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In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
The hat was gone.
Kit stood blinking in the sun, the shape of his new self cooling around the edges like a half-written cookie losing form. Without the cowboy hat, the lasso made less sense. His accent wobbled, then vanished completely. The sunglasses stayed, but now just made everything too dark, even tinted pink.
Behind him, the gazebo creaked again. But no trapdoor this time—only a faint whirring, like a film projector syncing spools.
“It’s reloading,” said Thiram from the sidelines, tapping at something that looked oddly like a pressure-gauged Sabulmantium. “Every time someone hands off a narrative object—like a synch, a hat, a horse even—it updates roles. We’re being cast on the fly.”
Chico looked up from Tyrone, who had snatched one of the Memory Pies and was now attempting to hide the evidence behind a flowerpot. “So… Kit’s not Trevor anymore?”“No,” said Carob, arms crossed. “He’s Trevorless. That identity didn’t bake fully. We have to stabilize it.”
“But with what?” asked Godrick, who had returned carrying a second cocktail, coffee with a glass of water and a slight wry smirk.
Amy, now balancing the cowboy hat on her head as she crouched next to the still-disoriented Padre, called out without turning:
“Bring him another Synch. That’s how it works now, apparently. Hat or otherwise.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Amy rushed over to Kit when she saw what had happened and said, “Kit, give me your hat!”
Tentatively Kit put his hand on his head and sure enough he felt a hat upon it. Carefully he removed it and wonderingly gazed at the cowboy hat. He loved it! Just looking at the hat was already giving him ideas for his character, newly baked memories were starting to slide in like a tray of chocolate chip cookies on a baking sheet, pulled out of the oven at the perfect golden melting moment.
But Amy wants it! I can’t say no to her, but I want to keep it. It’s my first hat! Kit was close to tears.
“Oh poppet,” Amy said kindly when she noticed his face. Giving him a quick hug she explained. “I only want to borrow it, just to keep the Padre happy. He keeps asking where his hat is. I’ll bring it back as soon as we’ve settled him back at home.”
The releif was immense, and he graciously surrendered the hat to Aunt Amy. “Did you call me Poppet?” he asked. “Because Thiram just called me Trevor.”
“To me, you’ll always be Kit,” Amy said as she rushed back to her father. “See you later, Poppet!” she called over her shoulder.
“What does that mean?” asked Kit, but Amy had gone.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Buns and tarts!” called a street vendor from the street outside the Gazebar. “Freshly baked Memory Pies! Nostalgia Rolls! Selling like Hot Cakes! Come and get ’em before they run out!”
Chico realised he’d hardly eaten a thing since becoming a new character. Maybe this is how character building works.
“I’ll take one of each,” Chico said to the smiling round faced vendor. I need to stock up on memories.
“Are they all for you, sir?” the vendor asked. Chico couldn’t help thinking he looked like a frog. Nodding, Chico said, “Yeah, I’m hungry for a past.”
“We normally suggest just one at a time,” the frog said (for he had indeed turned into a frog), “But you look like a man with a capacity for multiple memories. Are you with friends?”
“Er, yeah, yes I’m with friends,” Chico replied. Are the other new characters my friends? “Yes, of course, I have lots of friends.” He didn’t want the frog vendor to think he was friendless.
“Then we suggest you share each cake with the friends you want to share the memory with.”
“Oh right. But how do I know what the memory is before I eat the cake?”
“Let me ask you this,” said the frog with a big smile, “Do real people choose who to share their memories with? Or know in advance what the memories will be?”
“How the hell would I know!” Chico said, roughly grabbing the paper bag of buns. “I’m new here!”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Still visibly shaken, Sir Humphrey blinked up at the canopy. “Is it… raining? Is it raining ants?”
“It’s not rain,” muttered Thiram, checking his gizmos. “Not this time. It’s like… gazebo fallout. I’d venture from dreams hardening midair.”
Kit shuffled closer to Amy, speaking barely above a whisper. “Aunt Amy, is it always like this?”
Amy sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and said, “No, sweetheart. Sometimes it’s worse.”
“Right then,” declared Carob, making frantic gestures in the air, as though she’d been sparring the weather. “We need to triangulate the trajectory of the gazebo, locate the Sabulmantium, and get Sir Humphrey a hat before his dignity leaks out his ears.”
“I feel like Garibaldi,” Sir Humphrey murmured, dazedly stroking his forehead.
“Do you remember who Garibaldi is?” Chico asked, narrowing his eyes.
“No,” the Padre confessed. “But I’m quite certain he’d never have let his gazebo just float off like that.”
Meanwhile, Madam Auringa had reappeared behind a curtain of mist smelling faintly of durian and burnt cinnamon.
“The Sabulmantium has been disturbed,” she intoned. “Intent without anchor will now spill into unintended things. Mice shall hold council. Socks will invert themselves. Lost loves shall write letters that burn before reading.”
“Typical,” muttered Thiram. “We poke one artifact and the entire logic stack collapses.”Kit raised a trembling hand. “Does that mean I’m allowed to choose my name again?”
“No,” said Amy, “But you might be able to remember your original one—depending on how many sand spirals the Sabulmantium spins.”
“I told you,” Chico interjected, gesturing vaguely at where the gazebo had vanished over the treetops. “It was no solar kettle. You were all too busy caffeinating to notice. But it was focusing something. That sand’s shifting intent like wind on a curtain.”
“And we’ve just blown it open,” said Carob.
“Yup,” said Amy. “Guess we’re going gazebo-chasing.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
The wind picked up just as Thiram adjusted the gazebo’s solar kettle. At first, he blamed the rising draft on Carob’s sighing—but quickly figured out that this one had… velocity.
