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  • #7847
    Jib
    Participant

      Helix 25 – The Lexican Quarters – Anuí’s Chambers

      Anuí Naskó had been many things in their life—historian, philosopher, linguist, nuisance. But a father? No. No, that was entirely new.

      And yet, here they were, rocking a very tiny, very loud creature wrapped in Lexican ceremonial cloth, embroidered with the full unpronounceable name bestowed upon it just moments ago: Hšyra-Mak-Talún i Ešvar—”He Who Cries the Arrival of the Infinite Spiral.”

      The baby did, indeed, cry.

      “Why do you scream at me?” Anuí muttered, swaying slightly, more in a daze than any real instinct to soothe. “I did not birth you. I did not know you existed until three hours ago. And yet, you are here, squalling, because your other father and your mother have decided to fulfill the Prophecy of the Spiral Throne.”

      The Prophecy. The one that spoke of the moment the world would collapse and the Lexicans would ascend. The one nobody took seriously. Until now.

      Zoya Kade, sitting across from them, watched with narrowed, calculating eyes. “And what exactly does that entail? This Lexican Dynasty?”

      Anuí sighed, looking down at the writhing child who was trying to suck on their sleeves, still stained with the remnants of the protein paste they had spent the better part of the morning brewing. The Atrium’s walls needed to be prepared, after all—Kio’ath could not write the sigils without the proper medium. And as the cycles dictated, the medium must be crafted, fermented, and blessed by the hand of one who walks between identities. It had been a tedious, smelly process, but Anuí had endured worse in the name of preservation.

      “Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward.” “Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward. The old texts speak of it, the words carved into the silent bones of forgotten tongues. This, Zoya, is no mere madness. This is the resurgence of what was foretold. A dynasty cannot exist without succession, and history does not move without inheritors. They believe they are ensuring the inevitability of their rise. And they might not be wrong.”

      They adjusted their grip on the child, murmuring a phrase in a language so old it barely survived in the archives. “Tz’uran velth ka’an, the root that binds to the branch, the branch that binds to the sky. Our truths do not stand alone.”

      The baby flailed, screaming louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured, bouncing it with more confidence. “Your lineage has been declared, your burden assigned. Accept it and be silent.” “Well, apparently it requires me to be a single parent while they go forth and multiply, securing ‘heirs to the truth.’ A dynasty is no good without an heir and a spare, you see.”

      The baby flailed, screaming even louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured with a hint of irritation, bouncing the baby awkwardly. “You have been declared. Please, cease wailing now.”

      Zoya exhaled through her nose, somewhere between disbelief and mild amusement. “And in the middle of all this divine nonsense, the Lexicans have chosen to back me?”

      Anuí arched a delicate brow, shifting the baby to one arm with newfound ease. “Of course. The truth-seeker is foretold. The woman who speaks with voices of the past. We have our empire; you are our harbinger.”

      Zoya’s lips twitched. “Your empire consists of thirty-eight highly unstable academics and a baby.”

      “Thirty-nine. Kio’ath returned from exile yesterday,” Anuí corrected. “They claim the moons have been whispering.”

      “Ah. Of course they have.”

      Zoya fell silent, fingers tracing the worn etchings of her chair’s armrest. The ship’s hum pressed into her bones, the weight of something stirring in her mind, something old, something waiting.

      Anuí’s gaze sharpened, the edges of their thoughts aligning like an ancient lexicon unfurling in front of them. “And now you are hearing it, aren’t you? The echoes of something that was always there. The syllables of the past, reshaped by new tongues, waiting for recognition. The Lexican texts spoke of a fracture in the line, a leader divided, a bridge yet to be found.”

      They took a slow breath, fingers tightening over the child’s swaddled form. “The prophecy is not a single moment, Zoya. It is layers upon layers, intersecting at the point where chaos demands order. Where the unseen hand corrects its own forgetting. This is why they back you. Not because you seek the truth, but because you are the conduit through which it must pass.”

      Zoya’s breath shallowed. A warmth curled in her chest, not of her own making. Her fingers twitched as if something unseen traced over them, urging her forward. The air around her thickened, charged.

      She knew this feeling.

      Her head tipped back, and when she spoke, it was not entirely her own voice.

      “The past rises in bloodlines and memory,” she intoned, eyes unfocused, gaze burning through Anuí. “The lost sibling walks beneath the ice. The leader sleeps, but he must awaken, for the Spiral Throne cannot stand alone.”

      Anuí’s pulse skipped. “Zoya—”

      The baby let out a startled hiccup.

      But Zoya did not stop.

      “The essence calls, older than names, older than the cycle. I am Achaia-Vor, the Echo of Sundered Lineage. The Lost, The Twin, The Nameless Seed. The Spiral cannot turn without its axis. Awaken Victor Holt. He is the lock. You are the key. The path is drawn.

      “The cycle bends but does not break. Across the void, the lost ones linger, their voices unheard, their blood unclaimed. The Link must be found. The Speaker walks unknowingly, divided across two worlds. The bridge between past and present, between silence and song. The Marlowe thread is cut, yet the weave remains. To see, you must seek the mirrored souls. To open the path, the twins must speak.”

      Achaia-Vor. The name vibrated through the air, curling through the folds of Anuí’s mind like a forgotten melody.

      Zoya’s eyes rolled back, body jerking as if caught between two timelines, two truths. She let out a breathless whisper, almost longing.

      “Victor, my love. He is waiting for me. I must bring him back.”

      Anuí cradled the baby closer, and for the first time, they saw the prophecy not as doctrine but as inevitability. The patterns were aligning—the cut thread of the Marlowes, the mirrored souls, the bridge that must be found.

      “It is always the same,” they murmured, almost to themselves. “An axis must be turned, a voice must rise. We have seen this before, written in languages long burned to dust. The same myth, the same cycle, only the names change.”

      They met Zoya’s gaze, the air between them thick with the weight of knowing. “And now, we must find the Speaker. Before another voice is silenced.”

      “Well,” they muttered, exhaling slowly. “This just got significantly more complicated.”

      The baby cooed.

      Zoya Kade smiled.

      #7844
      Jib
      Participant

        Base Klyutch – Dr. Markova’s Clinic, Dusk

        The scent of roasting meat and simmering stew drifted in from the kitchens, mingling with the sharper smells of antiseptic and herbs in the clinic. The faint clatter of pots and the low murmur of voices preparing the evening meal gave the air a sense of routine, of a world still turning despite everything. Solara Ortega sat on the edge of the examination table, rolling her shoulder to ease the stiffness. Dr. Yelena Markova worked in silence, cool fingers pressing against bruised skin, clinical as ever. Outside, Base Klyutch was settling into the quiet of night—wind turbines hummed, a sentry dog barked in the distance.

        “You’re lucky,” Yelena muttered, pressing into Solara’s ribs just hard enough to make a point. “Nothing broken. Just overworked muscles and bad decisions.”

        Solara exhaled sharply. “Bad decisions keep us alive.”

        Yelena scoffed. “That’s what you tell yourself when you run off into the wild with Orrin Holt?”

        Solara ignored the name, focusing instead on the peeling medical posters curling off the clinic walls.

        “We didn’t find them,” she said flatly. “They moved west. Too far ahead. No proper tracking gear, no way to catch up before the lionboars or Sokolov’s men did.”

        Yelena didn’t blink. “That’s not what I asked.”

        A memory surfaced; Orrin standing beside her in the empty refugee camp, the air thick with the scent of old ashes and trampled earth. The fire pits were cold, the shelters abandoned, scraps of cloth and discarded tin cups the only proof that people had once been there. And then she had seen it—a child’s scarf, frayed and half-buried in the dirt. Not the same one, but close enough to make her chest tighten. The last time she had seen her son, he had worn one just like it.

        She hadn’t picked it up. Just stood there, staring, forcing her breath steady, forcing her mind to stay fixed on what was in front of her, not what had been lost. Then Orrin’s hand had settled on her shoulder—warm, steady, comforting. Too comforting. She had jerked away, faster than she meant to, pulse hammering at the sudden weight of everything his touch threatened to unearth. He hadn’t said a word. Just looked at her, knowing, as he always did.

        She had turned, found her voice, made it sharp. The trail was already too cold. No point chasing ghosts. And she had walked away before she could give the silence between them the space to say anything else.

        Solara forced her attention back to the present, to the clinic. She turned her gaze to Yelena, steady and unmoved. “But that’s what matters. We didn’t find them. They made their choice.”

        Yelena clicked her tongue, scribbling something onto her worn-out tablet. “Mm. And yet, you come back looking like hell. And Orrin? He looked like a man who’d just seen a ghost.”

        Solara let out a dry breath, something close to a laugh. “Orrin always looks like that.”

        Yelena arched an eyebrow. “Not always. Not before he came back and saw what he had lost.”

        Solara pushed off the table, rolling out the tension in her neck. “Doesn’t matter.”

        “Oh, it matters,” Yelena said, setting the tablet down. “You still look at him, Solara. Like you did before. And don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

        Solara stiffened, fingers flexing at her sides. “I have a husband, Yelena.”

        “Yes, you do,” Yelena said plainly. “And yet, when you say Orrin’s name, you sound like you’re standing in a place you swore you wouldn’t go back to.”

        Solara forced herself to breathe evenly, eyes flicking toward the door.

        “I made my choice,” she said quietly.

        Yelena’s gaze softened, just a little. “Did he?”

        Footsteps pounded outside, uneven, hurried. The clinic door burst open, and Janos Varga—Solara’s husband—strode in, breathless, his eyes bright with something rare.

        Solara, you need to come now,” he said, voice sharp with urgency. “Koval’s team—Orrin—they found something.”

        Her spine straightened, her heartbeat accelerated. “What? Did they find…?” No, the tracks were clear, the refugees went west.

        Janos ran a hand through his curls, his old radio headset still looped around his neck. “One of Helix 57’s life boat’s wreckage. And a man. Some old lunatic calling himself Merdhyn. And—” he paused, catching his breath, “—we picked up a signal. From space.”

        The air in the room tightened. Yelena’s lips parted slightly, the shadow of an emotion passed on her face, too fast to read. Solara’s pulse kicked up.

        “Where are they?” she asked.

        Janos met her gaze. “Koval’s office.”

        For a moment, silence. The wind rattled the windowpanes.

        Yelena straightened abruptly, setting her tablet down with a deliberate motion. “There’s nothing more I can do for your shoulder. And I’m coming too,” she said, already reaching for her coat.

        Solara grabbed her jacket. “Take us there, Janos.”

        #7843

        Helix 25 – Space Tai Chi and Mass Lunacy

        The Grand Observation Atrium was one of the few places on Helix 25 where people would come and regroup from all strata of the ship —Upper Decks, Lower Decks, even the more elusive Hold-dwellers— there were always groups of them gathered for the morning sessions without any predefined roles.

        In the secular tradition of Chinese taichi done on public squares, a revival of this practice has started few years ago all thanks to Grand Master Sifu Gou quiet stubborn consistency to practice in the early light of the artificial day, that gradually had attracted followers, quietly and awkwardly joining to follow his strange motions. The unions, ever eager to claim a social victory and seeing an opportunity to boost their stature, petitioned to make this a right, and succeeded, despite the complaints from the cleaning staff who couldn’t do their jobs (and jogs) in the late night while all passengers had gone to sleep, apart from the night owls and party goers.

