Fiction

Surrounded Again by Paul Cesarini

April 22, 2025

Surrounded Again by Paul Cesarini

Nohr stood in the increasingly tiny room, puzzling over the controls as the walls steadily folded in toward him. This isn’t good, he thought, scratching his speckled blue head crest with one hand while trying and failing to adjust the controls with his other three. This isn’t good at all. I have a date tonight. Not just a regular date but a ‘couples date’. If I can’t impress her friends – can’t show them how worldly and effortlessly cool I can be – Kivv might have second thoughts about our whole relationship. Socializing with her close friends is a pretty big step for us, he thought, checking the readings again while pressing one of his palms against the encroaching wall to his left. I need to be at that bistro by the time she gets out of her nanocartography class or I’m dead. Of course, he supposed it wouldn’t matter by then since he would be really, actually dead.

He hadn’t planned on being stuck in a multidimensional trap that day, but who does? When the field team came back with it, he knew they had a real find there. It was a genuine snare box from the predynastic Crittig Alliance – likely tens of thousands of cycles old. It was likely one of the oldest artifacts at the museum, second only to the carbon fiber scrolls of the Krein Imperium (though those were, quite frankly, boring even to Nohr and the other archival librarians there).

Crittig snare boxes were another thing altogether. There were only a handful ever made. They were designed as a last ditch means of fooling the Matriarchy, a loosely-connected group of frightful, reptilian creatures that tormented and bullied the galaxy generations ago. The Matriarchy didn’t view other species as being sentient or having any sort of independent culture or civilization. To them, anyone and everyone else were mere consumables – little more than fields of grain before the thresher. They conquered other species to devour their entrails. From what Nohr had read, it was apparently their only food source. The Matriarchy would co-opt or steal any useful technology from the species they just ate, then would move on to the next one. Not the type of folks you’d ever invite over to dinner, Nohr thought, pressing another palm against the intruding walls, unless you planned on donating your entrails as the main course. Nohr was relieved the Matriarchy folk weren’t around anymore. He had grown quite fond of his own entrails and did not intend to ever willingly part with them.

The Crittig were another matter. Fun, boisterous, and frequently under the influence of one or more substances, their love of festivity was apparently matched only by their love of science and engineering. They created technological marvels that were hundreds of cycles ahead of any other species back then: Holographic, interdimensional data storage. Low-orbit space elevators. Light-duty cruisers so silent and fast you’d arrive at your destination before you had time to finish your latte methanata. Magneto-static tech still used today for everything from autolifters to industrial freight haulers. All ancient technologies. All developed by the Crittig and only iteratively improved since then.

Much like Nohr’s species, the Crittig also had four arms – one of only a handful of species with this trait. Nohr liked to think he shared some residual DNA with them, somehow, along with maybe just the tiniest smidge of that brilliance. Yet, since the Crittig only came up to his knees he assumed the similarity in appendages was coincidental.

Physically, the Crittig were weak and basically defenseless. But, they compensated with their tech. The snare boxes were great examples of this. They were about the size of Nohr’s head, likely weighed about as much, and were covered in ancient scripts that somehow changed depending on who held them. They designed them to entice Matriarchy warriors closer, to view the warm, glowing scripts and run their scaly, clawed fingers across them. Once this happened, the boxes unfolded open into room-sized holographic projections of strange, beautiful places filled with exotic and valuable treasures: shimmering fuchsia pools of biofuel that could power entire moons for generations; shipyards with fleets of heavy cruisers so advanced they could reduce a planet to space dust; entire cities made of warm, luscious entrails.

Once the Matriarchy folk stepped into the projection, the box would fold back up and crush them into a neat little package (also about the size of Nohr’s head). Nohr had read stories about how the Crittig built ornamental walls of ‘full’ snare boxes, lining entrances to various temples and cities. They even used them as load-bearing bricks in some of their architecture – a huge middle digit of defiance to a species infinitely more powerful and terrifying. He continued to be amazed by their cleverness, even though that cleverness would soon lead to his own painful and gruesome death.

Under normal circumstances, Nohr would’ve cheerfully cut off one of his three testicles just to meet a Crittig archival librarian, even briefly. Anyone there at the Museum of Indigenous Technology would’ve done the same (except Rodriguez – his species was unitesticled). Yet, even if he wasn’t about to be compacted down to ⅛ his size, there would be no testicular VIP pass. The Crittig were extinct, eventually wiped out by the Matriarchy. Their former homeworld and research moons had been pulverized. Depressingly few records of them existed, aside from the occasional corrupted database field teams salvaged from abandoned outposts. That’s why the snare box was such a joy – such a geeky and wonderfully rare find.

