Exit Zero: Stories (1 of 7) "The Halcyon Days of Jasper Strand"
Thank you to those who read or purchased my alternative history science fiction novel, “Magisteria.”
I released drafts of all thirty chapters here first. The revised full novel is available on paperback and Kindle on Amazon. My next project is a collection of short stories, “Exit Zero”
This first story is a stand-alone story from the world of Magisteria. It will be the only story in the collection that has characters from Magisteria and it can be read without having to read the novel. When I was making up my fictional presidents in Magisteria, I wanted to create a backstory for the one considered the greatest in that world. Jasper Strand pushed the world forward, hastening the march of progress. This is part of his story. I had fun writing it.
I will release these drafts of seven stories from Exit Zero monthly here with a goal of publishing the collection in January 2026.
Thanks for reading.
Chris
The Halcyon Days of Jasper Strand
Iron Springs College, Guam Campus – September 15, 2013
Abby Hansen-Holling had never quite belonged—she was one of the earliest clones of the Elder Races, adopted by America’s wealthiest man. Now, decades later, she stood before the mirror of her Guam campus quarters, adjusting her braid and minimalist suit. On her lapel, a silver Iron Springs spiral caught the light.
Some among her kind viewed her with suspicion. They resented her efforts to "pass" among Homo sapiens—her modulated voice, her academic credentials. But Abby had no illusions about fitting in. Her gifts from her unique biology set her apart: a nearly perfect memory, rapid pattern recognition, and the uncanny ability to synthesize centuries of knowledge. These traits made her one of the most respected historians of her generation. But first and foremost, she was a Holling—and carried all the privilege and storied history that came with it. She was tied to her family by her name, not her blood or the forgotten tradition of her sub-species, which died 40,000 years ago.
Her voice, once unnaturally high—almost avian—was now musical, bright, and unmistakably her own. The excessive hair was removed with laser surgery. She took her natural instincts that were innate, but did not pretend to recreate her forgotten heritage. It was impossible without some sort of time machine.
She was a woman out of time, creating herself from scratch, pulling in patches of influence from everywhere. Whitman, the poet-chronicler of America, was on her mind always, but especially today.
“You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself."
Abby soaked in all of the world’s knowledge and made it her own. This made her a successful academic and well-liked President of Iron Hills College.
Her three children and husband sat in the front row, alongside Phil Blank—her former tutor and lifelong friend. She smiled as she stepped toward the lectern, a Pacific breeze curling through the open-air hall.
From orbit, Greater Guam resembled a spiral of petals—white beaches curling outward from a central plateau. From her vantage, Abby saw public gardens and solar forests sway in the wind—emblems of a future she no longer found fully reassuring. Wind temples caught the constant trade winds. A triple-ring seawall enclosed the island, blending coastal defense with aquafarms and wave turbines. At its heart stood a capital of mirrored towers and cooling columns disguised as banyan trees.
Emma Austin-Holling, CEO of Holling Corp and Abby’s sister, took the stage.
“I’m proud of my sister,” Emma said. “She chose a different path—but she’s preserving a Holling legacy that matters. Please welcome the twelfth president of Iron Springs College, Dr. Abby Hansen-Holling.”
The audience of students, faculty, alumni, and friends applauded.
“Welcome to our Guam campus,” Abby said. “And to all tuning in from across the sixty-seven states. Of all our campuses, this is my favorite—though Staten Island Preserve holds a special place in my heart.”
The audience laughed. The Staten Island Preserve was where she and her father, Cooper Holling, had both graduated.
“This evening marks the fortieth reunion of the Class of 1973. My father, Cooper Holling, is here with Ginny, and he’ll speak at dinner.”
Warm applause.
“As you know from the topic of my talk, I’ve been working on a book, which I’ll release on my fiftieth birthday. It’s titled A Definitive History of the Holling Family. Today I’ll read from one of my favorite chapters—‘The Dinner Party.’”
She paused, her hand brushing the lectern.