        In short, it was a quiet moment of communion, and it was now institutionalised, whether Sifu Gou had wanted it or not.

        The artificial gravity fluctuated subtly here, closer to the artificial gravitational core, in a way that could help attune people to feel their balance shift, even in absence of the Earth’s old pull.

        It was simply perfect for Space Tai Chi.

        A soft chime signaled the start of the session. Grand Master Gou, in the Helix 25’s signature milk-silk fabric pajamas, silver-haired and in a quiet poise, stood at the center of the open-air space beneath the reinforced glass dome, where Jupiter loomed impossibly large beyond the ship, its storms shifting in slow, eternal violence. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands bearing a weight that flowed improbably in the thinness of the gravity shifts.

        “To find one’s center,” he intoned, “is to find the center of all things. The ship moves, and so do we. You need to feel the center of gravity and use it —it is our guide.”

        A hundred bodies followed in various degrees of synchrony, from well-dressed Upper Deck philosophers to the manutentioners and practical mechanics of the Lower Decks in their uniforms who stretched stiff shoulders between shift rotations. There was something mesmerizing about the communal movement, that even the ship usually a motionless background, seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as though their motions echoed through space.

        Every morning, for this graceful moment, Helix 25 felt like a true utopia.

        That was without counting when the madness began.

        :fleuron2:

        The Gossip Spiral

        “Did you hear about Sarawen?” hissed a woman in a flowing silk robe.
        “The Lexican?” gasped another.
        “Yes. Gave birth last night.”
        “What?! Already? Why weren’t we informed?”
        “Oh, she kept it very quiet. Didn’t even invite anyone to the naming.”
        “Disgraceful. And where are her two husbands? Following her everywhere. Suspicious if you ask me.”

        A grizzled Lower Deck worker grunted, still trying to follow Master Gou’s movement. “Why would she invite people to see her water break? Sounds unhygienic.”

        This earned a scandalized gasp from an Upper Decker. “Not the birth—the ceremony! Honestly, you Lower Deck folk know nothing of tradition.”

        Wisdom Against Wisdom

        Master Gou was just finishing an elegant and powerful sweep of his arms when Edeltraut Snoot, a self-proclaimed philosopher from Quadrant B, pirouetted herself into the session with a flamboyant twirl.

        “Ah, my dear glowing movement-makers! Thou dost align thine energies with the artificial celestial pull, and yet! And yet! Dost thou not see—this gravity is but a fabrication! A lie to lull thee into believing in balance when there is none!”

        Master Gou paused, blinking, impassive, suspended in time and space, yet intently concentrated. Handling such disturbances of the force gracefully, unperturbed, was what the practice was about. He resumed as soon as Edeltraut moved aside to continue her impassionate speech.

        “Ah yiii! The Snoot Knows. Oh yes. Balance is an illusion sold to us by the Grand Micromanagers, the Whymen of the Ever-Hungry Order. Like pacmaniacs, they devour structure and call it stability. And we! We are but rabbits, forced to hop through their labyrinth of rules!”

        Someone muttered, “Oh no, it’s another of those speeches.”

        Another person whispered, “Just let her talk, it’s easier.”

        The Snoot lady continued, undeterred. “But we? Oh, we are not merely rabbits. We are the mist in the hedge! The trick in their tale! We evade! We escape! And when they demand we obey their whys—we vanish!”

        By now, half the class had abandoned their movements entirely, mesmerized by the absurdity. The other half valiantly continued the Space taichi routine while inching away.

        Master Gou finally closed the form, then sighed intently, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us… return to our breath.”

        More Mass Lunacy 

        It started as a low murmur, a shifting agitation in the crowd. Then, bickering erupted like a solar flare.

        “I can’t find my center with all this noise!”
        “Oh shut up, you’ve never had a center.”
        “Who took my water flask?!”
        “Why is this man so close to me?!”
        “I am FLOATING?! HELP!”

        Synthia’s calm, omnipresent voice chimed in overhead.

        “For your well-being, an emergency dose of equilibrium supplements will be dispensed.”

        Small white pills rained from overhead dispensers.

        Instead of calming people down, this only increased the chaos.

        Some took the pills immediately, while others refused on principle.
        Someone accused the Lexicans of hoarding pills.
        Two men got into a heated debate over whether taking the pills was an act of submission to the AI overlords.
        A woman screamed that her husband had vanished, only to be reminded that he left her twelve years ago.
        Someone swore they saw a moon-sized squid in the sky.

        The Unions and the Leopards

        Near the edges of the room, two quadrant bosses from different labor unions were deep in mutual grumbling.

        “Bloody management.”
        “Agreed, even if they don’t call themselves that any longer, it’s still bloody management.”
        “Damn right. MICRO-management.”
        “Always telling us to be more efficient, more aligned, more at peace.”
        “Yeah, well, who the hell voted for peace?! I preferred it when we just argued in the corridors!”

        One of them scowled. “That’s the problem, mate. We fought for this, better conditions, and what did we get? More rules, more supervisors! Who knew that the Leopards-Eating-People’s-Faces Party would, y’know—eat our own bloody faces?!”

        The other snorted. “We demanded stability, and now we have so much stability we can’t move without filling out a form with all sorts of dumb questions. You know I have to submit a motion request before taking a piss?”

        “…seriously?”

        “Dead serious. Takes an eternity to fill. And four goddamn business hours for approval.”

        “That’s inhumane.”

        “Bloody right it is.”

        At that moment, Synthia’s voice chimed in again.

        “Please be advised: Temporary gravitational shifts are normal during orbital adjustments. Equilibrium supplements have been optimized. Kindly return to your scheduled calm.”

        The Slingshot Begins

        The whole ship gave a lurch, a gravitational hiccup as Helix 25 completed its slingshot maneuver around the celestial body.

        Bodies swayed unnaturally. Some hovered momentarily, shrieking.
        Someone declared that they had achieved enlightenment.
        Someone else vomited.

        Master Gou sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “We should invent retirement for old Masters. People can’t handle their shit during those Moonacies. Months of it ahead, better focus on breath more.”

        Snoot Lady, still unaffected, spread her arms wide and declared:
        “And so, the rabbit prevails once again!”

        Evie, passing by on her way to the investigation, took one look at the scene of absolute madness and turned right back around.

        “Yeah. Nope. Not this morning. Back to the Murder Board.”

        #7841

        Klyutch Base – an Unknown Signal

        The flickering green light on the old console pulsed like a heartbeat.

        Orrin Holt leaned forward, tapping the screen. A faint signal had appeared on their outdated long-range scanners—coming from the coastline near the Black Sea. He exchanged a glance with Commander Koval, the no-nonsense leader of Klyutch Base.

        “That can’t be right,” muttered Janos Varga, Solara’s husband who was managing the coms’ beside him. “We haven’t picked up anything out of the coast in years.”

        Koval grunted like an irate bear, then exhaled sharply. “It’s not our priority. We already lost track of the fools we were following at the border. Let them go. If they went south, they’ve got bigger problems.”

        Outside, a distant roar sliced through the cold dusk—a deep, guttural sound that rattled the reinforced windows of the command room.

        Orrin didn’t flinch. He’d heard it before.

        It was the unmistakable cry of a pack of sanglions— лев-кабан lev-kaban as the locals called the monstrous mutated beasts, wild vicious boars as ferocious as rabid lions that roamed Hungary’s wilds— and they were hunting. If the escapees had made their way there, they were as good as dead.

        “Can’t waste the fuel chasing ghosts,” Koval grunted.

        But Orrin was still watching the blip on the screen. That signal had no right to be there, nothing was left in this region for years.

        “Sir,” he said slowly, “I don’t think this is just another lost survivor. This frequency—it’s old. Military-grade. And repeating. Someone wants to be found.”

        A beat of silence. Then Koval straightened.

        “You better be right Holt. Everyone, gear up.”

        Merdhyn – Lazurne Coastal Island — The Signal Tossed into Space

        Merdhyn Winstrom wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers still trembling from the final connection. He’d made a ramshackle workshop out of a crumbling fishing shack on the deserted islet near Lazurne. He wasn’t one to pay too much notice to the mess or anythings so pedestrian —even as the smell of rusted metal and stale rations had started to overpower the one of sea salt and fish guts.

        The beacon’s old circuitry had been a nightmare, but the moment the final wire sparked to life, he had known that the old tech had awoken: it worked.

        The moment it worked, for the first time in decades, the ancient transponder from the crashed Helix 57 lifeboat had sent a signal into the void.

        If someone was still out there, something was bound to hear it… it was a matter of time, but he had the intuition that he may even get an answer back.

        Tuppence, the chatty rat had returned on his shoulder to nestle in the folds of his makeshift keffieh, but squeaked in protest as the old man let out a half-crazed, victorious laugh.

        “Oh, don’t give me that look, you miserable blighter. We just opened the bloody door.”

        Beyond the broken window, the coastline stretched into the grey horizon. But now… he wasn’t alone.

        A sharp, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the distance.

        Helicopters.

        He stepped outside, the biting wind lashing at his face, and watched the dark shapes appear on the horizon—figures moving through the low mist.

        Armed. Military-like.

        The men from the nearby Klyutch Base had found him.

        Merdhyn grinned, utterly unfazed by their weapons or the silent threat in their stance. He lifted his trembling, grease-stained hands and pointed back toward the wreckage of Helix 57 behind him.

        “Well then,” he called, voice almost cheerful, “reckon you lot might have the spare parts I need.”

        The soldiers hesitated. Their weapons didn’t lower.

        Merdhyn, however, was already walking toward them, rambling as if they’d asked him the most natural of questions.

        “See, it’s been a right nightmare. Power couplings were fried. Comms were dead. And don’t get me started on the damn heat regulators. But you lot? You might just be the final missing piece.”

        Commander Koval stepped forward, assessing the grizzled old man with the gleam of a genuine mad genius in his eyes.

        Orrin Holt, however, wasn’t looking at the wreck.

        His eyes were on the beacon.

        It was still pulsing, but its pulse had changed — something had been answering back.

        #7840

        Helix 25 — Aftermath of the Solar Flare Alert

        The Second Murder

        It didn’t take them long to arrive at the scene, Riven alerted by a distraught Finkley who’d found the body.

        Evie knelt beside the limp, twitching form of Mandrake, his cybernetic collar flickering erratically, tiny sparks dancing along its edge. The cat’s body convulsed, its organic parts frozen in eerie stillness while the cybernetic half stuttered between functions, blinking in and out of awareness.

        Mandrake was both dead and not dead.

        “Well, this is unsettling,” TP quipped, materializing beside them with an exaggerated frown. “A most profound case of existential uncertainty. Schrödinger himself would have found this delightful—if he weren’t very much confirmed dead.”

        Riven crouched, running a scanner over Mandrake’s collar. The readout spat out errors. “Neural link’s corrupted. He’s lost something.”

        Evie’s stomach twisted. “Lost what? But… he can be repaired, surely, can’t he?”

        Evan replied with a sigh “Hard to tell how much damage he’s suffered, but we caught him in time thanks to Finkley’s reflexes, he may stand a chance, even if he may need to be reprogrammed.”

