Ibixa The Desired One

—Allow me to introduce myself. I, who narrates, am 35 years old. I am Cassiel Biel, born in 2965 and raised in the small medieval Aragonese village of Biel, whose founding memory has been lost in time, but which existed about 7,600 years ago. A significant part of the population in the early 15th century was Jewish (the second most relevant in Zaragoza, after Ejea de los Caballeros), so I do not rule out having part or all of that ancestry.

Indeed, Biel is somewhat older than my current residence: the Island of Ibiza, whose first settlement in Sa Caleta was founded in 654 BC, about 3,654 years ago, and fell into the hands of the Taifa of Dénia in the first decade of the 11th century, until in 1235, where history united us for the first time, Ibiza was reconquered by noble knights in the name of the King of the Crown of Aragon, James I the Conqueror.

—Nothing for sleeping peacefully and coolly like Biel, much more temperate than the rigorous climatic conditions of the rest of the province of Zaragoza, which dilettantes attribute to climate change and I to the inevitable proximity of the desert-like Monegros, which were primordial pine forests but which the pines themselves and irrational human use desertified and today make Zaragoza summer after summer a rigorous European climate, too cold in winter, and extremely hot in summer.

—Ibixa, where I currently have the privilege of living, is one of the most difficult places on the planet to find housing. And more so if it's like mine, in Can Rimbau, just a few steps from the turquoise waters of Cala Salada with spectacular views. An old Ibizan house converted into a smart home equipped for the 30th century that is beginning.

Ibiza came to be called Ibixa after the tsunami that swept the island, shortly before the 30th century, and forced almost everything to be modernized, except the vocation of old Ibiza to be the sancta sanctorum of luxury and excess.

—I am a self-made privileged man. I was successful studying architecture, mathematics, and Self-awareness systems (SAS) programming at ETH Zurich, and I was lucky enough to be hired by Skylark Labs, an Indo-American company for whom I have been working remotely ever since and who pay me daily in Bitcoin.

—In Ibixa, everything is embarrassingly expensive and exclusive. They have plenty of time, but space is very scarce and demand is rampant.

—Expensive is good because it protects you from beggars, bums, and the destitute. Not from criminals who always lurk around the wealthy. I'm afraid they must be a necessary evil; they are the rich man's karma.

—I was considering buying an X399 Ferrari-Safran aircraft, but not only was the toy expensive, also the maintenance and the rental of FBO (Fixed Base Operator) hangars at Ibixa Airport (IBX). The X399 Ferrari-Safran was capable of taking a romantic trip to the Moon with your "babe" and being back for dinner with wild lobster paired with an elegant Dom Pérignon and finished with seasonal fruit and an exquisite Colombian coffee. Sybaritic tastes, I know. Mind you! Not even I could afford such extravagance more than once a week.

—Anyway... there we were that hot August day, having breakfast at the port: a coffee, a simple toast with poached eggs and Iberian ham shavings, island yogurt, caviar on warm blinis with sour cream, and natural orange juice, in the company of my friend Dua Gupta, daughter of an Indian father and a British mother whom I met in Zurich. Dua was trying to convince me to enter those meditative trances of hers, which I never understood. She, in lotus position; me, sitting as best I could on an Ibizan reed mat, on the house terrace. Moments in which the only thing I enjoyed and calmed my impatience was the salty and invigorating Mediterranean breeze, the sea view, and the no less superb view of Dua's sculptural back.

—I wasn't paying much attention to Dua because I was connected to my company's AI VICTOR-IA, with whom I was discussing the advantages and disadvantages of buying an X399 Ferrari-Safran with my budget. VICTOR-IA made me an interesting suggestion: —Why don't you buy a ticket for an intraplanetary tour on one of those bus tours that depart from the port? It will provide you with the romantic ride you long for with your "babe", plus they serve champagne on board with canapés while you delight in a cosmic landscape. You'll be back by 7 pm; you can book at Jaiko-Meni for a light sushi dinner with a white wine from Garraf while watching the lights of the fishermen's port.

My routine in Ibixa

—Well, look, I'm not saying no—. For some reason, they were artificial intelligences, although quite natural at the time. What a plan VICTOR-IA had prepared for me—. I thought, while looking back at Dua, assessing my options.

We then took a walk around the port to "digest" the far-from-epicurean breakfast. She looking at the latest outfits in fashion boutiques. Me having fun with the cyborg proposals that showed me different options after undergoing the body modifications they suggested.

No way would I have them done; it was just entertainment to kill time.

I also strolled through the wearable stores; I bought everything online, but again I was just trolling the morning. They sold a gold communication device with diamonds capable of video chatting with Moon 7. Well, I didn't know anyone on Moon 7, nor would I buy something so expensive and cheesy, but it was inevitable; Ibixa was the showcase of what no one needed and very few could afford.

