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  • #7916

    Carob didn’t know what to say — which gave her a tendency to ramble.

    Was everyone avoiding Amy?

    Was it because she was dressed as a stout little lady?

    Carob cleared her throat. “Well, Amy, you look… most interesting today.”

    “I have to agree,” replied Amy, unperturbed. “Now — what is this about you and Ricardo?”

    “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you,” Carob said, shaking her head. “Partly because it’s top secret, and partly because…”
    She tapped her temple and nodded to herself — definitely a few times more than necessary. “I’m still working it out.”

    “But you know him?” Amy persisted. “How do you know him?”

    Carob knew Amy could be relentless.

    “Look over there!” she shouted, pointing vaguely.

    Amy didn’t even turn her head. She gazed up at Carob with a long-suffering stare. “Carob?”

    Carob scrunched up her face. “Okay,” she said eventually. “I think the others are avoiding you. Me. Us. Both of us.”

    She took a deep breath. “Thiram doesn’t know where we are or what we’re doing here — and he’s not good with that, bless. We don’t know where on earth Chico is — but we do know he spits, which, quite frankly, is uncouth.”

    She brightened suddenly. “But one thing I do know — here, amid the coffee beans and the lucid dreamers, there is a story to be told.”

    Amy rolled her eyes. “I’ve noticed you still haven’t told me how you know Ricardo.”

    It was rather odd — but neither of them noticed the bush inching closer.

    Trailing suspect but nothing to report yet, messaged Ricardo.

    He knew Miss Bossy Pants wouldn’t be happy.

    #7906

    “Do you like the new pamphlets?” Ricardo asked Miss Bossy Pants.


    “Thought we needed a bit of building awareness to the readership” he said struggling hard not to try to justify himself.

    After a moment of reflection, she answered “I can’t say I’m completely hating it, the whole foray into quote-unquote serious journalism, with a tint of eco-consciousness. Even more so it’s starting to look more rebellious nowadays than the fad that it was. But I digress. I mean, apart from the obvious AI showing, tell me Ric… Where are the interviews? the wrangling emotions of the interviews… Have we stopped doing investigative journalism?”

    #7899

    “A Mexicano, por favor, ” said the man who had just entered the café.

    “Right away,” said Godric with his Swedish accent. “Your face looks familiar.”

    “Name’s Chico,” said the man with teeth dyed with betel leaves chewing. “Never been here before. I just popped into existence, called by voices of people I never heard of before. Maybe I just had a rough night. I don’t know.”

    Chico spat on the floor Godric had just cleaned. What did they say about customers already?

    #7886

    SAVE THE BEAN BELT 

    #7873

    6 months later…

    Earth ~ Helix 25

    6 months later…

    #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.

    #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.

      #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.”

      #7838

      After a short rest, Molly, Gregor and Petro ventured outside to wander around before the rain started.

      “Az Aranysimító,”  Molly read the sign above the door. “Nemzetközi Likőrök. What does that say, Petro?”

      The old man smiled at Molly, a rare gleam in his rheumy eye. “Fancy a night out, old gal? It’s a pub, The Golden Trowel.  International liquors, too.  Pénteki Kvízestek,” Petro added, “Quiz nights on Fridays. I wonder if it’s Friday today?”

      “Ha! Who knows what day of the week it is.”   Molly took Petro’s arm, coquettishly accepting the date.  “I wonder if they have any gin.”

      “Count me in for a booze up,” Gregor said trying not to look miffed.  “Now, now, boys,” laughed Molly, thoroughly enjoying herself.

      “What are you all laughing at?” Vera joined them, cradling a selection of fruits held in her voluminous skirt. Gregor averted his eyes from the sight of her purple veined thighs.  He said, “Come on, let’s go inside and find you a crate for those.”

