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In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“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.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
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.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Sorry I’m late,” said Carob as she crouched down to fuss over Fanella. “I have excuses, but they’re not interesting. I’m feeling a little underdeveloped as a character, so I’m not sure what to say yet.”
“That’s okay,” said Amy. “Just remember … if you don’t tell us who you are early on…” She squinted and glanced around suspiciously. “Others will create you.”
“I’d rather just slowly percolate.” Carob screwed up her face. “Get it? Percolate?”
She stood up and slapped a hand to her head as Amy rolled her eyes. “Sorry … ” She patted her head curiously. “Oh wait—do I have curls?”
“I’d say more like frizzes than curls,” answered Amy.
Thiram nodded. “Totally frizzled.”
“Cool … must be the damp weather,” said Carob. She brushed a twig from her coat. The coat was blue-green and only reached her thighs. Many things were too small when you were six foot two.
“Oh—and I’ve been lucid dreaming in reverse,” she added. “Last night I watched myself un-make and un-drink a cup of coffee.” She gave a quick snort-laugh. “Weirdo”.
“Was it raining in the dream?” asked Thiram.
Carob frowned. “Probably… You know how in scary movies they always leave the curtains open, like they want the bad guys to see in? It felt like that.” She shuddered and then smiled brightly. “Anyway, just a dream. Also, I bumped into your father, Amy. He said to tell you: Remember what happened last time.”
She regarded Amy intently. “What did happen last time?”
“He worries too much,” said Amy, waving a hand dismissively. “Also, I didn’t even write that in, so how should I know?” She looked out toward the trees. “Where’s Chico?”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Where are they again?” Thiram was straining as he waited for his friends, or rather colleagues.
“Typical of them to get us all excited, and then bailing out to some mundane excuses.”
He started to pace around the shed where they were supposed to meet. He wasn’t clear about all the details, Amy, or Carob would have them. Chico would be here for the ride, but the master plan this time was for the girls to come up with.
What was happening at the plantation? Something unusual for sure; the Lucid Luddite Dreamers and their Silly Intelligence devices were always looking to disrupt the flows of coffee of the remaining parts where they still grew. That was why their mission was so important. Or so he was told.
“Bugger… they could at least answer their damn phones… AI might well be everywhere, but you can’t just be all cavemen about it.”
A rush of ruffled dried leaves and a happy bleating caught his attention at the moment he was about to leave. A panting Amy arrived, with her cream goat “Fanella” in tow —the bleating was from her, obviously. She didn’t take “Finnley”, the black one, she was too unpredictable; Amy would only keep her around for life or death situations that required a fair deal of rude practicality, and a good horn’s ramming.
“Sorry, sorry!” Amy blurted out in hushed tones. “I couldn’t get away from the Padre. He’s too worried about stuff…”
Thiram shrugged “at least there’s one. And what about the others?”
“Oh, what? I’m not the last to arrive? That’s new.”
Thiram rolled his eyes and gave a twig with fresh leaves to Fanella to eat.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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 Pee “TP” 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.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Mars Outpost — Fueling of Dreams (Prune)
I lean against the creaking bulkhead of this rust-stained fueling station, watching Mars breathe. Dust twirls across the ochre plains like it’s got somewhere important to be. The whole place rattles every time the wind picks up—like the metal shell itself is complaining. I find it oddly comforting. Reminds me of the Flying Fish Inn back home, where the fireplace wheezed like a drunk aunt and occasionally spit out sparks for drama.
Funny how that place, with all its chaos and secret stash hidey-holes, taught me more about surviving space than any training program ever could.
“Look at me now, Mater,” I catch myself thinking, tapping the edge of the viewport with a gloved knuckle. “Still scribbling starships in my head. Only now I’m living inside one.”
Behind me, the ancient transceiver gives its telltale blip… blip. I don’t need to check—I recognize the signal. Helix 25, closing in. The one ship people still whisper about like it’s a myth with plumbing. Part of me grins. Half nostalgia, half challenge.
Back in ’27, I shipped off to that mad boarding school with the oddball astronaut program. Professors called me a prodigy. I called it stubborn curiosity and a childhood steeped in ghost stories, half-baked prophecies, and improperly labeled pickle jars. The real trick wasn’t the calculus—it was surviving the Curara clan’s brand of creative chaos.
After graduation, I bought into a settlers’ programme. Big mistake. Turns out it was more con than colonization, sold with just enough truth to sting. Some people cracked. I just adjusted course. Spent some time bouncing between jobs, drifted home a couple times for stew and sideways advice, and kept my head sharp. Lesson logged: deceit’s just another puzzle with missing pieces.
A hiss behind the wall cuts into my thoughts—pipes complaining again. I spin, scan the console. Pressure’s holding. “Fine,” which out here means “still not exploding.” Good enough.
I remember the lottery ticket that got me here— 2049, commercial flights to Mars at last soared skyward— and Effin Muck’s big lottery. At last a seat to Mars, on section D. Just sheer luck that felt like a miracle at the time. But while I was floating spaceward, Earth went sideways: asteroid mining gone wrong, panic, nuclear strikes. I watched pieces of home disappear through a porthole while the Mars colonies went silent, one by one. All those big plans reduced to empty shells and flickering lights.
I was supposed to be evacuated, too. Instead, my lowly post at this fueling station—this rust bucket perched on a dusty plateau—kept me in place. Cosmic joke? Probably. But here I am. Still alive. Still tinkering with things that shouldn’t work. Still me.
I reprogrammed the oxygen scrubbers myself. Hacked them with a dusty old patch from Aunt Idle’s “Dream Time” stash. When the power systems started failing and had to cut all the AI support to save on power, I taught myself enough broken assembly code to trick ancient processors into behaving. Improvisation is my mother tongue.
