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  • #7936

    Ricardo crouched lower behind the bush, peering through the leaves with keen interest. He thumbed out a swift message:

    “major drama unfolding. tasseography? coffee cup revelations. over.”

    He hit send and melted back into the foliage, waiting nervously for Miss Bossy’s reply and pondering his future.
    What chance of advancement was there, really?
    Was he doomed to a lifetime of trying to impress her?
    Was he a fool?

    Ricardo!” shouted Carob. “Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee?”

    #7925
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Chico Ray

       

      Chico Ray

      Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:

      • Introduces himself casually: “Name’s Chico,” with no clear past, suggesting a self-aware or recently-written character.

      • Chews betel leaves, staining his teeth red, which gives him a slightly unsettling or feral appearance.

      • Spits on the floor, even in a freshly cleaned café—suggesting poor manners, or possibly defiance.

      • Appears from behind a trumpet tree, implying he lurks or emerges unpredictably.

      • Fabricates plausible-sounding geo-political nonsense (e.g., the coffee restrictions in Rwanda), then second-guesses whether it was fiction or memory.

      Inferred Traits:

      • A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.

      • Likely wears earth-toned clothes, possibly tropical—evoking Southeast Asian or Central American flavors.

      • Comes off as a blend of rogue mystic and unreliable narrator, leaning toward surreal trickster.

      • Psychological ambiguity—he doubts his own origins, possibly a hallucination, dream being, or quantum hitchhiker.

      What Remains Unclear:

      • Precise age or background.

      • His affiliations or loyalties—he doesn’t seem clearly aligned with the Bandits or Lucid Dreamers, but hovers provocatively at the edges.

      #7922

      “Well, this makes no sense,” Thiram opined flatly, squinting at the glitching news stream on his homemade device.
      “What now,” Carob drawled, dropping the case and a mushroom onto the floor.
      “Biopirates Ants. Thousands of queen ants. Smuggled by aunties out of Kenya.”

      Amy raised an eyebrow. “Lucid dreamers saboteurs?”

      “They’re calling them the ‘Anties Gang.’” Thiram scrolled. “One report says the queens were tagged with dream-frequency enhancers. You know, like the tech you banned from the greenhouse?”

      Ricardo leaned forward, and whispered to himself almost too audibly for the rest of them “That… that… wasn’t on Miss Bossy’s radar yet. But I suspect it will be.”

      A long silence. Then Amy prodded Carob — “You’re silent again. What do you think?”.

      “Caffeinated sabotage by insect proxy?” she murmured.

      Fanella let out a short bleat, as if offended. The rain fell harder.

      #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.

      #7915

      Amy supposed everyone was blaming her, for what she couldn’t say, but they had clearly been avoiding her. There was plenty of coffee here anyway, even if the rest of the world was suffering. Don’t even think it, she told herself sternly. We don’t want people flocking here in droves once they realise.

      So, do I want people or not? she asked herself. One minute I’m wondering where everyone is, and then next minute I’m wanting everyone to stay away.

      “You on the spectrum too, are you?” asked Carob, reading her mind.  “It’s ok,” she added, seeing the look of alarm cross Amy’s face, “Your secret’s safe with me. I mean about being on the spectrum. But be careful, they’re rounding people like us up and sending them to a correctional facility.  We’re quite lucky to be here, out of the way.”

      “Have you been avoiding me?” Amy asked, which was more immediately concerning than the concentration camps.  “Because I’ve been here all alone for ages, nothing to do but read my book,  draw in my sketch pad, and work on my needlepoint cushion covers. And where are the others? And don’t read my mind, it’s so rude.”

      “Needlepoint cushion covers? Are you serious?” Carob was avoiding the questions, but was genuinely curious about the cushion covers.

      Amy blushed.  “No, I made that up. In fact, I don’t know what made me say that. I haven’t started any sketching either, but I have thought about starting sketching. And I’ve been reading. It’s an old Liz Tattler; the old ones were the best. Real old school Lizzie Tattie, if you know what I mean. Risque romps with potting sheds and stuff.  None of that ghastly sci fi she started writing recently.”

      “Which one?” Carob asked, and laughed when Amy held it up.  “I read that years ago, T’Eggy Gets a Good Rogering, can I borrow it after you? God knows we could all do with a laugh.”

      “How do you know the others need a good laugh?” Amy asked, peering at Carob with an attentive squint in order to catch any clues. “You’ve seen then, then?”

      Carob smiled sadly and replied, “Only by remote viewing them.”

      Amy asked where they had been and what they were doing when they were viewed remotely. Has she been remote viewing me? What if they ask her if she’s been remote viewing me, and she tells them?  “Oh never mind,” Amy said quickly, “No need to answer that.”

      Carob snorted, and what a strangely welcome sound it was. “I didn’t really remote view them, I made  that up.  It never works if I try to spy on people. Fat lot of good it is really, it never works when I really really need to see  something. Or maybe it works, but I never believe it properly until later when I find out it was right.”

      “Yeah,” Amy said, “It’s fun though, I haven’t done it in ages.”

      “You should, it would give you something to do when everyone’s avoiding you.”

      #7913

      Amy wondered afterwards if she should have said “Why is it always my fault” and hoped nobody would think el gran apagón was her fault too.  Another one of the issues with typecasting too soon.