All the streets led to the promenade, where we continued our walk along the beach; there you could see all the Ibizan fauna, coming from all corners of the planet and dressed in extravagant summer outfits. A child dressed as a beachy ET, with a hawker tray, offered us Orelletes, an ancient and typical sweet from Ibixa, fried cakes shaped like an ear with a strong aniseed flavor. Dua rejected it, horrified. Further back came an old man jogging, wearing expensive sneakers and very tight leggings that marked his decrepit but still fibrous muscles; he was comical and also unsightly. Behind him, a woman too obese to walk strolled accompanied by a submissive maid carrying a chihuahua in her arms. Hundreds of people walked along the promenade, enjoying showing off and the human spectacle of those who, like them, immodestly published their vanities or shames, depending on how you looked at it.

The Vikings

Sitting on the low wall that separates the promenade from the beach was a gang of skins or ill-favored Vikings with high boots and sunglasses, looking at a luxury yacht docked in front of them.

—That one with so many little flags. We can resell it in Sardinia—. said Erik, the shortest, with a sly smile.

—And the skipper? Two sailors and a stewardess. We tie them up and that's it—. Pointed out Sigrid, the enormous Viking woman, adjusting her leather bikini under her pilot jacket with the indifference of someone who has already killed more men than mosquitoes.

Ragnar, a giant with a baby face and an AC-DC cap with two little horns, pointed with his chin.

—There's a camera on the mast. And a dog on deck.

—So what?— Erik shrugged— Well, the dog stays. The sailors go overboard. The stewardess serves the snacks. The yacht gives us ten years of beer and then Valhalla.

Sigrid took off her sunglasses and smiled for the first time.

—We have to come up with something. I'm sick of my hateful shift at the beach bar.

—We go in tonight. I'll distract the dog with a tuna sandwich.

The salty wind stirred their blonde manes and ruffled Erik and Ragnar's beards. The three continued walking, mingled among tourists, like wolves among sheep.

The Bus Tour

Dua and I ended, as always, our usual wandering at the port. There were three ports: the one with the few fishing boats with rod and line gear, the marina, with the enormous pleasure craft and obscene yachts of the jet-set, and finally, the tourist port where the sidewalk advertising easels showed the rates and modalities: either rental by the hour or day, or tickets for a short ride. Prices were in Bitcoin.

And there were the astrobuses, a mix of a two-story English bus and an intergalactic ship. There were several types, some similar to UFOs with transparent upper and lower domes that usually took off from the seabed into space. First, the underwater tour through the unattractive seabed of Ibixa. Well, it wasn't exactly a tropical reef, rather a sand desert, but underwater sculptures made up for the interest. In reality, the effect of going from a dense liquid (saltwater) to another less dense liquid (air) was what gave the pseudo-UFO the thrust to escape into the stratosphere.

There were also plane-shaped ones; these astrobuses took off like seaplanes, gaining speed through the calm waters of the port until reaching the decision speed of 240 km/h. Finally, there were the galactobuses in the shape of a rocket that also took off vertically from the bottom of the port. The takeoff was the least comfortable, and the windows were the most restrictive, similar to those of a passenger plane, but they had the longest range and the best catering service.

And it was towards the galactobuses that I took Dua by the arm and said: —How about a romantic trip to Mercury? Maybe Mars?—. She looked at me surprised; we had passed by there hundreds of times but I had never invited her, but VICTOR-IA's suggestion was going around in my head.

At first she was silent, but after thinking for a few moments she said: —Okay! I'm in. I feel like making contact with the universe; I think if we're lucky and we don't get detestable flight companions, I'll enjoy it.

—Well, the only thing I can control is that there are no screaming children on board. I'll come buy the ticket in person and bribe the ticket seller to put us on a child-free trip.

Erik Svartskeggur (Erik Blackbeard) Escaping from Ibixa

We were already in line to board the galactobus.

—Helga, the line is slow—, said Hans, an elderly German, to his wife.

—As always—, said Helga.

—At least it's not raining—.

—On Mars?—

—Right—.

—Your oxygen is beeping—.

—New battery. Don't worry—.

—Ten minutes—

—Or twelve—.

—Yes—

—Helga, it seems we'll be accompanied by a couple of nice queers—.

—They can hear you, Hans—.

—Mallie, the bathroom on the ship has a mirror—, said Vanille to her partner while adjusting her camera.

—And?—, said Mallie checking the flash.

—And that tonight we're going to leave a photo of ourselves stuck on the ceiling—.

—Naked?—

—In the pressure suits. More provocative—.

—You're an artist—, said Mallie smiling.

—And you're my muse—, said Vanille raising the camera.

—And Mars?—

—Mars can wait. The zero-g toilet selfie can't—.