“It’s a reconstruction of a legendary 1869 gathering at the North Carolina presidential retreat known as the Hawk’s Nest. In attendance were some of the most fascinating figures of the Industrial Age: civil rights pioneer and musician Percival ‘Verse’ Boone; Congressman from the State of Long Island and poet Walt Whitman; U.S. Ambassador to Nippon Ambrose Holling; and, of course, President Jasper Strand himself.”
Murmurs from the crowd.
“The dinner began at 5 p.m. and stretched past midnight. According to letters and recollections, it was the apex of Strand’s influence—during his third term, no less. He doubled U.S. territories, abolished slavery, and for a brief time, made America the most powerful nation on Earth. His alliance with the Nipponese Empire helped stabilize a postwar world.”
After her talk, she closed the journal.
“I’m thrilled this chapter is being adapted as a Canvas immersive experience. I’ve heard Ronan Crown is being considered for the role of Strand. I can’t imagine a better choice.”
Applause again. Abby bowed her head slightly.
During the Q&A, a young man stood. Security approached, but Canvas alerted Abby that he had a verified question. She signaled him forward to speak to her after the event.
“My name is Vikram Ayar,” he said. “I’m a graduate student at Presidency University in Kolkata. I’ve been studying your work. And I believe I’ve found something.”
“A letter?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, holding it out. “It was inside a privately collected edition of Whitman’s Songs of Ourselves. The handwriting matches Jasper Strand’s.”
Abby took it. Her expression darkened as she read.
Vikram’s voice softened. “I think a revision of your chapter may be in order.”
Abby nodded slowly.
Indeed, it was.
April 14, 1869 – The Hawk Nest, Presidential Retreat. Concord, North Carolina
The American Prince. The Philosopher King. The poet-warrior.
These were the names Jasper Strand went by. Exceedingly handsome, he designed his own clothing—yet somehow never seemed vain or self-involved. The only bachelor president in U.S. history, he had many public affairs with female lovers across sixteen years in office, to the delight and scandal of the public.
Whitman had not seen him for over four years, though they had exchanged letters constantly. Now, the famously long-faced, red-bearded Strand removed his broad-brimmed hat—its albino peacock feather gleaming—and revealed a mane of unbound blond hair. His plum waistcoat shimmered under candlelight. His silver pocket watch caught every flicker of flame.
Though Whitman had long been acquainted with him, he was still astounded by Strand’s magnetic presence and charisma. Saintly and dangerous were the words that came to mind.
“Please, everyone,” Strand called out. “The first course is ready.”
The long table glittered with crystal and flame.
Among those seated:
Percival “Verse” Boone, former slave, now civil rights activist and musical icon.
Walt Whitman, Long Island congressman and celebrated poet.
Ambrose Holling, U.S. ambassador and industrial magnate.
Clarissa Wright, recent Oxford graduate, mathematician, and engineer.
And Jasper Strand himself.
“Ambrose, who is your lovely companion?”
“She’s not my companion,” Ambrose replied
“She’s not? Well, that is welcome news.” Strand smiled at Clarissa coyly.
“That’s not what I mean—”
“Say what you mean, then, old friend.”
Ambrose gestured to Clarissa. “Allow me to introduce—”
“Let her introduce herself,” Strand said, gently but firmly.
Clarissa met his eyes.
“So, are you his lover?” he asked, teasing.
“With that previous remark, Mr. President,” she replied, “I suspect Ambrose Holling will be sleeping alone tonight.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
Strand nodded approvingly. “You wanted her to stand on her own, Ambrose. Admirable. And I happen to know of her reputation—student of the work of Ada Lovelace, admirer of Babbage. Possibly the youngest nominee for the Royal Society?”
“They refused,” Clarissa said. “Women aren’t allowed.”
“Philistines! Then you must consider joining the secret Amber Society.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Good. That means it’s working.”
She smiled.
Strand raised his glass. “Miss Wright, you shall select our first topic. Each course will be paired with a question.”
She blinked. “Me?”
“Yes.”
The potage à la reine arrived.
Strand leaned in after tasting the soup. “I already know your question,” he whispered in her ear.
She nodded.
Clarissa stood. “Can a machine think?”
____________________________________________________________________________
Outside the Retreat, Braxon Bolivar stood guard. His bulletproof coat—woven from ultra-light, ultra-strong fibers—rustled softly. Four other guards in black garb flanked him, automatic weapons concealed beneath long cloaks.