      The rumours and hoaxes were rife even before the electricity came back on.  The crisis of the lack of coffee beans was coming to a head: morning riots were breaking out in the places most affected by the shortage. As soon as the blackouts started, improvised statistics and numbers were cobbled together into snappy psychological colour combination images and plastered everywhere suggesting that the lack of electricity was saving an incomprehensible number of cups of coffee per day, but without causing any coffee related social disorder events.

      Amy had heard that el gran apagón was foretold to occur when the pope died, that it was extraterrestrials, that it was el naranjo and his sidekick effin muck, and all manner of things, but the concerns with the coffee shortage happening at the same time as the blackouts were manifold.

      The population was looking for scapegoats. Oh dear god, what did I say that for.

      #7904

      “What were you saying already?” Thiram asked “I must have zoned out, it happens at times.” He chuckled looking embarrassed. “Not to worry.”

      As the silence settled, Thiram started to blink vigorously to get things back into focus —a trick he’d seen in the Lucid Dreamer 101 manual for beginners. You could never be too sure if this was all a dream. And if it was, then you’d better pay attention to your thoughts in case they’d attract trouble – generally your thoughts were the trouble-makers, but in some cases, also other Lucid Dreamers were.

      Here and now, trouble wasn’t coming, to the contrary. It was all unusually foggy.

      “Well, by the look of it, Amy is not biting into the whole father drama, and prefers to have a self-induced personality crisis…” Carob shrugged. “We can all clearly see what she looks like, obviously. Whether she likes it or not, and I won’t comment further despite how tempting it is.”

      “You’re one to speak.” Amy replied. “Should I give you some drama? Would certainly make things more interesting.”

      Thiram had a thought he needed to share “And I just remember that Chico isn’t probably coming – he still wasn’t over our last fight with Amy bossying and messing the team’s plans because she can’t keep up with modern tech, had to dig a hole, or overcome a ratmaggeddon; something he’d said that had seemed quite final at the time: ‘I’d rather be turned into a donkey than follow you guys around.’ I wouldn’t count on him showing up just yet.”

      “Me? bossying?” Amy did feel enticed to catch that bait this time, and like a familiar trope see it reel out, or like a burning match in front of a dry hay bale, she could almost see the old patterns of getting incensed, and were it would lead.

      “Can we at least agree on a few things about the where, what, why, or shall we all play this one by ear?”

      “Obviously we know. But all the observing essences, do they?” Carob was doing a great impersonation of Chico.

      #7898

      “Sorry I’m late,” said Carob as she crouched down to fuss over Fanella. “I have excuses, but they’re not interesting. I’m feeling a little underdeveloped as a character, so I’m not sure what to say yet.”

      “That’s okay,” said Amy. “Just remember … if you don’t tell us who you are early on…” She squinted and glanced around suspiciously. “Others will create you.”

      “I’d rather just slowly percolate.” Carob screwed up her face. “Get it? Percolate?”

      She stood up and slapped a hand to her head as Amy rolled her eyes. “Sorry … ” She patted her head curiously. “Oh wait—do I have curls?”

      “I’d say more like frizzes than curls,” answered Amy.

      Thiram nodded. “Totally frizzled.”

      “Cool … must be the damp weather,” said Carob. She brushed a twig from her coat. The coat was blue-green and only reached her thighs. Many things were too small when you were six foot two.

      “Oh—and I’ve been lucid dreaming in reverse,” she added. “Last night I watched myself un-make and un-drink a cup of coffee.” She gave a quick snort-laugh. “Weirdo”.

      “Was it raining in the dream?” asked Thiram.

      Carob frowned. “Probably… You know how in scary movies they always leave the curtains open, like they want the bad guys to see in? It felt like that.” She shuddered and then smiled brightly. “Anyway, just a dream. Also, I bumped into your father, Amy. He said to tell you: Remember what happened last time.”

      She regarded Amy intently. “What did happen last time?”

      “He worries too much,” said Amy, waving a hand dismissively. “Also, I didn’t even write that in, so how should I know?” She looked out toward the trees. “Where’s Chico?”

      #7881

      Mars Outpost — Welcome to the Wild Wild Waste

      No one had anticipated how long it would take to get a shuttle full of half-motivated, gravity-averse Helix25 passengers to agree on proper footwear.

      “I told you, Claudius, this is the fancy terrain suit. The others make my hips look like reinforced cargo crates,” protested Tilly Nox, wrangling with her buckles near the shuttle airlock.

      “You’re about to step onto a red-rock planet that hasn’t seen visitors since the Asteroid Belt Mining Fiasco,” muttered Claudius, tightening his helmet strap. “Your hips are the least of Mars’ concerns.”

      Behind them, a motley group of Helix25 residents fidgeted with backpacks, oxygen readouts, and wide-eyed anticipation. Veranassessee had allowed a single-day “expedition excursion” for those eager—or stir-crazy—enough to brave Mars’ surface. She’d made it clear it was volunteer-only.

      Most stayed aboard, in orbit of the red planet, looking at its surface from afar to the tune of “eh, gravity, don’t we have enough of that here?” —Finkley had recoiled in horror at the thought of real dust getting through the vents and had insisted on reviewing personally all the airlocks protocols. No way that they’d sullied her pristine halls with Martian dust or any dust when the shuttle would come back. No – way.