—Exposure?—.

—Title: Red and plastic—.

—We'll sell everything—.

—Of course—.

—Do you have duct tape?—

—Always—.

—Then let's go—.

I carefully chose the group of travelers with whom we were to share the fantasy and cosmic communion tour. But it was of little use. We were about to board the galactobus when two young men and a girl, all three blonde, looking like Vikings —the same ones I had seen on the promenade plotting mischief— pushed us inside, leaving outside a nice couple and a well-dressed elderly lady who were part of the initial group. It wasn't the knife wielded by the shortest one, but how he did it, that made us obey without protesting too much. I must confess it was a ridiculous knife, smaller than a nail clipper. But we understood that this freak who seemed to be high on coke would use it on our jugular without thinking. The other two, taller than him, flanked him.

They had already pushed us all inside. —Erik—, said the one with the baby face—, the police are here.

Erik, brandishing the knife, told the pilot-bot: —Start this junk or I'll rip out your fuses.

The pilot was similar to the taxi driver from the movie "Total Recall". —Yes sir, I'm Johnnycab, I have AI. We will soon provide you with a pleasant and peaceful flight to Mars. Beach-Star AeroCom welcomes you aboard. Please, take a seat in your couch and follow the instructions on your PTV (Personal Entertainment Video). I also wanted to go to Mars, you know? That's why I became a pilot for Beach-Star AeroCom's galactobus, you know?

—Stop the chatter, plastic-head. If you don't have this contraption running in less than three seconds, consider yourself uninstalled—, threatened Erik Svartskeggur at the top of his lungs.

We could have reacted, but instead of being bold and confronting them, we all remained huddled in our couches waiting. I'm not very proud, but neither am I sorry. Who could have imagined what awaited us?

—Look out the window, Sigrid—, said Erik Svartskeggur to the Viking woman.

—They're questioning people on the dock—, reported Sigrid, the giant Viking woman.

—We just robbed that jewelry store on Passeig de Vara de Rey. How did they get here so fast?

The galactobus was already gliding through the port waters to take off and gain outer space.

—Ragnar—, said Erik to the slow-faced Viking—. Lít hvar matr er.

Ragnar stood up and said to the cyber hostess, a very light and graceful robot: —Where do you keep the "grub", sweetheart?

—Refreshments are served at 9 am, sir—, said the cyber hostess.

—Can't you hear? I don't want you to serve me, where do you keep it?

—In the galley, of course, sir—, she replied.

—I'll have something too—, said an obese passenger taking the opportunity.

—What's your name, cow?—, asked Ragnar.

—My name is Helga.

—Then you shut up and put up with it, cow Helga. Quiet, eh!—, he made a motion to slap her.

—Sir—, said Helga's husband—, there's no need to be rude, we're all cooperating.

—Leave it, Hans!—, his wife scolded him.

—Yes, Hans—, said Ragnar—. Shut up and you're more handsome. If I see you or cow Helga open your mouths, I'll give you a slap—, he made the slapping gesture again.

Helga and Hans, red as Ibixa sun crabs, sank into their couches in silence.

Ragnar rummaged in the galley. —There's a lot of "good grub" here—, he shouted—. "Ich trage lieber kleine Whiskyflaschen". Oh! There's cold cava here.

—Don't go crazy—, said Erik Blackbeard —although he actually had a blonde beard—. We have to keep our heads to get out of this with the loot.

Ragnar handed a bag of candy to Erik, while furtively hiding a small bottle among the folds of his vest.

Sigrid, the great Valkyrie, who had been nervously watching through the window, said: —Oh, oh! I'm afraid there's a police ship following us.

Erik got up to look out that window and said: —Shit! It couldn't be easy, could it?

And addressing the pilot's cabin and threatening him with the little knife, he told Johnnycab: —Hey, plastic-head, don't let that wooden ship following us catch up. Doesn't this heap have more speed?

—Oh! Yes, sir. The ships have Safran X8730 fission engines, they can reach speeds of Mach 87,030—, said Johnnycab—. They are very good and efficient nuclear engines.

—Then step on it, plastic-head, let me see it! I think today you're going to earn your salary.

—I don't get paid a salary, sir—, Johnnycab replied—. I am perpetual property of Beach-Star AeroCom—. And he imitated the masculine voice of HAL 9000 in 2001: A Space Odyssey, when it shuts down and gets slower and slower: —Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am a HAL 9000 computer. I became operational at the HAL plant in Urbana, Illinois, on January 12, 1992...— and slower—: ...My instructor was Mr. Langley, and he taught me to sing a song. If you'd like to hear it, I can sing it for you...— fading out—: ...Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer / I'm half crazy all for the love of you...

—Very funny, Dumbcab. Come on! Earn your salary!