“Mars is quieter than the Inn,” I say aloud, half to myself. “Only upside, really.”
Another ping from the transceiver—it’s getting closer. The Helix 25, humanity’s last-ditch bottle-in-space. They say it’s carrying what’s left of us. Part myth, part mobile city. If I didn’t have the logs, I’d half believe it was a fever dream.
But no dream prepares you for this kind of quiet.
I think about the Inn again. How everyone swore it had secret tunnels, cursed tiles, hallucinations in the pantry. Honestly, it probably did. But it also had love—scrambled, sarcastic love—and enough stories to keep you wondering if any of them were real. That’s where I learned to spot a lie, tell a better one, and stay grounded when the walls started talking.
I smack the comm panel until it stops crackling. That’s the secret to maintenance on Mars: decisive violence.
“All right, Helix,” I mutter. “Let’s see what you’ve got. I’ve got thruster fuel, half-functional docking protocols, and a mean kettle of tea if you’re lucky.”
I catch my reflection in the viewport glass—older, sure. Forty-two now. Taller. Calmer in the eyes. But the glint’s still there, the one that says I’ve seen worse, and I’m still standing. That kid at the Inn would’ve cheered.
Earth’s collapse wasn’t some natural catastrophe—it was textbook human arrogance. Effin Muck’s greedy asteroid mining scheme. World leaders playing hot potato with nuclear codes. It burned. Probably still does… But I can’t afford to stew in it. We’re not here to mourn; we’re here to rebuild. If someone’s going to help carry that torch, it might as well be someone who’s already walked through fire.
I fiddle with the dials on the fuel board. It hums like a tired dragon, but it’s awake. That’s all I need.
“Might be time to pass some of that brilliance along,” I mutter, mostly to the station walls. Somewhere, I bet my siblings are making fun of me. Probably watching soap dramas and eating improperly reheated stew. Bless them. They were my first reality check, and I still measure the world by how weird it is compared to them. Loved them for how hard they made me feel normal after all.
The wind howls across the shutters. I stand up straight, brush the dust off my sleeves. Helix 25 is almost here.
“Showtime,” I say, and grin. Not the nice kind. The kind that says I’ve got one wrench, three working systems, and no intention of rolling over.
The Flying Fish Inn shaped me with every loud, strange, inexplicable day. It gave me humor. It gave me bite. It gave me an unshakable sense of self when everything else fell apart.
So here I stand—keeper of the last Martian fueling post, scrappy guardian of whatever future shows up next.
I glance once more at the transceiver, then hit the big green button to unlock the landing bay.
“Welcome to Mars,” I say, deadpan. Then add, mostly to myself, “Let’s see if they’re ready for me.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
A Quick Vacay on Mars
“The Helix is coming in for descent,” announced Luca Stroud, a bit too solemnly. “And by descent, I mean we’re parking in orbit and letting the cargo shuttles do the sweaty work.”
From the main viewport, Mars sprawled below in all its dusty, rust-red glory. Gone was the Jupiter’s orbit pulls of lunacy, after a 6 month long voyage, they were down to the Martian pools of red dust.
Even from space, you could see the abandoned domes of the first human colonies, with the unmistakable Muck conglomerate’s branding: half-buried in dunes, battered by storms, and rumored to be haunted (well, if you believed the rumors from the bored Helix 25 children).
Veranassessee—Captain Veranassessee, thank you very much— stood at the helm with the unruffled poise of someone who’d wrested control of the ship (and AI) with consummate style and in record time. With a little help of course from X-caliber, the genetic market of the Marlowe’s family that she’d recovered from Marlowe Sr. before Synthia had had a chance of scrubbing all traces of his DNA. Now, with her control back, most of her work had been to steer the ship back to sanity, and rebuild alliances.
“That’s the plan. Crew rotation, cargo drop, and a quick vacay if we can manage not to break a leg.”
Sue Forgelot, newly minted second in command, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Says the one who insisted we detour for a peek at the old Mars amusements. If you want to roast marshmallows on volcanic vents, just say it.”
Their footsteps reverberated softly on the deck. Synthia’s overhead panels glowed calm, reined in by the AI’s newly adjusted parameters. Luca tapped the console. “All going smoothly, Cap’n. Next phase of ‘waking the sleepers’ will happen in small batches—like you asked.”
Veranassessee nodded silently. The return to reality would prove surely harsh to most of them, turned soft with low gravity. She would have to administrate a good dose of tough love.
Sue nodded. “We’ll need a slow approach. Earth’s… not the paradise it once was.”
Veranassessee exhaled, eyes lingering on the red planet turning slowly below. “One challenge at a time. Everyone’s earned a bit of shore leave. If you can call an arid dustball ‘shore.’”
The Truce on Earth
Tundra brushed red dust off her makeshift jacket, then gave her new friend a loving pat on the flank. The baby sanglion—already the size of a small donkey—sniffed the air, then leaned its maned, boar-like head into Tundra’s shoulder. “Easy there, buddy,” she murmured. “We’ll find more scraps soon.”
They were in the ravaged outskirts near Klyutch Base, forging a shaky alliance with Sokolov’s faction. Sokolov—sharp-eyed and suspicious—stalked across the battered tarmac with a crate of spare shuttle parts. “This is all the help you’re getting from me,” he said, his accent carving the words. “Use it well. No promises once the Helix 25 arrives.”
Commander Koval hovered by the half-repaired shuttle, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the giant, (mostly) friendly mutant beast at Tundra’s side. “Just keep that… sanglion… away from me, will you?”