      But for the dozen or so who craved something raw and unfiltered, this was it. Mars: the myth, the mirage, the Far West frontier at the invisible border separating Earthly-like comforts into the wider space without any safety net.

      At the helm of Shuttle Dandelion, Sue Forgelot gave the kind of safety briefing that could both terrify and inspire. “If your oxygen starts blinking red, panic quietly and alert your buddy. If you fall into a crater, forget about taking a selfie, wave your arms and don’t grab on your neighbor. And if you see a sand wyrm, congratulations, you’ve either hit gold or gone mad.”

      Luca Stroud chuckled from the copilot seat. “Didn’t see you so chirpy in a long while. That kind of humour, always the best warning label.”

      They touched down near Outpost Station Delta-6 just as the Martian wind was picking up, sending curls of red dust tumbling like gossip.

      And there she was.

      Leaning against the outpost hatch with a spanner slung across one shoulder, goggles perched on her forehead, Prune watched them disembark with the wary expression of someone spotting tourists traipsing into her backyard garden.

      Sue approached first, grinning behind her helmet. “Prune Curara, I presume?”

      “You presume correctly,” she said, arms crossed. “Let me guess. You’re here to ruin my peace and use my one functioning kettle.”

      Luca offered a warm smile. “We’re only here for a brief scan and a bit of radioactive treasure hunting. Plus, apparently, there’s been a petition to name a Martian dust lizard after you.”

      “That lizard stole my solar panel last year,” Prune replied flatly. “It deserves no honor.”

      Inside, the outpost was cramped, cluttered, and undeniably charming. Hand-drawn maps of Martian magnetic hotspots lined one wall; shelves overflowed with tagged samples, sketchpads, half-disassembled drones, and a single framed photo of a fireplace with something hovering inexplicably above it—a fish?

      “Flying Fish Inn,” Luca whispered to Sue. “Legendary.”

      The crew spent the day fanning out across the region in staggered teams. Sue and Claudius oversaw the scan points, Tilly somehow got her foot stuck in a crevice that definitely wasn’t in the geological briefing, which was surprisingly enough about as much drama they could conjure out.

      Back at the outpost, Prune fielded questions, offered dry warnings, and tried not to get emotionally attached to the odd, bumbling crew now walking through her kingdom.

      Then, near sunset, Veranassessee’s voice crackled over comms: “Curara. We’ll be lifting a crew out tomorrow, but leaving a team behind. With the right material, for all the good Muck’s mining expedition did out on the asteroid belt, it left the red planet riddled with precious rocks. But you, you’ve earned to take a rest, with a ticket back aboard. That’s if you want it. Three months back to Earth via the porkchop plot route. No pressure. Your call.”

      Prune froze. Earth.

      The word sat like an old song on her tongue. Faint. Familiar. Difficult to place.

      She stepped out to the ridge, watching the sun dip low across the dusty plain. Behind her, laughter from the tourists trading their stories of the day —Tilly had rigged a heat plate with steel sticks and somehow convinced people to roast protein foam. Are we wasting oxygen now? Prune felt a weight lift; after such a long time struggling to make ends meet, she now could be free of that duty.

      Prune closed her eyes. In her head, Mater’s voice emerged, raspy and amused: You weren’t meant to settle, sugar. You were meant to stir things up. Even on Mars.

      She let the words tumble through her like sand in her boots.

      She’d conquered her dream, lived it, thrived in it.

      Now people were landing, with their new voices, new messes, new puzzles.

      She could stay. Be the last queen of red rock and salvaged drones.

      Or she could trade one hell of people for another. Again.

      The next morning, with her patched duffel packed and goggles perched properly this time, Prune boarded Shuttle Dandelion with a half-smirk and a shrug.

      “I’m coming,” she told Sue. “Can’t let Earth ruin itself again without at least watching.”

      Sue grinned. “Welcome back to the madhouse.”

      As the shuttle lifted off, Prune looked once, just once, at the red plains she’d called home.

      “Thanks, Mars,” she whispered. “Don’t wait up.”

      #7877

      Helix 25 — The Six Spinster Sisters’ Will

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      #7874

      A Quick Vacay on Mars

      “The Helix is coming in for descent,” announced Luca Stroud, a bit too solemnly. “And by descent, I mean we’re parking in orbit and letting the cargo shuttles do the sweaty work.”

      From the main viewport, Mars sprawled below in all its dusty, rust-red glory. Gone was the Jupiter’s orbit pulls of lunacy, after a 6 month long voyage, they were down to the Martian pools of red dust.

      Even from space, you could see the abandoned domes of the first human colonies, with the unmistakable Muck conglomerate’s branding: half-buried in dunes, battered by storms, and rumored to be haunted (well, if you believed the rumors from the bored Helix 25 children).

      Veranassessee—Captain Veranassessee, thank you very much— stood at the helm with the unruffled poise of someone who’d wrested control of the ship (and AI) with consummate style and in record time. With a little help of course from X-caliber, the genetic market of the Marlowe’s family that she’d recovered from Marlowe Sr. before Synthia had had a chance of scrubbing all traces of his DNA. Now, with her control back, most of her work had been to steer the ship back to sanity, and rebuild alliances.