“I’ll check for extra food in the kitchen,” Bolivar said.
“Bring rolls. And some Apple Jack.”
___________________________________________________________________________
Back inside the Hawks Nest, Whitman sat straight, large and steady, his steely eyes full of insight. He had written When I Heard the Learned Astronomer, a poem about birds confused by mechanical chirping and deer undisturbed by machines.
Whitman was the first to address Clarissa’s question.
“I once believed machines were unnatural,” he said. “But I’ve changed. I’ve come to see them as a continuation of nature.”
“Singing the body electric,” Strand nodded.
“But can they think? No. Mimicry, yes. But they can’t feel disappointment. Or shame. Or lust.” He paused. “They can’t create art like Shakespeare.”
“Or like Whitman,” Verse added.
Strand smiled. “There is magic in this new era of machines. But there is also deep loss. We feel it each day. We’ve only just begun to understand ourselves—the unconscious drives that move us, the evolutionary forces shaping us—and now we must grapple with our own mechanization.”
“I think this is all overblown. They may replicate thinking in a blunt way. I don’t believe that these machines can have a soul.” Whitman said
“In the east, they believe everything has a soul. Even rocks and plants,” Verse said.
Strand smiled. “I like that very much. Everything is infused with thought. Even when we observe a spear of summer grass.”
Whitman blushed, “Mr. President and Verse, will you persist with this flattery throughout the evening?”
“You would be delighted to know the answer to that question is ‘yes.’”
Verse nodded in the affirmative as well.
“Excellent,” Whitman replied.
Clarissa leaned forward. “In the future, machines will be connected to eachother, fast, and capable of astonishing feats. I believe they will eventually surpass us. They may never understand us the way we understand ourselves,” she added, “but they will outthink us.”
“But not outfeel us,” Whitman said. Even the ever-diplomatic Strand rolled his eyes.
“Our feelings are products of adaptive evolution,” Clarissa replied. “Advanced machines will regard us with curiosity—like ants.”
Strand swirled his drink. “Then let’s just hope they don’t stomp us out.”
“We make great pets,” Verse quipped, fiddling with his guitar.
Laughter flickered, but it lingered into an uneasy silence.
“With the next course,” Strand said, “let us have a provocation that doesn’t include the extinction of mankind.”
Whitman obliged. He spoke on the nature of art, reading several new verses from his ever-growing manuscript, Songs of Ourselves.
Whitman leaned back, his face flushed from drink or sentiment. “I know I’ve said otherwise, in times past. I once wrote that machines were an affront to nature—a crude imitation of life’s grace.”
Clarissa arched an eyebrow. “And now you call them a continuation of it?”
“Emerson warned us—a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” Jasper said.
And someone even wiser said-” Verse muttered.
“Here it comes,” Whitman laughed.
“Do I contradict myself?” Verse smiled.
“Very well then I contradict myself—
I am large, I contain multitudes.”
Whitman turned back to Clarissa. “I change because I live. What I am today is not what I was yesterday. That is not weakness—it is the change that gives us power.”
The second course was served: frisée salad with poached quail egg and crisp lardons.
Ambrose Holling raised his hand to steer the conversation to the next question.
“I am an optimist,” he said. “This is an optimistic country. What, then, may we place our hope in, as we look to the century ahead?”
____________________________________________________________________________
Outside, a well-dressed but suspicious man approached. Braxon handed drinks to those outside as the men sipped some Apple Jack.
“Who are you?” Braxon asked.
“I’m an acquaintance of Jasper Strand. I was wondering if I could speak to him.”
“I’m afraid this is a private party. How did you get past the gate?”
“Around the side. It’s not exactly an impenetrable fortress.”
“Wait here. I’ll speak to the President.”
“And your name?”
“John Miller. He’ll remember me from his days of youth. May I come in?”
“No. Please wait here with the guards. I’ll let you know.”
____________________________________________________________________
Roast venison with blackberry jus and smoked chestnut purée was served as Holling spoke about the future of work. He said, “I am optimistic about the future. I believe we’re entering an age of machines—one where we’re freed from dull and unfulfilling labor.”