Molly, Tundra’s resilient great-grandmother, chuckled. “He’s harmless unless you’re an unripe melon or a leftover stew. Aren’t you, sweetie?”
The creature snorted. Sokolov’s men loaded more salvage onto the shuttle’s hull. If all went well, they’d soon have a functioning vessel to meet the Helix when it finally arrived.
Tundra fed her pet a chunk of dried fruit. She wondered what the grand new ship would look like after so many legends and rumors. Would the Helix be a promise of hope—or a brand-new headache?
Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge
On Helix 25, Finkley’s new corner-lounge always smelled of coffee and antiseptic wipes, thanks to her cleaning-bot minions. Rows of small, softly glowing communication booths lined the walls—her “direct Earth Connection.” A little sign reading FINKLEY’S WHISPER CALLS flickered overhead. Foot traffic was picking up, because after the murder spree ended, people craved normalcy—and gossip.
She toggled an imaginary switch —she had found mimicking old technology would help tune the frequencies more easily. “Anybody out there?”
Static, then a faint voice from Earth crackled through the anchoring connection provided by Finja on Earth. “Hello? This is…Tala from Spain… well, from the Hungarian border these days…”
“Lovely to hear from you, Tala dear!” Finkley replied in the most uncheerful voice, as she was repeating the words from Kai Nova, who had found himself distant dating after having tried, like many others on the ship before, to find a distant relative connected through the FinFamily’s telepathic bridge. Surprisingly, as he got accustomed to the odd exchange through Finkley-Finja, he’d found himself curious and strangely attracted to the stories from down there.
“Doing all right down there? Any new postcards or battered souvenirs to share with the folks on Helix?”
Tala laughed over the Fin-line. “Plenty. Mostly about wild harvests, random postcards, and that new place we found. We’re calling it The Golden Trowel—trust me, it’s quite a story.”
Behind Finkley, a queue had formed: a couple of nostalgic Helix residents waiting for a chance to talk to distant relatives, old pen pals, or simply anyone with a different vantage on Earth’s reconstruction. Even if those calls were often just a “We’re still alive,” it was more comfort than they’d had in years.
“Hang in there, sweetie,” Finkley said with a drab tone, relaying Kai’s words, struggling hard not to be beaming at the imaginary booth’s receiver. “We’re on our way.”
Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot
In a cramped subdeck chamber whose overhead lights still flickered ominously, Luca Stroud connected a portable console to one of Synthia’s subtle interface nodes. “Easy does it,” he muttered. “We nudge up the wake-up parameters by ten percent, keep an eye on rising stress levels—and hopefully avoid any mass lunacy like last time.”
Sue Forgelot observed from behind, arms folded and face alight with the steely calm that made her a natural second in command. “Focus on folks from the Lower Decks first. They’re more used to harsh realities. Less chance of meltdown when they realize Earth’s not a bed of roses.”
Luca shot her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He tapped the console, and Synthia’s interface glowed green, accepting the new instructions.
“Well, Synthia, dear,” Sue said, addressing the panel drily, “keep cooperating, and nobody’ll have to forcibly remove your entire matrix.”
A faint chime answered—Synthia’s version of a polite half-nod. The lines of code on Luca’s console rearranged themselves into a calmer pattern. The AI’s core processes, thoroughly reined in by the Captain’s new overrides, hummed along peacefully. For now.
Evie & Riven’s Big News
On Helix 25’s mid-deck Lexican Chapel, full of spiral motifs and drifting incense, Evie and Riven stood hand in hand, ignoring the eerie chanting around them. Well, trying to ignore it. Evie’s belly had a soft curve now, and Riven couldn’t stop glancing at it with a proud smile.
One of the elder Lexicans approached, wearing swirling embroidered robes. “The engagement ceremony is prepared, if you’re still certain you want our… elaborate rituals.”
Riven, normally stoic, gave a slight grin. “We’re certain.” He caught Evie’s eye. “I guess you’re stuck with me, detective. And the kid inside you who’ll probably speak Lexican prophecies by the time they’re one.”
Evie rolled her eyes, though affection shone behind it. “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it. We’ve both stared down bigger threats.” Then her hand drifted to her abdomen, protective and proud. “Let’s keep the chanting to a minimum though, okay?”
The Lexican gave a solemn half-bow. “We shall refrain from dancing on the ceilings this time.”
They laughed, past tensions momentarily lifted. Their child’s future, for all its uncertain possibilities, felt like hope on a ship that was finally getting stirred in a clear direction… away from the void of its own nightmares. And Mars, just out the window, loomed like a stepping stone to an Earth that might yet be worth returning to.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – The Mad Heir
The Wellness Deck was one of the few places untouched by the ship’s collective lunar madness—if one ignored the ambient aroma of algae wraps and rehydrated lavender oil. Soft music played in the background, a soothing contrast to the underlying horror that was about to unfold.
Peryton Price, or Perry as he was known to his patients, took a deep breath. He had spent years here, massaging stress from the shoulders of the ship’s weary, smoothing out wrinkles with oxygenated facials, pressing detoxifying seaweed against fine lines. He was, by all accounts, a model spa technician.
And yet—
His hands were shaking.
Inside his skull, another voice whispered. Urging. Prodding. It wasn’t his voice, and that terrified him.
“A little procedure, Perry. Just a little one. A mild improvement. A small tweak—in the name of progress!”
He clenched his jaw. No. No, no, no. He wouldn’t—
“You were so good with the first one, lad. What harm was it? Just a simple extraction! We used to do it all the time back in my day—what do you think the humors were for?”
Perry squeezed his eyes shut. His reflection stared back at him from the hydrotherapeutic mirror, but it wasn’t his face he saw. The shadow of a gaunt, beady-eyed man lingered behind his pupils, a visage that he had never seen before and yet… he knew.
