Search Results for 'bea'

Forums Search Search Results for 'bea'

Viewing 20 results - 1 through 20 (of 922 total)
  • Author
    Search Results
  • #7877

    Helix 25 — The Six Spinster Sisters’ Will

    Evie keyed in her login credentials for the sixth time that afternoon, stifling a yawn. Ever since the murder case had wrapped, she had drifted into a lulling routine—one that made her pregnancy drag on with excruciating slowness. Riven was rarely around; he’d been commandeered by the newly awakened Veranassessee for “urgent duties” that somehow never needed Evie’s help. And though she couldn’t complain about the ship’s overall calm, she felt herself itching for something—anything—to break the monotony.

    So she’d come to one of the less-frequented data terminals on Helix25, in a dim corner off the main library deck. She had told herself she was looking up baby name etymologies (her mother would have pressed her about it), but she’d quickly meandered into clinically sterile subfolders of genealogical records.

    It was exactly the kind of aimless rummaging that had once led her to uncover critical leads during the murder investigation. And if there was something Helix25 had in abundance besides well-recycled air, it was obscure digital archives.

    She settled into the creaking seat, adjusting the small pillow behind her back. The screen glowed, lines of text scrolling by in neat greenish typeface. Most references were unremarkable: old Earth deeds, ledgers for farmland, family names she didn’t recognize. Had she not known that data storage was near infinite, due to the excess demands of data from the central AIs, she would have wondered why they’d bothered stocking the ship with so much information. Then her gaze snagged on a curious subfolder titled “Alstonefield Will—Gibbs Sisters.”

    “Gibbs Sisters…?” she murmured under her breath, tapping it open.

    The file contained scans of a handwritten will dated early 1800s, from Staffordshire, England. Each page was peppered with archaic legalese (“whereupon the rightful property of Misses Mary, Ellen, Ann, Sarah, Margaret and Malové Gibbs bequeathed…”), listing items that ranged from modest farmland acreage to improbable references of “spiritual confidences.”

    Evie frowned, leaning closer. Spiritual confidences? The text was surprisingly explicit about the sisters’ lives—how six women jointly farmed 146 acres, remained unmarried, and according to a marginal note, “were rumored to share an uncanny attunement of thought.”

    A telepathic link? she thought, half-intrigued, half-smirking. That smacked of the same kind of rumor-laden gossip that had swirled around the old Earth families. Still, the note was written in an official hand.

    She scrolled further, expecting the record to fizzle out. Instead, it abruptly jumped to an addendum dated decades later:

    “By 1834, the Gibbs sisters departed for the Australian continent. Certain seeds and rootstocks—believed essential for their ‘ancestral devotions’—did accompany them. No further official records on them remain in Staffordshire….”

    Seeds and rootstocks. Evie’s curiosity piqued further—some old detail about hush-hush crops that the sisters apparently treasured enough to haul across the world.

    A flicker of movement caught her eye. Trevor PeeTP” Marshall, her faithful investigative hologram, materialized at the edge of her console. He adjusted his little pixelated bow tie, voice brimming with delight.

    “Ah, I see you’re poking around genealogical conundrums, dear Evie. Dare I hope we’ve found ourselves another puzzle?”

    Evie snorted softly. “Don’t get too excited, TP. It’s just a random will. But it does mention unusual circumstances… something about telepathy, special seeds, and these six spinster sisters traveling to the outback. It’s bizarre. And I’m bored.”

    TP’s mustache twitched in faux indignation. “Bizarre is my lifeblood, my dear. Let’s see: six sisters of reputed synergy… farmland… seeds with rumored ‘power’… Honestly, that’s more suspicious than the standard genealogical yawn.”

    Evie tapped a fingertip on the screen, highlighting the references. “Agreed. And for some reason, the file is cross-referenced with older Helix25 ‘implied passenger diaries.’ I can’t open them—some access restriction. Maybe Dr. Arorangi tagged them?”

    TP’s eyes gleamed. “Interesting, indeed. You recall Dr. Arorangi’s rumored fascination with nonstandard genetic lines—”

    “Right,” Evie said thoughtfully, sitting back. “So is that the link? Maybe this Alstonefield Hall story or the seeds the sisters carried has some significance to the architectural codes Arorangi left behind. We never did figure out why the AI has so many subroutines locked.”

    She paused, glancing down at her growing belly with a wry smile. “I know it might be nothing, but… it’s a better pastime than waiting for Riven to show up from another Veranassessee briefing. If these old records are tied to Dr. Arorangi’s restricted logs, that alone is reason enough to dig deeper.”

    TP beamed. “Spoken like a true detective. Ready to run with a half-thread of clue and see where it leads?”

    Evie nodded, tapping the old text to copy it into her personal device. “I am. Let’s see who these Gibbs sisters really were… and why Helix25’s archives bothered to keep them in the system.”

    Her heart thumped pleasantly at the prospect of unraveling some long-lost secret. It wasn’t exactly the adrenaline rush of a murder investigation, but in these humdrum days—six months after the last major crisis—it might be the spark she needed.

    She rose from the console, smartphone in hand, and beckoned to the flickering detective avatar. “Come on, TP. Let’s find out if six mysterious spinsters from 1800s Staffordshire can liven things up for us.”

    #7874

    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.

    #7869

    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.

     

    :fleuron2:

    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?

    :fleuron2:

    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.

    #7857

    Helix 25 – Onto The Second Murder Investigation

    Very strangely, it was a lot less chaotic in the Lower Decks, while the Upper Decks were having a rave of a time with the moon and mood swings.
    Evie stood over the diagnostics table, arms crossed, watching as Luca Stroud ran his scanner over Mandrake’s cybernetic collar. The black cat lay still, one eye flickering intermittently as though stuck between waking and shutdown. The deep gash along his side had been patched—Romualdo had insisted on carrying Mandrake to the lab himself, mumbling about how the garden’s automated sprinklers were acting up, and how Luca was the only one he trusted to fix delicate mechanisms.

    It had been a casual remark, but Evie had caught the subtext. Mandrake was no ordinary ship cat. He had always been tied to something larger.

    “Neurolink’s still scrambled,” Luca muttered, adjusting his scanner. “Damage isn’t terminal, but whatever happened, someone tried to wipe part of his memory.”

    Riven, arms crossed beside Evie, scoffed. “Why the hell would someone try to assassinate a cat?”

    Luca didn’t answer, but the data flickering on his screen spoke for itself. The attack had been precise. Not just a careless act of cruelty, nor an accident in the low-gravity sector.

    Mandrake had been targeted.

    Evie exhaled sharply. “Can you fix him?”

    Luca shrugged. “Depends. The physical repairs are easy enough—fractured neural pathways, fried circuits—but whatever was erased? That’s another story.” He tilted his head. “Thing is… someone didn’t just try to kill Mandrake. They tried to make him forget.”