Then the scent came floating by: jasmine, hair spray, and over-steeped calamansi tea.
A gust of hot air blew through the plantation clearing, swirling snack wrappers and curling Amy’s page corners. From the vortex stepped a woman, sequins ablaze, eyeliner undefeated.
She wore a velvet shawl patterned like a satellite weather map.
“Did someone say Auringa?” she cooed, gliding forward as her three crystal balls rotated lazily around her hips like obedient moons.
“Madam Auringa?” Kit asked, wide-eyed.Thiram’s devices were starting to bip, checking for facts. “Madam Auringa claims to have been born during a literal typhoon in the Visayas, with a twin sister who “vanished into the eye.” She’s been forecasting mischief, breakups, and supernatural infestations ever since…”
Carob raised an eyebrow. “Source?”
Humphrey harrumphed: “We don’t usually invite atmospheric phenomena!”
“Doctor Madam Auringa, Psychic Climatologist and Typhoon Romantic,” the woman corrected, removing a laminated badge from her ample bosom. “Bachelor of Arts in Forecasted Love and Atmospheric Vibes. I am both the typhoon… and its early warning system.”
“Is she… floating?” Amy whispered.
“No,” said Chico solemnly, “She’s just wearing platform sandals on a bed of mulch.”
Auringa snapped her fingers. A steamy demitasse of kopi luwak materialized midair and plopped neatly into her hand. It wasn’t for drink, although the expensive brevage born of civet feces had an irrepressible appeal —it was for her only to be peered into.
“This coffee is trembling,” she murmured. “It fears a betrayal. A rendezvous gone sideways. A gazebo… compromised.”
Carob reached for her notes. “I knew the gazebo had a hidden floor hatch.”
Madam Auringa raised one bejeweled finger. “But I have come with warning and invitation. The skies have spoken: the Typhoon Auring approaches. And it brings… revelations. Some shall find passion. Others—ant infestations.”
“Did she just say passion or fashion?” Thiram mumbled.
“Both,” Madam Auringa confirmed, winking at him with terrifying precision.
She added ominously “May asim pa ako!”. Thiram’s looked at his translator with doubt : “You… still have a sour taste?”
She tittered, “don’t be silly”. “It means ‘I’ve still got zest’…” her sultry glance disturbing even the ants.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Another one! A random distant memory wafted into Amy’s mind. Uncle Jack always used to say GATZ e bo. Amy could picture his smile when he said it, and how his wife always smiled back at him and chuckled. Amy wondered if she’d even known the story behind that or if it had always been a private joke between them.
“What’s been going on with my gazebo?” Amy’s father rushed into the scene. So that’s what he looks like. Amy couldn’t take her eyes off him, until Carob elbowed her in the neck.
“Sorry, I meant to elbow you in the ribs, but I’m so tall,” Carob said pointlessly, in an attempt to stop Amy staring at her father as if she’d never seen him before.
Thiram started to explain the situation with the gazebo to Amy’s father, after first introducing him to Kit, the new arrival. “Humphrey, meet Kit, our new LBGYEQCXOJMFKHHVZ story character. Kit, this is Amy’s father who we sometimes refer to as The Padre.”
“Pleased to meet you, ” Kit said politely, quaking a little at the stern glare from the old man. What on earth is he wearing? A tweed suit and a deerstalker, in this heat! How do I know that’s what they’re called? Kit wondered, quaking a little more at the strangeness of it all.
“Never mind all that now!” Humphrey interrupted Thiram’s explanation.
Still as rude as ever! Amy thought.
“I’ve too much to think about, but I’ll tell you this: I’ve planned a character building meeting in the gazebo, and you are all invited. As a matter of fact,” Humphrey continued, “You are all obliged to attend. If you choose not to ~ well, you know what happened last time!”
“What happened last time?” asked Carob, leaning forward in anticipation of an elucidating response, but Humphrey merely glared at her.
Amy sniggered, and Humphrey shot her a lopsided smile. “YOU know what happened in Jack’s GATZ e bo, don’t you, my girl?”
Where were those random memories when you wanted them? Amy had no idea what he was talking about.
“Who else is invited, Humph? asked Chico, resisting the urge to spit.
“My good man,” Humphrey said with a withering look. “Sir Humphrey’s the name to you.”
Sir? what’s he on about now? wondered Amy. Does that make me a Lady?
“Who else is invited, Padre?” Amy echoed.
Humphrey pulled a scroll tied with a purple ribbon out of his waistcoat pocket and unfurled it. Clearing his throat importantly, he read the list to all assembled.
Juan and Dolores Valdez.
Godric, the Swedish barman
Malathion and Glyphosate, Thiram’s triplet brothers. Mal and Glyph for short.
Liz Tattler
Miss Bossy Pants
Goat Horned Draugaskald“Did I forget anyone?” Humphrey asked, peering over his spectacles as he looked at each of the characters. “You lot,” he said, “Amy, Carob, Thiram, Chico, Kit and Ricardo: you will be expected to play hosts, so you might want to start thinking about refreshments. And not,” he said with a strong authoritarian air, “Not just coffee! A good range of beverages. And snacks.”
Thiram, leaning against a tree, started whistling the theme tune to Gone With The Wind. Tossing an irritated glance in his direction, Carob roughly gathered up her mass of frizzy curls and tethered it all in a tight pony tail. I still don’t know what happened before, she fumed silently. The latest developments where making her nervous. Would they find out her secret?