Bronkelhampton. The Mad Doctor of Tikfijikoo.
He was the closest voice, but it was triggering even older ones, from much further down in time. Madness was running in the family. He’d thought he could escape the curse.
“Just imagine the breakthroughs, my dear boy. If you could only commit fully. Why, we could even work on the elders! The preserved ones! You have so many willing patients, Perry! We had so much success with the tardigrade preservation already.”
A high-pitched giggle cut through his spiraling thoughts.
“Oh, heavens, dear boy, this steam is divine. We need to get one of these back in Quadrant B,” Gloria said, reclining in the spa pool. “Sha, can’t you requisition one? You were a ship steward once.”
Sha scoffed. “Sweetheart, I once tried requisitioning extra towels and ended up with twelve crates of anti-bacterial foot powder.”
Mavis clicked her tongue. “Honestly, men are so incompetent. Perry, dear, you wouldn’t happen to know how to requisition a spa unit, would you?”
Perry blinked. His mind was slipping. The whisper of his ancestor had begun to press at the edges of his control.
“Tsk. They’re practically begging you, Perry. Just a little procedure. A minor adjustment.”
Sha, Gloria, and Mavis watched in bemusement as Perry’s eye twitched.
“…Dear?” Mavis prompted, adjusting the cucumber slice over her eye. “You’re staring again.”
Perry snapped back. He swallowed. “I… I was just thinking.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Gloria muttered.
“Thinking about what?” Sha pressed.
Perry’s hand tightened around the pulse-massager in his grip. His fingers were pale.
“Scalpel, Perry. You remember the scalpel, don’t you?”
He staggered back from the trio of floating retirees. The pulse-massager trembled in his grip. No, no, no. He wouldn’t.
And yet, his fingers moved.
Sha, Gloria, and Mavis were still bickering about requisition forms when Perry let out a strained whimper.
“RUN,” he choked out.
The trio blinked at him in lazy confusion.
“…Pardon?”
That was at this moment that the doors slid open in a anti-climatic whiz.
Evie knew they were close. Amara had narrowed the genetic matches down, and the final name had led them here.
“Okay, let’s be clear,” Evie muttered as they sprinted down the corridors. “A possessed spa therapist was not on my bingo card for this murder case.”
TP, jogging alongside, huffed indignantly. “I must protest. The signs were all there if you knew how to look! Historical reenactments, genetic triggers, eerie possession tropes! But did anyone listen to me? No!”
Riven was already ahead of them, his stride easy and efficient. “Less talking, more stopping the maniac, yeah?”
They skidded into the spa just in time to see Perry lurch forward—
And Riven tackled him hard.
The pulse-massager skidded across the floor. Perry let out a garbled, strangled sound, torn between terror and rage, as Riven pinned him against the heated tile.
Evie, catching her breath, leveled her stun-gun at Perry’s shaking form. “Okay, Perry. You’re gonna explain this. Right now.”
Perry gasped, eyes wild. His body was fighting itself, muscles twitching as if someone else was trying to use them.
“…It wasn’t me,” he croaked. “It was them! It was him.”
Gloria, still lounging in the spa, raised a hand. “Who exactly?”
Perry’s lips trembled. “Ancestors. Mostly my grandfather. *Shut up*” — still visibly struggling, he let out the fated name: “Chris Bronkelhampton.”
Sha spat out her cucumber slice. “Oh, hell no.”
Gloria sat up straighter. “Oh, I remember that nutter! We practically hand-delivered him to justice!”
“Didn’t we, though?” Mavis muttered. “Are we sure we did?”
Perry whimpered. “I didn’t want to do it. *Shut up, stupid boy!* —No! I won’t—!” Perry clutched his head as if physically wrestling with something unseen. “They’re inside me. He’s inside me. He played our ancestor like a fiddle, filled his eyes with delusions of devilry, made him see Ethan as sorcerer—Mandrake as an omen—”
His breath hitched as his fingers twitched in futile rebellion. “And then they let him in.“
Evie shared a quick look with TP. That matched Amara’s findings. Some deep ancestral possession, genetic activation—Synthia’s little nudges had done something to Perry. Through food dispenser maybe? After all, Synthia had access to almost everything. Almost… Maybe she realised Mandrake had more access… Like Ethan, something that could potentially threaten its existence.
The AI had played him like a pawn.
“What did he make you do, Perry?” Evie pressed, stepping closer.
Perry shuddered. “Screens flickering, they made me see things. He, they made me think—” His breath hitched. “—that Ethan was… dangerous. *Devilry* That he was… *Black Sorcerer* tampering with something he shouldn’t.”
Evie’s stomach sank. “Tampering with what?”
Perry swallowed thickly. “I don’t know”
Mandrake had slid in unnoticed, not missing a second of the revelations. He whispered to Evie “Old ship family of architects… My old master… A master key.”
Evie knew to keep silent. Was Synthia going to let them go? She didn’t have time to finish her thoughts.
Synthia’s voice made itself heard —sending some communiqués through the various channels
“The threat has been contained.
Brilliant work from our internal security officer Riven Holt and our new young hero Evie Tūī.”“What are you waiting for? Send this lad in prison!” Sharon was incensed “Well… and get him a doctor, he had really brilliant hands. Would be a shame to put him in the freezer. Can’t get the staff these days.”
Evie’s pulse spiked, still racing — “…Marlowe had access to everything.”.
Oh. Oh no.
Ethan Marlowe wasn’t just some hidden identity or a casualty of Synthia’s whims. He had something—something that made Synthia deem him a threat.