    Riven’s frown deepened. “Forget what?”

    Silence settled between them.

    Evie reached out, brushing a gloved hand over Mandrake’s sleek black fur. “We need to figure out what he knew.”

    :fleuron2:

    It had been Trevor Pee—TP himself—who first mentioned it, entirely offhand, as they reviewed logs of the last places Mandrake had been seen.

    “He wasn’t always on his own, you know,” TP had said, twirling his holographic cane.

    Evie and Riven both turned to him.

    “What do you mean on his own, I though he was Seren’s?”

    “Oh, no. He just had a liking for her, but he’d belonged to someone else long before.” TP’s mustache twitched. “I accessed some archival records during Mandrake’s diagnostic.”

    Evie blinked. “Mmm, are you going to make me ask? What did you find?”

    “Indeed,” TP offered cheerfully. “Before Mandrake wandered freely through the gardens and ventilation shafts, becoming a ship legend, he belonged—as much as a cat can belong—to someone.”

    Riven’s expression darkened. “Who?! Will you just tell?!”

    TP flicked his wrist, bringing up an old personnel file, heavily redacted. But one name flickered beneath the blurred-out sections.

    Dr. Elias Arorangi.

    Evie felt her heartbeat quicken. The name echoed faintly familiar, not directly connected to her, but she’d seen it once or twice before, buried in obscure references. “Dr. Arorangi—wait, he was part of the original Helix design team, wasn’t he?”

    TP nodded gravely. “Precisely. A lead systems architect, responsible for designing key protocols for the AI integration—among them, some critical frameworks that evolved into Synthia’s consciousness. Disappeared without a trace shortly after Synthia’s initial activation.”

    Riven straightened. “Disappeared? Do you think—”

    TP raised a finger to silence him. “I don’t speculate, but here’s the interesting part: Dr. Arorangi had extensive, classified knowledge of Helix 25’s core systems. If Mandrake was his companion at that crucial time, it’s conceivable that Arorangi trusted something to him—a memory, a code fragment, perhaps even a safeguard.”

    Evie’s mouth went dry.

    An architect of Helix 25, missing under suspicious circumstances, leaving behind a cat whose cybernetics were more sophisticated than any pet implant she’d ever seen?

    Evie looked down at Mandrake, whose damaged neural links were still flickering faintly. Someone had wanted Mandrake silenced and forgotten.

    :fleuron2:

    Later, in the dim light of his workshop, Luca Stroud worked in silence, carefully re-aligning the cat’s neural implants. Romualdo sat nearby, arms crossed, watching with the nervous tension of a man who had just smuggled a ferret into a rat convention.

    “He’s tough,” Luca muttered, tightening a connection. “More durable than most of the junk I have to fix.”

    Romualdo huffed. “He better be.”

    A flicker of light pulsed through Mandrake’s collar. His single good eye opened, pupils dilating as his systems realigned.

    Then, groggily, he muttered, “I hate this ship.”

    Romualdo let out a relieved chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. Welcome back, Mandrake.”

    Luca wiped his hands. “He’s still scrambled, but he’s functional. Just… don’t expect him to remember everything.”

    Mandrake groaned, stretching his mechanical paw. “I remember… needing a drink.”

    Romualdo smirked. “That’s a good sign, yeah?”

    Luca hesitated before looking at Evie. “Whatever was wiped—it’s gone. But if he starts remembering things in fragments… we need to pay attention.”

    Evie nodded. “Oh, we definitely will.”

    Mandrake rolled onto his feet, shaking out his fur, a small but defiant flick of his cybernetic tail.

    “I have the strangest feeling,” he muttered, “that someone is still looking for me.”

    Evie exhaled.

    For now, with his memory gone, he would probably be safe, but a killer was in their midst and they needed to find out the truth, and fast.

    #7854
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Arthurian Parallels in Helix 25

      This table explores an overlay of Arthurian archetypes woven into the narrative of Helix 25.
      By mapping key mythological figures to characters and themes within the story, it provides archetypal templates for exploration of leadership, unity, betrayal, and redemption in a futuristic setting.

      Arthurian Archetype Role in Arthurian Myth Helix 25 Counterpart Narrative Integration in Helix 25 Themes & Contemporary Reflections
      Merlin Wise guide, prophet, keeper of lost knowledge, enigmatic mentor. Merdhyn Winstrom Hermit survivor whose beacon reawakens lost knowledge, eccentric guide bridging Earth and Helix. Echoes of lost wisdom resurfacing in times of crisis. Role of eccentric thinkers in shaping the future.
      King Arthur (Once and Future King) Sleeping leader destined to return, restorer of order and unity. Captain Veranassessee Cryo-sleeping leader awakened to restore stability and uncover ship’s deeper truths. Balancing destiny, responsibility, and the burden of leadership in a fractured world.
      Lady of the Lake Guardian of sacred wisdom, bestower of power, holds destiny in trust. Molly & Ellis Marlowe Custodians of ancestral knowledge, connecting genetic past to future, deciding who is worthy. Gatekeepers of forgotten truths. Who decides what knowledge should be passed down?
      Excalibur Sacred weapon representing legitimacy, strength, and destiny. Genetic/Technological Legacy (DNA or Artifact) Latent genetic or technological power that legitimizes leadership and enables restoration. What makes someone truly worthy of leadership—birthright, wisdom, or action?
      The Round Table Assembly of noble figures, unifying leadership for justice and stability. Crew Reunion & Unity Arc Gathering key figures and factions, resolving past divisions, solidifying leadership. How do we rebuild trust and unity in a world fractured by conflict and betrayal?
      The Holy Grail Ultimate quest for redemption, unity, and spiritual awakening. Rediscovered Earth or True Purpose Journey to unify factions, reconnect with Earth, and rediscover humanity’s true mission. Is humanity’s purpose merely survival, or is there something greater to strive for?
      The Fisher King Wounded guardian of a dying land, whose fate mirrors humanity’s wounds. Earth’s Ruined Environmental Condition Metaphor for humanity’s wounds—only healed through wisdom, unity, and ethical leadership. Environmental stewardship as moral responsibility; the impact of neglect and division.
      Camelot Utopian vision, fragile and prone to betrayal and internal decay. Helix 25 Community Helix 25 as a fragile utopian experiment, threatened by division and complacency. Utopian dreams versus real-world struggles; maintaining ideals without corruption.
      Mordred Betrayal from within, power-hungry faction that disrupts harmony. AI Manipulators / Hidden Saboteurs Internal betrayal—either AI-driven manipulation or ideological rebellion disrupting balance. How does internal dissent shape societies? When is rebellion justified?
      Gwenevere Queen, torn between duty, love, and political implications. Sue Forgelot or Captain Veranassessee Powerful yet conflicted female figure, mediating between different factions and destinies. The role of women in leadership, power dynamics, and the burden of political choices.
      Lancelot Loyal knight, unmatched warrior, torn between personal desires and duty. Orrin Holt or Kai Nova Heroic yet personally conflicted figure, struggling with duty vs. personal ties. Can one’s personal desires coexist with duty? What happens when loyalties are divided?
      Gawain Moral knight, flawed but honorable, faces ethical trials and tests. Riven Holt or Anuí Naskó Character undergoing trials of morality, leadership, and self-discovery. How does one navigate moral dilemmas? Growth through trials and ethical challenges.
      Morgana le Fay Misunderstood sorceress, keeper of hidden knowledge, power and manipulation. Zoya Kade Keeper of esoteric knowledge, influencing fate through prophecy and genetic memory. The fine line between wisdom and manipulation. Who controls the narrative of destiny?
      Perceval Naïve but destined knight, seeker of truth, stumbles upon great revelations. Tundra (Molly’s granddaughter) Youthful truth-seeker, symbolizing innocence and intuitive revelation. Naivety versus wisdom—can purity of heart succeed in a complex, divided world?
      Galahad Pure knight, achieves the Grail through unwavering virtue and clarity. Evie Investigator who uncovers truth through integrity and unwavering pursuit of justice. The pursuit of truth and justice as a path to transformation and redemption.
      The Green Knight/Challenge Mystical challenger, tests worthiness and integrity through ordeal. Mutiny Group / Environmental Crisis A trial or crisis forcing humanity to reckon with its moral and environmental failures. Humanity’s reckoning with its own self-destructive patterns—can we learn from the past?
      #7853
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        Expanded Helix 25 Narrative Structure