        Mandrake’s single functioning eye flickered open, its usual sharpness dull. Then, rasping, almost disjointedly, he muttered:

        “I was… murdered.”

        Then his system crashed, leaving nothing but silence.

        Upper Decks Carnival

        Sue was still adjusting her hat and feathers for the Carnival Party wondering if that would be appropriate as she was planning to go to the wake first, and then to the Lexican’s baby shower. It wasn’t every day there was a baby nowadays. And a boy too. But then, there was no such thing as being overdressed in her book.

        The ship’s intercom crackled to life, cutting through her thoughts, its automated cheerfulness electrifying like a misplaced party horn.

        “Attention, dear passengers! As scheduled, with the solar flare now averted, we are preparing for our return to Earth. Please enjoy the journey and partake in today’s complimentary hibiscus tea at the Grand Hall! Samba!”

        The words ‘return to Earth’ sent a shudder through Sue’s spine. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.

        A sudden pulse of static in her artificial limb made her flinch. A garbled transmission—so faint she almost dismissed it—whispered through her internal interface, that was constantly scanning hacking through the data streams of the ship, and having found critical intel that was quickly being scrubbed by the maintenance system.

        Signal detected…
        Beacon coordinates triangulating…
        …origin: Earth…

        Her breath stopped. Sue had spent years pretending she knew everything, but this… was something else entirely.

        She got the odd and ominous feeling that Synthia was listening.

        Quadrant B – The Wake of Mr. Herbert

        The air in the gathering hall was thick with preservative floral mist—the result of enthusiastic beauticians who had done their best to restore and rehydrate the late Mr. Herbert to some semblance of his former self.

        And yet, despite their efforts, he still looked vaguely like a damp raisin in a suit.

        Gloria adjusted her shawl and whispered to Sharon, “He don’t look half bad, does he?”

        Sharon squinted. “Oh, love, I’d say he looks at least three-quarters bad.”

        Marlowe Sr. stood by the casket, his posture unnervingly rigid, as if he were made of something more fragile than bone. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “Ethan.”

        He was in no condition for a speech— only able to utter the name.

        Gloria dabbed her eyes, nudging Mavis. “I reckon this is the saddest thing I’ve seen since they discontinued complimentary facials at the spa.”

        Mavis sniffed. “And yet, they say he’ll be composted by next Tuesday. Bloody efficient, innit?”

        Marlowe didn’t hear them.

        Because at that moment, as he stared at his son’s face, the realization struck him like a dying star—this was no mistake. This was something bigger.

        And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of knowing too much.

        He would have to wake and talk to the Captain. She would know what to do.

        #7837

        The village lay huddled before them, appearing like a mirage as they reached the top of the rise. Habitation always looks so picturesque when it’s been taken over by nature, Molly thought, by no means for the first time. Even before the collapse, she had penchant for overgrown abandoned ruins.  Vines and ivy rampaged gleefully over the houses, softening the hard outlines, and saplings reached for the sky through crumbling roofs.

        The survivors had stopped on the low hill to survey the scene, but soon they were rushing down towards the village to explore. As they came closer they could see all the cucumbers and courgettes dangling from the festoons of vines.  Molly had visions of cucumber sandwiches on delicate thin sliced white bread with a piping hot pot of tea.  But a waterey tasteless courgette soup will have to do, I suppose.

        It was mid afternoon but there was no debate about continuing the journey that day.  There were all the houses to search, and several shops, and more importantly, shelter for the night. The rain clouds were approaching from the east.

        The church was chosen as a base camp as it was spacious enough to accomodate them all and the roof was intact, all but for the collapsed wooden tower which would provide wood for a fire.  Lev and Luka set to work organising the space inside the church, supervised by Molly, Gregor and Petro, who wanted to rest. The others had dumped their bags and gone off to explore the buildings for supplies and forage in the overgrown gardens.

        Tundra, happy that for once the responsibility of finding food was shared with so many other people, indulged her curiosity to just snoop around aimlessly. Clambering over a crumbling wooden porch, she pushed open what remained of a peeling door and stepped carefully inside.  Venturing around the edges of the room, she peered at all the faded and warped framed photographs on the walls, portraits and family groups, wondering about the family who had lived here. There was a tray on a side table inscribed with Greetings from Niagara Falls! in a jolly cursive script, and an odd shaped rusting metal object with the words Souvenir de la tour Eiffel.

        Slowly Tundra toured the house, inspecting all the objects in the rooms.  Gingerly she made her way up the stairs, testing each riser before committing her weight to it.  In a small bedroom packed with decomposing plastic bags and cardboard boxes spilling their assorted contents, she came upon a pile of letters and postcards, yellowy and curling, with mouse nibbled edges.  Molly had told her about grandads postcard collection, but he’d taken it with him and she’d never seen them herself. I wonder what happened to that ship? Is my grandad still alive? Tundra sighed. Maybe he’ll come back one day.  And my dad.

        Tundra postcards

        Sitting on the floor, Tundra sorted out the intact postcards from the badly damaged ones.  She would take them with her to look at later, maybe ask the others what they knew of all the pictured places.

        #7833

        “We were heading that way anyway,” Molly informed the others.  She was  pleased with the decision to head towards Hungary, or what used to be known as Hungary.

        Slowly heading that way,” interjected Tundra.  “We spent years roaming around Ukraine and never saw a sign of survivors anywhere.”

        “And I wanted to go home,” continued Molly. “Or try to, anyway. I’m very old, you know,” she added, as if they might not have noticed.

        “I’ve never even been outside Ukraine,” said Yulia. “How exciting!”

        Anya gave her a withering look. “You can send some postcards,” she said which caused a general tittering about the absurdity of the idea.

        Yulia returned the look and said sharply, ” I plan to draw in my sketchbook all the new sights.”

        “While we’re foraging for food and building campfires and washing our knickers in streams?” snorted Finja.

        “Does anyone actually know where this city is that we’re heading for? And the way there?” asked Gregor, “Because if it’s any help,” he added, rummaging in his backpack, “I saved this.” Triumphantly we waved a battered old folded map.

        Gregor map

         

        It was the first time in years that anyone had paid the old man any attention. Mikhail, Anya and Jian rushed over to him, eager to have a look. As their hands reached for the fragile map, Gregor clapsed it close to his chest, savouring his moment of glory.

        “Ha!” he said, “Ha! Nobody wanted paper maps, but I knew it would come in handy one day!”

        “Well done, Gregor” Molly said loudly. “A man after my own heart! I also have a paper map!”  Tundra beamed happily at her great grandmother.

        An excited buzz of murmuring swept through the gathered group.

        “Ok, calm down everyone.” Anya stepped in to organise the situation. “Someone spread out a blanket. Let’s have a look at these maps ~ carefully! Stand back, everyone.”

        Reluctantly, Molly and Gregor handed the maps to Anya, allowing her to slowly open them and spread them out. The folds had worn away completely in parts. Pebbles were collected to hold down the corners and protect the delicate paper from the breeze.

        “Here, look” Mikhail pointed. “Here’s where we were at the asylum. Middle of nowhere. And here,” he pointed to a position slightly westwards, “Is where we are now.  As you can see, the Hungarian border is close.”

        “Where was that truck heading?” asked Vera.

        Mikhail frowned and pored over the map. “Eastwards is all we can say for sure. Probably in the direction of Mukachevo, but Molly and Tundra said there were no survivors there. We just don’t know.”

        “Yet,” added Jian, a man of few words.

        “And where are we aiming for?”  asked Finja.

        “Nyíregyháza,” replied Mikhail, pointing at the map. “Should take us three or four days. Maybe a bit longer,” he added, glancing at Molly and Gregor.

        “You’ll not outwalk Berlingo,” Molly snorted, “And I for one will be jolly glad to get back to some places that I can pronounce. And spell. Never did get a grip on that Cyrillic, I’d have been lost without Tundra.”  Tundra beamed again at her grandmother.  “And Hungarian names are only a tad better.”

        “I can help you there,” Petro spoke up for the first time.

        “You, help?” Anya said in astonishment, ” All you’ve ever done is complain!”

        “Nobody has ever needed me, that’s why. I’m Hungarian. Surprised, are you? Nobody ever wanted to know where I was from. Nobody ever wanted my help with anything.”

        “We’re all very glad you can help us now, Petro,” Molly said kindly, throwing a severe glance around the group.  Tundra beamed proudly at Molly again.

        “It’s an easy enough journey,” Petro addressed Molly directly, “Mostly agricultural plains. Well, they were agricultural anyway. Might be a good chance of feral chickens and self propagated crops, and the like.  Finding water shouldn’t be a problem either.  Used to be a lovely area,” Petro grew wistful. “I might go back to my village,” his voice trailed off as his mind returned to his childhood. “Never thought I’d ever see it again.”

        “Well never mind that now,” Anya butted in rudely, “We need to make a start.” She began to carefully fold up the maps.

        #7828

        Helix 25 – The Murder Board

        Evie sat cross-legged on the floor of her cramped workspace, staring at the scattered notes, datapads, and threads taped to the wall. Finding some yarn on the ship had not been as easy as she thought, but it was a nice touch she thought.

        The Murder Board, as Riven Holt had started calling it, was becoming an increasingly frustrating mess of unanswered questions.

        Riven stood nearby, arms crossed, with a an irritated skepticism. “Almost a week,” he muttered. “We’re no closer than when we started.”

        Evie exhaled sharply. “Then let’s go back to the basics.”

        She tapped the board, where the crime scene was crudely sketched. The Drying Machine. Granary. Jardenery. Blood that shouldn’t exist.

        She turned to Riven. “Alright, let’s list it out. Who are our suspects?”

        He looked at his notes, dejected for a moment; “too many, obviously.” Last census on the ship was not accurate by far, but by all AI’s accounts cross-referenced with Finkley’s bots data, they estimated the population to be between 15,000 and 50,000. Give or take.

        They couldn’t interview possibly all of them, all the more since there the interest in the murder had waned very rapidly. Apart from the occasional trio of nosy elderly ladies, the ship had returned mostly to the lull of the day-to-day routine.
        So they’d focused on a few, and hoped TP’s machine brain could see patterns where they couldn’t.

        1. First, the Obvious Candidates: People with Proximity to the Crime Scene
          Romualdo, the Gardener – Friendly, unassuming. He lends books, grows plants, and talks about Elizabeth Tattler novels. But Herbert visited him often. Why?
          Dr. Amara Voss – The geneticist. Her research proves the Crusader DNA link, but could she be hiding more? Despite being Evie’s godmother, she couldn’t be ruled out just yet.
          Sue Forgelot – The socialite with connections everywhere. She had eluded their request for interviews. —does she know more than she lets on?
          The Cleaning Staff – they had access everywhere. And the murder had a clean elegance to it…
        2. Second, The Wild Cards: People with Unknown Agendas
          The Lower Deck Engineers – Talented mechanic, with probable cybernetic knowledge, with probable access to unauthorized modifications. Could they kill for a reason, or for hire?
          Zoya Kade and her Followers – They believe Helix 25 is on a doomed course, manipulated by a long-dead tycoon’s plan. Would they kill to force exposure of an inconvenient truth?
          The Crew – Behind the sense of duty and polite smiles, could any of them be covering something up?
        3. Third, The AI Factor: Sentient or Insentient?
          Synthia, the AI – Controls the ship. Omnipresent. Can see everything, and yet… didn’t notice or report the murder. Too convenient.
          Other personal AIs – Like Trevor Pee’s programme, most had in-built mechanisms to make them incapable of lying or harming humans. But could one of their access be compromised?