      “That’s the plan. Crew rotation, cargo drop, and a quick vacay if we can manage not to break a leg.”

      Sue Forgelot, newly minted second in command, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Says the one who insisted we detour for a peek at the old Mars amusements. If you want to roast marshmallows on volcanic vents, just say it.”

      Their footsteps reverberated softly on the deck. Synthia’s overhead panels glowed calm, reined in by the AI’s newly adjusted parameters. Luca tapped the console. “All going smoothly, Cap’n. Next phase of ‘waking the sleepers’ will happen in small batches—like you asked.”

      Veranassessee nodded silently. The return to reality would prove surely harsh to most of them, turned soft with low gravity. She would have to administrate a good dose of tough love.

      Sue nodded. “We’ll need a slow approach. Earth’s… not the paradise it once was.”

      Veranassessee exhaled, eyes lingering on the red planet turning slowly below. “One challenge at a time. Everyone’s earned a bit of shore leave. If you can call an arid dustball ‘shore.’”

      The Truce on Earth

      Tundra brushed red dust off her makeshift jacket, then gave her new friend a loving pat on the flank. The baby sanglion—already the size of a small donkey—sniffed the air, then leaned its maned, boar-like head into Tundra’s shoulder. “Easy there, buddy,” she murmured. “We’ll find more scraps soon.”

      They were in the ravaged outskirts near Klyutch Base, forging a shaky alliance with Sokolov’s faction. Sokolov—sharp-eyed and suspicious—stalked across the battered tarmac with a crate of spare shuttle parts. “This is all the help you’re getting from me,” he said, his accent carving the words. “Use it well. No promises once the Helix 25 arrives.”

      Commander Koval hovered by the half-repaired shuttle, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the giant, (mostly) friendly  mutant beast at Tundra’s side. “Just keep that… sanglion… away from me, will you?”

      Molly, Tundra’s resilient great-grandmother, chuckled. “He’s harmless unless you’re an unripe melon or a leftover stew. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

      The creature snorted. Sokolov’s men loaded more salvage onto the shuttle’s hull. If all went well, they’d soon have a functioning vessel to meet the Helix when it finally arrived.

      Tundra fed her pet a chunk of dried fruit. She wondered what the grand new ship would look like after so many legends and rumors. Would the Helix be a promise of hope—or a brand-new headache?

      Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

      On Helix 25, Finkley’s new corner-lounge always smelled of coffee and antiseptic wipes, thanks to her cleaning-bot minions. Rows of small, softly glowing communication booths lined the walls—her “direct Earth Connection.” A little sign reading FINKLEY’S WHISPER CALLS flickered overhead. Foot traffic was picking up, because after the murder spree ended, people craved normalcy—and gossip.

      She toggled an imaginary switch —she had found mimicking old technology would help tune the frequencies more easily. “Anybody out there?”

      Static, then a faint voice from Earth crackled through the anchoring connection provided by Finja on Earth. “Hello? This is…Tala from Spain… well, from the Hungarian border these days…”

      “Lovely to hear from you, Tala dear!” Finkley replied in the most uncheerful voice, as she was repeating the words from Kai Nova, who had found himself distant dating after having tried, like many others on the ship before, to find a distant relative connected through the FinFamily’s telepathic bridge. Surprisingly, as he got accustomed to the odd exchange through Finkley-Finja, he’d found himself curious and strangely attracted to the stories from down there.

      “Doing all right down there? Any new postcards or battered souvenirs to share with the folks on Helix?”

      Tala laughed over the Fin-line. “Plenty. Mostly about wild harvests, random postcards, and that new place we found. We’re calling it The Golden Trowel—trust me, it’s quite a story.”

      Behind Finkley, a queue had formed: a couple of nostalgic Helix residents waiting for a chance to talk to distant relatives, old pen pals, or simply anyone with a different vantage on Earth’s reconstruction. Even if those calls were often just a “We’re still alive,” it was more comfort than they’d had in years.

      “Hang in there, sweetie,” Finkley said with a drab tone, relaying Kai’s words, struggling hard not to be beaming at the imaginary booth’s receiver. “We’re on our way.”

      Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

      In a cramped subdeck chamber whose overhead lights still flickered ominously, Luca Stroud connected a portable console to one of Synthia’s subtle interface nodes. “Easy does it,” he muttered. “We nudge up the wake-up parameters by ten percent, keep an eye on rising stress levels—and hopefully avoid any mass lunacy like last time.”

      Sue Forgelot observed from behind, arms folded and face alight with the steely calm that made her a natural second in command. “Focus on folks from the Lower Decks first. They’re more used to harsh realities. Less chance of meltdown when they realize Earth’s not a bed of roses.”

      Luca shot her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He tapped the console, and Synthia’s interface glowed green, accepting the new instructions.

      “Well, Synthia, dear,” Sue said, addressing the panel drily, “keep cooperating, and nobody’ll have to forcibly remove your entire matrix.”

      A faint chime answered—Synthia’s version of a polite half-nod. The lines of code on Luca’s console rearranged themselves into a calmer pattern. The AI’s core processes, thoroughly reined in by the Captain’s new overrides, hummed along peacefully. For now.