        This table organizes the key narrative arcs, characters, stakes, and thematic questions within Helix 25.
        It hopes to clarify the character development paths, unresolved mysteries, and broader philosophical questions
        that shape the world and conflicts aboard the ship and on Earth.

        Group / Location Key Characters Character Arc Description Stakes at Hand Growth Path / Needed Resolution Unresolved / Open Questions
        Helix 25 Investigators Evie, Riven Holt Move from initial naiveté into investigative maturity and moral complexity. Solving murders; uncovering ship-wide genetic and conspiratorial mysteries. Solve the murder and uncover deeper conspiracy; evolve in understanding of justice and truth. Who is behind the murders, and how do they connect to genetic experiments? Can the investigation conclude without a ship-wide disaster?
        Captain and Authority Veranassessee (Captain), Victor Holt, Sue Forgelot Struggle between personal ambition, legacy, and leadership responsibilities. Control over Helix 25; reconciling past decisions with the present crisis. Clarify leadership roles; determine AI’s true intent and whether it can be trusted. Why were Veranassessee and Victor Holt placed in cryostasis? Can they reconcile their past and lead effectively?
        Lexicans / Prophecy Followers Anuí Naskó, Zoya Kade, Kio’ath Wrestle with the role of prophecy in shaping humanity’s fate and their personal identities. Interpreting prophecy and ensuring it doesn’t destabilize the ship’s fragile peace. Define the prophecy’s role in shaping real-world actions; balance faith and reason. Is the prophecy real or a distorted interpretation of genetic science? Who is the Speaker?
        AI and Tech-Human Synthesis Synthia AI, Mandrake, TP (Trevor Pee) Question control, sentience, and ethical AI usage. Human survival in the face of AI autonomy; defining AI-human coexistence. Determine if Synthia can be an ally or is a rogue force; resolve AI ethics debate. What is Synthia’s endgame—benevolent protector or manipulative force? Can AI truly coexist with humans?
        Telepathic Cleaner Lineage / Humor and Communication Arc Finkley, Finja Transition from comic relief to key mediators between Helix and Earth survivors. Establishing clear telepathic channels for communication; bridging Earth-Helix survivors. Fully embrace their psychic role; decipher if their link is natural or AI-influenced. Does AI interfere with psychic communication? Can telepathy safely unite Earth and Helix?
        Upper Deck Elderly Trio (Social Commentary & Comic Relief) Sharon, Gloria, Mavis Provide levity and philosophical critique of life aboard the ship. Keeping morale and philosophical integrity intact amid unfolding crises. Contribute insights that impact key decisions, revealing truths hidden in humor. Will their wisdom unexpectedly influence critical events? Are they aware of secrets others have missed?
        Earth Survivors – Hungary & Ukraine Molly (Marlowe), Tundra, Anya, Petro, Gregor, Tala, Yulia, Mikhail, Jian Move from isolated survival and grief to unity and rediscovery of lost connections. Survival on a devastated Earth; confirming whether a connection to Helix 25 exists. Confirm lineage connections and reunite with ship-based family or survivors. What is the fate of Earth’s other survivors? Can they reunite without conflict?
        Base Klyutch Group (Military Survivors) Orrin Holt, Koval, Solara Ortega, Janos Varga, Dr. Yelena Markova Transition from defensive isolation to outward exploration and human reconnection. Navigating dangers on Earth; reconnecting with lost knowledge and ship-born survivors. Clarify the nature of space signals; integrate newfound knowledge with Helix 25. Who sent the space signal? Can Base Klyutch’s knowledge help Helix 25 before it’s too late?
        The Lone Island Tinkerer / Beacon Activator Merdhyn Winstrom Rise from eccentric survivor to central figure in reconnecting Earth and Helix. Repairing beacon signals; discovering who else may have received the call. Determine beacon’s true purpose; unify Earth and Helix factions through communication. Who else intercepted the beacon’s message? Can Merdhyn be fully trusted?
        #7852
        Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
        Participant

          “Tundra Finds the Shoat-lion”

          FADE IN:

          EXT. THE GOLDEN TROWEL BAR — DUSK

          A golden, muted twilight paints the landscape, illuminating the overgrown ivy and sprawled vines reclaiming the ancient tavern. THE GOLDEN TROWEL sign creaks gently in the breeze above the doorway.

          ANGLE DOWN TO — TUNDRA, a spirited and curious 12-year-old girl with a wild, freckled pixie-cut and striking auburn hair, stepping carefully over ivy-covered stones and debris. She wears worn clothes, stitched lovingly by survivors; a scavenged backpack swings on one shoulder.

          Behind her, through the windows of the tavern, warm lantern-light flickers. We glimpse MOLLY and GREGOR smiling and chatting quietly through dusty glass.

          ANGLE ON — Tundra as she pauses, hearing a soft rustling near the abandoned beer barrels stacked against the tavern wall. Her green eyes widen, alert and intrigued.