        Riven frowned. “And what about Herbert himself? Who was he, really? He called himself Mr. Herbert, but the cat erm… Mandrake says that wasn’t his real name. If we figure out his past, maybe we find out why he was killed.”

        Evie rubbed her temples. “We also still don’t know how he was killed. The ship’s safety systems should have shut the machine down. But something altered how the system perceived him before he went in.”

        She gestured to another note. “And there’s still the genetic link. What was Herbert doing with Crusader DNA?”

        A heavy silence settled between them.

        Then TP’s voice chimed in. “Might I suggest an old detective’s trick? When stumped, return to who benefits.”

        Riven exhaled. “Fine. Who benefits from Herbert’s death?”

        Evie chewed the end of her stylus. “Depends. If it was personal, the killer is on this ship, and it’s someone who knew him. If it was bigger than Herbert, then we’re dealing with something… deeper.”

        TP hummed. “I do hate deeper mysteries. They tend to involve conspiracies, misplaced prophecies, and far too many secret societies.”

        Evie and Riven exchanged a glance.

        Riven sighed. “We need a break.”

        Evie scoffed. “Time means nothing here.”

        Riven gestured out the window. “Then let’s go see it. The Sun.”

        Helix 25 – The Sun-Gazing Chamber

        The Sun-Gazing Chamber was one of Helix 25’s more poetic and yet practical inventions —an optically and digitally-enhanced projection of the Sun, positioned at the ship’s perihelion. It was meant to provide a psychological tether, a sense of humanity’s connection to the prime provider of life as they drifted in the void of the Solar System.
        It was a beautifully designed setting where people would simply sit and relax, attuned to the shift of days and nights as if still on Earth. The primary setting had been voted to a massive 83.5% to be like in Hawai’i latitude and longitude, as its place was believed to be a reflection of Earth’s heart. That is was a State in the USA was a second thought of course.

        Evie sat on the observation bench, staring at the massive, golden sphere suspended in the darkness. “Do you think people back on Earth are still watching the sunrise?” she murmured.

        Riven was quiet for a moment. “If there’s anyone left.”

        Evie frowned. “If they are, I doubt they got much of a choice.”

        TP materialized beside them, adjusting his holographic tie. “Ah, the age-old existential debate: are we the lucky ones who left Earth, or the tragic fools who abandoned it?”

        Evie ignored him, glancing at the other ship residents in the chamber. Most people just sat quietly, basking in the light. But she caught snippets of whispers, doubt, something spreading through the ranks.

        “Some people think we’re not really where they say we are,” she muttered.

        Riven raised an eyebrow. “What, like conspiracy theories?”

        TP scoffed. “Oh, you mean the Flat-Earthers?” He tsked. “Who couldn’t jump on the Helix lifeboats for their lives, convinced as they were we couldn’t make it to the stars. They deserved what came to them. Next they’ll be saying Helix 25 never even launched and we’re all just trapped in a simulation of a luxury cruise.”

        Evie was shocked at Trevor Pee’s eructation and rubbed her face. “Damn Effin Muck tech, and those “Truth Control” rubbish datasets. I thought I’d thoroughly scrubbed all the old propaganda tech from the system.”

        “Ah,” TP said, “but conspiracies are like mold. Persistent. Annoying. Occasionally toxic.”

        Riven shook his head. “It’s nonsense. We’re moving. We’ve been moving for decades.”

        Evie didn’t look convinced. “Then why do we feel stuck?”

        A chime interrupted them.

        A voice, over the comms. Solar flare alert. 

        Evie stiffened.

        Then: Stay calm and return to your quarters until further notice.

        Evie raised an eyebrow. This was the first time something like that happened. She turned to Riven who was looking at his datapad who was flashing and buzzing.

        He said to her: “Stay quiet and come with me, a new death has been reported. Crazy coincidence. It’s just behind the Sun-Gazing chamber actually, in the Zero-G sector.”

        #7822

        Helix 25 – Gentle Utopia at Upper Decks

        The Upper Decks of Helix 25 were a marvel of well-designed choreography and engineered tranquility. Life here was made effortless, thanks to an artful curation of everyday problems. Climate control ensured the air was always crisp, with just enough variation to keep the body alert, while maintaining a perfect balance of warm and cool, hygrometry, with no crazy seasons or climate change upheaval to disrupt the monotony. Food dispensers served gourmet meals for every individual preferences —decadent feasts perfectly prepared at the push of a button. The Helix cruise starships were designed for leisure, an eternity of comfort — and it had succeeded.

        For the average resident, the days blended into one another in an animated swirl of hobbyist pursuits. There were the Arboretum Philosophers, who debated meaningfully over the purpose of existence while sipping floral-infused teas. There were the Artisans, who crafted digital masterpieces that vanished into the ship’s archives as soon as they were complete. There were the Virtual Adventurers, who lived entire lifetimes in fully immersive life-like simulations, all while reclining on plush lounges, connected to their brain chips courtesy of Muck Industries.

        And then, there were Sharon, Gloria, and Mavis.

        Three old ladies who, by all accounts, should have spent their days knitting and reminiscing about their youth, but instead had taken it upon themselves to make Helix 25 a little more interesting.

        :fleuron2:

        “Another marvelous day, ladies,” Sharon declared as she strolled along the gilded walkway of the Grand Atrium, a cavernous space filled with floating lounges and soft ambient music. The ceiling was a perfect replica of a sky—complete with drifting, lazy clouds and the occasional simulated flock of birds. Enough to make you almost forget you were in a closed fully-controlled environment.

        Mavis sighed, adjusting her gaudy, glittering shawl. “It’s too marvelous, if you ask me. Bit samey, innit? Not even a good scandal to shake things up.”

        Gloria scoffed. “Pah! That’s ‘cause we ain’t lookin’ hard enough. Did you hear about that dreadful business down in the Granary? Dried ‘im up like an apricot, they did. Disgustin’.”

        Dreadful,” Sharon agreed solemnly. “And not a single murder for decades, you know. We were overdue.”

        Mavis clutched her pearls. “You make it sound like a good thing.”

        Gloria waved a dismissive hand. “I’m just sayin’, bit of drama keeps people from losing their minds. No offense, but how many decades of spa treatments can a person endure before they go barmy?”

        They passed a Wellness Lounge, where a row of residents were floating in Zero-G Hydrotherapy Pods, their faces aglow with Rejuvenex™ Anti-Aging Serum. Others lounged under mild UV therapy lamps, soaking up synthetic vitamin D while attendants rubbed nutrient-rich oils into their wrinkle-free skin.

        Mavis peered at them. “Y’know, I swear some of ‘em are the same age as when we boarded.”

        Gloria sniffed. “Not the same, Mavis. Just better preserved.”

        Sharon tapped her lips, thoughtful. “I always wondered why we don’t have crime ‘ere. I mean, back on Earth, it were all fights, robbery, someone goin’ absolutely mental over a parking space—”

        Gloria nodded. “It’s ‘cause we ain’t got money, Sha. No money, no stress, see? Everyone gets what they need.”

        Needs? Glo, love, people here have twelve-course meals and private VR vacations to Ancient Rome! I don’t reckon that counts as ‘needs’.”

        “Well, it ain’t money, exactly,” Mavis pondered, “but we still ‘ave credits, don’t we?”

        :fleuron2:

        They fell into deep philosophical debates —or to say, their version of it.

        Currency still existed aboard Helix 25, in a way. Each resident had a personal wealth balance, a digital measure of their social contributions—creative works, mentorship, scientific discovery, or participation in ship maintenance (for those who actually enjoyed labor, an absurd notion to most Upper Deckers). It wasn’t about survival, not like on the Lower Decks or the Hold, but about status. The wealthiest weren’t necessarily the smartest or the strongest, but rather those who best entertained or enriched the community.

        :fleuron2:

        Gloria finally waved her hand dismissively. “Point is, they keep us comfortable so we don’t start thinkin’ about things too much. Keep us occupied. Like a ship-sized cruise, but forever.”

        Mavis wrinkled her nose. “A bit sinister, when you put it like that.”

        “Well, I didn’t say it were sinister, I just said it were clever.” Gloria sniffed. “Anyway, we ain’t the ones who need entertainin’, are we? We’ve got a mystery on our hands.”

        Sharon clapped excitedly. “Ooooh yes! A real mystery! Ain’t it thrillin’?”

        “A proper one,” Gloria agreed. “With dead bodies an’ secrets an’—”

        “—murder,” Mavis finished, breathless.

        The three of them sighed in unison, delighted at the prospect.

        They continued their stroll past the Grand Casino & Theatre, where a live orchestral simulation played for a well-dressed audience. Past the Astronomer’s Lounge, where youngster were taught to chart the stars that Helix 25 would never reach. Past the Crystal Arcade, where another group of youth of the ship enjoyed their free time on holographic duels and tactical board games.

        So much entertainment. So much luxury.

        So much designed distraction.

        Gloria stopped suddenly, narrowing her eyes. “You ever wonder why we ain’t heard from the Captain in years?”

        Sharon and Mavis stopped.

        A hush fell over them.

        Mavis frowned. “I thought you said the Captain were an idea, not a person.”

        “Well, maybe. But if that’s true, who’s actually runnin’ the show?” Gloria folded her arms.

        They glanced around, as if expecting an answer from the glowing Synthia panels embedded in every wall.

        For the first time in a long while, they felt watched.

        “…Maybe we oughta be careful,” Sharon muttered.

        Mavis shivered. “Oh, Glo. What ‘ave you gotten us into this time?”

        Gloria straightened her collar. “Dunno yet, love. But ain’t it excitin’?”

        :fleuron2:

        “With all the excitment, I almost forgot to tell you about that absolutely ghastly business,” Gloria declared, moments later, at the Moonchies’ Café, swirling her lavender-infused tea. “Watched a documentary this morning. About man-eating lions of Njombe.”

        Sharon gasped, clutching her pearls. “Man eating lions?!”

        Mavis blinked. “Wait. Man-eating lions, or man eating lions?”

        There was a pause.

        Gloria narrowed her eyes. “Mavis, why in the name of clotted cream would I be watchin’ a man eating lions?”

        Mavis shrugged. “Well, I dunno, do I? Maybe he ran out of elephants.”

        Sharon nodded sagely. “Yes, happens all the time in those travel shows.”

        Gloria exhaled through her nose. “It’s not a travel show, Sha. And it’s not fiction.”

        Mavis scoffed. “You sure? Sounds ridiculous.”

        “Not as ridiculous as a man sittin’ down to a plate of roast lion chops,” Gloria shot back.

        Mavis tilted her head. “Maybe it’s in a recipe book?”

        Gloria slammed her teacup down. “I give up. I absolutely give up.”

        Sharon patted her hand. “There, there, Glo. You can always watch somethin’ lighter tomorrow. Maybe a nice documentary about man-eating otters.”

        Mavis grinned. “Or man eating otters.”

        Gloria inhaled deeply, resisting the urge to upend her tea.