      Brushing aside the dusty cobwebs, they made their way to the bar, miraculously and marvellously well stocked.  Gregor emptied a crate of empty bottles for Vera, while Petro surveyed the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Molly stood transfixed looking at a large square painting on the wall.  A golden trowel was depicted, on a broken mosaic in a rich combination of terra sigillata orange and robins egg blue colours.  Along the bottom of the picture were the words

      “Nem minden darab illik rá első pillantásra. Ülj le a töredékekkel, mielőtt megpróbálnád összekényszeríteni őket.”

      The Golden Trowel

       

      Triumphantly, Petro handed a nearly full bottle of Larios gin to Molly. “I’ll get you a glass but we may need to get Finja in here, they’re all very dirty. That’s nice,” he said, looking up at the picture.

      “Not every piece fits at first glance. Sit with the fragments before trying to force them together.”

      “Oh, I like that!” exclaimed Molly, giving Petro a grateful smile. “I’d never have known that if you hadn’t been here.”

      Petro’s chest swelled with pride and happiness. It was the first time in many years that he’d felt useful to anyone.

      #7837

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Tundra postcards

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

      #7833

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Gregor map

       

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

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

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

      An excited buzz of murmuring swept through the gathered group.

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

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

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

      “Where was that truck heading?” asked Vera.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      #7829
      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        Helix 25 – Investigation Breakdown: Suspects, Factions, and Ship’s Population

        To systematically investigate the murder(s) and the overarching mystery, let’s break down the known groups and individuals, their possible means to commit crimes, and their potential motivations.


        1. Ship Population & Structure

        Estimated Population of Helix 25

        • Originally a luxury cruise ship before the exodus.
        • Largest cruise ships built on Earth in 2025 carried ~5,000 people.
          Space travel, however, requires generations.
        • Estimated current ship population on Helix 25: Between 15,000 and 50,000, depending on deck expansion and growth of refugee populations over decades.
        • Possible Ship Propulsion:
          • Plasma-based propulsion (high-efficiency ion drives)
          • Slingshot navigation using gravity assists
          • Solar sails & charged particle fields
          • Current trajectory: Large elliptical orbit, akin to a comet.
            Estimated direction of the original space trek was still within Solar System, not beyond the Kuiper Belt (~30 astrological units) and programmed to return towards it point of origin.
            Due to the reprogramming by the refugees, it is not known if there has been significant alteration of the course – it should be known as the ship starts to reach the aphelion (farthest from the Sun) and either comes back towards it, or to a different course.
          • Question: Are they truly on a course out of the galaxy? Or is that just the story Synthia is feeding them?
            Is there a Promised Land beyond the Ark’s adventure?


        2. Breaking Down People & Factions

        To find the killer(s), conspiracies, and ship dynamics, here are some of factions, known individuals, and their possible means/motives.


        A. Upper Decks: The Elite & Decision-Makers

        • Defining Features:
          • Wealthy descendants of the original passengers. They have adopted names of stars as new family names, as if de-facto rulers of the relative segments of the space.
          • Have never known hardship like the Lower Decks.
          • Kept busy with social prestige, arts, and “meaningful” pursuits to prevent existential crisis.

        Key Individuals:

        1. Sue Forgelot

          • Means: Extensive social connections, influence, and hidden cybernetic enhancements.
          • Motive: Could be protecting something or someone—she knows too much about the ship’s past.
          • Secrets: Claims to have met the Captain. Likely lying… unless?
        2. Dr. Amara Voss

          • Means: Expert geneticist, access to data. Could tamper with DNA.
          • Motive: What if Herbert knew something about her old research? Did she kill to bury it?
        3. Ellis Marlowe (Retired Postman)

          • Means: None obvious. But as a former Earth liaison, he has archives and knowledge of what was left behind.
          • Motive: Unclear, but his son was the murder victim. His son was previously left on Earth, and seemed to have found a way onto Helix 25 (possibly through the refugee wave who took over the ship)
          • Question: Did he know Herbert’s real identity?
        4. Finkley (Upper Deck cleaner, informant)