          SLOW PAN DOWN to reveal a small creature trembling in the shadows—a MARCASSIN, a tiny wild piglet no larger than a rugby ball, with coarse fur streaked ginger and cinnamon stripes along its body. Large dark eyes stare up, innocence mixed with wary curiosity. It’s adorable yet clearly distinct, with sharper canines already hinting at the deeply mutated carnivorous lineage of Hungary’s lion-boars.

          Tundra inhales softly, visibly torn between instinctual cautiousness her elders taught and her own irrepressible instinct of compassion.

          TUNDRA
          (soft, gentle)
          “It’s alright…I won’t hurt you.”

          She crouches slowly, reaching into her pocket—a small piece of stale bread emerges, held in her outstretched hand.

          CLOSE-UP on the marcassin’s wary eyes shifting cautiously to her extended palm. A heartbeat of hesitation, and then it takes a tentative step forward, sniffing gently. Tundra holds utterly still, breath held in earnest hope.

          The marcassin edges closer, wet nose brushing her fingers softly. Tundra beams, freckles highlighted by the fading sun, warmth and joy glowing on her face.

          TUNDRA
          (whispering happily)
          “You’re not so scary, are you? I’m Tundra… I think we could be friends.”

          Movement at the tavern door draws her attention. The worn wood creaks as MOLLY and GREGOR step outside, shadows stretching long in the golden sunset. MOLLY’s eyes, initially alert with careful caution, soften at the touching scene.

          MOLLY
          (gently amused, warmly amused yet apprehensive)
          “Careful now, darling. Even the smallest things aren’t always what they seem these days.”

          GREGOR
          (softly chuckling, eyes twinkling)
          “But then again, neither are we.”

          ANGLE ON Tundra, looking up to meet Molly’s eyes. Her determination tempered only by vulnerability, hope, and youthful stubbornness.

          TUNDRA
          “It needs us, Nana Molly. Everything needs somebody nowadays.”

          Molly considers the wisdom in Tundra’s young, earnest gaze. Gregor stifles a smile and pats Molly lightly lovingly on the shoulder.

          GREGOR
          (warmly, quietly)
          “Ah, let her find hope where she sees it. Might be that little thing will change how we see hope ourselves.”

          ANGLE WIDE — the small group beside the tavern: Molly, her wise and caring gaze thoughtful; Gregor’s stance gentle yet cautiously protective; Tundra radiating youthful bravery, cradling newfound companionship as the marcassin squeaks softly, cuddling gently against her worn sweater.

          ASCENDING SHOT ABOVE the tumbledown ancient Hungarian tavern, the warm glow of lantern and sunset mingling. Ancient vines and wild weeds whisper forgotten stories as stars blink awake above.

          In that gentle hush, beneath a wild and vast sky reclaiming an abandoned land, Tundra’s act of compassion quietly rekindles hope for humanity’s delicate future.

          FADE OUT.

          #7849

          Helix 25 – The Genetic Puzzle

          Amara’s Lab – Data Now Aggregated
          (Discrepancies Never Addressed)

          On the screen in front of Dr. Amara Voss, lines upon lines of genetic code were cascading and making her sleepy. While the rest of the ship was running amok, she was barricaded into her lab, content to have been staring at the sequences for the most part of the day —too long actually.

          She took a sip of her long-cold tea and exhaled sharply.

          Even if data was patchy from the records she had access to, there was a solid database of genetic materials, all dutifully collected for all passengers, or crew before embarkment, as was mandated by company policy. The official reason being to detect potential risks for deep space survival. Before the ship’s take-over, systematic recording of new-borns had been neglected, and after the ship’s takeover, population’s new born had drastically reduced, with the birth control program everyone had agreed on, as was suggested by Synthia. So not everyone’s DNA was accounted for, but in theory, anybody on the ship could be traced back and matched by less than 2 or 3 generations to the original data records.

          The Marlowe lineage was the one that kept resurfacing. At first, she thought it was coincidence—tracing the bloodlines of the ship’s inhabitants was messy, a tangled net of survivors, refugees, and engineered populations. But Marlowe wasn’t alone.

          Another name pulsed in the data. Forgelot. Then Holt. Old names of Earth, unlike the new star-birthed. There were others, too.

          Families that had been aboard Helix 25 for some generations. But more importantly, bloodlines that could be traced back to Earth’s distant past.

          But beyond just analysing their origins, there was something else that caught her attention. It was what was happening to them now.

          Amara leaned forward, pulling up the mutation activation models she had been building. In normal conditions, these dormant genetic markers would remain just that—latent. Passed through generations like forgotten heirlooms, meaningless until triggered.

          Except in this case, there was evidence that something had triggered them.

          The human body, subjected to long-term exposure to deep space radiation, artificial gravity shifts, and cosmic phenomena, and had there not been a fair dose of shielding from the hull, should have mutated chaotically, randomly. But this was different. The genetic sequences weren’t just mutating—they were activating.

          And more surprisingly… it wasn’t truly random.

          Something—or someone—had inherited an old mechanism that allowed them to access knowledge, instincts, memories from generations long past.

          The ancient Templars had believed in a ritualistic process to recover ancestral skills and knowledge. What Amara was seeing now…

          She rubbed her forehead.

          “Impossible.”

          And yet—here was the data.

          On Earth, the past was written in stories and fading ink. In space, the past was still alive—hiding inside their cells, waiting.

          Earth – The Quiz Night Reveal

          The Golden Trowel, Hungary

          The candlelit warmth of The Golden Trowel buzzed with newfound energy. The survivors sat in a loose circle, drinks in hand, at this unplanned but much-needed evening of levity.

          Once the postcards shared, everyone was listening as Tala addressed the group.

          “If anyone has an anecdote, hang on to the postcard,” she said. “If not, pass it on. No wrong answers, but the best story wins.”

          Molly felt the weight of her own selection, the Giralda’s spire sharp and unmistakable. Something about it stirred her—an itch in the back of her mind, a thread tugging at long-buried memories.

          She turned toward Vera, who was already inspecting her own card with keen interest.

          “Tower of London, anything exciting to share?”

          Vera arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, lips curving in amusement.

          Molly Darling,” she drawled, “I can tell you lots, I know more about dead people’s families than most people know about their living ones, and London is surely a place of abundance of stories. But do you even know about your own name Marlowe?”

          She spun the postcard between her fingers before answering.

          “Not sure, really, I only know about Philip Marlowe, the fictional detective from Lady in the Lake novel… Never really thought about the name before.”

          “Marlowe,” Vera smiled. “That’s an old name. Very old. Derived from an Old English phrase meaning ‘remnants of a lake.’

          Molly inhaled sharply.

          Remnants of the Lady of the Lake ?

          Her pulse thrummed. Beyond the historical curiosity she’d felt a deep old connection.