        This, this was why Helix 25 had never known war.

        No one had the time.

        #7789

        Helix 25 – Poop Deck – The Jardenery

        Evie stepped through the entrance of the Jardenery, and immediately, the sterile hum of Helix 25’s corridors faded into a world of green. Of all the spotless clean places on the ship, it was the only where Finkley’s bots tolerated the scent of damp earth. A soft rustle of hydroponic leaves shifting under artificial sunlight made the place an ecosystem within an ecosystem, designed to nourrish both body and mind.

        Yet, for all its cultivated serenity, today it was a crime scene. The Drying Machine was connected to the Jardenery and the Granary, designed to efficiently extract precious moisture for recycling, while preserving the produce.

        Riven Holt, walking beside her, didn’t share her reverence. “I don’t see why this place is relevant,” he muttered, glancing around at the towering bioluminescent vines spiraling up trellises. “The body was found in the drying machine, not in a vegetable patch.”

        Evie ignored him, striding toward the far corner where Amara Voss was hunched over a sleek terminal, frowning at a glowing screen. The renowned geneticist barely noticed their approach, her fingers flicking through analysis results faster than human eyes could process.

        A flicker of light.

        “Ah-ha!” TP materialized beside Evie, adjusting his holographic lapels. “Madame Voss, I must say, your domain is quite the delightful contrast to our usual haunts of murder and mystery.” He twitched his mustache. “Alas, I suspect you are not admiring the flora?”

        Amara exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples, not at all surprised by the holographic intrusion. She was Evie’s godmother, and had grown used to her experiments.

        “No, indeed. I’m admiring this.” She turned the screen toward them.

        The DNA profile glowed in crisp lines of data, revealing a sequence highlighted in red.

        Evie frowned. “What are we looking at?”

        Amara pinched the bridge of her nose. “A genetic anomaly.”

        Riven crossed his arms. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

        Amara gave him a sharp look but turned back to the display. “The sample we found at the crime scene—blood residue on the drying machine and some traces on the granary floor—matches an ancient DNA profile from my research database. A perfect match.”

        Evie felt a prickle of unease. “Ancient? What do you mean? From the 2000s?”

        Amara chuckled, then nodded grimly. “No, ancient as in Medieval ancient. Specifically, Crusader DNA, from the Levant. A profile we mapped from preserved remains centuries ago.”

        Silence stretched between them.

        Finally, Riven scoffed. “That’s impossible.”

        TP hummed thoughtfully, twirling his cane. “Impossible, yet indisputable. A most delightful contradiction.”

        Evie’s mind raced. “Could the database be corrupted?”

        Amara shook her head. “I checked. The sequencing is clean. This isn’t an error. This DNA was present at the crime scene.” She hesitated, then added, “The thing is…” she paused before considering to continue. They were all hanging on her every word, waiting for what she would say next.

        Amara continued  “I once theorized that it might be possible to reawaken dormant ancestral DNA embedded in human cells. If the right triggers were applied, someone could manifest genetic markers—traits, even memories—from long-dead ancestors. Awakening old skills, getting access to long lost secrets of states…”

        Riven looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”

        Amara exhaled. “I’m saying I don’t know. But either someone aboard has a genetic profile that shouldn’t exist, or someone created it.”

        TP’s mustache twitched. “Ah! A puzzle worthy of my finest deductive faculties. To find the source, we must trace back the lineage! And perhaps a… witness.”

        Evie turned toward Amara. “Did Herbert ever come here?”

        Before Amara could answer, a voice cut through the foliage.

        “Herbert?”

        They turned to find Romualdo, the Jardenery’s caretaker, standing near a towering fruit-bearing vine, his arms folded, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. He was a broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered skin, dressed in a simple coverall, his presence almost too casual for someone surrounded by murder investigators.

        Romualdo scratched his chin. “Yeah, he used to come around. Not for the plants, though. He wasn’t the gardening type.”

        Evie stepped closer. “What did he want?”

        Romualdo shrugged. “Questions, mostly. Liked to chat about history. Said he was looking for something old. Always wanted to know about heritage, bloodlines, forgotten things.” He shook his head. “Didn’t make much sense to me. But then again, I like practical things. Things that grow.”

        Amara blushed, quickly catching herself. “Did he ever mention anything… specific? Like a name?”

        Romualdo thought for a moment, then grinned. “Oh yeah. He asked about the Crusades.”

        Evie stiffened. TP let out an appreciative hum.

        “Fascinating,” TP mused. “Our dearly departed Herbert was not merely a victim, but perhaps a seeker of truths unknown. And, as any good mystery dictates, seekers who get too close often find themselves…” He tipped his hat. “Extinguished.”

        Riven scowled. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

        Romualdo snorted. “Sounds about right, though.” He picked up a tattered book from his workbench and waved it. “I lend out my books. Got myself the only complete collection of works of Liz Tattler in the whole ship. Doc Amara’s helping me with the reading. Before I could read, I only liked the covers, they were so romantic and intriguing, but now I can read most of them on my own.” Noticing he was making the Doctor uncomfortable, he switched back to the topic. “So yes, Herbert knew I was collector of books and he borrowed this one a few weeks ago. Kept coming back with more questions after reading it.”

        Evie took the book and glanced at the cover. The Blood of the Past: Genetic Echoes Through History by Dr. Amara Voss.

        She turned to Amara. “You wrote this?”

        Amara stared at the book, her expression darkening. “A long time ago. Before I realized some theories should stay theories.”

        Evie closed the book. “Looks like someone didn’t agree.”

        Romualdo wiped his hands on his coveralls. “Well, I hope you figure it out soon. Hate to think the plants are breathing in murder residue.”

        TP sighed dramatically. “Ah, the tragedy of contaminated air! Shall I alert the sanitation team?”

        Riven rolled his eyes. “Let’s go.”

        As they walked away, Evie’s grip tightened around the book. The deeper they dug, the stranger this murder became.

        #7788

        At first, no one noticed.

        They were still speculating about the truck—where it had come from, where it might be going, whether following it was a brilliant idea or a spectacularly bad one.

        And, after all, Finja was always muttering about something. Dust, filth, things not put back where they belonged.

        But then her voice rose till she was all but shouting.

        “Of course, they’re all savages. I don’t know how I put up with them! Honestly, I AM AT MY WIT’S END!”

        “Finja?” Anya called. “Are you okay?”

        Finja strode on, intent on her diatribe.

        “No, I don’t know where they are going,” she yelled.  “If I knew that, I probably wouldn’t be here, would I?”

        Tala hurried to catch up and stepped in front of Finja, blocking her path. “Finja, are you okay? Who are you talking to?”

        Finja sighed loudly; it was tedious. People were so obsessed with explanations.

        “If you must know,” she said, “I am conversing with my Auntie Finnley in Australia.”

        “Ooooh!” Vera’s eyes lit up. “ A relative!”

        Yulia, walking between Luka and Lev, giggled. She adored the twins and couldn’t decide which one she liked more. They were both so tall and handsome. Others found it hard to tell them apart but she always could. It was rumoured that at birth they had been joined at the hip.

        “Finja is totally bonkers,” she declared cheerfully and the twins smiled in unison.

        “I will have you know I’m not bonkers.” Finja felt deeply offended and misunderstood. “I have been communicating with Auntie Finnley since childhood. She was highly influential in my formative years.”

        “How so?” asked Tala.

        “Few people appreciate the importance of hygiene like my Auntie Finnley. She works as a cleaner at the Flying Fish Inn in the Australian Outback. Lovely establishment I gather. But terrible dust.”

        Vera nodded sagely. “A sensible place to survive the apocalypse.”

        “Exactly.” Finja rewarded her with a tight smile.

        Jian raised an eyebrow. “And she’s alive? Your aunt?”

        “I don’t converse with ghosts!” Finja waved a hand dismissively. “They all survived there thanks to the bravery of Aunt Finnley. Had to disinfect the whole inn, mind you. Said it was an absolute nightmare.” Finja shuddered at the thought of it.

        Gregor snorted. “You’re telling us you have a telepathic connection with your aunt in Australia… and she is also mostly concerned about … hygiene?”

        Finja glared at him. “Standards must be maintained,” she admonished. “Even after the end of the world.”

        “Do you talk to anyone else?” Tala asked. “Or is it just your aunt?”

        Finja regarded Tala through slitted eyes. “I’m also talking to Finkley.”

        “Where is this Finkley, dear?” asked Anja gently. “Also at the outback?”

        “OMG,” Finja said. “Can you imagine those two together?” She cackled at the thought, then pulled herself together. “No. Finkley is on the Helix 25. Practically runs it by all accounts. But also keeps it spotless, of course.”

        “Helix 25? The spaceship?” Mikhail asked, suddenly interested. He exchanged glances with Tala who shrugged helplessly.

        Yulia laughed. “She’s definitely mad!”

        “So what? Aren’t we all,” said Petro.

        Molly, who had been quietly watching with Tundra, finally spoke. “And you say they are both… cleaners?” She wasn’t sure what to make of this group. She wondered if it would be better to continue on alone with Tundra? She didn’t want to put the child in any danger.

        “Cleanliness runs in the family,” Finja said. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I was mid-conversation.”

        She closed her eyes, concentrating. The group watched with interest as her lips moved silently, her brow furrowed in deep thought.

        Then, suddenly, she opened her eyes and threw her hands in the air.

        “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she muttered. “Finkley is complaining about dust floating in low gravity. Finnley is complaining about the family not taking their boots off at the door. What a pair of whingers. At least I didn’t inherit THAT.”

        She sniffed, adjusted her backpack, and walked on.

        The others stood there for a moment, letting it all sink in.

        Gregor clapped his hands together. “That was the most wonderfully insane thing I’ve heard since the world ended.”

        Mikhail sighed. “So, we are following the direction of the truck?”

        Anya nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on Finja. The stress is getting to her, and we have no meds if it escalates.”

        #7780
        Jib
        Participant

          Orrin Holt gripped the wheel of the battered truck, his knuckles white as the vehicle rumbled over the dry, cracked road. The leather wrap was a patchwork of smooth and worn, stichted together from whatever scraps they had—much like the quilts his mother used to make before her hands gave out. The main road was a useless, unpredictable mess of asphalt gravels and sinkholes. Years of war with Russia, then the collapse, left it to rot before anyone could fix it. Orrin stuck to the dirt path beside it. That was the only safe way through. The engine coughed but held. A miracle, considering how many times it had been patched together.

          The cargo in the back was too important for a breakdown now. Medical supplies—antibiotics, painkillers, and a few salvaged vials of something even rarer. They’d traded well for it, risking much. Now he had to get it back to Base Klyutch (Ukrainian word for Key) without incident. If he continued like that he could make it before noon.

          Still, something bothered him. That group of people he’d seen.

          They had been barely more than silhouettes on top of a hill. Strangers, a rarity in these times. His first instinct had been to stop and evaluate who they were. But his instructions let room for no delay. So, he’d pushed forward and ignored them. The world wasn’t kind to the wandering. But they hadn’t looked like raiders or scavengers. Lost, perhaps. Or searching.

          The truck lurched forward as he pushed it harder. The fences of the base rose in the distance, grey and wiry against the blue sky. Base Klyutch was a former military complex, fortified over the years with scavenged materials, steel sheets, and watchtowers. It wasn’t perfect, but it kept them alive.