          • Means: As a cleaner, has access everywhere.
          • Motive: None obvious, but cleaners notice everything.
          • Secret: She and Finja (on Earth) are telepathically linked. Could Finja have picked up something?
        5. The Three Old Ladies (Shar, Glo, Mavis)

          • Means: Absolutely none.
          • Motive: Probably just want more drama.
          • Accidental Detectives: They mix up stories but might have stumbled on actual facts.
        6. Trevor Pee Marshall (TP, AI detective)

          • Means: Can scan records, project into locations, analyze logic patterns.
          • Motive: Should have none—unless he’s been compromised as hinted by some of the remnants of old Muck & Lump tech into his program.

        B. Lower Decks: Workers, Engineers, Hidden Knowledge

        • Defining Features:
          • Unlike the Upper Decks, they work—mechanics, hydroponics, labor.
          • Self-sufficient, but cut off from decisions.
          • Some distrust Synthia, believing Helix 25 is off-course.

        Key Individuals:

        1. Luca Stroud (Engineer, Cybernetic Expert)

          • Means: Can tamper with ship’s security, medical implants, and life-support systems.
          • Motive: Possible sabotage, or he was helping Herbert with something.
          • Secret: Works in black-market tech modifications.
        2. Romualdo (Gardener, Archivist-in-the-Making)

          • Means: None obvious. Seem to lack the intelligence, but isn’t stupid.
          • Motive: None—but he lent Herbert a Liz Tattler book about genetic memories.
          • Question: What exactly did Herbert learn from his reading?
        3. Zoya Kade (Revolutionary Figure, Not Directly Involved)

          • Means: Strong ideological influence, but not an active conspirator.
          • Motive: None, but her teachings have created and fed factions.
        4. The Underground Movement

          • Means: They know ways around Synthia’s surveillance.
          • Motive: They believe the ship is on a suicide mission.
          • Question: Would they kill to prove it?

        C. The Hold: The Wild Cards & Forgotten Spaces

        • Defining Features:
          • Refugees who weren’t fully integrated.
          • Maintain autonomy, trade, and repair systems that the rest of the ship ignores.

        Key Individuals:

        1. Kai Nova (Pilot, Disillusioned)

          • Means: Can manually override ship systems… if Synthia lets him.
          • Motive: Suspects something’s off about the ship’s fuel levels.
        2. Cadet Taygeta (Sharp, Logical, Too Honest)

          • Means: No real power, but access to data.
          • Motive: Trying to figure out what Kai is hiding.

        D. AI & Non-Human Factors

        • Synthia (Central AI, Overseer of Helix 25)

          • Means: Controls everything.
          • Motive: Unclear, but her instructions are decades old.
          • Question: Does she even have free will?
        • The Captain (Nemo)

          • Means: Access to ship-wide controls. He is blending in the ship’s population but has special access.
          • Motive: Seems uncertain about his mission.
          • Secret: He might not be following Synthia’s orders anymore.

        3. Who Has the Means to Kill in Zero-G?

        The next murder happens in a zero-gravity sector. Likely methods:

        • Oxygen deprivation (tampered life-support, “accident”)
        • Drowning (hydro-lab “malfunction”)

        Likely Suspects for Next Murder

        Suspect Means to Kill in Zero-G Motive
        Luca Stroud Can tamper with tech Knows ship secrets
        Amara Voss Access to medical, genetic data Herbert was digging into past
        Underground Movement Can evade Synthia’s surveillance Wants to prove ship is doomed
        Synthia (or Rogue AI processes) Controls airflow, gravity, and safety protocols If she sees someone as a threat, can she remove them?
        The Captain (Nemo?) Has override authority Is he protecting secrets?