“I think you underestimate people,” Verse replied. “What will they do once labor is taken from them?”
“Find other labors. Is it meaningful to make people dig ditches just to fill them back up? That’s the absurdity of keeping occupations for their own sake. We have electric lights. We do not need gas lighters. People will make art. For it’s own sake.”
“People would not want to work if they are not paid!” Verse said.
“Wouldn’t you still play your music if you weren’t paid for it?” Jasper Strand asked.
“Hell no,” Verse said. “I’ve done work for free for you folks for too long. I want to get paid!”
Strand smiled, shaking his head.
Verse strummed his guitar. “this ain’t no damned hobby!”
__________________________________________________________________
Braxon approached President Strand and told him about the man waiting outside.
“I do not know a John Miller. It’s late. Tell him to return tomorrow.”
Braxon turned to the guards. “Escort Mr. Miller to the gates. If he wants to try again in the morning, we’ll be here at 10 a.m.”
“I need to see the President. Tonight,” Miller said.
“Our job is to protect the President,” said one of the guards. “You’re not cooperating.”
The man began banging on the door. “I need to see him. Now!”
____________________________________________________________________________
As the stilton, preserved pear, and black bread were served, it was Percival Boone’s turn to pose a question.
“My concern,” said Verse, “is that with all this talk of machines, we’ve forgotten the soul. Forgotten the forces we don’t understand. The devil himself.”
“What about evil?” he asked. “Why do we ignore the evil we see in the world?”
Ambrose Holling was the first to answer. “There are mysteries in the world—but I believe they’re natural phenomena, not supernatural ones.”
Strand added, “In Nippon, the emperor grew power-hungry. We stopped him. Was he possessed by demons? No. It was lust for power—and a lack of checks on that power. That’s why the world was able to act. America was a force for good and it was guided by our human will.”
“But what about the divine will?” Verse asked.
“‘Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from,’” Whitman recited his poem from memory.
“Yes, Walt,” Verse replied, “but that’s about the self. The body. The atoms. What about the soul?”
“I believe there may be something that is a soul. But it has to be measured by science,” Ambrose Holling replied.
“I agree. It can never leave this room. I am a Deist. Though I say I am Christian, it is only because Jesus created a beautiful ethical system. So it is not a lie in that-”
“But a lie nonetheless, with all due respect,” Verse countered.
The President nodded and continued, “If there is a god, he is a blind watchmaker. He started the motion, but does not-”
“Not a sparrow falls to the ground without God’s knowledge,” Verse quoted.
“Oh my dear friend. If he’s seen the horrors that I’ve seen. And you have seen, he would-”
“We have seen evil, Mr. President,” “Evil—true evil—is demonic. A force we cannot reckon with.”
“I agree, Verse,” Walt said quietly. “It reduces our experience to—”
“Walt, do not compare our experiences,” Verse said,
“That’s unfair. My hands are working hands.” Whitman held up his hands,
“Don’t compare your working hands to mine, Walt. You were paid for your work.”
Strand raised a hand, signaling calm.
“My master killed my entire family in front of me,” Verese said. “My daughters were raped. Forced to carry white children. That man was the devil. I have no doubt. I survived. I saw a light show me the way.”
“A light?” Jasper asked.
“Yes. A beautiful light,” Verse said
“Was it blue? Green?” Jasper persisted.
“It wasn’t no damn color.”
“Okay,” Jasper said. “Go on.”
“It was a regular white light. The light of the Lord.”
“Understood,” Jasper said.
“And you want to tell me there’s no evil in the world? That my family died because of a brain that was like a brokedown machine. Or a sick society shaped him that way? That’s tommyrot. My master was a demon, from hell below.”
The room was silent.
“I have opinions,” Jasper said gently. “But let’s hear from Clarissa, who may articulate the mechanistic or naturalistic view more clearly.”
Clarissa nodded. “Mr. Verse, I don’t want to diminish your experience. It was horrific. But I believe we live in a natural world, and I do not believe in anything outside of it. Newton and Descartes once left space for God—but more out of reverence or fear than ignorance.”