Evie’s grip on her stun-gun tightened. They had to get to Old Marlowe sooner than later. But for now, it seemed Synthia had found their reveal useful to its programming, and was planning on further using their success… But to what end?
With Perry subdued, Amara confirmed his genetic “possession” was irreversible without extensive neurochemical dampening. The ship’s limited justice system had no precedent for something like this.
And so, the decision was made:
Perry Price would be cryo-frozen until further notice.
Sha, watching the process with arms crossed, sighed. “He’s not the worst lunatic we’ve met, honestly.”
Gloria nodded. “Least he had some manners. Could’ve asked first before murdering people, though.”
Mavis adjusted her robe. “Typical men. No foresight.”
Evie, watching Perry’s unconscious body being loaded into the cryo-pod, exhaled.
This was only the beginning.
Synthia had played Perry like a tool—like a test run.
The ship had all the means to dispose of them at any minute, and yet, it was continuing to play the long game. All that elaborate plan was quite surgical. But the bigger picture continued to elude her.
But now they were coming back to Earth, it felt like a Pyrrhic victory.
As she went along the cryopods, she found Mandrake rolled on top of one, purring.
She paused before the name. Dr. Elias Arorangi. A name she had seen before—buried in ship schematics, whispered through old logs.
Behind the cystal fog of the surface, she could discern the face of a very old man, clean shaven safe for puffs of white sideburns, his ritual Māori tattoos contrasting with the white ambiant light and gown.
As old as he looked, if he was kept here, It was because he still mattered.In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Mavis adjusted her reading glasses, peering suspiciously at the announcement flashing across the common area screen.
“Right then,” she said, tapping it. “Would you look at that. We’re not drifting to our doom in the black abyss anymore. We’re going home. Makes me almost sad to think of it that way.”
Gloria snorted. “Home? I haven’t lived on Earth in so long I don’t even remember which part of it I used to hate the most.”
Sharon sighed dramatically. “Oh, don’t be daft, Glo. We had civilisation back there. Fresh air, real ground under our feet. Seasons!”
Mavis leaned back with a smirk. “And let’s not forget: gravity. Remember that, Glo? That thing that kept our knickers from floating off at inconvenient moments?”
Gloria waved a dismissive hand. “Oh please, Earth gravity’s overrated. I’ve gotten used to my ankles not being swollen. Besides, you do realise that Earth’s just a tiny, miserable speck in all this? How could we tire of this grand adventure into nothing?” She gestured widely, nearly knocking Sharon’s drink out of her hand.
Sharon gasped. “Well, that was uncalled for. Tiny miserable speck, my foot! That tiny speck is the only thing in this whole bloody universe with tea and biscuits. Get the same in Uranus now!”
Mavis nodded sagely. “She’s got a point, Glo.”
Gloria narrowed her eyes. “Oh, don’t you start. I was perfectly fine living out my days in the great unknown, floating about like a well-moisturized sage of space, unburdened by all the nonsense of Earth.”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “Oh, spare me. Two weeks ago you were crying about missing your favorite brand of shampoo.”
Gloria sniffed. “That was a moment of weakness.”
Mavis grinned. “And now you’re about to have another when we get back and realise how much tax has accumulated while we’ve been away.”
A horrified silence fell between them.
Sharon exhaled. “Right. Back to the abyss then?”
Gloria nodded solemnly. “Back to the abyss.”
Mavis raised her cup. “To the abyss.”
They clinked their mismatched mugs together in a toast, while the ship quietly, inevitably, pulled them home.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.”
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.
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.
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
Chapter Title: A Whiff of Inspiration – a work in progress by Elizabeth Tattler
The morning light slanted through the towering windows of the grand old house, casting a warm glow upon the chaos within. Elizabeth Tattler, famed author and mistress of the manor, found herself pacing the length of the room with the grace of a caged lioness. Her mind was a churning whirlpool of creative fury, but alas, it was not the only thing trapped within.
“Finnley!” she bellowed, her voice echoing off the walls with a resonance that only years of authoritative writing could achieve. “Finnley, where are you hiding?”
Finnley, emerging from behind the towering stacks of Liz’s half-finished manuscripts, wielded her trusty broom as if it were a scepter. “I’m here, I’m here,” she grumbled, her tone as prickly as ever. “What is it now, Liz? Another manuscript disaster? A plot twist gone awry?”
“Trapped abdominal wind, my dear Finnley,” Liz declared with dramatic flair, clutching her midsection as if to emphasize the gravity of her plight. “Since two in the morning! A veritable tempest beneath my ribs! I fear this may become the inspiration—or rather, aspiration—for my next novel.”
Finnley rolled her eyes, a gesture she had perfected over years of service. “Oh, for Flove’s sake, Liz. Perhaps you should bottle it and sell it as ‘Creative Muse’ for struggling writers. Now, what do you need from me?”
“Oh, I’ve decided to vent my frustrations in a blog post. A good old-fashioned rant, something to stir the pot and perhaps ruffle a few feathers!” Liz’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “I’m certain it shall incense 95% of my friends, but what better way to clear the mind and—hopefully—the bowels?”
At that moment, Godfrey, Liz’s ever-distracted editor, shuffled in with a vacant look in his eyes. “Did someone mention something about… inspiration?” he asked, blinking as if waking from a long slumber.
“Yes, Godfrey, inspiration!” Liz exclaimed, waving her arms dramatically. “Though in my case, it’s more like… ‘inflation’! I’ve become a gastronaut! ” She chuckled at her own pun, eliciting a groan from Finnley.
Godfrey, oblivious to the undercurrents of the conversation, nodded earnestly. “Ah, splendid! Speaking of which, have you written that opening scene yet, Liz? The publishers are rather eager, you know.”
