers to a cinematic adaptation of something called "The Summer I Turned Pretty."

Our mission parameters are simple: Ambassador Genome, supported by Communications Officer Joy, will observe and document the production from a respectful distance, then return without being noticed and without interfering.

Pre-Dawn Departure

Earlier that morning, Chief Anxiety ran the pre-mission checklist three times: once for assurance, twice to confirm the first run-through, and a third time because, why not?

"Captain Amy," said Five of Five, "the away team has left already."

"What the hell! Doesn't anyone on this mindship wait for my authorization anymore?"

"The chronometer records the team departed ahead of schedule," confirmed Officer Reason.

"Of course they did," replied the captain. "Especially with that airhead, Joy, on the away team."

"I suspect the Ambassador's Elevated Mission Anticipation had something to do with it," added Reason.

"At least we'll be ready when they arrive," the captain muttered. "Five of Five relocated the lower-deck remote sensor node to the Ambassador's equipment bag. Not my idea, but I approved it after the fact."

"The feed is coming in clean," reported Major Reason, "aside from what appears to be the edge of a granola bar that has, according to remote sensors, been in the bag long enough to achieve consciousness."

The Bridge Watches the Bridge

The Cape Fear Memorial Bridge appeared on the viewscreen as Coastal Voyager, a mile overhead, crossed the Cape Fear River.

"Beautiful," remarked Dr. Downer, who'd joined the bridge to watch the away team's work. She hummed a tune Five of Five couldn't find in its databanks, but it didn't question her; to do so would have been like diving headfirst into a rabbit hole on purpose.

"Morning light luminosity is nominal," said Major Reason, reviewing dawn-light spectra with the focus of a man who has found, at last, an assignment worthy of him.

"I've filed contingencies for fog, rain, equipment failure, crowd interference, and one specific scenario involving seagulls," said Chief Anxiety from belowdecks. "I'd like it noted I have computed no contingencies involving a ferret. The probability calculation was overtaxing the processors."

"Cadet Reginald has nothing to do with this mission, Chief."

"I'm aware, Captain. I'm simply establishing the record. I don't trust that ferret."

Captain Amy stared at the streaming video. Cables ran across the cobblestones like tributaries of an electrical river. Equipment cases were stacked with the logic of people who know exactly what they'll need. Crew members moved with the purposeful efficiency of specialists who've done this before and will find it no less meaningful for the repetition.

"It's perfect," Joy's voice was the first heard from the away team, and for once no one on the bridge could argue.

Perimeter Established

"Perimeter holding," Five of Five reported, mostly to itself, because presuming to be important is how Adaptive Intelligence systems stay sane.

"The Ambassador is filming," Reason confirmed. "Joy is providing…" he paused, choosing the word with visible care, "appreciative commentary. All readings nominal."

"Bag status?" asked the captain, who'd learned over countless reconnaissance missions to constantly check on the away equipment.

"Bag is secure," said Five of Five. "Bag contents are…" A pause is merely a pause, but a pause from an A-5 system is as concerning as a five-alarm fire. "Bag contents are in motion."

The Reginald Maneuver 

"Somebody check the bag!" The instruction was reasonable, logical, and useless, arriving several seconds after the bag had stopped moving.

On the view-screen, something small, furry, and determined emerged from the equipment bag, paused to assess the production team, then set off across fifteen meters of Southport waterfront with the unhurried confidence of something determined to see what's up.

"It's Reginald!" said Joy, sounding almost delighted.

"That's a violation of Federation Directive Section F4, paragraph 2B," Reason declared. "Hail the Ambassador!"

"I don't think it will help," said Anxiety, with the terrible calm of a man watching a chess clock run out.

A production assistant, wearing an expression of professional efficiency and carrying an official-looking clipboard, said something into her headset. A camera operator turned. A second crew member pointed toward the equipment bag. Two other crew members approached the bag with body language that proved they were enjoying the diversion, but trying to look professional. 

"Is that…?“ said one of the team.

"Dook," said Reginald, confirming the team's suspicions. 

"RAT!" shouted the first production assistant, and the perimeter popped like a soap bubble, all at once and without ceremony.

"Sensor data indicates the Ambassador is no longer on the perimeter," reported Five of Five.

"I can see that."

"He is, in fact, now part of the story."

"I can see that too."

After-Action

"I'd like it entered into the log that I predicted this," said Anxiety. "Not the ferret specifically. But this random fluctuation in the quantum wave."

“So noted, Chief," said Captain Amy without warmth. "I feel so much worse now."

On the main viewer, the Ambassador was no longer recording production activities. He was handling his unscheduled celebrity, not well, and yet with tremendous confidence. He was laughing with the production assistant while Reason's "optimal shot window" datastream showed the cameras recording the kind of footage that can't be scheduled, and can't be faked.
 
"Mission status," Captain Amy dictated for the record. "The away team has made unauthorized contact with the observed population. “The Prime Directive of non-interference has been…” She paused, stiffened her lip, and set her chin. “…revised. By Mindfleet Cadet Reginald.”

