Each week, I send out a story via my email newsletter. Each story is around 1000 words, sometimes less, sometimes more. The stories are in a variety of genres: supernatural, thriller, sci-fi, horror, and sometimes romance, and all of my stories typically feature a gay protagonist.
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This is story number 41 of the series. Enjoy!
Accounting Error
Jeff Munn’s first conscious thought was that the air tasted like copper pennies dissolved in antiseptic. His second was that his left arm felt three pounds lighter than his right, as if someone had replaced his bones with hollow tubes. When he tried to sit up, his inner ear screamed contradictory messages—up was somehow sideways, and down pulled at him with the gentle insistence of a child tugging on a sleeve.
“What the actual hell?” he croaked, his voice echoing strangely in the metallic space.
Above him, panels of brushed steel curved like the inside of a giant egg, studded with lights that pulsed in mathematical sequences—prime numbers, he realized with the part of his brain that still functioned. Why did he know that? The air didn’t just taste metallic; it had texture, like breathing through silk that had been stretched too thin.
Jeff pushed himself upright with movements that felt simultaneously clumsy and eerily practiced. His hands knew exactly where to brace themselves against the padded surface beneath him, even though he’d never seen this medical bay before in his life.
Through a small porthole, stars wheeled past in a slow, hypnotic dance that made his stomach lurch. Not the view from his apartment window on Ashland Avenue. Not the Chicago skyline he’d stared at every morning for three years.
Stars. Moving stars. In a pattern that tickled something deep in his memory, like a song he’d heard in a dream.
“Okay, Jeff,” he whispered, running his hands through hair that felt exactly as it should—unruly black curls that Jake always said looked like he’d been electrocuted. Jake, who was probably wondering why he’d stood him up at Spice Garden last night. Jake, who made terrible jokes about depreciation schedules and actually laughed at Jeff’s stories about Mr. Henderson’s increasingly creative expense reports.
Jeff’s chest tightened. He fumbled for his phone, but his pockets were empty. Instead, he wore a jumpsuit made of fabric that felt like cotton but shimmered like oil on water.
The medical bay stretched around him, filled with equipment that hummed in harmonious frequencies. He approached a water dispenser that activated before he touched it—how had he known it would do that?—and filled a cup with liquid that tasted like water’s more sophisticated cousin. His throat had been parched, though he hadn’t realized it until now.
“Hello?” he called, his voice bouncing off the curved walls. “I don’t know if this is some kind of elaborate kidnapping or if I’m having the world’s most specific psychotic break, but I have a client meeting at nine, and Patricia will absolutely lose her mind if I’m not there to explain the Yamamoto account discrepancies.”
The silence that answered him felt different from ordinary silence—expectant, like a held breath.
Jeff explored the corridors beyond the medical bay, each step feeling more natural than it should. His feet found the best path automatically, avoiding slight irregularities in the floor that he somehow knew were there. The ship—because it was definitely a ship, and he was definitely in space, and he was definitely going to need therapy if he ever got home—felt enormous and impossibly empty.
He passed sleeping quarters with beds that looked like they’d been designed for human occupancy. A hydroponics bay filled with Earth plants and others that made his eyes water just looking at them—spiraling vines with leaves that shifted color as he watched, flowers that seemed to track his movement. His hands moved toward a particular vine before he consciously stopped himself. He’d been about to check its nutrient levels, but he didn’t know the first thing about hydroponics.
Did he?
“This is insane,” Jeff muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. Something about this place felt… not familiar, exactly, but right. Like putting on a jacket that had been tailored specifically for his shoulders.
The bridge, when he finally found it, took his breath away. Banks of controls surrounded a central chair that looked like it belonged in a space opera fever dream. Multiple screens displayed star charts that made his brain itch with almost-recognition, system diagnostics that he definitely shouldn’t be able to interpret, and scrolling text in a language that looked like someone had taught mathematics to dance.
“Computer?” Jeff tried, feeling ridiculous. “Ship? Anyone? Hello? I’m awake now, and I really need to call in sick to work.”
One of the screens flickered, and English text appeared: “Hello, Jeff. Please take a seat.”
Jeff stared at the words, his heart hammering. “Well, that’s not ominous at all.”