“You guys,” called Chico, who had wandered over to the gazebo. “It’s full of ants.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Disgruntled and bored with the fruitless wait for the other characters to reveal more of themselves, Amy started staying in her room all day reading books, glad that she’d had an urge to grab a bag full of used paperbacks from a chance encounter with a street vendor in Bogota.
A strange book about peculiar children lingered in her mind, and mingled somehow with the vestiges of the mental images of the writhing Uriah in the book Amy had read prior to this one.
Aunt Amy? a childs voice came unbidden to Amys ear. Well, why not? Amy thought, Some peculiar children is what the story needs. Nephews and neices though, no actual children, god forbid.
“Aunt Amy!” A gentle knocking sounded on the bedroom door. “Are you in there, Aunt Amy?”
“Is that at neice or nephew at my actual door? Already?” Amy cried in amazement.
“Can I come in, please?” the little voice sounded close to tears. Amy bounded off the bed to unloock leaving that right there the door to let the little instant ramen rellie in.
The little human creature appeared to be ten years old or so, as near as Amy could tell, with a rather androgenous look: a grown out short haircut in a nondescript dark colour, thin gangling limbs robed in neutral shapelessness, and a pale pinched face.
“I’ve never done this before, can you help me?” the child said.
“Never been a story character before, eh?” Amy said kindly. “Do you know your name? Not to worry if you don’t!” she added quickly, seeing the child’s look of alarm. “No? Well then you can choose what ever you like!”
The child promptly burst into tears, and Amy wanted to kick herself for being such a tactless blundering fool. God knows it wasn’t that easy to choose, even when you knew the choice was yours.
Amy wanted to ask the child if it was a boy or a girl, but hesitated, and decided against it. I’ll have to give it a name though, I can’t keep calling it the child.
“Would you mind very much if I called you Kit, for now?” asked Amy.
“Thanks, Aunt Amy,” Kit said with a tear streaked smile. “Kit’s fine.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“I don’t know, Amy. I thought it was Chico who was mysterious — subversively spitting at every opportunity.”
“Well, Carob, maybe we could just agree they’re equally mysterious?” suggested Amy, turning her attention back to her search.
Carob shrugged. “A woman in Greece is divorcing her husband because AI read her coffee cup and said he was cheating.”
Amy paused and looked up. “For real?”
“Yeah. I read it on Thiram’s news stream. He left it running on that weird device of his — over there, next to his half-drunk coffee. Not sure where he went, actually.”
Amy gasped and clapped her hands. “Oh! Oh! Brainwave occurring — let’s get AI to read Thiram’s coffee cup!”
Carob snorted. “Genius.”
They raced over to the small folding table where Thiram’s cup sat. Carob held up her phone.
“Okay. One quick pic. Hold it steady!”
They excitedly uploaded the image to an AI analysis app Thiram had installed on his device.
The app whirred for a few minutes:
DEEP COFFEE CUP ANALYSIS COMPLETE
Latent emotional residue: contemplative, fond of secrets.
Foam pattern suggests hidden loyalty to an entity known only as “The Port.”
Swirling suggests alignment with larger forces not currently visible.
Presence of cardamom notes: entirely unaccounted for.
Recommendation: approach carefully with gentle questioning.“Blimey, what does that mean?” asked Carob.
Amy nodded solemnly, perhaps with just a touch of smugness. “He is a man of mystery. Didn’t I say it?”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Carob wrinkled her nose in distaste and languidly remarked, “Amy, that goaty odour seems to be emanating from your clothing. Does it perchance require laundering?”
Chico laughed loudly, spitting equally audibly. “Hi,” he said, “The name’s Chico,” emerging from behind the tulip tree.
Carob winced at the spitting, and Amy writhed a little at being humiliated in front of the man. They both ignored him, and he regretted not staying hidden.
“I’ve just pegged out two loads of washing, for your information, not that it will dry in this rain,” Amy said, quickly tying her hair back in annoyance. Does this move the story forward? she wondered. Why do I have a smelly character anyway? I’m sweaty, goaty and insecure, how did it happen?
“Never mind that anyway, have you seen what’s on todays news?” Carob asked, feeling sorry for making Amy uncomfortable.
“I have,” remarked Chico, with a hopeful expression, but the women ignored him.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Amy supposed everyone was blaming her, for what she couldn’t say, but they had clearly been avoiding her. There was plenty of coffee here anyway, even if the rest of the world was suffering. Don’t even think it, she told herself sternly. We don’t want people flocking here in droves once they realise.
So, do I want people or not? she asked herself. One minute I’m wondering where everyone is, and then next minute I’m wanting everyone to stay away.
“You on the spectrum too, are you?” asked Carob, reading her mind. “It’s ok,” she added, seeing the look of alarm cross Amy’s face, “Your secret’s safe with me. I mean about being on the spectrum. But be careful, they’re rounding people like us up and sending them to a correctional facility. We’re quite lucky to be here, out of the way.”
“Have you been avoiding me?” Amy asked, which was more immediately concerning than the concentration camps. “Because I’ve been here all alone for ages, nothing to do but read my book, draw in my sketch pad, and work on my needlepoint cushion covers. And where are the others? And don’t read my mind, it’s so rude.”
“Needlepoint cushion covers? Are you serious?” Carob was avoiding the questions, but was genuinely curious about the cushion covers.
Amy blushed. “No, I made that up. In fact, I don’t know what made me say that. I haven’t started any sketching either, but I have thought about starting sketching. And I’ve been reading. It’s an old Liz Tattler; the old ones were the best. Real old school Lizzie Tattie, if you know what I mean. Risque romps with potting sheds and stuff. None of that ghastly sci fi she started writing recently.”
