Be. Better.

Hey kid, listen up. I need you to do exactly what I say or you’re going to die. 

I don’t mean in some theoretical sense, like, “That was a killer.” I mean literally. With finality. And I feel compelled to note that I also mean “horribly.” 

I know what you’re thinking right now. You’re probably already halfway to pushing the spam and report button on this email. This is either some kind of prank or threat. But think about this for a half-second before you tap out: how did this email land in this inbox? You know - your secret trash account you use for your troll accounts online. Yeah, I know about that. I know everything about you.

So, hold on for a second, partner, because it’s about to get even more interesting. 

Who am I? I’ll get to that in a minute. But I think you’ll find that little reveal very interesting. Right now I want to make sure I’ve got your attention. 

You are Nicholas Daughtry. You live (for now) at 3332 Salisbury Ct., Tulsa, OK 74137, within walking distance of a Fast Trip recharging station and a retro eSports hologaming hub where you spend way too much of your time. (Have you been to the Space Force recruiting station yet? Or am I getting ahead of myself? It might not be there yet…)

Your father is an account executive at the Tesla Gigafactory in Austin. He used to take the Hyperloop from Tulsa to Dallas every day, but around this time he’s traveling down to Austin on Monday and returning Friday. It’s harder on you than you even realize at this point. But don’t worry - he’s going to have a come-to-Jesus moment about family in about a year or so. Hang in there. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself…

These things aren’t that secret, right? Well, here’s something nobody else knows: You’re the mysteriously anonymous person behind the unaccountably popular Millennium Cafe in the Metaverse. You’re extremely proud of the little community you’ve built there - thousands of nerds sharing and challenging each other with early 21^st century pop culture arcana, as if any of that crap means anything. The world is slipping off its foundation, and you dorks are sharing Pokemon holos with each other. Your handle is “Trollsbane.” I remember you thinking that was edgy.

I’m going to let that go for now, but trust me, you need to get beyond all that. In fact, that’s kind of my point.

You need to get serious about a whole lot of things as though your life depends on it. Because guess what? It does. It really does. 

You might be a little freaked out about this. A breach like this isn’t supposed to be possible, is it? Despite the myriad ways our parents’ generation blew up the world, they at least got it right with privacy protection. Your digital self is supposed to be sacrosanct. Inviolate. A refuge. When so much of our lives took place in the digital gaps of, well, reality, it made sense to protect privacy, right?

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Don’t worry, though. This isn’t a blackmail attempt or something. I’ve got your back. And boy, do I hope you have mine.

However, I’m about to lay something on you that you may not like. Here’s the thing: you need to make a choice. A choice that will determine the number of days you have left in the universe. Who knows - I may have this wrong. The choice may lead to an entirely different sequence of events that kills you even faster, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if you make the wrong choice, you will die in exactly 13, 438 days. That’s almost precisely 37 years from the moment you’re reading this message.

I hear you. “Thirty-seven years? That’s like, ancient!” Well, let me tell you something, kid: 52 years old is not “ancient.” In fact, it’s just about when some people hit their prime. I know. I’m in it. And I’d like to continue living in my prime for at least a little while longer.

What does that have to do with you? Well, if you haven’t put it together yet, my fate is the same as yours. Allow me to introduce myself: Nick Daughtry, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Mission Specialist Nick Daughtry.

Back to that death thing. It’s unpleasant, I know, and since it’s still decades in your future, I get that the urgency isn’t quite there. So, I’m going to be a little cruel and give you something to think about for the next 37 years…

In approximately one hour of, well, “my” time, I guess, I (you) are going to check out in spectacular fashion.

It could go a few different ways, but I think explosive decompression is the likely route. My workgroup is on the fifth node of a engineering pod of a station in a decaying orbit around Europa. We’ve lost the ability to maneuver the station, and there’s just no fix for that. The gravitational tides among the Galilean moons are a killer, and I mean that literally. Once we lost the ability to navigate the tides, they began twisting our gigantic station into something like a Möbius cube. Pods and compartments couldn’t handle the strain and started popping like that bubble wrap people used to use in shipping boxes.

My point is that when our pod finally cracks, it’s going to open it up to the vacuum of space, and it’ll be done. Blood will boil, capillaries will burst, and our bodies will be be flash-frozen. We’ll be aware of all of it as it happens, of course. 

It might be the best way to go, now that I’m thinking about it. There are other hellish options on the table. For example, the rapidly warping pod could sever a power line, which would undoubtedly spark a fire. You haven’t seen fire in space yet, but if you don’t take my advice, you will in about 15 years. You’ll live (obviously), but several of your colleagues won’t. 