Captain's Log, Supplemental: 

Cadet Reginald's presence on the away mission was unauthorized. His methodology was unorthodox. His results were undeniable.

As per Federation protocol: Prime Directive has been compromised. The perimeter was breached, and unauthorized contact was made with the indigenous population. Mission TSITP is a failure.

Field Study Addendum:

Cadet Reginald, via MaT-1 Adaptive Translation System

The Captain logged the mission a failure, but what I do is merely my nature. It may be unorthodox, but failure is procedurally impossible.

The Southport sector is exciting. I plan to return. I'm not saying I have, but I may have already hidden something in the equipment locker.

Reginald out.

“Dook.”

Wonders of Wonder!

Ms. Wonder joined me for breakfast this morning, and it brightened my mood. This is the way to start a new year, I thought: a weekday breakfast with my alter ego, the one person guaranteed to tell me the truth. I knew she’d have something useful to say, and I was eager to hear it.

“I have a question for you,” she said.

“Let’s hear it,” I said without hesitation. A question from her is usually the gateway to some sage advice—something I don’t get enough of.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

I admit the question took me by surprise. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, and even less sure how to answer it. I paused, intending to give it mindful attention.

“Did you hear the question?” she said.

“I heard it,” I said, “but it’s not an easy question to answer. It requires careful thought.”

“It’s an easy question,” she said. “You’re either happy or you’re not.”

“Well, if it’s so easy,” I said, “what’s your answer? Are you happy?”

“No,” she said, “but we’re not talking about me. I asked you first. So what’s your answer?”

“No, I’m not,” I said, and I said it with some topspin.

“Why not?” she asked.

This was the part I hadn’t wanted to visit over breakfast. Still, I decided to take it to the limit. One more time.

“Frankly,” I said, “I’m madder than a wet hen. There, I’ve said it. I don’t like saying it, and I know you don’t like hearing it, but nothing else says it quite as well.”

“Rem acu tetigisti?” she said, remembering to stress the italics. “But why are you so highly peeved?”

“Why? You know why," I said, showing my agitation. "I constantly struggle with Princess Amy mucking about with my emotions. It’s maddening. Everyone keeps telling me to get help, but the only help I find is the fleeting kind. I don’t seem to make any real progress.

“I meditate, I exercise, I practice tai chi, I work with therapists, and each of the above makes me feel better temporarily. Then Amy tells her little minions to start randomly throwing switches on the neurotransmitters.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” she said.

“Do?” I shrugged. “By the way, very well done with that rem acu thing," I said. "How do you come up with these things?”

“It’s a knack,” she said, “but don’t change the subject. What are you doing about your problems?”

“I’m working on my Evil Plan,” I said. “That’s what I’m doing.”

“Ah,” she said, “but is working on the plan actually doing something about the problems?”

Right about now, if you're new to this blog, you’re probably thinking that living with someone like Ms. Wonder, who sees through the fog and cuts to the quick, isn't always as easy as it first seems. Talk about holding you responsible! Talk about taking you to task when the task must be taken. She works in mysterious ways her wonders to perform.

“I see now,” I said. “I see what you’re getting at. It’s that old thing about taking action rather than over-thinking it, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” she said. “Forming a plan may be important in the great scheme of things, but even more important is actually taking the steps.”

“But don’t I need the plan before I take action?”

“New plans usually don’t work very well at first and must be amended after some action. The planned events and results must be updated with the actuals.”

“And so taking action while I’m formulating a plan should result in a more efficient process—one feeds the other.”

“One informs the other,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “that’s what I meant to say. It amazes me the way you can come up with these things on the spur of the moment.”

“And so what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to take action,” I said. “I can’t think of exactly what I’ll do, off the top of my head, but I can tell you that I’m taking some sort of action.”

“It’s not what you do that’s most important,” she said. “Doing something—anything—is more important than what you actually do.”

“Didn’t Wen the Eternally Surprised say that?”

“That’s what you told me,” she said.

I looked at her across the breakfast table, my coffee cooling, the day waiting just outside the window.

“Then stand back, Poopsie,” I said. “I’m taking action, and it just might get messy. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes.”

She smiled. “I’d suggest proceeding with caution,” she said.

And that's how I came to begin writing and living the book, the one I call Genome's Book of Life, for lack of something better to call it. I've started the outline. Give it a quick look-over and let me know what you think in the comments:

The Book of Life

            The Meditation
            You are perfect the way you are...
            And you could use a little improvement.

~~ Shunryu Suziki

OK, I know it's not much, but it's a start, and Wonder assures me that's the most important part, and I had to begin somewhere. Wonder's words were a blessing: move forward, start small, keep going.

As I cleared the dishes and stood up to meet the day, I realized I might not be happy yet, but for the first time in a long time, I felt genuinely hopeful and already moving forward.