“Which one?” Carob asked, and laughed when Amy held it up. “I read that years ago, T’Eggy Gets a Good Rogering, can I borrow it after you? God knows we could all do with a laugh.”
“How do you know the others need a good laugh?” Amy asked, peering at Carob with an attentive squint in order to catch any clues. “You’ve seen then, then?”
Carob smiled sadly and replied, “Only by remote viewing them.”
Amy asked where they had been and what they were doing when they were viewed remotely. Has she been remote viewing me? What if they ask her if she’s been remote viewing me, and she tells them? “Oh never mind,” Amy said quickly, “No need to answer that.”
Carob snorted, and what a strangely welcome sound it was. “I didn’t really remote view them, I made that up. It never works if I try to spy on people. Fat lot of good it is really, it never works when I really really need to see something. Or maybe it works, but I never believe it properly until later when I find out it was right.”
“Yeah,” Amy said, “It’s fun though, I haven’t done it in ages.”
“You should, it would give you something to do when everyone’s avoiding you.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Well, I’ll give you a point for that, Thiram,” Amy said, wondering, not for the first time, about his unusual name. Was it a play on the word theorem? I must ask him about it. “But if Florida doesn’t exist anymore, which I am willing to admit it does not, then what is it doing on that map?”
“What was the population of Florida before it was submerged? Twenty four million or so?” asked Chico, appearing from behind a trumpet tree. “That’s 24 million less people drinking coffee, anyway, 144 million cups saved per day (assuming they drank 6 cups per day), which is a whopping 54.5 billion cups a year.”
“Chico! How long have you been hiding behind that trumpet tree?” asked Amy, but Chico ignored her. Nettled, Amy continued, “That would be true if all the people in Florida were submerged along with the land, but most of them were resettled in Alabama. There was plenty of room in Alabama, because the population of Alabama was relocated.”
“Yes but the people of Alabama were relocated to a holding camp in Rwanda, and they’re not allowed any coffee,” replied Chico crossly, making it up on the spot.
“Yeah I heard about that,” said Carob, which made Chico wonder if he had actually made it up on the spot, or perhaps he’d heard it somewhere too.
“I’m going back behind the trumpet tree,” announced Chico, flouncing off in high dudgeon.
“Now look what you’ve done!” exclaimed Carob.
“Why is it always my fault?” Amy was exasperated.
“Maybe because it usually is,” Carob replied, “But not to worry, at least we know where to find Chico now.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Look, don’t get upset, ok?” Amy felt she had to nip this in the bud. “There’s something glaringly wrong with the map. I mean, yes, it does make a nice picture. A very nice picture,” she added, and then stopped. Does it really matter? she asked herself. Am I always causing trouble?
Amy sighed. Would life be easier for everyone if she stopped pointing things out and just went along with things? Was there any stopping it anyway? It’s like a runaway train.
“You were saying?” Ricardo asked.
“Pray, continue,” added Carob with a mischeivous gleam in her eye. She knew where this was leading.
“Who is he?” Amy whispered to Carob. “Well never mind that now, you can tell me later.”
Amy cleared her throat and faced Ricardo (noting that he was dark complexioned and and of medium height and wiry build, dressed in a crumpled off white linen suit and a battered Panama hat, and likely to be of Latino heritage) noticing out of the corner of her eye a smirk on Thiram’s face who was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, looking as if he might start whistling Yankee Doodle any moment.
“According to your map, my good man, nice map that it is, in fact it’s so nice one could make a flag out of it, the colours are great and….” Amy realised she was waffling. She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders, glaring at Carob over her shoulder who had started to titter.
Speak your mind even if your voice shakes, and keep the waffling to a minimum.
“My dear Ricardo,” Amy began again, pushing her long light brown hair out of her sweaty hazel eyes, and pushing the sleeves of her old grey sweatshirt up over her elbows and glancing down at her short thin but shapely denim clad legs. “My dear man, as you can see I’m a slightly underweight middle aged woman eminently capable of trudging up and down coffee growing mountains, with a particular flair for maps, and this map of yours begs a few questions.”
“Coffee beans don’t grow in Florida,” Carob interjected, in an attempt to move the discourse along.
“Nor in Morocco,” added Amy quickly, shooting a grateful glance at Carob.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Do you like the new pamphlets?” Ricardo asked Miss Bossy Pants.
“Thought we needed a bit of building awareness to the readership” he said struggling hard not to try to justify himself.After a moment of reflection, she answered “I can’t say I’m completely hating it, the whole foray into quote-unquote serious journalism, with a tint of eco-consciousness. Even more so it’s starting to look more rebellious nowadays than the fad that it was. But I digress. I mean, apart from the obvious AI showing, tell me Ric… Where are the interviews? the wrangling emotions of the interviews… Have we stopped doing investigative journalism?”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“What were you saying already?” Thiram asked “I must have zoned out, it happens at times.” He chuckled looking embarrassed. “Not to worry.”
As the silence settled, Thiram started to blink vigorously to get things back into focus —a trick he’d seen in the Lucid Dreamer 101 manual for beginners. You could never be too sure if this was all a dream. And if it was, then you’d better pay attention to your thoughts in case they’d attract trouble – generally your thoughts were the trouble-makers, but in some cases, also other Lucid Dreamers were.
Here and now, trouble wasn’t coming, to the contrary. It was all unusually foggy.
“Well, by the look of it, Amy is not biting into the whole father drama, and prefers to have a self-induced personality crisis…” Carob shrugged. “We can all clearly see what she looks like, obviously. Whether she likes it or not, and I won’t comment further despite how tempting it is.”