          As he rolled up to the main gate, the sentries swung the barricade open. Before he could fully cut the engine, a woman wearing a pristine white lab coat stepped forward, her sharp eyes scanning the truck’s cargo bed. Dr. Yelena Markova, the camp’s chief doctor, a former nurse who had to step up when the older one died in a raid on their camp three years ago. Stern-faced and wiry, with a perpetual air of exhaustion, she moved with the efficiency of someone who had long stopped hoping for ease. She had been waiting for this delivery.

          “Finally,” she murmured, motioning for her assistants to start unloading. “We were running low. This will keep us going for a while.”

          Orrin barely had time to nod before Dmytro Koval, the de facto leader of the base, strode toward him with the gait of a tall bear. His face seemed to have been carved out by a dulled blade, hardened by years of survival. A scar barred his mouth, pulling slightly at the corner when he spoke, giving the impression of a permanent sneer.

          “Did you get it?” Koval asked, voice low.

          Orrin reached into his kaki jacket and pulled out a sealed letter, along with a small package.

          Koval took both, his expression unreadable. “Anything on the road?”

          Orrin exhaled and adjusted his stance. “Saw something on the way back. A group, about a dozen, on a hill ten kilometers out. They seemed lost.”

          “Armed?” asked Koval with a frown.

          “Can’t say for sure.”

          Dr. Markova straightened. “Lost? Unarmed? Out in the open like that, they won’t last long with Sokolov’s gang roaming the land. We have to go take them in.”

          Koval grimaced. “Or they’re Sokolov’s spies. Trying to infiltrate us and find a weakness in our defenses. You know how it works.”

          Before Koval could argue, a new voice cut in. “Or they could just be people.”

          Solara Ortega had stepped into the conversation, brushing dirt from her overalls. A woman of lean strength, with the tan of someone spending long hours outside. Her sharp amber eyes carried the weight of someone who had survived too much but refused to be hardened by it. Orrin shoved down a mix of joy and ache at her sight. Her voice was calm but firm. “We can’t always assume the worst. We need more hands and we don’t leave people to die if we can help it. And in case you forgot, Koval, you don’t make all the decisions around here. I say we send a team to assess them.”

          Koval narrowed his eyes, but he held his tongue. There was tension between them, but the council wasn’t a dictatorship.

          “Fine,” Koval said after a moment, his jaw tense. “A team of two. They scout first. No direct contact until we’re sure. Orrin, you one of them take whoever wants to accompany you, but not one of my men. We need to maintain tight security.”

          Dr. Markova sighed with relief when the man left. “If he wasn’t good at what he does, I would gladly kick him out of our camp.”

          Solara, her face framed by strands of dark hair, shot a glance at Orrin. “I’m coming with you.”

          This time, Orrin couldn’t repress a longing for a time before everything fell apart, when she had been his wife. The collapse had torn them apart in an instant, and by the time he found her again, years later, she had built a new life within the base in Ukraine. She had a husband now, one of the scientists managing the radio equipment, and two children. Orrin kept his expression neutral, but the weight of time pressed heavy on him.

          “Then let’s get on the move. They might not stay there long.”

          #7778

          The truck disappeared from view as it descended into a valley.   They waited for it to reappear over the hill, but they waited in vain.  The truck had disappeared.

          “It must have been a mirage,” said Vera. “There was no truck, it was wishful thinking.”

          “I don’t think any of us were hoping to see a truck this morning, Vera,” Anya replied, “Nobody expected to see a truck, and yet we all saw one.”

          “You don’t know much about mirages then, do you. I saw a fata morgana once and so did everyone else on the beach, we weren’t all expecting to see a floating city that day either.”

          “Nobody needs to hear about that now,” Mikhail interrupted, “We need to walk over to where we saw it and look for the tyre tracks.”

          Tundra moved over to stand next to Vera and impulsively grabbed her arm. “Can you tell me about the fata morgana later? I want to see one too.”

          Vera smiled gratefully at the child and patted her shoulder.  “I’ll tell you all about it, and lots of other stories if you like.  And you can tell me all your stories, and all about your family. Is that your real granny?”

          “Great gran actually and she’s as real as any of you are,” Tundra replied, not understanding the question.

          Mikhail is right,” said Jian. Everyone turned to look at young Chinese man who rarely voiced an opinion. “We need to find out what other equipment they have. Where they came from, and where they’re going.”

          Anya clapped her hands together loudly.  “Right then, we’re all agreed.  Gather everything up and let’s go.  Mikhail, lead the way!”

          Petro made a harrumphing noise and mumbled something about nobody asking him what he thought about traipsing all over the coutryside, but he slung his bag over his shoulder and followed. What else was he to do?

          #7777

          The Survivors:

          “Well, I’ll be damned,” Gregor said, his face cracking into another toothless grin. “Beginning to think we might be the last ones.”

          “So did we.” Molly glanced nervously around at the odd assortment of people staring at her and Tundra. “I’m Molly. This is Tundra.”

          “Tundra? Like the frozen wasteland?” Yulia asked.

          Tundra nodded. “It’s because I’m strong and tough.”

          “Would you like to join us?” Tala motioned toward the fire.

          “Yes, yes, of course, ” Anya said. “Are you hungry?”

          Molly hesitated, glancing toward the edge of the clearing, where their horses stood tethered to a low branch. “We have food,” she said. “We foraged.”

          “I’d have foraged if someone didn’t keep going on about food poisoning,” Yulia muttered.

          Finja sniffed. “Forgive me for trying to keep you alive.”

          Molly watched the exchange with interest. It had been years since she’d seen people bicker over something so trivial. It was oddly comforting.

          She lowered herself slowly onto the log next to Vera. “Alright, tell me—who exactly are you lot?”

          Petro chuckled. “We’ve escaped from the asylum.”

          Molly’s face remained impassive. “Asylum?”

          “It’s okay,” Tala said quickly. “We’re mostly sane.”

          “Not completely crazy, anyway,” Yulia added cheerfully.

          “We were left behind years ago,” Anya said simply. “So we built our own kind of life.”

          A pause. Molly gave a slow nod, considering this. Vera leaned towards her eagerly.

          “Where are you from? Any noble blood?”

          Molly frowned. “Does it matter?”

          “Oh, not really,” Vera said dejectedly. “I just like knowing.”

          Tundra, warming her hands by the fire, looked at Vera. “We came from Spain.”

          Vera perked up. “Spain? Fascinating! And tell me, dear girl, have you ever traced your lineage?”

          “Just back to Molly. She’s ninety-three,” Tundra said proudly.

          Mikhail, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. “You travelled all the way from Spain?”

          Molly nodded. “A long time ago. There were more of us then… ” Her voice wavered. “We were looking for other survivors.”

          “And?”Mikhail asked.

          Molly sighed, glancing at Tundra. “We never found any.”

          ________________________________________

          That night, they took turns keeping watch, though Molly tried to reassure them there was no need.

          “At first, we did too,” she had said, shaking her head. “But there was no one…”

          By dawn, the fire had burned to embers, and the camp stirred reluctantly to life.

          They finished off the last of their cooked vegetables from the night before, while Molly and Tundra laid out a handful of foraged berries and mushrooms. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start the day.

          “Right,” Anya said, stretching. “I suppose we should get moving.” She looked at Molly and Tundra. “You’re coming with us, then? To the city?”

          Molly nodded. “If you’ll have us.”

          “We kept going and going, hoping to find people. Now we have,” Tundra said.

          “Then it’s settled,” Anya said. “We head to the city.”

          “And what exactly are we looking for?” Molly asked.

          Mikhail shrugged. “Anything that keeps us alive.”

          ________________________________________________

          It was late morning when they saw it.

          A vehicle—an old, battered truck, crawling slowly toward them.

          The sight was so absurd, so impossible, that for a moment, no one spoke.

          “That can’t be,” Molly murmured.

          The truck bounced over the uneven ground, its engine a dull, sluggish rattle. It wasn’t in good shape, but it was moving.

          #7763
          Jib
          Participant

            The corridor outside Mr. Herbert’s suite was pristine, polished white and gold, designed to impress, like most of the ship. Soft recessed lighting reflected off gilded fixtures and delicate, unnecessary embellishments.

            It was all Riven had ever known.

            His grandfather, Victor Holt, now in cryo sleep, had been among the paying elite, those who had boarded Helix 25, expecting a decadent, interstellar retreat. Riven, however had not been one of them. He had been two years old when Earth fell, sent with his aunt Seren Vega on the last shuttle to ever reach the ship, crammed in with refugees who had fought for a place among the stars. His father had stayed behind, to look for his mother.

            Whatever had happened after that—the chaos, the desperation, the cataclysm that had forced this ship to become one of humanity’s last refuges—Riven had no memory of it. He only knew what he had been told. And, like everything else on Helix 25, history depended on who was telling it.

            For the first time in his life, someone had been murdered inside this floating palace of glass and gold. And Riven, inspired by his grandfather’s legacy and the immense collection of murder stories and mysteries in the ship’s database, expected to keep things under control.

            He stood straight in front of the suite’s sealed sliding door, arms crossed on a sleek uniform that belonged to Victor Holt. He was blocking entry with the full height of his young authority. As if standing there could stop the chaos from seeping in.

            A holographic Do Not Enter warning scrolled diagonally across the door in Effin Muck’s signature font—because even crimes on this ship came branded.

            People hovered in the corridor, coming and going. Most were just curious, drawn by the sheer absurdity of a murder happening here.

            Riven scanned their faces, his muscles coiled with tension. Everyone was a potential suspect. Even the ones who usually didn’t care about ship politics.

            Because on Helix 25, death wasn’t supposed to happen. Not anymore.

            Someone broke away from the crowd and tried to push past him.

            “You’re wasting time. Young man.”

            Zoya Kade. Half scientist, half mad Prophet, all irritation. Her gold-green eyes bore into him, sharp beneath the deep lines of her face. Her mismatched layered robes shifting as she moved. Riven had no difficulty keeping the tall and wiry 83 years old woman at a distance.

            Her silver-white braid was woven with tiny artifacts—bits of old circuits, beads, a fragment of a key that probably didn’t open anything anymore. A collector of lost things. But not just trinkets—stories, knowledge, genetic whispers of the past. And now, she wanted access to this room like it was another artifact to be uncovered.

            “No one is going in.” Riven said slowly, “until we finish securing the area.”

            Zoya exhaled sharply, turning her head toward Evie, who had just emerged from the crowd, tablet in hand, TP flickering at her side.

            Evie, tell him.”

            Evie did not look pleased to be associated with the old woman. “Riven, we need access to his room. I just need…”

            Riven hesitated.

            Not for long, barely a second, but long enough for someone to notice. And of course, it was Anuí Naskó.

            They had been waiting, standing slightly apart from the others, their tall, androgynous frame wrapped in the deep-colored robes of the Lexicans, fingers lightly tapping the surface of their handheld lexicon. Observing. Listening. Their presence was a constant challenge. When Zoya collected knowledge like artifacts, Anuí broke it apart, reshaped it. To them, history was a wound still open, and it was the Lexicans duty to rewrite the truth that had been stolen.