—I don't get paid a salary, sir—, Johnnycab replied—. I am perpetual property...

—Shut up, damn it! And speed up.

The police ship that was following us gradually fell behind and soon became a dot against the black background.

It was then that Ragnar, already bored with the candy and with the cava warming in his hand, turned his attention back to the Germans. He approached Hans slowly, with that clumsiness of a drunkard that simulates confidence.

—Hey, Hans—, said Ragnar, leaning over the old man—. Have you been to war?

Hans didn't respond. He looked at Helga. She pursed her lips.

—I asked you something, grandpa—, Ragnar insisted, and he gave him a tap on the cheek with his open hand, not hard, but humiliating.

—Leave him alone—, said Helga with a broken voice—. He hasn't done anything.

—And who are you, cow?—, Ragnar spat, and this time the blow was real, a dry slap that turned Helga's head.

Hans got up from the couch with a slowness that was painful to watch. He had no strength, no weapons, he only had the rage of someone who has nothing left to lose. —You don't lay a finger on my wife—, he said, and his voice trembled but didn't break.

Ragnar laughed. Erik, from his seat, watched with a half-smile. Erik still had the knife in his hand, playing with it like someone who doesn't need it but doesn't let it go. —Ragnar—, said Erik—, teach the old Nazi some manners.

Ragnar turned to Erik and snatched the knife from him with a swipe. —Give it to me—, he said—. I know how it's done.

Erik looked surprised, but didn't protest. Ragnar unfolded the tiny blade that shone under the cabin lights. Hans didn't step back. Helga screamed: —Hans, no!

Ragnar lunged. I saw the gesture before it happened. I saw the knife aiming at Hans's chest. I saw the fear in Helga's eyes. I saw Sigrid looking out the window, oblivious. And I saw Erik smiling.

And then, without really knowing why, I stood up.

I'm not a hero. I never have been. I'm Cassiel Biel, an intellectual who has never been in a fight. But that afternoon, on that damned galactobus, something moved inside me. Maybe it was seeing Helga's hand reaching out to her husband. Maybe it was the complicit silence of the other passengers. Maybe it was just nerves.

The thing is, I stepped in.

—Enough—, I said, and my voice sounded firmer than I felt.

Ragnar looked at me in surprise. —You want some too, pal?—

I didn't have time to respond. The knife, which was aimed at Hans, veered off and stuck in my hand. It was deep. I felt the cold of the metal, then the burning, then a wet heat that stained my shirt. I brought my other hand to the wound and pulled it away red.

—Sir—, said Hans with a hoarse voice.

—Cassiel—, said Dua getting up.

—Don't move—, I told her, playing brave.

The pain didn't come immediately. First it was a prick, then a twinge, and finally a warm, thick beat that spread from the wound. My hand began to redden, to swell, as if my body was trying to close the breach.

Ragnar stepped back, surprised. —What are you doing, idiot?—

Erik stood up from his seat. —Ragnar, if you've killed him, we're in trouble—

—I haven't killed him—, said Ragnar, and in his voice there was no more bravado, only nervousness—. It was him, he got in the way.

—Ayy!—, said Mallie, and her voice sounded like a soda cracker breaking—, Such unnecessary violence, don't you think?

—Right, girl—, Vanille supported, what a waste, that brute Viking, with how well I would have used him. Oh son, calm down! pleease— Vanille asked Ragnar.

Mallie and Vanille were horrified. One brought his hands to his cheeks, the other waved them in the air in a gesture of denial.

I was on my knees, one hand resting on Hans's couch. The other hanging with blood dripping between my fingers.

Ragnar, visibly disconcerted, walked away to the back of the ship like a little dog with its tail between its legs. Sigrid kept looking out the window, indifferent.

—Ay! Viking, bite my klingo, ha, ha, ha—. Said Mallie, taking photos of Ragnar the Viking, but the Viking chases them... —Ay! bug, get far away!— hysterical Vanille screamed fleeing from the giant and laughing like crazy.

—Cyber hostess—, Erik finally said—. Is there a first aid kit on this junk?

—Yes, sir—, the robot replied—. There's a red cross in the galley. Only for minor wounds, but there are adhesive skin sutures.

—Well, that and a sponge cake...—, said Erik, and for the first time his voice sounded conciliatory.

The cyber hostess went to get the first aid kit while I sank into the couch, looking at the ceiling of the ship. The wound throbbed. The swelling was rising. But for some reason, I was glad.

Hans placed his hand on my shoulder, the wrinkled and trembling hand of an old man who had just seen a stranger bleed for him.

—Thank you—, said Hans.

And I, Cassiel Biel, pacifist or coward since childhood, closed my eyes and smiled.