The captain’s chair adjusted to his body the moment he sat down, supporting him in ways he hadn’t known he needed support. The main screen flickered to life, showing a human face—middle-aged, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, graying hair, and the sort of smile that belonged on a favorite uncle.
“Hello, Jeff,” the face said. “I imagine you have questions.”
“Questions?” Jeff laughed, but it came out cracked. “I have approximately eight thousand questions, starting with who are you and ending with whether I’m dead or just having the most elaborate nervous breakdown in human history.”
“My name is Dr. Samuel Hartwell. And before you ask—yes, that Hartwell. From Hartwell & Associates.”
Jeff leaned forward so fast the chair compensated for his shift in balance. “You’re my boss? Dr. Hartwell? But you’re—I’ve never seen you before. Patterson runs the Chicago office. I report to Patricia Manning.”
Dr. Hartwell’s expression grew gentle and sad. “Jeff, what I’m about to tell you will sound impossible. But I need you to listen, and I need you to trust that everything I say is true. Hartwell & Associates isn’t an accounting firm.”
“That’s…” Jeff started, then stopped. He thought about his coworkers, tried to picture Patricia’s face clearly. The image wavered like heat shimmer. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve worked there for three years. I have pay stubs. I have—”
“You have memories of pay stubs,” Dr. Hartwell said softly. “Jeff, for the past five years, you haven’t been balancing books. You’ve been preparing for this mission.”
The screen shifted, showing documents that looked familiar yet wrong. His employment records, but the salary was ten times what he remembered earning. His apartment lease, but for an address that made his head hurt to look at. Photos of himself with people he should recognize but didn’t, in places he’d never been, doing things that felt like watching someone else’s dreams.
“This is impossible,” Jeff whispered. “I remember my job. I remember my apartment. I remember Jake.” He clung to that last one like a lifeline. “I remember meeting Jake at Brew & Beans on Division Street. He ordered a ridiculous caramel macchiato with extra foam, and I told him he was drinking dessert for breakfast. He laughed and said life was too short for bitter coffee.”
Dr. Hartwell’s face crumpled slightly. “I’m sorry, Jeff. Jake was part of your cover identity. The life you remember in Chicago, the relationships, the mundane struggles with spreadsheets—they were constructed to give you psychological stability while you trained for this mission.”
“No.” Jeff stood up, pacing in front of the screen. “No, that’s insane. You’re saying my entire life is a lie? That the man I love doesn’t exist? That every moment of happiness I’ve ever had was just… programming?”
“Not programming. Preparation. And not lies—experiences. The emotions were real, Jeff. Your capacity for love, for joy, for frustration at Mr. Henderson’s creative expense reports—all of that was genuine. We didn’t create a different person. We created a safe space for the person you already were.”
The screen changed again, showing video footage that made Jeff’s knees buckle. Himself, but different—moving with fluid precision through what looked like combat training. Himself studying star charts with the focused intensity he’d only ever applied to particularly stubborn reconciliation reports. Himself in classes labeled “Xenobiology Fundamentals” and “First Contact Protocols.”
In the videos, he moved like someone who belonged in his own body, confident and capable. He looked… happy. Fulfilled in a way that accounting had never made him feel.
“This is really me?” Jeff asked, his voice barely audible.
“The you that volunteered to be humanity’s first ambassador to the Kepler-442 system. The you that spent three years in advanced training, learning seventeen different combat techniques, twelve xenobiological classification systems, and enough diplomacy theory to negotiate peace between warring civilizations.”
Jeff sank back into the chair, which immediately adjusted to support his slumped posture. “But I can barely negotiate a raise with Patricia. I once got flustered ordering coffee because the barista asked if I wanted oat milk or almond milk.”
“You remember what we needed you to remember,” Dr. Hartwell said. “Your real memories were suppressed to protect you during the final phase of preparation. Volunteers who knew the truth of their mission often broke under the psychological pressure. The human brain isn’t designed to cope with the isolation of deep space travel when it knows what’s waiting at the end.”
“So you’re saying I chose this? That I volunteered to have my life erased?”