            “Ah,” Anuí murmured, smiling slightly, “I see.”

            Riven started to tap his belt buckle. His spine stiffened. He didn’t like that tone.

            “See what, exactly?”

            Anuí turned their sharp, angular gaze on him. “That this is about control.”

            Riven locked his jaw. “This is about security.”

            “Is it?” Anuí tapped a finger against their chin. “Because as far as I can tell, you’re just as inexperienced in murder investigation as the rest of us.”

            The words cut sharp in Riven’s pride. Rendering him speechless for a moment.

            “Oh! Well said,” Zoya added.

            Riven felt heat rise to his face, but he didn’t let it show. He had been preparing himself for challenges, just not from every direction at once.

            His grip tightened on his belt, but he forced himself to stay calm.

            Zoya, clearly enjoying herself now, gestured toward Evie. “And what about them?” She nodded toward TP, whose holographic form flickered slightly under the corridor’s ligthing. “Evie and her self proclaimed detective machine here have no real authority either, yet you hesitate.”

            TP puffed up indignantly. “I beg your pardon, madame. I am an advanced deductive intelligence, programmed with the finest investigative minds in history! Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Marshall Pee Stoll…”

            Zoya lifted a hand. “Yes, yes. And I am a boar.”

            TP’s mustache twitched. “Highly unlikely.”

            Evie groaned. “Enough TP.”

            But Zoya wasn’t finished. She looked directly at Riven now. “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust Anuí. But you trust her.” She gave a node toward Evie. “Why?

            Riven felt his stomach twist. He didn’t have an answer. Or rather, he had too many answers, none of which he could say out loud. Because he did trust Evie. Because she was brilliant, meticulous, practical. Because… he wanted her to trust him back. But admitting that, showing favoritism, expecially here in front of everyone, was impossible.

            So he forced his voice into neutrality. “She has technical expertise and no political agenda about it.”

            Anuí left out a soft hmm, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but filing the information away for later.

            Evie took the moment to press forward. “Riven, we need access to the room. We have to check his logs before anything gets wiped or overwritten. If there’s something there, we’re losing valuable time just standing there arguing.”

            She was right. Damn it, she was right. Riven exhaled slowly.

            “Fine. But only you.”

            Anuí’s lips curved but just slightly. “How predictable.”

            Zoya snorted.

            Evie didn’t waste time. She brushed past him, keying in a security override on her tablet. The suite doors slid open with a quiet hiss.

            #7737

            Evie stared at TP, waiting for further elaboration. He simply steepled his fingers and smirked, a glitchy picture of insufferable patience.

            “You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and leave it hanging,” she said.

            “But my dear Evie, I must!” TP declared, flickering theatrically. “For as the great Pea Stoll once mused—‘It was suspicious in a Pea Saucerer’s ways…’

            Evie groaned. “TP—”

            “A jest! A mere jest!” He twirled an imaginary cane. “And yet, what do we truly know of the elusive Mr. Herbert? If we wish to uncover his secrets, we must look into his… associations.”

            Evie frowned. “Funny you said that, I would have thought ‘means, motive, alibis’ but I must be getting ahead of myself…” He had a point. “By associations, you mean —Seren Vega?”

            “Indeed!” TP froze accessing invisible records, then clapped his hands together. “Seren Vega, archivist extraordinaire of the wondrous past, keeper resplendent of forgotten knowledge… and, if the ship’s whisperings hold any weight, a woman Herbert was particularly keen on seeing.”

            Evie exhaled, already halfway to the door. “Alright, let’s go see Seren.”

            :fleuron2:

            Seren Vega’s quarters weren’t standard issue—too many rugs, too many hanging ornaments, a hint of a passion for hoarding, and an unshakable musky scent of an animal’s den. The place felt like the ship itself had grown around it, heavy with the weight of history.

            And then, there was Mandrake.

            The bionic-enhanced cat perched on a high shelf, tail flicking, eyes glowing faintly. “What do you want?” he asked flatly, his tone dripping with a well-practiced blend of boredom and disdain.

            Evie arched a brow. “Nice to see you too, Mandrake.”

            Seren, cross-legged on a cushion, glanced up from her console. “Evie,” she greeted calmly. “And… oh no.” She sighed, already bracing herself. “You’ve brought it —what do you call him already? Orion Reed?”

            Evie replied “Great memory Ms Vega, as expected. Yes, this was the name of the beta version —this one’s improved but still working the kinks of the programme, he goes by ‘TP’ nowadays. Hope you don’t mind, he’s helping me gather clues.” She caught herself, almost telling too much to a potential suspect.

            TP puffed up indignantly. “I must protest, Madame Vega! Our past encounters, while lively, have been nothing but the height of professional discourse!”

            Mandrake yawned. “She means you talk too much.”

            Evie hid a smirk. “I need your help, Seren. It’s about Mr. Herbert.”

            Seren’s fingers paused over her console. “He’s the one they found in the dryer.” It wasn’t a question.

            Evie nodded. “What do you know about him?”

            Seren studied her for a moment, then, with a slow exhale, tapped a command into her console. The room dimmed as the walls flickered to life, displaying a soft cascade of memories—public logs, old surveillance feeds, snippets of conversations once lost to time.

            “He wasn’t supposed to be here,” Seren said at last. “He arrived without a record. No one really questioned it, because, well… no one questions much anymore. But if you looked closely, the ship never registered him properly.”

            Evie’s pulse quickened. TP let out an approving hum.

            Seren continued, scrolling through the visuals. “He came to me, sometimes. Asked about old Earth history. Strange, fragmented questions. He wanted to know how records were kept, how things could be erased.”

            Evie and TP exchanged a glance.

            Seren frowned slightly, as if piecing together a thought she hadn’t dared before. “And then… he stopped coming.”

            Mandrake, still watching from his shelf, stretched lazily. Then, with perfect nonchalance, he added, “Oh yeah. And he wasn’t using his real name.”

            Evie snapped to attention. “What?”

            The cat flicked his tail. “Mr. Herbert. The name was fake. He called himself that, but it wasn’t what the system had logged when he first stepped on board.”

            Seren turned sharply toward him. “Mandrake, you never mentioned this before.”

            The cat yawned. “You never asked.”

            Evie felt a chill roll through her. “So what was his real name?”

            Mandrake’s eyes glowed, data scrolling in his enhanced vision.

            “Something about… Ethan,” he mused. “Ethan… M.”

            The room went very still.

            Evie swallowed hard. “Ethan Marlowe?”

            Seren paled. “Ellis Marlowe’s son.”

            TP, for once, was silent.

            #7734

            It was quite dark by the time Molly and Tundra entered the woods but the firelight flickered through the trees, guiding them to the clearing.  Now that the meeting with the strangers was close, the initial excitement gave way to trepidition, particularly for Molly. Despite not seeing other people for years, the old world caution about strangers resurfaced.

            “Slow down, Tundra, we don’t want to shock them. They may be hostile,” whispered Molly.

            “Hostile? What does that mean?” asked Tundra, who had never come into contact with other people.

            Molly looked at her in amazement.  The dear innocent poppet has never known the fear of strangers in dark woods! And not once did I think to appreciate that, Molly marvelled silently.

            “Never mind that now. Come on.” No need to fill the childs head with fear.  “Haloooo!  We come in peace!” Molly shouted.  “Haloooo! We’re coming in pieces!” echoed Tundra, who was unfamiliar with the word peace, not having had any call the use the word in any conversation thus far.

            There was a pregnant silence and then an animated burble of exclamations from the clearing, and then silence again as Molly and Tundra emerged from the darkness.

            Dear god, there are so many of them.  Molly’s initial reaction was overwhelm.  She tried to look at them all individually and it made her head swim. She wondered for a moment if it would be rude to just turn around and leave. But no, it was dark already, and the rapturous excitement on Tundra’s face put paid to that idea.

            Gregor was the first to move forward. His leathery old face creased in smiles, he offered his hand to Molly.

            #7733

            Leaving the Asylum

            They argued about whether to close the heavy gates behind them. In the end, they left them open. The metal groaned as it sat ajar, rust flaking from its hinges.

            “Are we all here?” Anya asked. Now that they were leaving, she felt in charge again—or at least, she needed to be. If morale slipped, things would unravel fast. She scanned the group, counting them off.

            “Mikhail,” she started, pointing. “Tala. Vera, our esteemed historian.”

            Vera sniffed. “I prefer genealogist, thank you very much.”

            “Petro,” Anya continued, “probably about to grumble.”

            Petro scowled. “I was thinking.”

            “Jian, our mystery man.”

            Jian raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

            Anya turned to the next two. “Ah, the twins. Even though you two have never spoken, I’ve always assumed you understood me. Don’t prove me wrong now.”

            The twins—Luka and Lev—nodded and grinned at exactly the same time.

            “Then we have Yulia… no, we don’t have Yulia. Where in God’s name is Yulia?”

            “Here I am!” Yulia’s voice rang out as she jogged back toward them, breathless. “I just went to say goodbye to the cat.” She sighed dramatically. “I wish we could take him. Please, can we take him?”

            Yulia was short and quick-moving, her restless hands always in motion, her thoughts spilling out just as fast.

            “We can’t,” Mikhail said firmly. “And he can look after himself.”

            She huffed. “Well, I expect we could if we tried.”

            “And finally, old Gregor, who I gather would rather be taking a nap.”

            Gregor, who was well past eighty, rubbed his face and yawned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

            Anya frowned, scanning the group again. “Wait. We’re missing Finja.”

            A small scraping sound came from behind them.

            Finja stood near the gate, furiously scrubbing the rusted metal with a rag she had pulled from her sleeve. “This place is disgusting,” she muttered. “Filth everywhere. The world may have ended, but that’s no excuse for grime.”

            Anya sighed. “Finja, leave the gate alone.”

            Finja gave it one last wipe before tucking the rag away with a huff. “Fine.”

            Anya shook her head. “That’s eleven. No one’s run off or died yet. A promising start.”

            They formed a motley crew, each carrying as much as they could manage. Mikhail pushed a battered cart, loaded with scavenged supplies—blankets, tools, whatever food they had left.

            The road beneath their feet was cracked and uneven, roots breaking through in places. They followed it in silence for the most part. Even Yulia remained quiet. Some glanced back, but no one turned around.

            The nearest village was more than fifty kilometers away. In all directions, there was only wilderness—fields long overtaken by weeds, trees pushing through cracks in forgotten roads. A skeletal signpost leaned at an odd angle, its lettering long since faded.

            “It’s going to be dark soon,” Mikhail said. “And the old ones are tired. Aren’t you, Vera?”

            “That’s enough of the old business,” puffed Vera, pulling her shoulders back.

            Tala laughed. “Well, I must be an old one. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. And there’s a clearing over there.” She pointed.

            The evening was cool, but they managed to build a small fire and scrape together a meal of vegetables they’d brought from their garden.

            After their meal, they sat around the fire while Finja busied herself tidying up. “Dirty savages,” she muttered under her breath. Then, more loudly, “We should keep watch tonight.”

            Vera, perched on a log, pulled her shawl tightly around her. The glow from the fire cast long shadows across her face.

            “Vera, you look like a witch,” Yulia declared. “We should have brought the cat for you to ride on a broomstick together.”