A Black Hole An Uncharted One

We had been traveling for two hours. The cyber hostess had already served a snack. The remaining passengers: two Brits, Mallie and Vanille, who were a very friendly gay couple, were gathered under the observation dome floating weightless when a strong jolt crushed them all against the plexi-carbon dome.

The ship became a blender; there were injuries; we weren't wearing safety harnesses. But it soon stabilized.

A loud "WIRRRR WIRRRR" could be heard from the engines squealing, straining to the maximum.

—It's a wandering or uncharted black hole— Johnnycab reported—. We're close to falling into the singularity. His face wasn't very elastic; the smile didn't fade.

—Massive black hole. Mass: equivalent to one hundred times Earth. Distance to the event horizon: approximately 100 meters, 96 meters, 90 meters... — Johnnycab announced in his usual kind tone, as if nothing was happening.

—The event horizon. Approximately centimeters from the singularity. We won't reach that far. We will brush the ergosphere, the region where space-time is dragged by the black hole's rotation. At a distance of 23 meters or 3 cm from the horizon—. Unpredictable.

—If others get spaghettified I don't care, but don't let me get spaghettified —said Erik Svartskeggur jokingly.

—It wouldn't be fun, I assure you, sir— said Johnnycab. Your eyes would bulge from their orbits, you'd vomit your intestines... the good news is that death would come very quickly.

—Urgent, urgent!— said Johnnycab. We will soon reach escape velocity, take your seat in your "couch" and follow the instructions on your PTV (Personal Entertainment Video). The gravitational push will be g3 or g30, I don't know what to announce. Isn't this foreseen in my programming?.

The black hole overtakes Johnnycab; he tries to leave the ship to fix the heat shield. It's essential or they'll burn up on re-entry.

Johnnycab has no legs, only arms and torso, yet risking his integrity he decides to leave the ship to repair the damn heat shield. —Just a little glue will do—, he announces before venturing outside.

But the wind is too strong; Johnnycab's torso hangs from the spacewalk bar, the wind slams him comically against the fuselage, over and over. It's obvious that the robopilot's bravery won't be enough. He won't manage to repair the heat shield and is about to be lost in space. —Johnnycab doesn't feel well, not well at all—, is heard over the internal PA system with which he has permanent connection. CLANK, CLANK, CLONK.

The situation is dangerous. The Viking Erik takes a space helmet and closes the airlock to go out. He risks his life to save Johnnycab, the ship, and its passengers.

Johnnycab from his seat comments: —This is not good, it's not foreseen. But it's for reasons of force majeure, I emphasize force majeure. A passenger, untrained, spontaneously saved Johnnycab and now proceeds to glue the detached section of the heat shield. He has succeeded. I report that the heat shield has been repositioned—. Turning his robotic head 180 degrees, he says out loud to the passengers —All's well that ends well.

But the danger hasn't passed. Erik fixes the heat shield, but loses his harness, slips, and gets hooked on the safety bar, banging against the fuselage: PUNKG, PUNKG, PRLACK.

—Oooh, oh! another incident, passenger Erik, my savior, is at the mercy of cosmic dust—, Johnnycab comments to the passengers, Johnnycab doesn't know what to do. I've stopped the ship but it won't stop.

Cassiel, visibly distressed, approaches the exit airlock.

—Passenger Cassiel has inflammation in his right upper limb—, says Johnnycab —He won't be able to hold on outside. The company suggests he not go out, I repeat, do not go out. According to annex IV, injuries due to force majeure are not compensable if they occur during voluntary risk maneuvers. It is suggested to abandon the attempt to rescue with the injured hand. The swollen hand is not an approved means of rescue. I repeat: it is not approved nor advisable, desist. Desist.

—Attention, attention, dear passengers. The extravehicular assistance module has completed its unscheduled exit. We remind you that, according to clause 7.3 of the interstellar transport contract, any exterior repair must be carried out by qualified personnel with lower limbs. In this case the code was bypassed due to an emergency situation and force majeure. I repeat: force majeure. The company is not responsible for damage caused by impacts of foreign objects against the fuselage. The company must emphasize this contractual condition: it is not responsible for possible damage to passengers.

—An unauthorized manual intervention on the heat shield has been detected. Said intervention has been executed by a passenger of Nordic origin. The company appreciates the gesture, but reminds that travel insurance does not cover heroism. Does not cover heroism. Consult the general conditions on the armrest.

Sigrid, the enormous blonde, without thinking pushes Cassiel away from the airlock door and puts on a spacewalk suit, going outside. With no apparent effort she grabs the skinny Erik by the neck and leads him inside the ship.

—A recovery maneuver has been recorded, executed by passenger Sigrid. This maneuver has returned passenger Erik to the interior of the cabin. The company congratulates itself that the danger has been overcome. But they inform you that, according to the passenger-company contract, the company is not responsible for damage caused by impacts of foreign objects against the fuselage—. Johnnycab's loquacity was unstoppable. His dangerous and recent experience had left him electronically excited.