“We definitely need you in the Amber Society,” Strand said.
“I await the invitation!” Clarissa smiled. “But let me be clear: God cannot be a placeholder for things we do not understand.”
“But I do feel the lord,” Verse said. “My music is filled with Him.”
“We all feel it,” Ambrose Holling added. “Your music is filled with God’s love. I come somewhere in the middle. I do feel a guiding hand in my life. My father, Jack Holling, said the same. Our family’s fortune feels divinely granted.”
Verse looked at Jasper. “You talk to us. But you never tell the people how you really feel. Why?”
“If I told the truth about God,” Jasper said, glancing at Whitman, “or about other parts of my life—as a man of particular tastes—I would not be elected.”
“Isn’t that dishonest?” Verse asked.
“I would not be elected. You all know this. As Burke said, ‘The march of the human mind is slow.’”
“But they love you. My people love you because you ended slavery without a shot being fired. You built international coalitions,” Verse said.
Strand turned to the window. “Which brings me to our final provocation. Are lies necessary in politics? Can noble lies bind civilization together?”
“Is it ever justified to lie for the greater good?”
The members of the party thought about the question as a decadent and dark flourless chocolate cake with was served.
Jasper looked out the window and saw his guards dragging a man toward the gates.
“Holling, join me. Let’s see what’s happening.”
They stepped out just as dessert was served.
“Braxton, what’s going on?”
“Let me go!” the man shouted.
Jasper saw his eyes, beneath the age and beard, and instantly recognized him. Armand Moreau.
“Braxton, let me talk to this man,” Jasper said.
Braxton stepped aside.
“What are you doing here?” Jasper asked
“We need to talk. You have ignored my letters.”
“Let’s go inside. Please don’t make a scene, ‘Mr. Smith.’”
Jasper walked in with the gentleman, with Braxon following closely behind.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to break for now. I have business with Mr. Smith here.”
“It can wait. Please finish your meal,” Smith said.
“Whitman turned to Mr. Smith. “Each of us proposed a question to debate. Jasper’s was the final provocation: ‘Is lying ever justified?’”
Smith met Jasper’s eyes. “Oh, I’d love to stay for this… final provocation.”
“Clarissa?” Whitman prompted.
“I’m not familiar with The Republic’s noble lie,” she said. “But I believe in science, and I follow the facts. Science isn’t myth—it’s truth.”
“I’d say God is a noble truth,” said Verse. “A guiding force. Mr. Smith, are you a man of god?”
“I was. Not anymore. Too many disappointments.”
“Do tell,” Whitman said.
“I’d prefer to hear from the President. It was his topic,” Smith said.
Everyone knew Jasper would avoid the truth—about his beliefs, his personal life, in this mixed company. So they didn’t press him to speak.
“Mr. Smith,” Jasper said, “it’s very late.”
“I thought you were going to talk about your ‘noble lies’,” Smith grew visibly agitated.
“Braxton, take him to his room. I’ll speak with him later.”
“I will not be sent to my room, Jasper. You’ve ignored me long enough.”
“Please,” Jasper pleaded.
“I’m going to destroy you, Jasper.”
“Stop,” Jasper demanded.
Mr. Smith threw a stack of letters and photos onto the table—images of them in bed.
Whitman lunged first to cover the photos. Braxton held Smith down.
Jasper Strand’s head was in his hands.
“My family has gone through hard times. I sent you letters. You know I needed help.”
“I sent you a hundred dollars last month.”
“It’s not enough. Your sweet words over the years and excuses are not enough—”
Holling spoke up. “Do you think we, Jasper’s closest friends, don’t know his secrets?”
Smith grinned. “Did you know Mr. Whitman spent the past three nights here before you arrived?”
“I don’t care,” Holling said.
“But the people do. You’ll care if these photos make it to the New York Post. He won’t survive the scandal. Sodomy—with me, and with America’s greatest poet. My captain, my captain, indeed.”
“What do you want?” Jasper asked.
“One million. From Mr. Holling. Then I’ll walk away.”
Braxton: “I’ll kill him right now.”
“You will do no such thing,” Jasper said.