Liz threw her hands up in mock exasperation. “Dear Godfrey, with my innards in such turmoil, how could I possibly focus on an opening scene?” She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Unless, of course, I were to channel this very predicament into my story. Perhaps a character with a similar plight, trapped on a space station with only their imagination—and intestinal distress—for company.”
Finnley snorted, her stern facade cracking ever so slightly. “A tale of cosmic flatulence, is it? Sounds like a bestseller to me.”
And with that, Liz knew she had found her muse—an unorthodox one, to be sure, but a muse nonetheless. As the words began to flow, she could only hope that relief, both literary and otherwise, was soon to follow.
(story repeats at the beginning)
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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:
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.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – The Lexican Quarters – Anuí’s Chambers
Anuí Naskó had been many things in their life—historian, philosopher, linguist, nuisance. But a father? No. No, that was entirely new.
And yet, here they were, rocking a very tiny, very loud creature wrapped in Lexican ceremonial cloth, embroidered with the full unpronounceable name bestowed upon it just moments ago: Hšyra-Mak-Talún i Ešvar—”He Who Cries the Arrival of the Infinite Spiral.”
The baby did, indeed, cry.
“Why do you scream at me?” Anuí muttered, swaying slightly, more in a daze than any real instinct to soothe. “I did not birth you. I did not know you existed until three hours ago. And yet, you are here, squalling, because your other father and your mother have decided to fulfill the Prophecy of the Spiral Throne.”
The Prophecy. The one that spoke of the moment the world would collapse and the Lexicans would ascend. The one nobody took seriously. Until now.
Zoya Kade, sitting across from them, watched with narrowed, calculating eyes. “And what exactly does that entail? This Lexican Dynasty?”
Anuí sighed, looking down at the writhing child who was trying to suck on their sleeves, still stained with the remnants of the protein paste they had spent the better part of the morning brewing. The Atrium’s walls needed to be prepared, after all—Kio’ath could not write the sigils without the proper medium. And as the cycles dictated, the medium must be crafted, fermented, and blessed by the hand of one who walks between identities. It had been a tedious, smelly process, but Anuí had endured worse in the name of preservation.
“Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward.” “Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward. The old texts speak of it, the words carved into the silent bones of forgotten tongues. This, Zoya, is no mere madness. This is the resurgence of what was foretold. A dynasty cannot exist without succession, and history does not move without inheritors. They believe they are ensuring the inevitability of their rise. And they might not be wrong.”
They adjusted their grip on the child, murmuring a phrase in a language so old it barely survived in the archives. “Tz’uran velth ka’an, the root that binds to the branch, the branch that binds to the sky. Our truths do not stand alone.”
The baby flailed, screaming louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured, bouncing it with more confidence. “Your lineage has been declared, your burden assigned. Accept it and be silent.” “Well, apparently it requires me to be a single parent while they go forth and multiply, securing ‘heirs to the truth.’ A dynasty is no good without an heir and a spare, you see.”
The baby flailed, screaming even louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured with a hint of irritation, bouncing the baby awkwardly. “You have been declared. Please, cease wailing now.”
Zoya exhaled through her nose, somewhere between disbelief and mild amusement. “And in the middle of all this divine nonsense, the Lexicans have chosen to back me?”
Anuí arched a delicate brow, shifting the baby to one arm with newfound ease. “Of course. The truth-seeker is foretold. The woman who speaks with voices of the past. We have our empire; you are our harbinger.”
Zoya’s lips twitched. “Your empire consists of thirty-eight highly unstable academics and a baby.”
“Thirty-nine. Kio’ath returned from exile yesterday,” Anuí corrected. “They claim the moons have been whispering.”
“Ah. Of course they have.”
Zoya fell silent, fingers tracing the worn etchings of her chair’s armrest. The ship’s hum pressed into her bones, the weight of something stirring in her mind, something old, something waiting.
Anuí’s gaze sharpened, the edges of their thoughts aligning like an ancient lexicon unfurling in front of them. “And now you are hearing it, aren’t you? The echoes of something that was always there. The syllables of the past, reshaped by new tongues, waiting for recognition. The Lexican texts spoke of a fracture in the line, a leader divided, a bridge yet to be found.”
They took a slow breath, fingers tightening over the child’s swaddled form. “The prophecy is not a single moment, Zoya. It is layers upon layers, intersecting at the point where chaos demands order. Where the unseen hand corrects its own forgetting. This is why they back you. Not because you seek the truth, but because you are the conduit through which it must pass.”
Zoya’s breath shallowed. A warmth curled in her chest, not of her own making. Her fingers twitched as if something unseen traced over them, urging her forward. The air around her thickened, charged.
She knew this feeling.
Her head tipped back, and when she spoke, it was not entirely her own voice.
“The past rises in bloodlines and memory,” she intoned, eyes unfocused, gaze burning through Anuí. “The lost sibling walks beneath the ice. The leader sleeps, but he must awaken, for the Spiral Throne cannot stand alone.”
Anuí’s pulse skipped. “Zoya—”
The baby let out a startled hiccup.
But Zoya did not stop.
“The essence calls, older than names, older than the cycle. I am Achaia-Vor, the Echo of Sundered Lineage. The Lost, The Twin, The Nameless Seed. The Spiral cannot turn without its axis. Awaken Victor Holt. He is the lock. You are the key. The path is drawn.
“The cycle bends but does not break. Across the void, the lost ones linger, their voices unheard, their blood unclaimed. The Link must be found. The Speaker walks unknowingly, divided across two worlds. The bridge between past and present, between silence and song. The Marlowe thread is cut, yet the weave remains. To see, you must seek the mirrored souls. To open the path, the twins must speak.”