“You volunteered to save your life. To save everyone’s life, potentially.” The screen shifted to show star charts, trajectories, and data streams. “Three years ago, we detected signs of advanced civilization in the Kepler-442 system. Not just radio signals—actual industrial activity, massive construction projects, energy signatures that suggest technology far beyond our current capabilities.”
Jeff felt something cold settle in his stomach. “Are they a threat?”
“We don’t know. That’s why you’re here. Your mission is to establish first contact and determine their intentions toward Earth. If they’re hostile, you’re to gather intelligence and find a way to warn our planet. If they’re peaceful…” Dr. Hartwell smiled. “Well, you’re about to make history as humanity’s first interstellar ambassador.”
The ship’s systems chimed softly. Another screen lit up, showing a blue-green planet growing larger by the moment. Jeff could make out continents, swirling cloud patterns, and on the night side, a network of lights that suggested massive cities.
“We’re approaching Kepler-442b,” Dr. Hartwell continued. “In four hours, you’ll be in orbit. The question is: are you ready to remember who you really are?”
Jeff stared at the approaching planet. Part of him wanted to reject everything he’d been told, to demand they turn around and take him back to his spreadsheets and his fake boyfriend and his comfortable, meaningless life. But another part—a part that grew stronger each moment—recognized the truth in Dr. Hartwell’s words.
“What if I say no?” Jeff asked. “What if I want to go back to being just an accountant?”
“Then you’ll continue to orbit this planet until you die of old age, and humanity will never know whether the lights below belong to friends or enemies.”
Jeff closed his eyes, trying to feel for the truth beneath his manufactured memories. When he concentrated, he could sense something there—knowledge and skills and experiences that felt like books he’d read but forgotten. “If I agree to this, will I still be me? Will I still remember Jake, even if he wasn’t real?”
“You’ll remember everything, Jeff. The real and the constructed. That’s what makes you human—the ability to hold contradictory truths and find meaning in both. The love you felt for Jake was real, even if Jake wasn’t. The satisfaction you got from balancing a difficult account was real, even if the account was fictional. You are the sum of all your experiences, genuine and artificial alike.”
On the screen, the planet continued to grow. Jeff could see weather patterns now, massive storm systems that dwarfed Earth’s hurricanes, and geometric shapes on the continents that suggested cities built on scales he could barely comprehend.
“Okay,” Jeff said quietly. “But I need you to promise me something.”
“What’s that?”
“When this is over—when I’ve made contact and done whatever needs doing—I want to go home. Not to Chicago, not to some fake life, but to the real world. I want to meet someone who chooses to love the actual me, not a cover identity. I want to balance real books for real people with real problems. I want my life to mean something beyond this mission.”
Dr. Hartwell’s smile was warm and genuine. “I think that can be arranged. You’ve already given humanity more than anyone could ask for. Computer, initiate memory restoration protocol.”
Jeff felt a strange tingling in his skull, like champagne bubbles popping behind his eyes. Then the memories flooded in—not replacing his artificial ones, but layering beneath them like sediment in an archaeological dig.
He remembered volunteering for the program, remembered the pride and terror in his parents’ eyes when he told them their son had been chosen to represent humanity among the stars. He remembered years of training, pushing his body and mind beyond limits he’d never imagined. He remembered his real colleagues—Dr. Sarah Chen who’d taught him xenobiology, Commander Reyes who’d drilled first contact protocols into his head, Agent Kim who’d become his closest friend during the psychological preparation phase.
But he also remembered Jake’s terrible jokes, the satisfaction of finding a misplaced decimal that had been throwing off a quarterly report, and the way morning light hit his apartment window just right on Tuesdays.
Both sets of memories felt equally real, equally true, equally part of who he was.
“Well,” Jeff said, stretching as new muscle memory reminded him how to operate the ship’s complex systems. His fingers found controls he’d trained on for months, ran through pre-contact checklists that felt as natural as breathing. “This is going to be interesting.”
He looked at the planet below, where unknown intelligences were probably detecting his approach, probably wondering what his presence meant for their world. His heart hammered with excitement and terror in equal measure.
“Computer, initiate standard first contact protocols. Open a broad-spectrum communication channel.”
“Protocols active, Ambassador Munn. Channel open.”
Ambassador Munn. The title felt like a jacket that had been tailored specifically for his shoulders.