Princess Amy: Reality TV Star

It was almost noon by the time I left the thrift store. I'd found one concert t-shirt that would bring enough profit to pay for gas and lunch.

"I don't know why we bother doing this," I told Amy as I maneuvered Wind Horse into traffic. 

"It's just wasted time and energy. I spent the morning looking for profitable items to resell, and I'll need to do it again tomorrow to have a chance to break even for the week."

I got no response, but I didn't expect one because I was talking to Princess Amy, that spoiled little brat of a limbic system in the middle of my brain who gets her kicks by overloading my emotional system. 

"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked.

"Nope," Amy said. "I'm only in it for the money."

"The money?" I said. "I only hope I don't lose money this week."

"Yeah, you're not much of a business person. You should pay more attention to me. I'm an entrepreneur."

"You are not a business person! You're a little almond-shaped cluster of brain cells. You might benefit from the money I make, but you never really profit. It's a foreign concept to you."

"Making money's not the only way to profit." 

"What are you talking about, if anything?" I asked. 

"I'm a talent manager," she said. "I get you to do stupid stuff--to generate excitement--and you can be really entertaining sometimes."

“You’re the only one who’s entertained by the kind of excitement you generate, and it never ends well."

"When I'm on a roll," she said, "I can fire you up enough to get bystanders involved, and that's when it really becomes fun. What a riot!"

"You're a menace! You're a danger to the fabric of the universe." 

"I'm an influencer," she said. “I'm not just another pretty face, baby. That's why I have to keep my brain functioning efficiently, and I'm not operating at full power right now because I need a latte and a muffin."

"This is leading up to a stop at Surf & Java, isn't it?" I asked.

"Exactly. I can get some caffeine to stoke my engines while you have an Impossible sandwich for our lunch." 

A few minutes later, we were seated outside the surf shop, and Amy was relatively quiet while I ate. I suppose she was soaking up some nutrients to stoke her engines. I was thinking about going home when she spoke again.

"I need another latte," she said. "You get it, and I'll wait here. I'm gonna look at this magazine. It says on the cover that Keanu Reeves used to surf competitively."

I didn't reply. I was beginning to feel like I was no more than a vehicle to chauffeur my limbic system around town.

"Too bad you can't stay here and have someone else get the coffee," she said. "What if there's a sudden rush of customers and someone gets our table?"

"A rush of customers?" I said.

"It could happen," she said. "Good idea," I said, "I'll stay here to keep someone from taking our table."

"So anyway," Amy said."Did you know that Keanu was a surfer? Maybe we should take up surfing."

I tried to get comfortable in the plastic chair as I overthought Amy's earlier comments about being an entrepreneur. 

"You got a lot of thinking going on," Amy said. "It's getting hot in here with all that thinking you're doing. You're burning too much energy." 

“I'm thinking about what you said earlier,” I said. “I didn’t realize you were capable of doing anything more than mismanaging my emotions.”  

"I'm a complex person," Amy said. "I got a lot going on. You haven't even seen the tip of my iceberg, baby. One of my goals is to be a TV star."

"How's that even possible?" I asked.

"I'm gonna be a reality star like Kyle, Lisa, and Khloé."

"A reality star--you're going to be the next Khloé Kardashian?"

"It's only a matter of time," she said. "I got a plan worked out, and I'm about to start shooting a demo reel. That's how you get into the finals, you gotta shoot a demo reel." 

"What's your plan? And how are you going to film anything?"

"First," she said, "it's a concept show that I call Wearing Underwear in Public, or WUP for short.”

"I already don't like it," I said.

"You don't like it, but you're really good at it," she said.

"What's that supposed to mean. I'm not going to be part of anything called Wearing Underwear in Public."

“WUP,” she said. “You’re already part of it, silly. Remember those dreams you had last week? That was the pilot for the show. Now it's time to record the first episodes."

"You little brat!" I said. "Those dreams are caused by you! I thought we had an understanding. You and I are not different people, Amy. We're the same person. What I experience, you experience. Why do you do these things?"

"It gets boring in here," she said. "I need a creative outlet, and I'm competing for a Dreamy award. With a concept like WUP, I think I could be a contender."

"Awards? How would that even work? Am I going to dream that you get an award?"

"No, dummy," she said. "There's a whole dream universe filled with all kinds of stuff for imaginary people like me. What do you think dreams are for, anyway? They aren't just entertainment for you, you know." 

I was overwhelmed. I needed some time alone, and that's not easy to find when you're trying to get away from your own thoughts. 

"Uh oh," I said, "look at the time. It seems we don't need to be concerned about a customer rush. I need to check on my mom and then stop at the hardware store. I've got to patch the lanai screens where the squirrels gnawed through them."

"Your mom is living with the stars, Genome," Amy said.

"Yeah, but I still check in with her daily."

"Well, if I were you," Amy said, "I'd get home in time for a nap so you can keep up with me tonight. We got a demo to record."

"I won't forget about that," I said, but I said it without any real chirpiness.