“You’re one to speak.” Amy replied. “Should I give you some drama? Would certainly make things more interesting.”
Thiram had a thought he needed to share “And I just remember that Chico isn’t probably coming – he still wasn’t over our last fight with Amy bossying and messing the team’s plans because she can’t keep up with modern tech, had to dig a hole, or overcome a ratmaggeddon; something he’d said that had seemed quite final at the time: ‘I’d rather be turned into a donkey than follow you guys around.’ I wouldn’t count on him showing up just yet.”
“Me? bossying?” Amy did feel enticed to catch that bait this time, and like a familiar trope see it reel out, or like a burning match in front of a dry hay bale, she could almost see the old patterns of getting incensed, and were it would lead.
“Can we at least agree on a few things about the where, what, why, or shall we all play this one by ear?”
“Obviously we know. But all the observing essences, do they?” Carob was doing a great impersonation of Chico.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“So, what are we even doing here?” asked Carob. She tilted her head to look down at Amy. “You said we had to protect the coffee…?”
“From the rain,” said Amy. She folded her arms and stood up as tall as she could — which, to be fair, wasn’t very tall.
“Could be the least of our worries,” muttered Thiram, who had been checking his messages. “AI’s having an emotional meltdown and the plantation irrigation system’s gone haywire.”
He frowned at his screen. “And if that’s not enough, a group of rogue Lucid Dreamers have started sleep-parachuting onto the plantation and creating havoc.”
“Wow,” said Carob. She pulled up the hood of her coat, then tugged it forward until it nearly covered her eyes. “That’s a lot.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Sorry I’m late,” said Carob as she crouched down to fuss over Fanella. “I have excuses, but they’re not interesting. I’m feeling a little underdeveloped as a character, so I’m not sure what to say yet.”
“That’s okay,” said Amy. “Just remember … if you don’t tell us who you are early on…” She squinted and glanced around suspiciously. “Others will create you.”
“I’d rather just slowly percolate.” Carob screwed up her face. “Get it? Percolate?”
She stood up and slapped a hand to her head as Amy rolled her eyes. “Sorry … ” She patted her head curiously. “Oh wait—do I have curls?”
“I’d say more like frizzes than curls,” answered Amy.
Thiram nodded. “Totally frizzled.”
“Cool … must be the damp weather,” said Carob. She brushed a twig from her coat. The coat was blue-green and only reached her thighs. Many things were too small when you were six foot two.
“Oh—and I’ve been lucid dreaming in reverse,” she added. “Last night I watched myself un-make and un-drink a cup of coffee.” She gave a quick snort-laugh. “Weirdo”.
“Was it raining in the dream?” asked Thiram.
Carob frowned. “Probably… You know how in scary movies they always leave the curtains open, like they want the bad guys to see in? It felt like that.” She shuddered and then smiled brightly. “Anyway, just a dream. Also, I bumped into your father, Amy. He said to tell you: Remember what happened last time.”
She regarded Amy intently. “What did happen last time?”
“He worries too much,” said Amy, waving a hand dismissively. “Also, I didn’t even write that in, so how should I know?” She looked out toward the trees. “Where’s Chico?”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Juan, was it wise to speak to that man?” Dolores asked her husband. “The cat’s out of the bag now, when Chico tells his friends…”
“Trust me, Dolores,” Juan Valdez implored, “What else can we do? We need their help.”
“But you’ve been fictional for so long, Juan. Nobody knew you were real. Until now.”
“You worry too much! It’s hardly going to make headlines on Focks News, is it, and even if it did, nobody believes anything anymore. We can just spread a rumour that it was made up by one of those artifical story things.”
“But he took a photo of you!”
“Dolores,” Juan said with exaggerated patience, “Nobody believes photos any more either. I’m telling you, they make fakes these days and nobody can tell. Trust me,” he repeated, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“So we’ll still be fictional, Juan?” Dolores asked in an uncertain tone. “Because I’m not ready to be a real character yet, it seems so….so time consuming, to be real every day, all day… doing all those things every day that real people do…”
“No, no, not at all! You only have to play the part when someone’s looking!”
“I hope you’re right. Too many things changing all at once, if you ask me.” And with that Dolores vanished, as nobody was looking at her.
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
Liz threw another pen into the tin wastepaper basket with a clatter and called loudly for Finnley while giving her writing hand a shake to relieve the cramp.
Finnley appeared sporting her habitual scowl clearly visible above her paper mask. “I hope this is important because this red dust is going to take days to clean up as it is without you keep interrupting me.”
“Oh is that what you’ve been doing, I wondered where you were. Well, let’s thank our lucky stars THAT’S all over!”
“Might be over for you,” muttered Finnley, “But that hare brained scheme of Godfrey’s has caused a very great deal of work for me. He’s made more of a mess this time than even you could have, red dust everywhere and all these obsolete parts all over the place. Roberto’s on his sixth trip to the recycling depot, and he’s barely scratched the surface.”
“Good old Roberto, at least he doesn’t keep complaining. You should take a leaf out of his book, Finnley, you’d get more work done. And speaking of books, I need another packet of pens. I’m writing my books with a pen in future. On paper. Oh and get me another pack of paper.”
Mildly curious, despite her irritation, Finnely asked her why she was writing with a pen on paper. “Is it some sort of historical re enactment? Would you prefer parchment and a quill? Or perhaps a slab of clay and some etching tools? Shall we find you a nice cave,” Finnley was warming to the theme, “And some red ochre and charcoal?”