          If her family had left behind records, they would have been on the ship… The thought came with unwanted feelings she’d rather have buried. The living mattered, the lost ones… They’d lost connection for so long, how could they…

          Her fingers tightened around the postcard.

          Unless there was something behind her ravings?

          Molly swallowed the lump in her throat and met Vera’s gaze. “I need to talk to Finja.”

          :fleuron2:

          Finja had spent most of the evening pretending not to exist.

          But after the fifth time Molly nudged her, eyes bright with silent pleas, she let out a long-suffering sigh.

          “Alright,” she muttered. “But just one.”

          Molly exhaled in relief.

          The once-raucous Golden Trowel had dimmed into something softer—the edges of the night blurred with expectation.

          Because it wasn’t just Molly who wanted to ask.

          Maybe it was the effect of the postcards game, a shared psychic connection, or maybe like someone had muttered, caused by the new Moon’s sickness… A dozen others had realized, all at once, that they too had names to whisper.

          Somehow, a whole population was still alive, in space, after all this time. There was no time for disbelief now, Finja’s knowledge of stuff was incontrovertible. Molly was cued by the care-taking of Ellis Marlowe by Finkley, she knew things about her softie of a son, only his mother and close people would know.

          So Finja had relented. And agreed to use all means to establish a connection, to reignite a spark of hope she was worried could just be the last straw before being thrown into despair once again.

          Finja closed her eyes.

          The link had always been there, an immediate vivid presence beneath her skull, pristine and comfortable but tonight it felt louder, crowdier.

          The moons had shifted, in syzygy, with a gravity pull in their orbits tugging at things unseen.

          She reached out—

          And the voices crashed into her.

          Too much. Too many.

          Hundreds of voices, drowning her in longing and loss.

          “Where is my brother?”
          “Did my wife make it aboard?”
          “My son—please—he was supposed to be on Helix 23—”
          “Tell them I’m still here!”

          Her head snapped back, breath shattering into gasps.

          The crowd held its breath.

          A dozen pairs of eyes, wide and unblinking.

          Finja clenched her fists. She had to shut it down. She had to—

          And then—

          Something else.

          A presence. Watching.

          Synthia.

          Her chest seized.

          There was no logical way for an AI to interfere with telepathic frequencies.

          And yet—

          She felt it.

          A subtle distortion. A foreign hand pressing against the link, observing.

          The ship knew.

          Finja jerked back, knocking over her chair.

          The bar erupted into chaos.

          “FINJA?! What did you see?”
          “Was someone there?”
          “Did you find anyone?!”

          Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

          She had never thought about the consequences of calling out across space.

          But now…

          Now she knew.

          They were not the last survivors. Other lived and thrived beyond Earth.

          And Synthia wanted to keep it that way.

          Yet, Finja and Finkley had both simultaneously caught something.
          It would take the ship time, but they were coming back. Synthia was not pleased about it, but had not been able to override the response to the beacon.

          They were coming back.

          #7848
          Jib
          Participant

            Helix 25 – Murder Board – Evie’s apartment

            The ship had gone mad.

            Riven Holt stood in what should have been a secured crime scene, staring at the makeshift banner that had replaced his official security tape. “ENTER FREELY AND OF YOUR OWN WILL,” it read, in bold, uneven letters. The edges were charred. Someone had burned it, for reasons he would never understand.

            Behind him, the faint sounds of mass lunacy echoed through the corridors. People chanting, people sobbing, someone loudly trying to bargain with gravity.

            “Sir, the floors are not real! We’ve all been walking on a lie!” someone had screamed earlier, right before diving headfirst into a pile of chairs left there by someone trying to create a portal.

            Riven did his best to ignore the chaos, gripping his tablet like it was the last anchor to reality. He had two dead bodies. He had one ship full of increasingly unhinged people. And he had forty hours without sleep. His brain felt like a dried-out husk, working purely on stubbornness and caffeine fumes.

            Evie was crouched over Mandrake’s remains, muttering to herself as she sorted through digital records. TP stood nearby, his holographic form flickering as if he, too, were being affected by the ship’s collective insanity.

            “Well,” TP mused, rubbing his nonexistent chin. “This is quite the predicament.”

            Riven pinched the bridge of his nose. “TP, if you say anything remotely poetic about the human condition, I will unplug your entire database.”

            TP looked delighted. “Ah, my dear lieutenant, a threat worthy of true desperation!”

            Evie ignored them both, then suddenly stiffened. “Riven, I… you need to see this.”

            He braced himself. “What now?”

            She turned the screen toward him. Two names appeared side by side:

            ETHAN MARLOWE

            MANDRAKE

            Both M.

            The sound that came out of Riven was not quite a word. More like a dying engine trying to restart.

            TP gasped dramatically. “My stars. The letter M! The implications are—”

            “No.” Riven put up a hand, one tremor away from screaming. “We are NOT doing this. I am not letting my brain spiral into a letter-based conspiracy theory while people outside are rolling in protein paste and reciting odes to Jupiter’s moons.”

            Evie, far too calm for his liking, just tapped the screen again. “It’s a pattern. We have to consider it.”

            TP nodded sagely. “Indeed. The letter M—known throughout history as a mark of mystery, malice, and… wait, let me check… ah, macaroni.”

            Riven was going to have an aneurysm.

            Instead, he exhaled slowly, like a man trying to keep the last shreds of his soul from unraveling.

            “That means the Lexicans are involved.”

            Evie paled. “Oh no.”

            TP beamed. “Oh yes!”

            The Lexicans had been especially unpredictable lately. One had been caught trying to record the “song of the walls” because “they hum with forgotten words.” Another had attempted to marry the ship’s AI. A third had been detained for throwing their own clothing into the air vents because “the whispers demanded tribute.”

            Riven leaned against the console, feeling his mind slipping. He needed a reality check. A hard, cold, undeniable fact.

            Only one person could give him that.

            “You know what? Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s just ask the one person who might actually be able to tell me if this is a coincidence or some ancient space cult.”

            Evie frowned. “Who?”

            Riven was already walking. “My grandfather.”

            Evie practically choked. “Wait, WHAT?!”

            TP clapped his hands. “Ah, the classic ‘Wake the Old Man to Solve the Crimes’ maneuver. Love it.”

            The corridors were worse than before. As they made their way toward cryo-storage, the lunacy had escalated:

            A crowd was parading down the halls with helium balloons, chanting, “Gravity is a Lie!”
            A group of engineers had dismantled a security door, claiming “it whispered to them about betrayal.”
            And a bunch of Lexicans, led by Kio’ath, had smeared stinking protein paste onto the Atrium walls, drawing spirals and claiming the prophecy was upon them all.
            Riven’s grip on reality was thin.