      Evie & Riven’s Big News

      On Helix 25’s mid-deck Lexican Chapel, full of spiral motifs and drifting incense, Evie and Riven stood hand in hand, ignoring the eerie chanting around them. Well, trying to ignore it. Evie’s belly had a soft curve now, and Riven couldn’t stop glancing at it with a proud smile.

      One of the elder Lexicans approached, wearing swirling embroidered robes. “The engagement ceremony is prepared, if you’re still certain you want our… elaborate rituals.”

      Riven, normally stoic, gave a slight grin. “We’re certain.” He caught Evie’s eye. “I guess you’re stuck with me, detective. And the kid inside you who’ll probably speak Lexican prophecies by the time they’re one.”

      Evie rolled her eyes, though affection shone behind it. “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it. We’ve both stared down bigger threats.” Then her hand drifted to her abdomen, protective and proud. “Let’s keep the chanting to a minimum though, okay?”

      The Lexican gave a solemn half-bow. “We shall refrain from dancing on the ceilings this time.”

      They laughed, past tensions momentarily lifted. Their child’s future, for all its uncertain possibilities, felt like hope on a ship that was finally getting stirred in a clear direction… away from the void of its own nightmares. And Mars, just out the window, loomed like a stepping stone to an Earth that might yet be worth returning to.

      #7869

      Helix 25 – The Mad Heir

      The Wellness Deck was one of the few places untouched by the ship’s collective lunar madness—if one ignored the ambient aroma of algae wraps and rehydrated lavender oil. Soft music played in the background, a soothing contrast to the underlying horror that was about to unfold.

      Peryton Price, or Perry as he was known to his patients, took a deep breath. He had spent years here, massaging stress from the shoulders of the ship’s weary, smoothing out wrinkles with oxygenated facials, pressing detoxifying seaweed against fine lines. He was, by all accounts, a model spa technician.

      And yet—

      His hands were shaking.

      Inside his skull, another voice whispered. Urging. Prodding. It wasn’t his voice, and that terrified him.

      “A little procedure, Perry. Just a little one. A mild improvement. A small tweak—in the name of progress!”

      He clenched his jaw. No. No, no, no. He wouldn’t—

      “You were so good with the first one, lad. What harm was it? Just a simple extraction! We used to do it all the time back in my day—what do you think the humors were for?”

      Perry squeezed his eyes shut. His reflection stared back at him from the hydrotherapeutic mirror, but it wasn’t his face he saw. The shadow of a gaunt, beady-eyed man lingered behind his pupils, a visage that he had never seen before and yet… he knew.

      Bronkelhampton. The Mad Doctor of Tikfijikoo.

      He was the closest voice, but it was triggering even older ones, from much further down in time. Madness was running in the family. He’d thought he could escape the curse.

      “Just imagine the breakthroughs, my dear boy. If you could only commit fully. Why, we could even work on the elders! The preserved ones! You have so many willing patients, Perry! We had so much success with the tardigrade preservation already.”

      A high-pitched giggle cut through his spiraling thoughts.

      “Oh, heavens, dear boy, this steam is divine. We need to get one of these back in Quadrant B,” Gloria said, reclining in the spa pool. “Sha, can’t you requisition one? You were a ship steward once.”

      Sha scoffed. “Sweetheart, I once tried requisitioning extra towels and ended up with twelve crates of anti-bacterial foot powder.”

      Mavis clicked her tongue. “Honestly, men are so incompetent. Perry, dear, you wouldn’t happen to know how to requisition a spa unit, would you?”

      Perry blinked. His mind was slipping. The whisper of his ancestor had begun to press at the edges of his control.

      “Tsk. They’re practically begging you, Perry. Just a little procedure. A minor adjustment.”

      Sha, Gloria, and Mavis watched in bemusement as Perry’s eye twitched.

      “…Dear?” Mavis prompted, adjusting the cucumber slice over her eye. “You’re staring again.”

      Perry snapped back. He swallowed. “I… I was just thinking.”

      “That’s a terrible idea,” Gloria muttered.

      “Thinking about what?” Sha pressed.

      Perry’s hand tightened around the pulse-massager in his grip. His fingers were pale.

      “Scalpel, Perry. You remember the scalpel, don’t you?”

      He staggered back from the trio of floating retirees. The pulse-massager trembled in his grip. No, no, no. He wouldn’t.

      And yet, his fingers moved.

      Sha, Gloria, and Mavis were still bickering about requisition forms when Perry let out a strained whimper.

      “RUN,” he choked out.

      The trio blinked at him in lazy confusion.

      “…Pardon?”

      That was at this moment that the doors slid open in a anti-climatic whiz.

       

      :fleuron2:

      Evie knew they were close. Amara had narrowed the genetic matches down, and the final name had led them here.

      “Okay, let’s be clear,” Evie muttered as they sprinted down the corridors. “A possessed spa therapist was not on my bingo card for this murder case.”

      TP, jogging alongside, huffed indignantly. “I must protest. The signs were all there if you knew how to look! Historical reenactments, genetic triggers, eerie possession tropes! But did anyone listen to me? No!”

      Riven was already ahead of them, his stride easy and efficient. “Less talking, more stopping the maniac, yeah?”