“It may come to that,” Liz replied grimly. “But some pens and paper will do for now. Godfrey can’t interfere in my stories if I write them on paper. Robots writing my stories, honestly, who would ever have believed such a thing was possible back when I started writing all my best sellers! How times have changed!”
“Yet some things never change, ” Finnley said darkly, running her duster across the parts of Liz’s desk that weren’t covered with stacks of blue scrawled papers.
“Thank you for asking,” Liz said sarcastically, as Finnley hadn’t asked, “It’s a story about six spinsters in the early 19th century.”
“Sounds gripping,” muttered Finnley.
“And a blind uncle who never married and lived to 102. He was so good at being blind that he knew all his sheep individually.”
“Perhaps that’s why he never needed to marry,” Finnley said with a lewd titter.
“The steamy scenes I had in mind won’t be in the sheep dip,” Liz replied, “Honestly, what a low degraded mind you must have.”
“Yeah, from proof reading your trashy novels,” Finnley replied as she flounced out in search of pens and paper.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
A Quick Vacay on Mars
“The Helix is coming in for descent,” announced Luca Stroud, a bit too solemnly. “And by descent, I mean we’re parking in orbit and letting the cargo shuttles do the sweaty work.”
From the main viewport, Mars sprawled below in all its dusty, rust-red glory. Gone was the Jupiter’s orbit pulls of lunacy, after a 6 month long voyage, they were down to the Martian pools of red dust.
Even from space, you could see the abandoned domes of the first human colonies, with the unmistakable Muck conglomerate’s branding: half-buried in dunes, battered by storms, and rumored to be haunted (well, if you believed the rumors from the bored Helix 25 children).
Veranassessee—Captain Veranassessee, thank you very much— stood at the helm with the unruffled poise of someone who’d wrested control of the ship (and AI) with consummate style and in record time. With a little help of course from X-caliber, the genetic market of the Marlowe’s family that she’d recovered from Marlowe Sr. before Synthia had had a chance of scrubbing all traces of his DNA. Now, with her control back, most of her work had been to steer the ship back to sanity, and rebuild alliances.
“That’s the plan. Crew rotation, cargo drop, and a quick vacay if we can manage not to break a leg.”
Sue Forgelot, newly minted second in command, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Says the one who insisted we detour for a peek at the old Mars amusements. If you want to roast marshmallows on volcanic vents, just say it.”
Their footsteps reverberated softly on the deck. Synthia’s overhead panels glowed calm, reined in by the AI’s newly adjusted parameters. Luca tapped the console. “All going smoothly, Cap’n. Next phase of ‘waking the sleepers’ will happen in small batches—like you asked.”
Veranassessee nodded silently. The return to reality would prove surely harsh to most of them, turned soft with low gravity. She would have to administrate a good dose of tough love.
Sue nodded. “We’ll need a slow approach. Earth’s… not the paradise it once was.”
Veranassessee exhaled, eyes lingering on the red planet turning slowly below. “One challenge at a time. Everyone’s earned a bit of shore leave. If you can call an arid dustball ‘shore.’”
The Truce on Earth
Tundra brushed red dust off her makeshift jacket, then gave her new friend a loving pat on the flank. The baby sanglion—already the size of a small donkey—sniffed the air, then leaned its maned, boar-like head into Tundra’s shoulder. “Easy there, buddy,” she murmured. “We’ll find more scraps soon.”
They were in the ravaged outskirts near Klyutch Base, forging a shaky alliance with Sokolov’s faction. Sokolov—sharp-eyed and suspicious—stalked across the battered tarmac with a crate of spare shuttle parts. “This is all the help you’re getting from me,” he said, his accent carving the words. “Use it well. No promises once the Helix 25 arrives.”
Commander Koval hovered by the half-repaired shuttle, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the giant, (mostly) friendly mutant beast at Tundra’s side. “Just keep that… sanglion… away from me, will you?”
Molly, Tundra’s resilient great-grandmother, chuckled. “He’s harmless unless you’re an unripe melon or a leftover stew. Aren’t you, sweetie?”
The creature snorted. Sokolov’s men loaded more salvage onto the shuttle’s hull. If all went well, they’d soon have a functioning vessel to meet the Helix when it finally arrived.
Tundra fed her pet a chunk of dried fruit. She wondered what the grand new ship would look like after so many legends and rumors. Would the Helix be a promise of hope—or a brand-new headache?
Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge
On Helix 25, Finkley’s new corner-lounge always smelled of coffee and antiseptic wipes, thanks to her cleaning-bot minions. Rows of small, softly glowing communication booths lined the walls—her “direct Earth Connection.” A little sign reading FINKLEY’S WHISPER CALLS flickered overhead. Foot traffic was picking up, because after the murder spree ended, people craved normalcy—and gossip.
She toggled an imaginary switch —she had found mimicking old technology would help tune the frequencies more easily. “Anybody out there?”
Static, then a faint voice from Earth crackled through the anchoring connection provided by Finja on Earth. “Hello? This is…Tala from Spain… well, from the Hungarian border these days…”
“Lovely to hear from you, Tala dear!” Finkley replied in the most uncheerful voice, as she was repeating the words from Kai Nova, who had found himself distant dating after having tried, like many others on the ship before, to find a distant relative connected through the FinFamily’s telepathic bridge. Surprisingly, as he got accustomed to the odd exchange through Finkley-Finja, he’d found himself curious and strangely attracted to the stories from down there.
“Doing all right down there? Any new postcards or battered souvenirs to share with the folks on Helix?”