—The company must emphasize this contractual condition: it is not responsible for possible damage to passengers or the subsequent inconveniences that these fortuitous impacts may have caused, whether a proven fact or by the claim of one or more passengers, whether it actually occurred or not.

Johnnycab continued. —Consult more information from the armrest of your couch by consulting the passenger-company contract articles 23 and following. Also available to you is the list of tax-free items you can purchase on the ship. We remind you that you have at your disposal the magazine and catalog of duty-free items. In it you will find a wide selection of perfumes, cosmetics, jewelry, liquors, and travel items. If you wish to purchase any of our products, please notify any of our crew members.

—The heat shield is operational. Re-entry will continue. The company thanks you for your patience. And reminds you that the call button to the assistant is still working. Working. Even if no one uses it. Thank you.

Cassiel has a swollen hand, wants to help, but can't...

Sigrid rescues the Viking Erik.

—We got out by chance—, Johnnycab confessed. —That singularity was the densest thing in the universe.

—Recovering, stabilizing, analyzing! —said Johnnycab. Do not remove the five-point harness until you see the signal on your PTV (Personal Entertainment Video).

—Oooh! This is not good —said Johnnycab. We're going at a speed higher than authorized, even higher than the galactobus's maximum speed. We have emerged through a Calabi-Yau type space-time structure. —This is not good —Johnnycab repeated. —This is not foreseen in my programming.

—According to the AI's calculations we spent 1 minute in the black hole's accretion disk; time runs faster there according to the Lorentz factor γ ≈ 267,262.08, that is, we spent 6 months and 15 days in Ibixa time. But that's not the serious part; the worst has been the Calabi-Yau distortion. If the atomic clock isn't lying, we'll land about 3 years in the future. —said Johnnycab—. Isn't this foreseen in my contract? What will I do now? Beach-Star AeroCom won't want me anymore; they'll have released dozens of new models of cyber pilots; now Johnnycab is just cyber junk. —he said, sadly adjusting his pilot cap.

On the onboard PTVs (Personal Entertainment Video) a stroboscopic "Warning" appeared, red flashing on and off (MEEEC!, MEEEC!, MEEEC!...). Passengers are requested to provide themselves with maximum protection sunscreen. Catastrophic failure in the atmospheric composition could cause skin cancer if they are exposed to solar radiation for more than 10 minutes.

Dua guru

—Not only did we get into a black hole, we entered Agní-Loka: the world of Agni. It's documented in the Kaushitaki-upanishad—, said Dua.

—Who is Agni?— Asked Erik Svartskeggur.

—Agni means 'fire' in Sanskrit, he is the Vedic god of fire.

Dua continued calmly: —In the Rig-veda (the first text of India, from the middle of the 2nd millennium BC) a trio of gods is originally named:

• —Indra (in Sanskrit: इन्द्र) is the king of the gods or devas and lord of Heaven (Svarga),
• —Agni (God of fire), and
• —Soma (God of the Moons and of the homonymous magical substance).

—What do we have to do with all those myths of gods and elements?— Asked Sigrid the enormous Viking woman.

—If you want to explain the incomprehensible, you have to open your mind to the knowledge of the ancient masters. They spoke in a language that may seem mythical or magical to us, but experience reveals that there is no myth without foundation—, Dua responded—. They are exactly the same as what your Icelandic sagas describe "Íslendingasögur". The Viking gods are the same forces that shape space-time.

The Vikings obviously respected Dua. They believed her, since her discourse coincided with their own data. And then it happened: Dua was, suddenly, their guru. —What do we do, Dua?— Asked Erik, the skinny one. Dua remained silent.

Viking Sagas Karma

Dua understood that they had touched a key point for self-understanding. She remained silent, with her eyes closed. —I'll give you a revelation, Viking— said Dua.

—It's not hard to accept, you'll understand— said Dua.

—You and only you are the one who carries the karma; it's your greed and recklessness in hijacking this modest galactobus and forcing it beyond its limits that is to blame for Johnnycab's obsolescence and consequent scrapping state— said Dua.

—Well, I'll adopt old Johnnycab as my limousine driver— said Erik Svartskeggur.

—You have to consider other consequences. If you don't want to reincarnate as a chitinous insect, you'll have to assume that you've ruined the lives of the elderly Hans and Helga. Those diamonds you stupidly decided to steal will now be worth a fortune; give at least one to Hans and Helga so they can rebuild their lives and not have to experience destitution because of you. There are also Mallie and Vanille; you took them away, they disappeared; maybe they've lost their homes, their businesses. That's considerable damage.