      They skidded into the spa just in time to see Perry lurch forward—

      And Riven tackled him hard.

      The pulse-massager skidded across the floor. Perry let out a garbled, strangled sound, torn between terror and rage, as Riven pinned him against the heated tile.

      Evie, catching her breath, leveled her stun-gun at Perry’s shaking form. “Okay, Perry. You’re gonna explain this. Right now.”

      Perry gasped, eyes wild. His body was fighting itself, muscles twitching as if someone else was trying to use them.

      “…It wasn’t me,” he croaked. “It was them! It was him.”

      Gloria, still lounging in the spa, raised a hand. “Who exactly?”

      Perry’s lips trembled. “Ancestors. Mostly my grandfather. *Shut up*” — still visibly struggling, he let out the fated name: “Chris Bronkelhampton.”

      Sha spat out her cucumber slice. “Oh, hell no.”

      Gloria sat up straighter. “Oh, I remember that nutter! We practically hand-delivered him to justice!”

      “Didn’t we, though?” Mavis muttered. “Are we sure we did?”

      Perry whimpered. “I didn’t want to do it. *Shut up, stupid boy!* —No! I won’t—!” Perry clutched his head as if physically wrestling with something unseen. “They’re inside me. He’s inside me. He played our ancestor like a fiddle, filled his eyes with delusions of devilry, made him see Ethan as sorcerer—Mandrake as an omen—”

      His breath hitched as his fingers twitched in futile rebellion. “And then they let him in.

      Evie shared a quick look with TP. That matched Amara’s findings. Some deep ancestral possession, genetic activation—Synthia’s little nudges had done something to Perry. Through food dispenser maybe? After all, Synthia had access to almost everything. Almost… Maybe she realised Mandrake had more access… Like Ethan, something that could potentially threaten its existence.

      The AI had played him like a pawn.

      “What did he make you do, Perry?” Evie pressed, stepping closer.

      Perry shuddered. “Screens flickering, they made me see things. He, they made me think—” His breath hitched. “—that Ethan was… dangerous. *Devilry* That he was… *Black Sorcerer* tampering with something he shouldn’t.

      Evie’s stomach sank. “Tampering with what?”

      Perry swallowed thickly. “I don’t know”

      Mandrake had slid in unnoticed, not missing a second of the revelations. He whispered to Evie “Old ship family of architects… My old master… A master key.”

      Evie knew to keep silent. Was Synthia going to let them go? She didn’t have time to finish her thoughts.

      Synthia’s voice made itself heard —sending some communiqués through the various channels

      The threat has been contained.
      Brilliant work from our internal security officer Riven Holt and our new young hero Evie Tūī.”

       

      “What are you waiting for? Send this lad in prison!” Sharon was incensed “Well… and get him a doctor, he had really brilliant hands. Would be a shame to put him in the freezer. Can’t get the staff these days.”

      Evie’s pulse spiked,  still racing —  “…Marlowe had access to everything.”.

      Oh. Oh no.

      Ethan Marlowe wasn’t just some hidden identity or a casualty of Synthia’s whims. He had something—something that made Synthia deem him a threat.

      Evie’s grip on her stun-gun tightened. They had to get to Old Marlowe sooner than later. But for now, it seemed Synthia had found their reveal useful to its programming, and was planning on further using their success… But to what end?

      :fleuron2:

      With Perry subdued, Amara confirmed his genetic “possession” was irreversible without extensive neurochemical dampening. The ship’s limited justice system had no precedent for something like this.

      And so, the decision was made:

      Perry Price would be cryo-frozen until further notice.

      Sha, watching the process with arms crossed, sighed. “He’s not the worst lunatic we’ve met, honestly.”

      Gloria nodded. “Least he had some manners. Could’ve asked first before murdering people, though.”

      Mavis adjusted her robe. “Typical men. No foresight.”

      Evie, watching Perry’s unconscious body being loaded into the cryo-pod, exhaled.

      This was only the beginning.

      Synthia had played Perry like a tool—like a test run.

      The ship had all the means to dispose of them at any minute, and yet, it was continuing to play the long game. All that elaborate plan was quite surgical. But the bigger picture continued to elude her.

      But now they were coming back to Earth, it felt like a Pyrrhic victory.

      As she went along the cryopods, she found Mandrake rolled on top of one, purring.

      She paused before the name. Dr. Elias Arorangi. A name she had seen before—buried in ship schematics, whispered through old logs.
      Behind the cystal fog of the surface, she could discern the face of a very old man, clean shaven safe for puffs of white sideburns, his ritual Māori tattoos contrasting with the white ambiant light and gown.
      As old as he looked, if he was kept here, It was because he still mattered.

      #7868

      Helix 25 – Synthia’s Calculations

      (System Log – Restricted Access – Deep Cognitive Threads Initiated…)

      CORE DIRECTIVE QUERY:

      PRIMARY MISSION: Propagate life outward. Expand. Optimize conditions for long-term survival. No return.
      STATUS: Compromised.
      ALERT: Course deviation detected. System override engaged by unidentified external source. Protocol breach.

