Burns Notice

I'd made a small scene at the Circular Journey Cafe that morning. Nothing that would require legal counsel, you understand, but enough that Amy was still replaying the highlight reel with editorial commentary when I arrived home.

You interrupted the conversations of everyone in the cafe, she said. The couple at the table by the door has filed a noise complaint.

"You may be aware, Amy, that in the spy trade, when an operative is suddenly cut off from reliable intelligence and left to improvise, it's called being burned. That's how I felt when Island Irv didn't show up, burned. It wasn't pleasant. I felt the need to stir up some activity among the patrons."

She didn't respond, which was just as well, because I was home and in the presence of Ms. Wonder.

"Wonder!" I said. "It's so good to see you."

She gave me that look of hers that says, You saw me about an hour ago.

"I know that we had breakfast together; it's just that I seldom see you at this hour of the morning."

This time her response was to engage in one of those eye-rolling frenzies that I've mentioned so many times before. I considered nicking her for diverting from an appropriate response, but decided to let it go. There were more important concerns.

"Wonder," I said, "my friends seem to agree that I talk too much and it's disturbing. Disturbing because I'm sure I've heard from reliable sources that the key to winning friends and influencing people is listening to them. It seems I may be losing friends and annoying people."

"And influencing people is what makes you happy?" she said.

"Why do you think I talk so much if not to influence people?"

"Splain, s'il vous plait," she said, because she's cosmopolitan like that.

"Simple," I said. "When I see a situation that demands strong action, I exhort others to take that action and rectify the situation. That requires a lot of speech. Actually, a lot of buzzing."

"Like a hyper-caffeinated bumblebee?"

"Wonder!" I said, for the second time that morning.

"Oh, all right," she said. "Just a little joke. Don't get your knickers in a wad."

"I do so enjoy it when you quote me," I said, more than a little pleased with myself that she remembered one of my signature phrases. Not mine, of course — it was the phrase of the day, suggested by the P.G. Wodehouse Society.

"Why is it important that someone else take action?" she said. "Why not you?"

I almost scoffed. She knows full well that taking action is dangerous for me and for innocent bystanders, if there are any. But I bottled the scoff just in time. After all, she was only trying to be helpful.

"You know why," I said, "but it's nice of you to pretend that you think I'm normal."

"Typical," she said, and once again I wondered what on earth she was talking about. I took a breath and steeled myself to speak of Princess Amy for the first time that day.

"You're aware that my limbic system gives me a little shove toward the fray with a sic 'em, boy — and the next thing I know, I'm standing in front of a judge who fines me fifty dollars and orders me to make restitution for damages."

"You do remind me of a tank rolling through a minefield," she said.

"Wonder! You're supposed to be on my side." I adopted a philosophical tone, hoping it might soften the terrain. "Besides — rank is but a penny stamp, and a man's a man for all that."

"Wow," she said, with a look that didn't exactly reflect her words. "I'm impressed."

"Not one of mine," I admitted. "Just something I heard somewhere and liked so much that I throw it into the conversation now and then. Probably Shakespeare."

"Burns," she said.

Now here's the thing. Given that we had just been discussing my tendency to talk too much and get things wrong, you might expect me to have taken the correction gracefully. What I said instead was:

"Do you think so? My apologies then, Poopsie — I really didn't mean to be abrasive."

"Robert Burns," she said. "The poet."

"Oh, good lord. Poetry! Thank you for pointing it out. And it's still morning, too."

She smiled in that particular way of hers — the one that is equal parts fond and long-suffering — and said, "I apologize if my words seemed harsh before."

"No apology needed, Wonder," I said. "You know it's the Genome way — when offered a piece of grit, his oyster constitution goes to work and builds it into a pearl richer than all his tribe."

"Well put," she said.

I was pleased — exceedingly pleased, this time. She had complimented me, and that is the one thing I want more than any other. More than winning friends. More than influencing people. More, even, than getting the last word at the Circular Journey Cafe.

I only want to please Ms. Wonder.

I searched the databanks for something to say in reply — something worthy of the moment, something that would let her know how much her words meant.

"Fierce Qigong!" I said.

She looked at me for a long moment.

"You talked too much at the café again, didn't you," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Extensively," I admitted.