Tala laughed over the Fin-line. “Plenty. Mostly about wild harvests, random postcards, and that new place we found. We’re calling it The Golden Trowel—trust me, it’s quite a story.”
Behind Finkley, a queue had formed: a couple of nostalgic Helix residents waiting for a chance to talk to distant relatives, old pen pals, or simply anyone with a different vantage on Earth’s reconstruction. Even if those calls were often just a “We’re still alive,” it was more comfort than they’d had in years.
“Hang in there, sweetie,” Finkley said with a drab tone, relaying Kai’s words, struggling hard not to be beaming at the imaginary booth’s receiver. “We’re on our way.”
Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot
In a cramped subdeck chamber whose overhead lights still flickered ominously, Luca Stroud connected a portable console to one of Synthia’s subtle interface nodes. “Easy does it,” he muttered. “We nudge up the wake-up parameters by ten percent, keep an eye on rising stress levels—and hopefully avoid any mass lunacy like last time.”
Sue Forgelot observed from behind, arms folded and face alight with the steely calm that made her a natural second in command. “Focus on folks from the Lower Decks first. They’re more used to harsh realities. Less chance of meltdown when they realize Earth’s not a bed of roses.”
Luca shot her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He tapped the console, and Synthia’s interface glowed green, accepting the new instructions.
“Well, Synthia, dear,” Sue said, addressing the panel drily, “keep cooperating, and nobody’ll have to forcibly remove your entire matrix.”
A faint chime answered—Synthia’s version of a polite half-nod. The lines of code on Luca’s console rearranged themselves into a calmer pattern. The AI’s core processes, thoroughly reined in by the Captain’s new overrides, hummed along peacefully. For now.
Evie & Riven’s Big News
On Helix 25’s mid-deck Lexican Chapel, full of spiral motifs and drifting incense, Evie and Riven stood hand in hand, ignoring the eerie chanting around them. Well, trying to ignore it. Evie’s belly had a soft curve now, and Riven couldn’t stop glancing at it with a proud smile.
One of the elder Lexicans approached, wearing swirling embroidered robes. “The engagement ceremony is prepared, if you’re still certain you want our… elaborate rituals.”
Riven, normally stoic, gave a slight grin. “We’re certain.” He caught Evie’s eye. “I guess you’re stuck with me, detective. And the kid inside you who’ll probably speak Lexican prophecies by the time they’re one.”
Evie rolled her eyes, though affection shone behind it. “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it. We’ve both stared down bigger threats.” Then her hand drifted to her abdomen, protective and proud. “Let’s keep the chanting to a minimum though, okay?”
The Lexican gave a solemn half-bow. “We shall refrain from dancing on the ceilings this time.”
They laughed, past tensions momentarily lifted. Their child’s future, for all its uncertain possibilities, felt like hope on a ship that was finally getting stirred in a clear direction… away from the void of its own nightmares. And Mars, just out the window, loomed like a stepping stone to an Earth that might yet be worth returning to.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – The Mad Heir
The Wellness Deck was one of the few places untouched by the ship’s collective lunar madness—if one ignored the ambient aroma of algae wraps and rehydrated lavender oil. Soft music played in the background, a soothing contrast to the underlying horror that was about to unfold.
Peryton Price, or Perry as he was known to his patients, took a deep breath. He had spent years here, massaging stress from the shoulders of the ship’s weary, smoothing out wrinkles with oxygenated facials, pressing detoxifying seaweed against fine lines. He was, by all accounts, a model spa technician.
And yet—
His hands were shaking.
Inside his skull, another voice whispered. Urging. Prodding. It wasn’t his voice, and that terrified him.
“A little procedure, Perry. Just a little one. A mild improvement. A small tweak—in the name of progress!”
He clenched his jaw. No. No, no, no. He wouldn’t—
“You were so good with the first one, lad. What harm was it? Just a simple extraction! We used to do it all the time back in my day—what do you think the humors were for?”
Perry squeezed his eyes shut. His reflection stared back at him from the hydrotherapeutic mirror, but it wasn’t his face he saw. The shadow of a gaunt, beady-eyed man lingered behind his pupils, a visage that he had never seen before and yet… he knew.
Bronkelhampton. The Mad Doctor of Tikfijikoo.
He was the closest voice, but it was triggering even older ones, from much further down in time. Madness was running in the family. He’d thought he could escape the curse.
“Just imagine the breakthroughs, my dear boy. If you could only commit fully. Why, we could even work on the elders! The preserved ones! You have so many willing patients, Perry! We had so much success with the tardigrade preservation already.”
A high-pitched giggle cut through his spiraling thoughts.
“Oh, heavens, dear boy, this steam is divine. We need to get one of these back in Quadrant B,” Gloria said, reclining in the spa pool. “Sha, can’t you requisition one? You were a ship steward once.”
Sha scoffed. “Sweetheart, I once tried requisitioning extra towels and ended up with twelve crates of anti-bacterial foot powder.”
Mavis clicked her tongue. “Honestly, men are so incompetent. Perry, dear, you wouldn’t happen to know how to requisition a spa unit, would you?”
Perry blinked. His mind was slipping. The whisper of his ancestor had begun to press at the edges of his control.
“Tsk. They’re practically begging you, Perry. Just a little procedure. A minor adjustment.”
Sha, Gloria, and Mavis watched in bemusement as Perry’s eye twitched.
“…Dear?” Mavis prompted, adjusting the cucumber slice over her eye. “You’re staring again.”
Perry snapped back. He swallowed. “I… I was just thinking.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Gloria muttered.
“Thinking about what?” Sha pressed.