“Jasper,” Holling said, “I’ll give him the money. But can we trust him?”
“You’ll have to.” Mr. Smith said.
“Enough,” Jasper said.
The group was quiet and Mr. Smith shook his head, waiting for what Japser Strand had to say.
“I’ve kept these secrets for privacy, not shame. But I won’t play this game. Send the photos to The Post. I don’t care.” Jasper said.
“What?”
“I don’t care if the New Federalist Party abandons me. I won’t be blackmailed.”
“What about your legacy?”
“Leave now, Armand. I never want you in my sight.” Jasper spat.
Braxton and Holling walked Armand Moreu to the gate. Braxton’s hand rested on his pistol. Holling gave a slight nod.
Braxon opened the gate and waved for Armand to leave.
“You’ve made a big mistake,” Armand hissed. “I’ll still take the money, Holling. He is being unreasonable. I know you want to protect him. Protect him from himself.”
Inside, President Jasper Strand sat quietly by the fire. Clarissa, Whitman, and Verse looked out the window. They tried to see through the rain but it was so dense they could not make out the figures. They heard the arguing. They saw shoving. And then heard a single shot.
Holling returned alone.
“You didn’t—” Jasper began.
“We had to,” Holling replied. “Our work is too important. We have urgent work in Nippon. A world order of peace. We must keep to our mission.”
“Our work,” Jasper said angrily.
“Yes, our work.”
Jasper rose. “I’ll see you all in the morning.”
Ambrose Holling turned to the others. His voice was low and deliberate.
“This secret never leaves the room. Braxton is already en route to Smith’s apartment. If there’s more, we’ll find it.”
The others nodded. No one spoke.
They would protect the president. And the country. Whatever the cost.
Iron Springs College, Guam Campus – September 15, 2013
Abby Holling stood beside Vikram Ayar, reading the short letter—Jasper’s confession to Whitman. His disappointment in Holling. And his commitment to keep the silence.
“So what do we do?” Vikram asked.
“It darkens my family’s legacy.”
“Does it?” Vikram said. “Do you think Jasper Strand could have completed his final term—his crowning achievement—without that silence?”
“I suppose not. But still-”
“Ambrose Holling did the right thing. And if Jasper Strand were not stricken by cancer shortly after his fourth term, he would have confessed in his memoirs he was planning to write.”
“You are speculating,” Abby said
“That’s all we can do,” Vikram said.
Abby read the letter again. She shook her head.
“So will we share this information?” Vikram asked.
“We have to. We’ll let the world decide.”
Abby walked back to the crowd with Vikram. Students chatted beneath the drone-lights, unknowing.
“We tell these stories to honor the past,” she said softly to Vikram. “But sometimes honoring means confronting.”
Vikram nodded. They stood together on the edge of a future still shaped by shadows. The Holling name—her adopted name—had built cities, steered policy, and rewritten the world. Her Elder ancestors, too, had survived on cunning, on sacrifice, and on acts no history dared record.
The nation itself had been built on many things: truths and myths, noble ideals, necessary lies, and acts that were deeply, unforgivably wrong.
And still, it endured.
“We’ll tell it as it was,” Abby said. “And we won’t blink.”
April 14, 1869 – The Hawk Nest, Presidential Retreat. Concord, North Carolina
The next morning, the group reconvened.
“How do you feel, Mr. President?” Whitman asked.
Jasper Strand smiled. “I feel good. The sun is shining. I have brilliant friends. And we have our work ahead.”
“Four more years,” Ambrose Holling said, pressing Strand’s shoulders approvingly.
The group applauded.
Jasper handed Clarissa a note and grinned. The Amber Society, she thought.
“We’re with you, Mr. President,” Whitman replied.
Then, more gently: “Do you want me to stay?”
Strand didn’t answer. He only waved.
One by one, they gathered their coats. Whitman, Holling, Clarissa, and Verse shared quiet words and a final embrace under a light morning rain.
Jasper stood in the doorway, watching as their coaches disappeared down the wooded path.
He waited until the last of them was gone.
Then he turned back inside, loosened his collar, and poured himself a drink.
By the hearth, alone with the embers, the philosopher-king sat down.
And wept.