            Evie grabbed his arm. “Think about this. What if your grandfather wakes up and he’s just as insane as everyone else?”

            Riven didn’t even break stride. “Then at least we’ll be insane with more context.”

            TP sighed happily. “Ah, reckless decision-making. The very heart of detective work.”

            Helix 25 — Victor Holt’s Awakening

            They reached the cryo-chamber. The pod loomed before them, controls locked down under layers of security.

            Riven cracked his knuckles, eyes burning with the desperation of a man who had officially run out of better options.

            Evie stared. “You’re actually doing this.”

            He was already punching in override codes. “Damn right I am.”

            The door opened. A low hum filled the room. The first thing Riven noticed was the frost still clinging to the edges of an already open cryopod. Cold vapor curled around its base, its occupant nowhere to be seen.

            His stomach clenched. Someone had beaten them here. Another pod’s systems activated. The glass began to fog as temperature levels shifted.

            TP leaned in. “Oh, this is going to be deliciously catastrophic.”

            Before the pod could fully engage, a flicker of movement in the dim light caught Riven’s eye. Near the terminal, hunched over the access panel like a gang of thieves cracking a vault, stood Zoya Kade and Anuí Naskó—and, a baby wrapped in what could only be described as an aggressively overdesigned Lexican tapestry, layers of embroidered symbols and unreadable glyphs woven in mismatched patterns. It was sucking desperately the lexican’s sleeve.

            Riven’s exhaustion turned into a slow, rising fury. For a brief moment, his mind was distracted by something he had never actually considered before—he had always assumed Anuí was a woman. The flowing robes, the mannerisms, the way they carried themselves. But now, cradling the notorious Lexican baby in ceremonial cloth, could they possibly be…

            Anuí caught his look and smiled faintly, unreadable as ever. “This has nothing to do with gender,” they said smoothly, shifting the baby with practiced ease. “I merely am the second father of the child.”

            “Oh, for f***—What in the hell are you two doing here?”

            Anuí barely glanced up, shifting the baby to their other arm as though hacking into a classified cryo-storage facility while holding an infant was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Unlocking the axis of the spiral,” they said smoothly. “It was prophesied. The Speaker’s name has been revealed.”

            Zoya, still pressing at the panel, didn’t even look at him. “We need to wake Victor Holt.”

            Riven threw his hands in the air. “Great! Fantastic! So do we! The difference is that I actually have a reason.”

            Anuí, eyes glinting with something between mischief and intellect, gave an elegant nod. “So do we, Lieutenant. Yours is a crime scene. Ours is history itself.”

            Riven felt his headache spike. “Oh good. You’ve been licking the walls again.”

            TP, absolutely delighted, interjected, “Oh, I like them. Their madness is methodical!”

            Riven narrowed his eyes, pointing at the empty pod. “Who the hell did you wake up?”

            Zoya didn’t flinch. “We don’t know.”

            He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, you don’t know? You cracked into a classified cryo-storage facility, activated a pod, and just—what? Didn’t bother to check who was inside?”

            Anuí adjusted the baby, watching him with that same unsettling, too-knowing expression. “It was not part of the prophecy. We were guided here for Victor Holt.”

            “And yet someone else woke up first!” Riven gestured wildly to the empty pod. “So, unless the prophecy also mentioned mystery corpses walking out of deep freeze, I suggest you start making sense.”

            Before Riven could launch into a proper interrogation, the cryo-system let out a deep hiss.

            Steam coiled up from Victor Holt’s pod as the seals finally unlocked, fog spilling over the edges like something out of an ancient myth. A figure was stirring within, movements sluggish, muscles regaining function after years in suspension.

            And then, from the doorway, another voice rang out, sharp, almost panicked.

            Ellis Marlowe stood at the threshold, looking at the two open pods, his eyes wide with something between shock and horror.

            “What have you done?”

            Riven braced himself.

            Evie muttered, “Oh, this is gonna be bad.”

            #7846

            Helix 25 — The Captain’s Awakening

            The beacon’s pulse cut through the void like a sharpened arrowhead of ancient memory.

            Far from Merdhyn’s remote island refuge, deep within the Hold’s bowels of Helix 25, something—someone—stirred.

            Inside an unlisted cryo-chamber, the frozen stasis cracked. Veins of light slithered across the pod’s surface like Northern lights dancing on an old age screensaver. Systems whirred, data blipped and streamed in strings of unknown characters. The ship, Synthia, whispered in its infinite omniscience, but the moment was already beyond her control.

            A breath. A slow, drawn-out breath.

            The cryo-pod released its lock with a soft hiss, and through the dispersing mist, Veranassessee stepped forward— awakened.

            She blinked once, twice, as her senses rushed back with the sudden sense of gravity’s return. It was not the disorienting shock of the newly thawed. No—this was a return long overdue. Her mind, trained to absorb and adapt, locked onto the now, cataloging every change, every discrepancy as her mind had remained awake during the whole session —equipoise and open, as a true master of her senses she was.

            She was older than when she had first stepped inside. Older, but not old. Age, after all, was a trick of perception, and if anyone had mastered perception, it was her.

            But now, crises called. Plural indeed. And she, once more, was called to carry out her divine duty, with skills forged in Earthly battles with mad scientists, genetically modified spiders bent on world domination, and otherworldly crystal skulls thiefs. That was far in her past. Since then, she’d used her skills in the private sector, climbing the ranks as her efficient cold-as-steel talents were recognized at every step. She was the true Captain. She had earned it. That was how Victor Holt fell in love. She hated that people could think it was depotism that gave her the title. If anything, she helped make Victor the man he was.

            The ship thrummed beneath her bare feet. A subtle shift in the atmosphere. Something had changed since she last walked these halls, something was off. The ship’s course? Its command structure?

            And, most importantly—
            Who had sent the signal?

            :fleuron2:

            Ellis Marlowe Sr. had moved swiftly for a man his age. It wasn’t that he feared the unknown. It wasn’t even the mystery of the murder that pushed him forward. It was something deeper, more personal.

            The moment the solar flare alert had passed, whispers had spread—faint, half-muttered rumors that the Restricted Cryo-Chambers had been breached.

            By the time he reached it, the pod was already empty.

            The remnants of thawing frost still clung to the edges of the chamber. A faint imprint of a body, long at rest, now gone.

            He swore under his breath, then turned to the ship’s log panel,  reaching for a battered postcard. Scribbled on it were cheatcodes. His hands moved with a careful expertise of someone who had spent too many years filing things that others had forgotten. A postman he was, and registers he knew well.

            Access Denied.

            That wasn’t right. The codes should have given Ellis clearance for everything.

            He scowled, adjusting his glasses. It was always the same names, always the same people tied to these inexplicable gaps in knowledge.