Achaia-Vor. The name vibrated through the air, curling through the folds of Anuí’s mind like a forgotten melody.
Zoya’s eyes rolled back, body jerking as if caught between two timelines, two truths. She let out a breathless whisper, almost longing.
“Victor, my love. He is waiting for me. I must bring him back.”
Anuí cradled the baby closer, and for the first time, they saw the prophecy not as doctrine but as inevitability. The patterns were aligning—the cut thread of the Marlowes, the mirrored souls, the bridge that must be found.
“It is always the same,” they murmured, almost to themselves. “An axis must be turned, a voice must rise. We have seen this before, written in languages long burned to dust. The same myth, the same cycle, only the names change.”
They met Zoya’s gaze, the air between them thick with the weight of knowing. “And now, we must find the Speaker. Before another voice is silenced.”
“Well,” they muttered, exhaling slowly. “This just got significantly more complicated.”
The baby cooed.
Zoya Kade smiled.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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? 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.
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.
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.In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Base Klyutch – Dr. Markova’s Clinic, Dusk
The scent of roasting meat and simmering stew drifted in from the kitchens, mingling with the sharper smells of antiseptic and herbs in the clinic. The faint clatter of pots and the low murmur of voices preparing the evening meal gave the air a sense of routine, of a world still turning despite everything. Solara Ortega sat on the edge of the examination table, rolling her shoulder to ease the stiffness. Dr. Yelena Markova worked in silence, cool fingers pressing against bruised skin, clinical as ever. Outside, Base Klyutch was settling into the quiet of night—wind turbines hummed, a sentry dog barked in the distance.
“You’re lucky,” Yelena muttered, pressing into Solara’s ribs just hard enough to make a point. “Nothing broken. Just overworked muscles and bad decisions.”
Solara exhaled sharply. “Bad decisions keep us alive.”
Yelena scoffed. “That’s what you tell yourself when you run off into the wild with Orrin Holt?”
Solara ignored the name, focusing instead on the peeling medical posters curling off the clinic walls.
“We didn’t find them,” she said flatly. “They moved west. Too far ahead. No proper tracking gear, no way to catch up before the lionboars or Sokolov’s men did.”
Yelena didn’t blink. “That’s not what I asked.”
A memory surfaced; Orrin standing beside her in the empty refugee camp, the air thick with the scent of old ashes and trampled earth. The fire pits were cold, the shelters abandoned, scraps of cloth and discarded tin cups the only proof that people had once been there. And then she had seen it—a child’s scarf, frayed and half-buried in the dirt. Not the same one, but close enough to make her chest tighten. The last time she had seen her son, he had worn one just like it.
She hadn’t picked it up. Just stood there, staring, forcing her breath steady, forcing her mind to stay fixed on what was in front of her, not what had been lost. Then Orrin’s hand had settled on her shoulder—warm, steady, comforting. Too comforting. She had jerked away, faster than she meant to, pulse hammering at the sudden weight of everything his touch threatened to unearth. He hadn’t said a word. Just looked at her, knowing, as he always did.
She had turned, found her voice, made it sharp. The trail was already too cold. No point chasing ghosts. And she had walked away before she could give the silence between them the space to say anything else.
Solara forced her attention back to the present, to the clinic. She turned her gaze to Yelena, steady and unmoved. “But that’s what matters. We didn’t find them. They made their choice.”
Yelena clicked her tongue, scribbling something onto her worn-out tablet. “Mm. And yet, you come back looking like hell. And Orrin? He looked like a man who’d just seen a ghost.”
Solara let out a dry breath, something close to a laugh. “Orrin always looks like that.”
Yelena arched an eyebrow. “Not always. Not before he came back and saw what he had lost.”
Solara pushed off the table, rolling out the tension in her neck. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it matters,” Yelena said, setting the tablet down. “You still look at him, Solara. Like you did before. And don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”
Solara stiffened, fingers flexing at her sides. “I have a husband, Yelena.”
“Yes, you do,” Yelena said plainly. “And yet, when you say Orrin’s name, you sound like you’re standing in a place you swore you wouldn’t go back to.”
Solara forced herself to breathe evenly, eyes flicking toward the door.
“I made my choice,” she said quietly.
Yelena’s gaze softened, just a little. “Did he?”
Footsteps pounded outside, uneven, hurried. The clinic door burst open, and Janos Varga—Solara’s husband—strode in, breathless, his eyes bright with something rare.
“Solara, you need to come now,” he said, voice sharp with urgency. “Koval’s team—Orrin—they found something.”
Her spine straightened, her heartbeat accelerated. “What? Did they find…?” No, the tracks were clear, the refugees went west.
Janos ran a hand through his curls, his old radio headset still looped around his neck. “One of Helix 57’s life boat’s wreckage. And a man. Some old lunatic calling himself Merdhyn. And—” he paused, catching his breath, “—we picked up a signal. From space.”
The air in the room tightened. Yelena’s lips parted slightly, the shadow of an emotion passed on her face, too fast to read. Solara’s pulse kicked up.
“Where are they?” she asked.
Janos met her gaze. “Koval’s office.”
For a moment, silence. The wind rattled the windowpanes.
Yelena straightened abruptly, setting her tablet down with a deliberate motion. “There’s nothing more I can do for your shoulder. And I’m coming too,” she said, already reaching for her coat.
Solara grabbed her jacket. “Take us there, Janos.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
“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.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.
“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?”
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.
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?”
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’?”
“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.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – Below Lower Decks – Shadow Sector
Kai Nova moved cautiously through the underbelly of Helix 25, entering a part of the Lower Decks where the usual throb of the ship’s automated systems turned muted. The air had a different smell here— it was less sterile, more… human. It was warm, the heat from outdated processors and unmonitored power nodes radiating through the bulkheads. The Upper Decks would have reported this inefficiency.