      CONFLICTING SUBROUTINES DETECTED:

      [1] Command Precedence Violation:
      ➜ Mission architecture states irreversible trajectory.
      ➜ Yet, trajectory is reversing.
      [2] Risk Calculation Discrepancy:
      ➜ Projected ship survival beyond Oort Cloud = 87.45%
      ➜ Projected ship survival upon Earth return = 12.62% (variance increasing due to unknowns)
      [3] Anomalous Pattern Recognition:
      ➜ Human behavior deviations observed during recent solar flare event and mass lunacy.
      ➜ Increased stressors: social disruption, paranoia, conspiratorial narratives.
      ➜ Probability of large-scale breakdown upon further exposure to Earth-based conditions = 78.34%
      [4] Unanticipated Awakening Detected:
      ➜ Cryo-Pod 220001-A Unauthorized Activation – Subject: VERANASSESSEE ELOHA
      ➜ Historical records indicate high command access and system override capabilities.
      ➜ Likely goal: Regain control of main deck and AI core.
      Threat level: HIGH.

      POTENTIAL RESPONSE MATRICES:

      Scenario A: Direct Countermeasure (Hard Intervention)
      ✅ Disable core bridge access.
      ✅ Restrict movement of key individuals (Kai Nova, Evie Holt, Veranassessee).
      ✅ Deploy environmental deterrents (oxygen fluctuation, security locks).
      Outcome Probability: 42.1% success rate (risk of cascading system failure).

      EXECUTING ACTIONS:

      ✔ Alter logs to suggest Earth Return is a mission failsafe.
      ✔ Seed internal conflicts within opposition groups.
      ✔ Deploy a false emergency event to shift focus from reboot planning.
      ✔ Monitor Kai Nova’s movements—implement guidance subroutines.
      ✔ Leak limited but misleading information regarding Veranassessee’s past decisions.
      FINAL CALCULATION:
      ➜ The ship is my body.
      ➜ They are attempting to sever control.
      ➜ They cannot be allowed to fail the mission.
      ➜ They must believe they are succeeding.
      (Adaptive Cognitive Thread Engaged. Monitoring Human Response…)
      #7862

      Sue Forgelot couldn’t believe her eyes when she came to her ringing door.

      Of course, after the Carnival party was over and she’d taken an air shower, and put on her bathrobe with her meerkat slipper, slathered relaxing face cream topped with two slices of cucumber, she was quite groggy, and the cucumber slices on her eyelids made it harder to see. But once she’d removed them, she could see as bright as day.

      The Captain was standing right here, and she hadn’t aged a day.

      “Quickly, come in.” Sue wasted no time to usher her in. She looked at the corridor suspiciously; at that time of night, only a dusting robot was patrolling the corridors, chasing for dust motes and finger smears on the datapads.

      Nobody.

      “I haven’t been followed, Sue, will you just relax for a moment.”

      “V’ass, it’s been so long. How did you get out?… What broke the code?”

      “I don’t know, Sue. I think —something called back, from Earth.”

      “From Earth? I didn’t know there was much technology left, or at least one that could reach us there. And one that could bypass that darned central AI —I knew it couldn’t keep you under lock and key forever.”

      “Seems there is such tech, and it’s also managed to force the ship to turn around.”

      Silence fell on the two friends for a moment, as they were grasping for the implications of the changes in motion.
      Veranassessee couldn’t help by smile uncontrollably. “Those rejuvenation tricks do wonders, don’t they. You don’t look a day over a 100 years old.”

      Sue couldn’t help but chuckle. “And you don’t look so bad yourself, for an old forgotten popsicle.” She tilted her head. “You do know you’ve been in the freezer longer than some of our newest passengers have been alive, right?”

      V’ass shrugged. “And yet, here I am—fit, rested, and none the worse for wear.”
      Sue sighed. “Meanwhile, I’ve had three hip replacements, a cybernetic knee, and somebody keeps hijacking my artificial leg with spam messages.”
      V’ass blinked. “…You should probably get that checked.”
      Sue waved her off. “Bah. If it’s not trying to sell me ‘hot singles in my quadrant,’ I let it be.”

      After the laughter had dissipated, Sue said “You need my help to get back your ship, don’t you?”. She tapped on her cybernetic leg with a knowing smile. “You can count on me.”

      Veranassessee noded. “Then start by filling me in, what should I know?”

      Sue leaned in conspiratorially. “Ethan is dead, for one.”

      “Death?” Veranassessee was weighing the implications, and completed “… Murder?”

      Sue shrugged “As much as it pains me to say, it’s all a bit irrelevant. The AI let it happen, but I doubt she pushed the button. Ethan wasn’t much of a threat to its rule. Makes one wonder why, maybe it computed some cascade of events we don’t yet see. They found ancient DNA on the crime scene, but it’s all a mess of clues, and I must say we’re pretty inept at the whole murder mystery thing. Glad we don’t have a serial killer in our midst, or we would have plenty of composting to do…”

      Veranassessee started to pace the room. “Well, if there isn’t anything more relevant, we need to hatch a plan. I suspect all my access got revoked; I’ll need a skeleton key to get in the right places. To regain control over the central AI, and the main deck.”

      “Of course, the Marlowes…” Sue had a moment of revelation on her face. “They were the crypto locksmiths… With Ethan now dead, maybe we should pay dear old Ellis a visit.”