        4. Next Steps in the Investigation

        • Evie and Riven Re-interview Suspects. Who benefited from Herbert’s death?
        • Investigate the Flat-Earth Conspiracies. Who is spreading paranoia?
        • Check the Captain’s Logs. What does Nemo actually believe?
        • Stop the Next Murder. (Too late?)

        Final Question: Where Do We Start?

        1. Evie and Riven visit the Captain’s quarters? (If they find him…)
        2. Investigate the Zero-G Crime Scene? (Second body = New urgency)
        3. Confront one of the Underground Members? (Are they behind it?)

        Let’s pick a thread and dive back into the case!

        #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.”

        #7825

        “I didn’t much like where the world was heading anyway, Gregor,” Molly said, leaning towards the old man who was riding beside her. “Before it all ended I mean. All that techno feudalist stuff.  Once we got over the shock of it all, I’ll be honest, I rather liked it.  Oh not that everyone was dead, I don’t mean that,” she added. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was cold or ruthless. “But, you know, something had to happen to stop where that was going.”

        Gregor didn’t respond immediately.  He hadn’t thought about the old days for a long time, and long suppressed memories flooded his mind.  Eventually he replied, “If it hadn’t been for that plague, we’d have been exterminated, I reckon. Surplus to requirements, people like us.”

        Molly looked at him sharply. “Did you hear of extermination camps here? We’d started to hear about them before the plague. But there were so many problems with communication.  People started disappearing and it was impossible by then to find out what happened to them.”

        “I was one of the ones who disappeared,” Gregor said. “They summoned me for questioning about something I’d said on Folkback.  I told the wife not to worry, I’d be back soon when I’d explained to them, and she said to me to call in at the shop on the way home and get some milk and potatoes.”  A large tear rolled down the old mans leathery cheek. “I never saw her again.”

        Molly leaned over and compassionately gripped Gregors arm for a moment, and then steadied herself as Berlingo descended the last part of the hill before the track where the truck had been sighted.

        The group halted and gathered around the tyre tracks. They were easily visible going in both directions and a discussion ensued about which way to go: follow the truck, or retrace the trucks journey to see where it came from?

        “Down, Berlingo!” Molly instructed her horse. “I need to get off and find a bush. First time in years I’ve had to hide to have a pee!” she laughed, “There’s never been anyone around to see.”

        Molly took her time, relishing a few moments of solitude.  Suddenly being surrounded by people was a mixed blessing. It was stimulating and exciting, but also tiring and somewhat unsettling.  She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths and calmed her mind.

        She returned to the group to a heated discussion on which way to go.  Jian was in favour of going in the direction of the city, which  appeared to be the direction the truck had come from.  Mikhail wanted to follow where the truck had gone.

        “If the truck came from the city, it means there is something in the city,” reasoned Jian.  “It could be heading anywhere, and there are no cities in the direction the truck went.”

        “There might not be any survivors in the city though,” Anya said, “And we know there’s at least one survivor IN the truck.”

        “We could split up into two groups,” suggested Tala, but this idea was unanimously rejected.

        “We have all the time in the world to go one way first, and the other way later,” Mikhail said. “I think we should head for the city first, and follow where the truck came from. Jian is right. And there’s more chance of finding something we can use in the city, than a wild goose chase to who knows where.”

        “More chance of finding some disinfectant in the city, too,” Finja added.

        Molly and Berlingo

        #7822

        Helix 25 – Gentle Utopia at Upper Decks

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

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

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

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

        :fleuron2:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        :fleuron2:

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

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

        :fleuron2:

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

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

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

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

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

        “—murder,” Mavis finished, breathless.

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

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

        So much entertainment. So much luxury.

        So much designed distraction.

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

        Sharon and Mavis stopped.

        A hush fell over them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        :fleuron2:

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

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

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

        There was a pause.

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

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

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

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

        Mavis scoffed. “You sure? Sounds ridiculous.”

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

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

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

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

        Mavis grinned. “Or man eating otters.”

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

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

        No one had the time.

        #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.

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