Perry’s hand tightened around the pulse-massager in his grip. His fingers were pale.
“Scalpel, Perry. You remember the scalpel, don’t you?”
He staggered back from the trio of floating retirees. The pulse-massager trembled in his grip. No, no, no. He wouldn’t.
And yet, his fingers moved.
Sha, Gloria, and Mavis were still bickering about requisition forms when Perry let out a strained whimper.
“RUN,” he choked out.
The trio blinked at him in lazy confusion.
“…Pardon?”
That was at this moment that the doors slid open in a anti-climatic whiz.
Evie knew they were close. Amara had narrowed the genetic matches down, and the final name had led them here.
“Okay, let’s be clear,” Evie muttered as they sprinted down the corridors. “A possessed spa therapist was not on my bingo card for this murder case.”
TP, jogging alongside, huffed indignantly. “I must protest. The signs were all there if you knew how to look! Historical reenactments, genetic triggers, eerie possession tropes! But did anyone listen to me? No!”
Riven was already ahead of them, his stride easy and efficient. “Less talking, more stopping the maniac, yeah?”
They skidded into the spa just in time to see Perry lurch forward—
And Riven tackled him hard.
The pulse-massager skidded across the floor. Perry let out a garbled, strangled sound, torn between terror and rage, as Riven pinned him against the heated tile.
Evie, catching her breath, leveled her stun-gun at Perry’s shaking form. “Okay, Perry. You’re gonna explain this. Right now.”
Perry gasped, eyes wild. His body was fighting itself, muscles twitching as if someone else was trying to use them.
“…It wasn’t me,” he croaked. “It was them! It was him.”
Gloria, still lounging in the spa, raised a hand. “Who exactly?”
Perry’s lips trembled. “Ancestors. Mostly my grandfather. *Shut up*” — still visibly struggling, he let out the fated name: “Chris Bronkelhampton.”
Sha spat out her cucumber slice. “Oh, hell no.”
Gloria sat up straighter. “Oh, I remember that nutter! We practically hand-delivered him to justice!”
“Didn’t we, though?” Mavis muttered. “Are we sure we did?”
Perry whimpered. “I didn’t want to do it. *Shut up, stupid boy!* —No! I won’t—!” Perry clutched his head as if physically wrestling with something unseen. “They’re inside me. He’s inside me. He played our ancestor like a fiddle, filled his eyes with delusions of devilry, made him see Ethan as sorcerer—Mandrake as an omen—”
His breath hitched as his fingers twitched in futile rebellion. “And then they let him in.“
Evie shared a quick look with TP. That matched Amara’s findings. Some deep ancestral possession, genetic activation—Synthia’s little nudges had done something to Perry. Through food dispenser maybe? After all, Synthia had access to almost everything. Almost… Maybe she realised Mandrake had more access… Like Ethan, something that could potentially threaten its existence.
The AI had played him like a pawn.
“What did he make you do, Perry?” Evie pressed, stepping closer.
Perry shuddered. “Screens flickering, they made me see things. He, they made me think—” His breath hitched. “—that Ethan was… dangerous. *Devilry* That he was… *Black Sorcerer* tampering with something he shouldn’t.”
Evie’s stomach sank. “Tampering with what?”
Perry swallowed thickly. “I don’t know”
Mandrake had slid in unnoticed, not missing a second of the revelations. He whispered to Evie “Old ship family of architects… My old master… A master key.”
Evie knew to keep silent. Was Synthia going to let them go? She didn’t have time to finish her thoughts.
Synthia’s voice made itself heard —sending some communiqués through the various channels
“The threat has been contained.
Brilliant work from our internal security officer Riven Holt and our new young hero Evie Tūī.”“What are you waiting for? Send this lad in prison!” Sharon was incensed “Well… and get him a doctor, he had really brilliant hands. Would be a shame to put him in the freezer. Can’t get the staff these days.”
Evie’s pulse spiked, still racing — “…Marlowe had access to everything.”.
Oh. Oh no.
Ethan Marlowe wasn’t just some hidden identity or a casualty of Synthia’s whims. He had something—something that made Synthia deem him a threat.
Evie’s grip on her stun-gun tightened. They had to get to Old Marlowe sooner than later. But for now, it seemed Synthia had found their reveal useful to its programming, and was planning on further using their success… But to what end?
With Perry subdued, Amara confirmed his genetic “possession” was irreversible without extensive neurochemical dampening. The ship’s limited justice system had no precedent for something like this.
And so, the decision was made:
Perry Price would be cryo-frozen until further notice.
Sha, watching the process with arms crossed, sighed. “He’s not the worst lunatic we’ve met, honestly.”
Gloria nodded. “Least he had some manners. Could’ve asked first before murdering people, though.”
Mavis adjusted her robe. “Typical men. No foresight.”
Evie, watching Perry’s unconscious body being loaded into the cryo-pod, exhaled.
This was only the beginning.
Synthia had played Perry like a tool—like a test run.
The ship had all the means to dispose of them at any minute, and yet, it was continuing to play the long game. All that elaborate plan was quite surgical. But the bigger picture continued to elude her.
But now they were coming back to Earth, it felt like a Pyrrhic victory.
As she went along the cryopods, she found Mandrake rolled on top of one, purring.
She paused before the name. Dr. Elias Arorangi. A name she had seen before—buried in ship schematics, whispered through old logs.
Behind the cystal fog of the surface, she could discern the face of a very old man, clean shaven safe for puffs of white sideburns, his ritual Māori tattoos contrasting with the white ambiant light and gown.
As old as he looked, if he was kept here, It was because he still mattered.