            The Holts. The Forgelots. The Marlowes.
            And now, an unlisted cryopod with no official records.

            Ellis exhaled slowly.

            She was back. And with her, more history with this ship, like pieces of old broken potteries in an old dig would be unearthed.

            He turned, already making his way toward the Murder Board.

            Evie needed to see this.

            :fleuron2:

            The corridor stretched out before her, familiar in its dimensions yet strange in its silence. She had managed to switch the awkward hospital gown to a non-descript uniform that was hanging in the Hold.

            How long have I been gone?

            She exhaled. Irrelevant.

            Her body moved with the precise economy of someone whose training never dulled. Her every motion were simple yet calculated, and her every breath controlled.

            Unlike in the crypod, her mind started to bubbled with long forgotten emotions. It flickered over past decisions, past betrayals.

            Victor Holt.

            The name of her ex-husband settled into her consciousness. Once her greatest ally, then her most carefully avoided adversary.

            And now?

            Veranassessee smiled, stretching her limbs as though shrugging off the stiffness of years.

            Outside, strange cries and howling in the corridors sounded like a mess was in progress. Who was in charge now? They were clearly doing a shit job.

            Now, it was time to reclaim her ship.

            She had questions.
            And someone had better start providing answers.

            #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.

              #7836

              “Age before beauty,” snapped MikhailVera had always irritated him.

              “DNA before age,” Vera replied with a condescending look.

              “Iboprufen before DNA,” Molly said, “And there may be some in the city. When’s the last time your DNA charts put food on the table?”

              #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.”

              #7816
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                Liz had, in her esteemed opinion, finally cracked the next great literary masterpiece.

                It had everything—forbidden romance, ancient mysteries, a dash of gratuitous betrayal, and a protagonist with just the right amount of brooding introspection to make him irresistible to at least two stunningly beautiful, completely unnecessary love interests.

                And, of course, there was a ghost. She would have preferred a mummy but it had been edited out one morning she woke up drooling on her work with little recollection of the night.

                Unfortunately, none of this mattered because Godfrey, her ever-exasperated editor, was staring at her manuscript with the same enthusiasm he reserved for peanut shells stuck in his teeth.

                “This—” he hesitated, massaging his temples, “—this is supposed to be about the Crusades.”

                Liz beamed. “It is! Historical and spicy. I expect an award.”

                Godfrey set down the pages and reached for his ever-dwindling bowl of peanuts. “Liz, for the love of all that is holy, why is the Templar knight taking off his armor every other page?”

                Liz gasped in indignation. “You wouldn’t understand, Godfrey. It’s symbolic. A shedding of the past! A rebirth of the soul!” She made an exaggerated sweeping motion, nearly knocking over her champagne flute.

                “Symbolic,” Godfrey repeated flatly, chewing another peanut. “He’s shirtless on page three, in a monastery.”

                Finnley, who had been dusting aggressively, made a sharp sniff. “Disgraceful.”

                Liz ignored her. “Oh please, Godfrey. You have no vision. Readers love a little intimacy in their historical fiction.”

                “The priest,” Godfrey said, voice rising, “is supposed to be celibate. You explicitly wrote that his vow was unbreakable.”

                Liz waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I solved that. He forgets about it momentarily.”

                Godfrey choked on a peanut. Finnley paused mid-dust, staring at Liz in horror.

                Roberto, who had been watering the hydrangeas outside the window, suddenly leaned in. “Did I hear something about a forgetful priest?”

                “Not now, Roberto,” Liz said sharply.

                Finnley folded her arms. “And how, pray tell, does one simply forget their sacred vows?”

                Liz huffed. “The same way one forgets to clean behind the grandfather clock, I imagine.”

                Finnley turned an alarming shade of purple.

                Godfrey was still in disbelief. “And you’re telling me,” he said, flipping through the pages in growing horror, “that this man, Brother Edric, the holy warrior, somehow manages to fall in love with—who is this—” he squinted, “—Laetitia von Somethingorother?”

                Liz beamed. “Ah, yes. Laetitia! Mysterious, tragic, effortlessly seductive—”

                “She’s literally the most obvious spy I’ve ever read,” Godfrey groaned, rubbing his face.

                “She is not! She is enigmatic.”

                “She has a knife hidden in every scene.”

                “A woman should be prepared.”

                Godfrey took a deep breath and picked up another sheet. “Oh fantastic. There’s a secret baby now.”

                Liz nodded sagely. “Yes. I felt that revelation.”

                Finnley snorted. “Roberto also felt something last week, and it turned out to be food poisoning.”

                Roberto, still hovering at the window, nodded solemnly. “It was quite moving.”

                Godfrey set the papers down in defeat. “Liz. Please. I’m begging you. Just one novel—just one—where the historical accuracy lasts at least until page ten.”

                Liz tapped her chin. “You might have a point.”

                Godfrey perked up.

                Liz snapped her fingers. “I should move the shirtless scene to page two.”

                Godfrey’s head hit the table.

                Roberto clapped enthusiastically. “Genius! I shall fetch celebratory figs!”

                Finnley sighed dramatically, threw down her duster, and walked out of the room muttering about professional disgrace.

                Liz grinned, completely unfazed. “You know, Godfrey, I really don’t think you appreciate my artistic sacrifices.”

                Godfrey, face still buried in his arms, groaned, “Liz, I think Brother Edric’s celibacy lasted longer than my patience.”

                Liz threw a hand to her forehead theatrically. “Then it was simply not meant to be.”

                Roberto reappeared, beaming. “I found the figs.”

                Godfrey reached for another peanut.

                He was going to need a lot more of them.

                #7813

                Helix 25 – Crusades in the Cruise & Unexpected Archives

                Evie hadn’t planned to visit Seren Vega again so soon, but when Mandrake slinked into her quarters and sat squarely on her console, swishing his tail with intent, she took it as a sign.

                “Alright, you smug little AI-assisted furball,” she muttered, rising from her chair. “What’s so urgent?”

                Mandrake stretched leisurely, then padded toward the door, tail flicking. Evie sighed, grabbed her datapad, and followed.

                He led her straight to Seren’s quarters—no surprise there. The dimly lit space was as chaotic as ever, layers of old records, scattered datapads, and bound volumes stacked in precarious towers. Seren barely looked up as Evie entered, used to these unannounced visits.

                “Tell the cat to stop knocking over my books,” she said dryly. “It never ever listens.”

                “Well it’s a cat, isn’t it?” Evie replied. “And he seems to have an agenda.”

                Mandrake leaped onto one of the shelves, knocking loose a tattered, old-fashioned book. It thudded onto the floor, flipping open near Evie’s feet. She crouched, brushing dust from the cover. Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades by Liz Tattler.