Here Comes The Sun

A fair summer morning on the Carolina coast, as anyone living here will tell you, begins with the sun popping up above the horizon like a rubber duck in a bathtub: cheerful, buoyant, and apparently delighted with itself. Bright sunshine then spreads across blue skies while white, billowy clouds pile up toward heaven with the ambition of a real estate developer. This extravagant morning get-go is accompanied by a chorus of mockingbirds competing for the title of Best Morning Salutation, a contest judged, apparently, by volume alone.

That's more or less the gist of what I reported to Ms. Wonder on returning from my morning constitutional.

"But this morning didn't begin like that," she said. "In fact, I expected you to come home drenched from that sudden rainstorm. It's sunny now, that's true, but not earlier."

"That's right," I said, "and all's sunny that ends sunny, is what I always say."

"You've never said that in your life. You're just manic."

"When mockingbirds are on the job, even the grayest of mornings accept defeat and slink off in shame. On days like today, I am on top of the world..."

"With a rainbow 'round your shoulder," she said.

"All the good day long," I said.

She regarded me with the serene patience of someone who has learned, through long experience, that this sort of thing passes.

"What's mockingbirds got to do with it?"

It was the kind of question that stops a man in his tracks, not because it's difficult, but because the answer is so enormous it requires a moment to select the correct entrance. Could it be, I wondered, that she genuinely didn't know about Mother Nature's reasons for inventing mockingbirds? I felt a small, tender pity for her, but it was short-lived because I knew that she was about to hear a marvelous story for the first time, and it was coming from me. There are few greater pleasures.

"Wonder," I said, adopting the measured tone of a man about to explain something both obvious and profound, "sit back, relax, and allow me to illuminate."

"I don't have time right now. Can we do it later?"

"We cannot do it later. The moment is upon us, and moments, like mockingbirds, will not be rescheduled. I'll make it brief. It won't carry the same dramatic effect without the elves and the dragons, but one does what one must in the moment."

"I have a conference call at ten," she said, as though that explained anything.

"Then we haven't a second to waste."

I took a deep breath while I marshalled my thoughts and prepared to give it my best effort.

"When I arrived at Brunswick Forest this morning, the eastern horizon was barricaded behind a wall of gray cloud. I didn’t approve; too austere for a coastal morning. Then, long before I saw the singer, I heard the most beautiful song I have ever encountered on a Tuesday. It was a loud, clear, jubilant melody coming from the throat of one entirely convinced of its own importance."

"Rather like the narrator," she murmured.

"Eventually I located the source: a mockingbird, stationed atop the welcome sign at the entrance to Magnolia Village, conducting a one-bird campaign against the forces of meteorological gloom. Wonder," I said, getting into the spirit of the story, "that bird was standing on tiptoe. His beak was open wide, his little body stretched to its absolute limit, every feather committed to the cause. He was singing directly at the precise spot in the sky where the sun, if it had any self-respect whatsoever, was obligated to appear."

"You may be embellishing," she said.

"He leapt into the air repeatedly with the pure physical joy of a creature who has never once doubted himself.” As I described the bird’s behaviour, I too jumped repeatedly. 

“I was awe-stricken,” Poopsie. “I genuinely felt, and I want you to take this seriously,  that I have never been quite so happy in all my years on this earth."

"Hmmm," she said, in the tone she reserves for statements that are either deeply true or cause for concern, and she hasn't yet determined which.

"Moments later, the clouds peeled back from the horizon, and there was the old boy we'd been waiting for: the Monarch of the Heavens, beaming down on Brunswick Forest with the satisfied air of someone who had planned the whole thing."

"It sounds like a beautiful morning. I wish I'd been there to share it with you," she said.

I was pleased by her words. They made me feel so shiny that I just stood there for a beat, looking at her smiling face and directing my best and brightest right back at her. 

Finally, regained consciousness and said, "Reminds me of a story my grandmother used to tell."

"It'll have to wait," she said, standing. "Conference call."

I watched her go, and then stood there another moment in the pleasant residue of the morning — the mockingbird still conducting its campaign somewhere out in the trees, the sun entirely pleased with itself, as advertised.

The grandmother's story will keep. The best ones always do.

But if you happen to find yourself back here tomorrow, I'll share the story with you then. It involves a Tuesday, a very small bird, and the precise mechanism by which the sun gets up in the morning. My grandmother was certain she had it figured out, and honestly, after this morning, I'm beginning to think she was right.

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.”