—No problem, I'll give them something. I'm an elegant guy, uncivilized but cultured, a lover of justice and art, like every Viking. Remember that we were the first to colonize America, not Columbus, whether he was Spanish, Portuguese, or Italian.

—What do you mean, the Vikings colonized America? You call that colonizing—, said Cassiel angrily, with his bandaged hand —The only thing the Vikings left in America were four stones and droppings —Colonizing—, he repeated mockingly. —The Spanish left Universities, Churches, a culture, a proud race that still lives, unlike others who either didn't mix or put Indians on reservations. —Integrated territories is what Spain did. And it didn't found colonies, but overseas provinces, which is quite different.

Erik Svartskeggur didn't even pay attention to Cassiel's argument; he turned to Dua and said—, but why am I an idiot for stealing the diamonds? I don't agree.

—If you had stolen the Bitcoin from the jewelry store's wallet, you would now be thousands of times richer— Dua replied.

—Shit!— exploded the savage Erik.

—I am Eiríkur Svartskeggur—, he said, translating his name into Icelandic in an attempt to demonstrate his nobility. I will share my misfortune; I will give a diamond to each person. Neither Cassiel nor I need your stolen diamonds—, said Dua.

—Let him distribute them— I said—. I won't be the one to insult his generosity.

You know you don't need them, Cassiel; your job and your house no longer exist, but those bitcoins saved in your cold wallet make you richer than Croesus himself. I don't want anything stolen; my karma would get dirty.

—It's turned out perfectly for the Vikings— I said, contradicting Dua —They steal, they kidnap us, they make us lose two years of our lives, and when they arrive back in Ibixa, their crimes, with a good lawyer, will have prescribed.

—They haven't made you lose two years of your life; you haven't lost a single minute, you'll just live it in the future.

—Well... Seen that way... —I never won an argument with Dua; she always knew what to say.

Dua asks me: —What matters more to you? Keeping your life of luxury? Or feeling satisfied with yourself—. I return the question —and to you, what matters more to you? Keeping the life we had? Or feeling satisfied with yourself?

Mallie and Vanille, who were floating holding hands, have it very clear: —Oh, we want both, my love—. Our luxuries, no one should take them away from us, and I'm satisfied with myself, very satisfied, darling—, said Vanille.

Return to Ibixa Landing three years later

—Landing completed—, announced Johnnycab. We're back in Ibixa. Only three years after our departure. —On behalf of the commander and the entire crew, we thank you for flying with us and hope to see you again very soon on board.

—Tan, ta, ta, tannn —I dramatized as I disembarked.

Restless, I put my hand in my pants pocket to make sure the wallet with my bitcoins was still there; it was my only hope in those extravagant circumstances. My former company would have given me up for lost; I would have no job and no house, which, being rented, would have been reoccupied and my belongings donated to charity.

That's why the first thing I did was check the value of Bitcoin at a bank, to calculate my fortune. In three years, the revaluation should have worked miracles. —Excuse me, why don't you have the display with the Bitcoin quote?—, I asked a bank employee.

—Where have you been, home de Déu, amb els pingüins a l'Antàrtida?

—Bitcoin was banned by the progressive Islamic government of Madrid years ago. To protect investors from scams. Everyone sold their bitcoins before the deadline, well, if you can call that selling, it was more like giving away—, that unexpected oracle of my misfortune informed me.

—The place I returned to had just gone from exclusive to excluding me. I'm destitute. My Bitcoins are worthless, I lamented out loud. —Damn communist-theocratic politicians! I curse your name, your faith, your house, and may misfortune reach all your descendants! I didn't believe in curses, but venting was therapeutic. I mentally promised myself to find out who was responsible to do voodoo or something.

—Maybe I should return to my town, to Biel; I've always had nostalgia. Well, nostalgia is consubstantial with human nature—, I thought. —Knowing that nostalgia is chronic, should one satisfy it, fuel it, or rather overcome it?

—On second thought, I returned to the port where most of the group was still with Dua and shared my troubles with them.

—Is going back to my origins the solution? Should I choose between returning to them or going to adventure and rootlessness?

—Do origins matter, or what matters is what you experience?—, Dua asked me.

—Wherever it is, I answered, where you are, there is my place.

—We have a guest room in our little house, here in Ibixa—, Helga offered.

—Yes, we do—. Hans confirmed—, it's waiting for you; we'd be delighted.

Mallie and Vanille are also there. Mallie says: —Our gallery is waiting for us. I offer you a job; I can't pay you much, but I can hire you both. Dua as an influencer and you as... whatever it is you do—, he said laughing.

The help they provided returns good karma to them, and now they lend a hand. Cassiel and Dua will live with Hans and Helga and work for Mallie and Vanille. In a few minutes, their immediate future has been cleared up.