When the museum staff first brought it in and carefully removed it from the crate, Nohr was first in line to get a peek. It had been transported in a standard quantum field nullification matrix so as not to inadvertently activate it during shipment. The field matrix effectively put the cube slightly out of sync with everything else, tricking it into dormancy – simultaneously there yet not there – until trained museum techs could neutralize the more dangerous (yet extremely cool!) parts.

Nohr and Rodriguez were eager to finally pour over the snare box – from a safe distance, with remote-operated controls and a portable nullification field, of course. Since Nohr knew 273 distinct languages and a roughly equal number of dialects, he was naturally curious to see which would show for him. This complacency had been his first mistake with the box.

His eagerness was the second. Nohr couldn’t wait to get all four of his hands on it. He knew an exhibit featuring a Crittig snare box would be unique, and would really help put the museum back on the map. The Big Boss wanted to turn it into a permanent, kinetic exhibit where folks could see it fold and unfold at predetermined intervals. So did Nohr, and really all the museum staff, which is exactly why he and Rodriguez paid an unauthorized visit to it after it was unpacked. Rodriguez disabled the nullification matrix then they tried all night (and failed all night) to activate the box. They decided to take a break and ponder exactly where they went wrong. Rodriguez went for lattes. Nohr stayed behind, still fruitlessly tinkering with the controls. Nothing worked. Until it did.

Now, he was getting an amazingly rare, first-hand, super-immersive account of how the box worked – from the inside. It was times like this that he wished his species had fingernails, as he would’ve dug them deep into the walls. He had two of his palms pressed against the ones on either side of him, with one foot planted on the floor and another bracing the one directly in front. He felt the one behind him getting uncomfortably close to his backside. Meanwhile, the ceiling slowly crept down to the tip of his head crest, steadily pressing it into a fleshy comb over. He felt it probably made him look older, but not in a suave, distinguished way, he thought. Only middle-aged males of his species wore their head crests like that anymore.

The box shrank much more slowly than it likely would have back when it was new. He supposed it had something to do with the batteries in it being so old now, but he didn’t really care. All he knew was that he should have been squished by now, but wasn’t (yet!). He had visions of Rodriguez solemnly meeting Kivv and her friends Styrie and Undmalten at the restaurant, apologizing for inadvertently getting her boyfriend crushed, then perhaps handing her a jar of concentrated Nohr for solace.

Everyone knew being an archival librarian was a dangerous, demanding job, full of long hours, middling pay, and too few latte breaks, but being crushed into a cube wasn’t exactly something outlined in the employee handbook – unless you count that all-encompassing “other duties as assigned” in the position description. Kivv would be sad. But, would her friends?

Styrie was Kivv’s best friend on the whole moon and probably a few others. Much like Kivv, she was quirky, funny, and kind. She was also super-protective of her friend. Nohr felt like he was constantly being either interviewed or auditioned when she was around, like the job of ‘Kivv’s Boyfriend’ was a part in a play – one which Styrie alone wrote, directed, and produced. He was pretty sure she was the gaffer, too, but still didn’t know what that word meant. Nohr was also pretty sure he was the understudy, or maybe the lead if there were simultaneous productions touring different countries, on different moons. He definitely wasn’t the lead, however. At least, not as far as Styrie was concerned.

Nohr was particularly not looking forward to spending the evening with Undtmalten, Styrie’s lanky, debonair boyfriend. Undmalten gave off major chick magnet vibes. He was supremely confident and ridiculously handsome, complete with black and teal stripes running from his ossicones to his fingertips. He was harmless, even pleasant (mostly), but was just incredibly draining to be around. He couldn’t stop talking about himself, always went on about how busy he was, never posed a single question back to whomever he was talking with, and never had a break in his pontification where one could make a quick exit. Instead, he simply expected people to stand there, listen to him drone on, and passively take in his majestic awesomeness. Nohr had tried unsuccessfully more than once to redirect Undmalten, even asking him about Styrie – who Nohr thought should be right up there on his list of things he’d have an opinion on – but he wouldn’t budge. Undmalten was relentlessly, efficiently, obsessively skilled at his soliloquies. It was clearly something he had clearly practiced and honed for most of his life, one he was all too eager to demonstrate. Nohr wondered, his head crest folding over and covering one of his eyes as the ceiling pressed down on him, if being crushed to death would really be much worse than being bored to death?