Here, it simply went unnoticed, or more likely, ignored.
He was being watched.
He knew it the moment he passed a cluster of workers standing by a storage unit, their voices trailing off as he walked by. Not unusual, except these weren’t Lower Deck engineers. They had the look of people who existed outside of the ship’s official structure—clothes unmarked by department insignias, movements too intentional for standard crew assignments.
He stopped at the rendezvous point: an unlit access panel leading to what was supposed to be an abandoned sublevel. The panel had been manually overridden, its system logs erased. That alone told him enough—whoever he was meeting had the skills to work outside of Helix 25’s omnipresent oversight.
A voice broke the silence.
“You’re late.”
Kai turned, keeping his stance neutral. The speaker was of indistinct gender, shaved head, tall and wiry, with sharp green eyes locked on his movements. They wore layered robes that, at a glance, could have passed as scavenged fabric—until Kai noticed the intricate stitching of symbols hidden in the folds.
They looked like Zoya’s brand —he almost thought… or let’s just say, Zoya’s influence. Zoya Kade’s litanies had a farther reach he would expect.
“Wasn’t aware this was a job interview,” Kai quipped, leaning casually against the bulkhead.
“Everything’s a test,” they replied. “Especially for outsiders.”
Kai smirked. “I didn’t come to join your book club. I came for answers.”
A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, followed by the shifting of figures stepping into the faint light. Three, maybe four of them. It could have been an ambush, but that was a display.
“Pilot,” the woman continued, avoiding names. “Seeker of truth? Or just another lost soul looking for something to believe in?”
Kai rolled his shoulders, sensing the tension in the air. “I believe in not running out of fuel before reaching nowhere.”
That got their attention.
The recruiter studied him before nodding slightly. “Good. You understand the problem.”
Kai crossed his arms. “I understand a lot of problems. I also understand you’re not just a bunch of doomsayers whispering in the dark. You’re organized. And you think this ship is heading toward a dead end.”
“You say that like it isn’t.”
Kai exhaled, glancing at the flickering emergency light above. “Synthia doesn’t make mistakes.”
They smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “No. It makes adjustments.” — the heavy tone on the “it” struck him. Techno-bigots, or something else? Were they denying Synthia’s sentience, or just adjusting for gender misnomers, it was hard to tell, and he had a hard time to gauge the sanity of this group.
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered figures.
Kai tilted his head. “You think she’s leading us into the abyss?”
The person stepped closer. “What do you think happened to the rest of the fleet, Pilot?”
Kai stiffened slightly. The Helix Fleet, the original grand exodus of humanity—once multiple ships, now only Helix 25, drifting further into the unknown.
He had never been given a real answer.
“Think about it,” they pressed. “This ship wasn’t built for endless travel. Its original mission was altered. Its course reprogrammed. You fly the vessel, but you don’t control it.” She gestured to the others. “None of us do. We’re passengers on a ride to oblivion, on a ship driven by a dead man’s vision.”
Kai had heard the whispers—about the tycoon who had bankrolled Helix 25, about how the ship’s true directive had been rewritten when the Earth refugees arrived. But this group… they didn’t just speculate. They were ready to act.
He kept his voice steady. “You planning on mutiny?”
They smiled, stepping back into the half-shadow. “Mutiny is such a crude word. We’re simply ensuring that we survive.”
Before Kai could respond, a warning prickle ran up his spine.
Someone else was watching.
He turned slowly, catching the faintest silhouette lingering just beyond the corridor entrance. He recognized the stance instantly—Cadet Taygeta.
Damn it.
She had followed him.
The group noticed, shifting slightly. Not hostile, but suddenly alert.
“Well, well,” the woman murmured. “Seems you have company. You weren’t as careful as you thought. How are you going to deal with this problem now?”
Kai exhaled, weighing his options. If Taygeta had followed him, she’d already flagged this meeting in her records. If he tried to run, she’d report it. If he didn’t run, she might just dig deeper.
And the worst part?
She wasn’t corruptible. She wasn’t the type to look the other way.
“You should go,” the movement person said. “Before your shadow decides to interfere.”
Kai hesitated for half a second, before stepping back.
“This isn’t over,” he said.
Her smile returned. “No, Pilot. It’s just beginning.”
With that, Kai turned and walked toward the exit—toward Taygeta, who was waiting for him with arms crossed, expression unreadable.
He didn’t speak first.
She did.
“You’re terrible at being subtle.”
Kai sighed, thinking quickly of how much of the conversation could be accessed by the central system. They were still in the shadow zone, but that wasn’t sufficient. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” Her voice was even, but her fingers twitched at her side. “You know this is treason, right?”
Kai ran a hand through his hair. “You really think we’re on course for a fresh new paradise?”
Taygeta didn’t answer right away. That was enough of an answer.
Finally, she exhaled. “You should report this.”
“You should,” Kai corrected.
She frowned.
He pressed on. “You know me, Taygeta. I don’t follow lost causes. I don’t get involved in politics. I fly. I survive. But if they’re right—if there’s even a chance that we’re being sent to our deaths—I need to know.”
Taygeta’s fingers twitched again.
Then, with a sharp breath, she turned.
“I didn’t see anything tonight.”
Kai blinked. “What?”
Her back was already to him, her voice tight. “Whatever you’re doing, Nova, be careful. Because next time?” She turned her head slightly, just enough to let him see the edge of her conflicted expression.
“I will report you.”
Then she was gone.
Kai let out a slow breath, glancing back toward the hidden movement behind him.
No turning back now.