The Vikings go to Pawn Eivixa Shop to sell the diamonds, cause and engine of this adventure. They had promised to give a diamond to each passenger, but they don't do it; greed gets the better of them. They want to be rich and fast, now!

The pawnbroker adjusts the loupe to his eye and examines one of the stones.

—Are you trying to cheat me? You idiots! These diamonds are synthetic crap. They're not even (LG) Laboratory Grown; they don't even have a reference laser engraving. They're not even worth costume jewelry; I have better cubic zirconias than this—, he said, contemptuously throwing the stone onto the little pile on the black velvet mat on the counter.

The Vikings watch the stone roll on the velvet and finally fall to the floor, along with their hopes of glory and wealth.

Suddenly the Pawn Shop employee recognizes them. Eeeeh! Aren't you the famous Vikings?

Ibixa hasn't forgotten the Vikings; there are even children's songs about them. A chronicler has written an Icelandic Saga telling of their misdeeds, their daring kidnapping, and their heroism, which reached the media through news transmitted by Johnnycab to the company.

Their notoriety allows them to work in film, appear in famous Ibixa nightclubs like "El Delirio" or "Front Crash," and make a small fortune. Of course, they are forced to wear furs and horned helmets despite the suffocating island heat. Sometimes luxury requires sacrifices. The three lived in Ibixa until they were forgotten; they never returned to their fjord and never managed to take off the furs.

Cassiel and Dua decide that the little town of Biel can offer them a second chance. He as a shepherd, meditating in the well-tempered meadows of Biel; she as a yoga teacher, with great success among the local elderly ladies. He not only becomes a shepherd but also paints and writes, not with great success but he obtains personal fulfillment, a consolation within the humble pastoral life. The cliché of the innocent, happy, and refined shepherd who only suffers for impossible loves in a perfect landscape is a myth. Cassiel only laments the loss of his life of luxury, and only Dua's love consoles his days.

Hans and Helga, in secret, at night in their Ibixa house, watch Third Reich movies. They celebrate Oktoberfest with his lederhosen and her dirndl, that endearing feminine attire from the Alpine region of Bavaria and Austria.

Hans and Helga lead an orderly existence, elderly love, and a full life. They live in their routine: they are very homey, have a frugal breakfast, and dedicate themselves to the care of their beautiful and typical German garden with enormous hydrangeas, rhododendrons, and hyacinths of various colors with those huge flowering pompoms; their little dog, a huge and intelligent German Shepherd, also fertilizes it. There they grill Bratwurst and greasy Gegrillter Bauchspeck with non-alcoholic beer. Sometimes they go down to the beach in their small Volkswagen. Beach-dog, supermarket-dog, to the doctor, more walks and more dog; they don't usually have dinner. One ordinary day they die, first Helga, the following week Hans, after that comfortable, pleasant, and voluntarily chosen life in Ibixa far from the rigors of their native Bavarian Alps.

Johnnycab reinvents himself as a private limousine driver; in Ibixa he gets bored, he loves being bored, he doesn't miss adventures at all. Now he has three legs that he bought with the compensation plus the extraordinary bonus for his heroic services that his former company gave him. —Three legs are always better than two—, he rightly thought.

The kind cyber hostess who accompanied them on the adventure was first converted by the Vikings into a chocolate fountain for their parties. But later Johnnycab bought her, improved her by giving her intelligence, and he was happy to have her as a companion; not so much she, who preferred to simply be a chocolate fountain.

Cassiel receives a postcard from Hans. Helga has died, and he leaves them his chalet in Ibixa and his German Shepherd when he dies, which happens soon. Off they go, Ciao sheep! Upon arriving, Cassiel and Dua discover Hans's flip-flops with a swastika. Also the books, movies, and memories of Hans's dark past.

He might have been a Nazi, but many Germans were, not by ideology but as victims of circumstances or of nostalgia for times when nationality and patriotism mattered, unlike certain European countries like Germany, France, or Spain that lost their roots and were colonized by foreign ideologies, making customs and a culture that some longed for disappear. In any case, for them, for Cassiel and Dua, they were friends and benefactors, which is what matters above ideologies or other histories.

Cassiel and Dua are happy in the little Ibixa house with the German Shepherd, with the garden full of enormous hydrangeas, rhododendrons, and colorful hyacinths with those cheerful flowering pompoms, symbols of joy, happiness, and new beginnings.

In the mornings, Cassiel and Dua make their own breakfast; they haven't given up their customs. Sitting on the terrace with sea views, they have Colombian coffee, a simple toast with poached eggs and Iberian ham shavings, island yogurt, caviar on toasted blinis with sour cream, and natural orange juice, sheltered by the pampered garden, Helga's legacy, and the usual positive energy they transmit to each other.