The last time was the worst. Nohr and Kivv were enjoying a latte methanata at the cafe downstairs, all snug in a quaint little booth, when Styrie and Undmalten happened to pop in for a cup. Kivv immediately noticed them and motioned for them to come over. Then, for slightly less than forever, Undmalten hit him with wave after wave of bloviations – undulating ones that crashed against the brittle walls of Nohr’s sanity and patience with increasing force. Nohr held out as long as he possibly could, honestly more than anyone could reasonably be expected to do. Right about the time Undmalten contemplated aloud about writing a multi-volume memoir, Nohr mumbled something about needing to get back to the archives. Kivv and Styrie, hip-deep in a conversation about requisitions and procurements, barely noticed him leaving. Undmalten, after having slid out of the booth so Nohr could pass, continued bragging to no one in particular.

Nohr was destined for more of this tonight: more auditioning from Styrie, more blathering from Undmalten, more being put under a microscope where his every syllable will be processed, cataloged, and archived for future research and discussion, all at a swanky restaurant with food he didn’t really like, had difficulty digesting, and could barely afford. Why did he put himself in these situations, he wondered, pressing his backside firmly against the wall behind him in a vain attempt to slow it. Why did he let himself repeatedly get stuck in these situations, time after time? What was the point?

Almost immediately after that thought formed, he knew the answer: Kivv. He really felt like they had something. And he wanted to see what would happen next. And maybe her friends weren’t so bad, after all. And maybe Styrie wasn’t really judging him and maybe Undmalten wasn’t really an insufferable blowhard and maybe this was how they all got to know each other better and maybe they were just as nervous around him as he was around them and maybe it was time he just leaned back and exhaled and tried not to try so hard and instead just focused on being a good listener and being there for Kivv and not always making it about him and…

Just then, the walls of the snare box wedged even tighter around him. He desperately pressed all four hands against any available surface, had one foot on each of the other two, and haphazardly jabbed the control panel buttons with his tongue. Nothing worked, and saliva flew everywhere. Awkwardly hunched over, his head crest pancaked to his head, the wall behind him smooshed up against his cheeks, Nohr was doomed and he knew it. Completely, totally doomed.

Unless, he thought, this wasn’t actually a Crittig snare box and was instead one of those cheap knock-off boxes by the Fek…

& & &

“Sorry it took so long,” said Rodriguez, nudging the door open with his elbow. “The line at the cafe was crazy. They had a buy one, get one special on grande latte methanatas. Well, it wasn’t really buy one, get one. If you bought a grande, you got a tall one free. That’s still a pretty good deal. You can have the grande. I don’t really need that extra oomph at this point in the day. Nohr…?” he asked, carrying the lattes. “What… what are you doing there?”

Nohr stood motionless in the center of the exhibit room. He wore the snare box over his torso, with holes punched out of it for his legs, his head, and all four of his arms. His various limbs were all bare, as were the majority of his pale, blue buttocks. Remnants of the box, as well as his shredded sleeves and pants, were strewn around him on the floor. He glumly looked up at Rodriguez. “It wasn’t a Crittig snare box.”

“It was one of those replica boxes, wasn’t it?”

Nohr nodded slowly, staring at what was left of his clothes.

“I suppose that’s a good thing, isn’t it? I mean, if it was a real Crittig box, you would’ve been crushed into a pulp by now. Those Fek boxes weren’t designed to kill. They were really more a prank than anything else. If anything, those boxes were designed to…”

“Humiliate. Yes, I know. Mission accomplished.”

“Well, my friend. Um, what can you do? Here…” he handed Nohr a latte. “Drink up. Need a hand getting that cube off?”

Sighing, Nohr shook his head. “I should probably leave it on. My clothes are in tatters. I can feel a draft… down there.”

“Ugh. Well, you’d better head over to the restaurant now. Don’t want to be late for that double date, am I right?”

“I suppose not.”

“Well, tell Kivv and her friends I said hello. I haven’t met Undtmalten before but I’ve heard he’s fascinating.”

“Yes. Fascinating. Definitely.”

Nohr hoisted up the box around him, nodded goodbye to Rodriguez, then turned and trudged off to dinner.