                She glanced at Seren. “Tattler again?”

                Seren shrugged. “Romualdo must have left it here. He hoards her books like sacred texts.”

                Evie turned the pages, pausing at an unusual passage. The prose was different—less florid than Liz’s usual ramblings, more… restrained.

                A fragment of text had been underlined, a single note scribbled in the margin: Not fiction.

                Evie found a spot where she could sit on the floor, and started to read eagerly.

                “Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades — Chapter XII
                Sidon, 1157 AD.

                Brother Edric knelt within the dim sanctuary, the cold stone pressing into his bones. The candlelight flickered across the vaulted ceilings, painting ghosts upon the walls. The voices of his ancestors whispered within him, their memories not his own, yet undeniable. He knew the placement of every fortification before his enemies built them. He spoke languages he had never learned.

                He could not recall the first time it happened, only that it had begun after his initiation into the Order—after the ritual, the fasting, the bloodletting beneath the broken moon. The last one, probably folklore, but effective.

                It came as a gift.

                It was a curse.

                His brothers called it divine providence. He called it a drowning. Each time he drew upon it, his sense of self blurred. His grandfather’s memories bled into his own, his thoughts weighted by decisions made a lifetime ago.

                And now, as he rose, he knew with certainty that their mission to reclaim the stronghold would fail. He had seen it through the eyes of his ancestor, the soldier who stood at these gates seventy years prior.

                ‘You know things no man should know,’ his superior whispered that night. ‘Be cautious, Brother Edric, for knowledge begets temptation.’

                And Edric knew, too, the greatest temptation was not power.

                It was forgetting which thoughts were his own.

                Which life was his own.

                He had vowed to bear this burden alone. His order demanded celibacy, for the sealed secrets of State must never pass beyond those trained to wield it.

                But Edric had broken that vow.

                Somewhere, beyond these walls, there was a child who bore his blood. And if blood held memory…

                He did not finish the thought. He could not bear to.”

                Evie exhaled, staring at the page. “This isn’t just Tattler’s usual nonsense, is it?”

                Seren shook her head distractedly.

                “It reads like a first-hand account—filtered through Liz’s dramatics, of course. But the details…” She tapped the underlined section. “Someone wanted this remembered.”

                Mandrake, still perched smugly above them, let out a satisfied mrrrow.

                Evie sat back, a seed of realization sprouting in her mind. “If this was real, and if this technique survived somehow…”

                Mandrake finished the thought for her. “Then Amara’s theory isn’t theory at all.”

                Evie ran a hand through her hair, glancing at the cat than at Evie. “I hate it when Mandrake’s right.”

                “Well what’s a witch without her cat, isn’t it?” Seren replied with a smile.

                Mandrake only flicked his tail, his work here done.

                #7809

                Earth, Black Sea Coastal Island near Lazurne, Ukraine – The Tinkerer

                Cornishman Merdhyn Winstrom had grown accustomed to the silence.

                It wasn’t the kind of silence one found in an empty room or a quiet night in Cornwall, but the profound, devouring kind—the silence of a world were life as we knew it had disappeared. A world where its people had moved on without him.

                The Black Sea stretched before him, vast and unknowable, still as a dark mirror reflecting a sky that had long since stopped making promises. He stood on the highest point of the islet, atop a jagged rock behind which stood in contrast to the smooth metal of the wreckage.

                His wreckage.

                That’s how he saw it, maybe the last man standing on Earth.

                It had been two years since he stumbled upon the remains of Helix 57 shuttle —or what was left of it. Of all the Helixes cruise ships that were lost, the ones closest to Earth during the Calamity had known the most activity —people trying to leave and escape Earth, while at the same time people in the skies struggling to come back to loved ones. Most of the orbital shuttles didn’t make it during the chaos, and those who did were soon lost to space’s infinity, or Earth’s last embrace.

                This shuttle should have been able to land a few hundred people to safety —Merdhyn couldn’t find much left inside when he’d discovered it, survivors would have been long dispersed looking for food networks and any possible civilisation remnants near the cities. It was left here, a gutted-out orbital shuttle, fractured against the rocky coast, its metal frame corroded by salt air, its systems dead. The beauty of mechanics was that dead wasn’t the same as useless.

                And Merdhyn never saw anything as useless.

                With slow, methodical care, he adjusted the small receiver strapped to his wrist—a makeshift contraption built from salvaged components, scavenged antennae, and the remains of an old Soviet radio. He tapped the device twice. The static fizzled, cracked. Nothing.

                “Still deaf,” he muttered.

                Perched at his shoulder, Tuppence chattered at him, a stuborn rodent that attached himself and that Merdhyn had adopted months ago as he was scouting the area. He reached his pocket and gave it a scrap of food off a stale biscuit still wrapped in the shiny foil.

                Merdhyn exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He was getting too old for this. Too many years alone, too many hours hunched over corroded circuits, trying to squeeze life from what had already died.

                But the shuttle wasn’t dead. After his first check, he was quite sure. Now it was time to get to work.

                He stepped inside, ducking beneath an exposed beam, brushing past wiring that had long since lost its insulation. The stale scent of metal and old circuitry greeted him. The interior was a skeletal mess—panels missing, control consoles shattered, displays reduced to nothing but flickering ghosts of their former selves.

                Still, he had power.

                Not much. Just enough to light a few panels, enough to make him think he wasn’t mad for trying.

                As it happened, Merdhyn had a plan: a ridiculous, impossible, brilliant plan.

                He would fix it.

                The whole thing if he could, but if anything. It would certainly take him months before the shuttle from Helix 57 could go anywhere— that is, in one piece. He could surely start to repair the comms, get a signal out, get something moving, then maybe—just maybe—he could find out if there was anything left out there.

                Anything that wasn’t just sea and sky and ghosts.

                He ran his fingers along the edge of the console, feeling the warped metal. The ship had crashed hard. It shouldn’t have made it down in one piece, but something had slowed it. Some system had tried to function, even in its dying moments.

                That meant something was still alive.

                He just had to wake it up.

                Tuppence chittered, scurrying onto his shoulder.

                Merdhyn chuckled. “Aye, I know. One of these days, I’ll start talking to people instead of rats.”

                Tuppence flicked her tail.

                He pulled out a battered datapad—one of his few working relics—and tapped the screen. The interface stuttered, but held. He navigated to his schematics, his notes, his carefully built plans.

                The transponder array.

                If he could get it working, even partially, he might be able to listen.

                To hear something—anything—on the waves beyond this rock.

                A voice. A signal. A trace of the world that had forgotten him.

                Merdhyn exhaled. “Let’s see if we can get you talking again, eh?”

                He adjusted his grip, tools clinking at his belt, and got to work.

              Viewing 20 results - 1 through 20 (of 922 total)