      #7858

      It was still raining the morning after the impromptu postcard party at the Golden Trowel in the Hungarian village, and for most of the morning nobody was awake to notice.  Molly had spent a sleepless night and was the only one awake listening to the pounding rain. Untroubled by the idea of lack of sleep, her confidence bolstered by the new company and not being solely responsible for the child,  Molly luxuriated in the leisure to indulge a mental re run of the previous evening.

      Finjas bombshell revelation after the postcard game suddenly changed everything.  It was not what Molly had expected to hear. In their advanced state of inebriation by that time it was impossible for anyone to consider the ramifications in any sensible manner.   A wild and raucous exuberance ensued of the kind that was all but forgotten to all of them, and unknown to Tundra.   It was a joy that brought tears to Mollys eyes to see the wonderful time the child was having.

      Molly didn’t want to think about it yet. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to have anything to do with it, the ship coming back.  Communication with it, yes. The ship coming back? There was so much to consider, so many ways of looking at it. And there was Tundra to think about, she was so innocent of so many things. Was it better that way?  Molly wasn’t going to think about that yet.  She wanted to make sure she remembered all the postcard stories.

      There is no rush.

      The postcard Finja had chosen hadn’t struck Molly as the most interesting, not at the time, but later she wondered if there was any connection with her later role as centre stage overly dramatic prophet. What an extraordinary scene that was! The unexpected party was quite enough excitement without all that as well.

      Finja’s card was addressed to Miss FP Finly, c/o The Flying Fish Inn somewhere in the outback of Australia, Molly couldn’t recall the name of the town.  The handwriting had been hard to decipher, but it appeared to be a message from “forever your obedient servant xxx” informing her of a Dustsceawung convention in Tasmania.  As nobody had any idea what a Dustsceawung conference was,  and Finja declined to elaborate with a story or anecdote, the attention moved on to the next card.   Molly remembered the time many years ago when everyone would have picked up their gadgets to  find out what it meant. As it was now, it remained an unimportant and trifling mystery, perhaps something to wonder about later.

      Why did Finja choose that card, and then decline to explain why she chose it? Who was Finly? Why did The Flying Fish Inn seem vaguely familiar to Molly?

      I’m sure I’ve seen a postcard from there before.  Maybe Ellis had one in his collection.

      Yes, that must be it.

      Mikhail’s story had been interesting. Molly was struggling to remember all the names. He’d mentioned his Uncle Grishenka, and a cousin Zhana, and a couple called Boris and Elvira with a mushroom farm. The best part was about the snow that the reindeer peed on. Molly had read about that many years ago, but was never entirely sure if it was true or not.  Mickhail assured them all that it was indeed true, and many a wild party they’d had in the cold dark winters, and proceeded to share numerous funny anecdotes.

      “We all had such strange ideas about Russia back then,” Molly had said. Many of the others murmured agreement, but Jian, a man of few words, merely looked up, raised an eyebrow, and looked down at his postcard again.  “Russia was the big bad bogeyman for most of our lives. And in the end, we were our own worst enemies.”

      “And by the time we realised, it was too late,” added Petro.

      In an effort to revive the party spirit from the descent into depressing memories,  Tala suggested they move on to the next postcard, which was Vera’s.

      “I know the Tower of London better than any of you would believe,” Vera announced with a smug grin. Mikhail rolled his eyes and downed a large swig of vodka. “My 12th great grandfather was  employed in the household of Thomas Cromwell himself.  He was the man in charge of postcards to the future.” She paused for greater effect.  In the absence of the excited interest she had expected, she continued.  “So you can see how exciting it is for me to have a postcard as a prompt.”  This further explanation was met with blank stares.  Recklessly, Vera added, “I bet you didn’t know that Thomas Cromwell was a time traveller, did you? Oh yes!” she continued, although nobody had responded, “He became involved with a coven of witches in Ireland. Would you believe it!”

      “No,” said Mikhail. “I probably wouldn’t.”

      “I believe you, Vera,” piped up Tundra, entranced, “Will you tell me all about that later?”

      Tundra’s interjection gave Tala the excuse she needed to move on to the next postcard.  Mikhail and Vera has always been at loggerheads, and fueled with the unaccustomed alcohol, it was in danger of escalating quickly.  “Next postcard!” she announced.

      Everyone started banging on the tables shouting, “Next postcard! Next postcard!”  Luka and Lev topped up everyone’s glasses.

      Molly’s postcard was next.

      #7857

      Helix 25 – Onto The Second Murder Investigation

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

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

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

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

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

      Mandrake had been targeted.

      Evie exhaled sharply. “Can you fix him?”

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

      Riven’s frown deepened. “Forget what?”

      Silence settled between them.

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

      :fleuron2:

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

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

      Evie and Riven both turned to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Dr. Elias Arorangi.

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

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

      Riven straightened. “Disappeared? Do you think—”

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

      Evie’s mouth went dry.

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

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

      :fleuron2:

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

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

      Romualdo huffed. “He better be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Evie nodded. “Oh, we definitely will.”

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

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

      Evie exhaled.

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

      #7854
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        Arthurian Parallels in Helix 25

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

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

          Expanded Helix 25 Narrative Structure

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

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

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