“This is Jeff Munn, representing the people of Earth. We come in peace, seeking dialogue and understanding between our peoples.”
For a long moment, only silence answered him. Jeff found himself holding his breath, aware that this moment would be remembered as long as humanity existed—the first words spoken between Earth and another intelligent species.
Then the response came—not in words, but in mathematics. Pure, elegant equations that described the relationship between mass and energy, the fundamental constants that governed the universe, the basic principles of physics that any space-faring civilization would understand.
Jeff felt his lips curve into a smile. They were being cautious, establishing common ground before attempting more complex communication. Smart.
“Computer, respond with the Fibonacci sequence, then the first ten prime numbers.”
The exchange continued for several minutes—mathematics giving way to basic symbolic logic, then to simple pictographs, then to increasingly complex concepts. Jeff felt his training take over, his mind settling into the rhythms of first contact protocol like a musician finding their place in a familiar symphony.
Finally, words began to form on his screen—translated from whatever language the beings below used into English by the ship’s AI.
“Welcome, travelers from the distant star. We have watched your approach with great curiosity. Your mathematics are… elegant. Different from ours, but beautiful in their simplicity. We would be honored to learn more about your people.”
Jeff’s hands trembled slightly as he typed his response. “We are honored by your welcome. We have traveled far to meet you, and we hope to learn from each other. We bring greetings from our world and our people.”
“Excellent. We have prepared a landing site for your vessel, if you wish to meet in person. But first, we must ask—do you drink tea? Our research suggests that sharing beverages is a common bonding ritual among your species, and we would hate to be poor hosts.”
Jeff laughed out loud, the sound echoing through the empty bridge. After all the training, all the preparation for hostile aliens or incomprehensible intelligences, humanity’s first contact was going to begin with a tea party.
“We would be delighted to share tea with you,” he typed. “Thank you for your kindness to strangers.”
As the ship began its descent toward the landing coordinates, Jeff felt the weight of what he’d accomplished. Two versions of himself—the accountant and the ambassador—sat in the captain’s chair, both equally real, both equally part of the man who was about to make history.
He thought of Jake, who had never existed but whose love had shaped him anyway. He thought of his parents, who had raised a son brave enough to volunteer for the impossible. He thought of Dr. Chen and Commander Reyes and Agent Kim, who had given him the tools to succeed in this moment.
Most of all, he thought of the future—of humans and aliens sharing tea and mathematics and stories, of two worlds learning from each other, of the infinite possibilities that stretched out before them like the stars themselves.
“Computer, record a message for Earth,” Jeff said as the planet’s surface rushed up to meet them.
“Recording, Ambassador.”
“This is Jeff Munn, aboard the starship Endeavor. I’m happy to report that humanity is no longer alone in the universe. The beings of Kepler-442b have welcomed us with friendship and curiosity. First contact has been established, and preliminary communication suggests they share our desire for peaceful exchange of knowledge and culture. I’ll be spending the next several weeks learning about their civilization and sharing information about ours.”
He paused, looking out at the alien landscape below—crystalline structures that caught the light like prisms, vegetation that shifted colors with the wind, and in the distance, what could only be a welcoming committee of beings who had just become humanity’s first interstellar neighbors.
“Tell my parents I’m fine, and that their son is exactly where he’s supposed to be. Tell Dr. Chen her xenobiology protocols worked perfectly. Tell Commander Reyes the first contact guidelines were spot-on. And tell Agent Kim that yes, I’m still the same person who used to worry about expense reports—I’m just having a slightly more interesting Tuesday than usual.”
Jeff took a deep breath of the ship’s recycled air, tasting copper and possibility.
The ship touched down with barely a whisper, and through the viewscreen, Jeff could see figures approaching—tall, graceful beings who moved with an alien beauty that took his breath away. They carried what looked like ceremonial vessels, and Jeff had the distinct impression he was about to discover what tea tasted like on another world.
“Computer, open the airlock. Let’s go make some new friends.”
Ambassador Jeff Munn, former accountant, current representative of the human race, stepped out of his ship and into history, carrying with him the memories of a love that had never existed and the skills to build a friendship that would last forever.
The tea, as it turned out, was excellent.