It’s possible that the structural integrity of the hull will hold, and we’ll pass right through the Europan/Ganymedean gravity riptides, which would be great! But then we’d have a straight shot to the upper atmosphere of Jupiter…which is not so great. Assuming the radiation coming off of that monster didn’t melt the flesh off of our bones first, we’d get to see the best sunset in the solar system…right before plunging thousands of kilometers into the heart of the planet, where we’d be crushed and, we assume, vaporized.

At any rate, we’re all pretty well done here. There’s zero hope of rescue even if we could signal for help (which we can’t), and since this mission is so classified as to be non-existent, we’d likely be executed for revealing our location if we were rescued. 

You’ll learn a new phrase in the Marines if you take that route: It’s a Charlie Foxtrot event.

When we go, we’ll just be the latest in a long line of suckers dumb enough to get tied up in this farce. It’s done. Everyone in my pod is making peace with their gods or just getting stupefyingly drunk. 

Now, think about that every day for the next 37 years. Imagine every gruesome detail. Do it now, because that’s what I’m doing right now, and my now is too late to do anything about it.

If you do nothing different, this is how your story ends. You might think of this as a gift. You’ve been given the precise date and manner in which you’ll die. If you can appreciate that for the gift that it is, you might take your life a little more seriously. Every moment is precious and all that…

But it doesn’t…necessarily…have to happen that way. You can avoid this if you do one simple thing. And you can start reaping the rewards immediately.

Ready? Here it is:

Be. Better.

Did I say that was simple? Yes. Is it easy? No. Hell no. 

I know you. I know me. At 15, you’re about as dumb as a box of rocks, but you have one major thing going for you: you still believe in epic stories of greatness. Or at least they resonate with you. You believe it’s possible to “change the world.” It’s that hope and optimism - and ignorance - that actually does give you the ability to change the world. You have no idea how to do it, though. But it’s simple: Be. Better.

And start with yourself. Don’t worry about great, big systems that compel everyone else on the planet to do the socially responsible thing. Change yourself. Be a beacon that others want to follow and emulate.

Choose the good in every moment. Think of some wild, unattainable goal and go for it. Don’t let distractions send you off on wild, endless paths. Love your loved ones without condition or qualification. Roll with the changes that will invariably come. 

Forgive.

Work hard.

Take a break every now and then, but always stay focused. 

Time is funny. It “flows” at one second per second - until you hit 40 years or so, and then it’s roughly 2 seconds per second. At fifty, it moves even faster. Don’t waste it. 

Call it “Daughtry’s Law.” Heh.

I can’t guarantee that you’ll be more successful in life, or even that you’ll be happier. But…maybe. You’ll at least be better if you learn to “be better.” 

That’s about it. The pod walls are really groaning right now. I can hear the other pods going, although I have no idea how that’s possible considering the great void between us. I’m probably down to just a couple of minutes of seeing that void myself.

I also have no idea if - if you decide to choose “the better” - it will change anything for me, for you, right now. I think it’s unlikely. It’s certainly unlikely that I’ll be aware of it. But maybe, for a minute, my heart will be free of regret. 

So, think you can do it? I know you can. It’s been a whisper in your mind since you were barely beyond a zygote. That call for something higher. Something noble. 

You got this. Get to it, kiddo. Best of luck.

- You

PS - Oh, you might be wondering why I don’t give you the winning lottery ticket numbers for the next 37 years. The simple answer is “How would I know?” Even if I could get on the ‘Net out here to look it up, I don’t want to spend my last few moments…existing…doing a Meta search. But you know what? I think it would be bad. Four decades of winning lotteries would likely just turn you into a galactic-sized douchebag. The real victory is in the battle. So, go fight like you mean it.

***

Admiral Nick Daughtry stood at the bridge of the Dauntless and watched helplessly as Station 64b, a.k.a. “Mouse” enter its final death throes in the gravitational tidal zone between Ganymede and Europa, which were, disastrously, at their closest point to each other this time of year. At their closest, they were less than 500,000 kilometers apart. The microsats seeded through the system gave an ultra-realistic, 360 degree view of the horrors reaching their deadly denouement. Support struts twisted. Pods collapsed.

The engineering section was going fast now. Those that contained habitation units were either snapped off and flung into one of the moons or into space. Most expunged their remaining atmosphere in brief little puffs of volatilized air and oxygen. Daughtry knew that the people in them were dying in the most horrific ways - basically becoming human popsicles fast enough to retain consciousness right up to the end. 

The pods flung into the void intact would carry their doomed inhabitants down to the clouds of Jupiter for an even worse fate. In comparison, the people in the pods containing combustible material were lucky. A flash and crump, and their atoms joined the stardust drifting through the solar system…

He considered, insanely, as alarms sounded throughout the bridge, the pathways that led those doomed souls to that moment. About all the choices made right up until the last possible choice is made. 

For reasons barely understood, was thankful.