            “I’ll have you know I’m descended from witches,” Vera replied. “I know none of you think you’re related to me, but just imagine what your great-grandparents would say if they saw us now. Running into the wilderness like a band of exiled aristocrats.”

            Jian, seated nearby, smirked slightly. “My great-grandparents were rice farmers.”

            Vera brightened—Jian never talked about his past. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you know your full lineage? Because I do. I know mine back fourteen generations. You’d be amazed how many bloodlines cross without people realizing.”

            Tala shook her head but smiled. Like Petro and Gregor, Vera had been at the asylum for many decades, a relic of another time. She claimed to have been a private investigator and genealogist in her former life.

            Petro, hunched over and rubbing his hands by the fire, muttered, “We’re all ghosts now. Doesn’t matter where we came from.”

            “Oh, stop that, Petro,” Anya admonished. “Remember our plan?”

            “We go to the city,” Jian said. He rarely spoke unless he had something worth saying. “There will be things left behind. Maybe tech, maybe supplies. If I can get into an old server, I might even find something useful.”

            “And if there’s nothing?” Petro moaned. “We should never have left.” He clasped his hands over his head.

            Jian shrugged. “The world doesn’t erase itself overnight.”

            Mikhail nodded. “We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we head for the city. And Finja’s right—tonight we take turns keeping watch.”

            They sat in silence, watching the fire burn low. The evening stretched long and uneasy.

            #7711

            Matteo — December 2022

            Juliette leaned in, her phone screen glowing faintly between them. “Come on, pick something. It’s supposed to know everything—or at least sound like it does.”

            Juliette was the one who’d introduced him to the app the whole world was abuzz talking about. MeowGPT.

            At the New Year’s eve family dinner at Juliette’s parents, the whole house was alive with her sisters, nephews, and cousins. She entered a discussion with one of the kids, and they all seemed to know well about it. It was fun to see the adults were oblivious, himself included. He liked it about Juliette that she had such insatiable curiosity.

            “It’s a life-changer, you know” she’d said “There’ll be a time, we won’t know about how we did without it. The kids born now will not know a world without it. Look, I’m sure my nephews are already cheating at their exams with it, or finding new ways to learn…”

            “New ways to learn, that sounds like a mirage…. Bit of a drastic view to think we won’t live without; I’d like to think like with the mobile phones, we can still choose to live without.”

            “And lose your way all the time with worn-out paper maps instead of GPS? That’s a grandpa mindset darling! I can see quite a few reasons not to choose!” she laughed.
            “Anyway, we’ll see. What would you like to know about? A crazy recipe to grow hair? A fancy trip to a little known place? Write a technical instruction in the style of Elizabeth Tattler?”

            “Let me see…”

            Matteo smirked, swirling the last sip of crémant in his glass. The lively discussions of Juliette’s family around them made the moment feel oddly private. “Alright, let’s try something practical. How about early signs of Alzheimer’s? You know, for Ma.”

            Juliette’s smile softened as she tapped the query into the app. Matteo watched, half curious, half detached.

            The app processed for a moment before responding in its overly chipper tone:
            “Early signs of Alzheimer’s can include memory loss, difficulty planning or solving problems, and confusion with time or place. For personalized insights, understanding specific triggers, like stress or diet, can help manage early symptoms.”

            Matteo frowned. “That’s… general. I thought it was supposed to be revolutionary?”

            “Wait for it,” Juliette said, tapping again, her tone teasing. “What if we ask it about long-term memory triggers? Something for nostalgia. Your Ma’s been into her old photos, right?”

            The app spun its virtual gears and spat out a more detailed suggestion.
            “Consider discussing familiar stories, music, or scents. Interestingly, recent studies on Alzheimer’s patients show a strong response to tactile memories. For example, one groundbreaking case involved genetic ancestry research coupled with personalized sensory cues.

            Juliette tilted her head, reading the screen aloud. “Huh, look at this—Dr. Elara V., a retired physicist, designed a patented method combining ancestral genetic research with soundwaves sensory stimuli to enhance attention and preserve memory function. Her work has been cited in connection with several studies on Alzheimer’s.”

            “Elara?” Matteo’s brow furrowed. “Uncommon name… Where have I heard it before?”

            Juliette shrugged. “Says here she retired to Tuscany after the pandemic. Fancy that.” She tapped the screen again, scrolling. “Apparently, she was a physicist with some quirky ideas. Had a side hustle on patents, one of which actually turned out useful. Something about genetic resonance? Sounds like a sci-fi movie.”

            Matteo stared at the screen, a strange feeling tugging at him. “Genetic resonance…? It’s like these apps read your mind, huh? Do they just make this stuff up?”

            Juliette laughed, nudging him. “Maybe! The system is far from foolproof, it may just have blurted out a completely imagined story, although it’s probably got it from somewhere on the internet. You better do your fact-checking. This woman would have published papers back when we were kids, and now the AI’s connecting dots.”

            The name lingered with him, though. Elara. It felt distant yet oddly familiar, like the shadow of a memory just out of reach.

            “You think she’s got more work like that?” he asked, more to himself than to Juliette.

            Juliette handed him the phone. “You’re the one with the questions. Go ahead.”

            Matteo hesitated before typing, almost without thinking: Elara Tuscany memory research.

            The app processed again, and the next response was less clinical, more anecdotal.
            “Elara V., known for her unconventional methods, retired to Tuscany where she invested in rural revitalization. A small village farmhouse became her retreat, and she occasionally supported artistic projects. Her most cited breakthrough involved pairing sensory stimuli with genetic lineage insights to enhance memory preservation.”

            Matteo tilted the phone towards Juliette. “She supports artists? Sounds like a soft spot for the dreamers.”

            “Maybe she’s your type,” Juliette teased, grinning.

            Matteo laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, if she wasn’t old enough to be my mother.”

            The conversation shifted, but Matteo couldn’t shake the feeling the name had stirred. As Juliette’s family called them back to the table, he pocketed his phone, a strange warmth lingering—part curiosity, part recognition.

            To think that months before, all that technologie to connect dots together didn’t exist. People would spend years of research, now accessible in a matter of seconds.

            Later that night, as they were waiting for the new year countdown, he found himself wondering: What kind of person would spend their retirement investing in forgotten villages and forgotten dreams? Someone who believed in second chances, maybe. Someone who, like him, was drawn to the idea of piecing together a life from scattered connections.

            #7708

            Elara — Nov 2021: The End of Genealogix

            The numbers on the screen were almost comical in their smallness. Elara stared at the royalty statement, her lips pressed into a tight line as the cursor blinked on the final transaction: £12.37, marked Genealogix Royalty Deposit. Below it, the stark words: Final Payout.

            She leaned back in her chair, pushing her glasses up onto her forehead, and sighed. The end wasn’t a surprise. For years, she’d known her genetic algorithm would be replaced by something faster, smarter, and infinitely more marketable. The AI companies had come, sweeping up data and patents like vultures at a sky burial. Genealogix, her improbable golden goose, had simply been outpaced.

            Still, staring at the zero balance in the account felt oddly final, as if a door had quietly closed on a chapter of her life. She glanced toward the window, where the Tuscan hills rolled gently under the late afternoon sun. Most of the renovation work on the farmhouse had been finished, albeit slowly, over the years. There was no urgent financial burden, but the thought of her remaining savings made her stomach tighten all the same.

            Elara had stumbled into success with Genealogix, though not without effort. It was one of her many patents—most of them quirky solutions to problems nobody else seemed interested in solving. A self-healing chalkboard coating? Useless. A way to chart audio waveforms onto three-dimensional paper models? Intriguing but commercially barren. Genealogix had been an afterthought at the time, something she tinkered with while traveling through Europe on a teaching fellowship.

            When the royalties started rolling in unexpectedly, it had felt like a cosmic joke. “Finally,” she’d muttered to herself as she cashed her first sizeable check, “they like something useless.”

            The freedom that money brought was a relief. It allowed her to drop the short-term contracts that tethered her to institutions and pursue science on her own terms. No rigid conventions, no endless grant applications, no academic politics. She’d call it “investigation,” free from the dogma that so often suffocated creativity.

            And yet, she was no fool. She’d known Genealogix was a fluke, its lifespan limited.

            :fleuron2:

            She clicked away from the bank statement and opened her browser, absently scrolling through her bookmarked social accounts. An old post from Lucien caught her eye—a photograph of a half-finished painting, the colors dark and chaotic. His caption read: “When the labyrinth swallows the light.”

            Her brow furrowed. She’d been quietly following Lucien for years, watching his work evolve through fits and starts. It was obvious he was struggling. This post was old, maybe Lucian had stopped updating after the pandemic. She’d sent anonymous payments to buy his paintings more than once, under names that would mean nothing to him —”Darlara Ameilikian” was a bit on the nose, but unlike Amei, Elara loved a good wink.

            Her mind wandered to Darius, and her suggesting he looked into 1-euro housing schemes available in Italy. It had been during a long phone call, back when she was scouting options for herself. They still had tense exchanges, and he was smart to avoid any mention of his odd friends, otherwise she’d had hung the phone faster than a mouse chased by a pack of dogs. “You’d thrive in something like that,” she’d told him. “Build it with your own hands. Make it something meaningful.” He’d laughed but had sounded intrigued. She wondered if he’d ever followed up on it.

            As for Amei—Elara had sent her a birthday gift earlier that year, a rare fabric she’d stumbled across in a tiny local shop. Amei hadn’t known it was from her, of course. That was Elara’s way. She preferred to keep her gestures quiet, almost random —it was best that way, she was rubbish at remembering the small stuff that mattered so much to people, she wasn’t even sure of Amei’s birthday to be honest; so she preferred to scatter little nods like seeds to the wind.

            Her eyes drifted to a framed ticket stub on the bookshelf, a relic from 2007: Eliane Radigue — Naldjorlak II, Aarau Festival (Switzerland). Funny how the most unlikely event had made them into a group of friends. That concert had been a weird and improbable anchor point in their lives, a moment of serendipity that had drawn them toward something more than their own parts.

            By that time, they were already good friends with Amei, and she’d agreed to join her to discover the music, although she could tell it was more for the strange appeal of something almost alien in experience, than for the hurdles of travel and logistics. But Elara’s enthusiasm and devil-may-care had won her over, and they were here.

            Radigue’s strange sound sculptures, had rippled through the darkened festival scene, wavering and hauntingly delicate, and at the same time slow and deliberate, leading them towards an inevitability. Elara had been mesmerized, sitting alone near the back as Amei had gone for refreshments, when a stranger beside her had leaned over to ask, “What’s that sound? A bell? Or a drone?”

            It was Lucien. Their conversation had lasted through the intermission soon joined by Amei, and spilled into a café afterward, where Darius had eventually joined them. They’d formed a bond that night, one that felt strange and tenuous at the time but proved to be resilient, even as the years pulled them apart.

            :fleuron2:

            Elara closed the laptop, resting her hand on its warm surface for a moment before standing. She walked to the window, the sun dipping lower over the horizon, casting long shadows across the vineyard. The farmhouse had been a gamble, a piece of the future she wasn’t entirely sure she believed in when she’d bought it. But now, as the light shifted and the hills glowed gold, she felt a quiet satisfaction.

            The patent was gone, the money would fade, but she still had this. And perhaps, that was enough.

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