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  • #7810

    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 It was warm, the heat from outdated processors and unmonitored power nodes radiating through the bulkheads.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.

    #7809

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

    Cornishman Merdhyn Winstrom had grown accustomed to the silence.

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

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

    His wreckage.

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

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

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

    And Merdhyn never saw anything as useless.

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

    “Still deaf,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

    Still, he had power.

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

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

    He would fix it.

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

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

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

    That meant something was still alive.

    He just had to wake it up.

    Tuppence chittered, scurrying onto his shoulder.

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

    Tuppence flicked her tail.

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

    The transponder array.

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

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

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

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

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

    #7807

    HELIX 25: THE JARDENERY

    Finkley pressed herself against the smooth metal doorway of the Jardenery, her small wiry frame unnoticeable in the dim light filtering through the tangle of vines. The sterile scent of Helix 25’s corridors had faded behind her, replaced by the aroma of damp earth. A place of dirt and disorder. She shuddered.

    A familiar voice burst through her thoughts.

    What’s going on?

    Finja’s tone was strident and clear. The ancient telepathic link that connected the cleaner family through many generations was strong, even in space. All the FinFamily (FF) had the gift to some extent, occasionally even with strangers. It just wasn’t nearly as accurate.

    Shush. They’re talking about blood. And Herbert.

    She felt Finja’s presence surge in response, her horrified thoughts crackling through their link. Blood!

    Riven’s skeptical voice: “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”

    Finkley sniggered. Was that even possible?

    It’s not particularly funny, responded Finja. It means someone on the ship is carrying distorted DNA. Her presence pulsed with irritation; it all sounded so complicated and grubby. And god knows what else. Bacteria? Ancestral grime? Generational filth? Honestly Finkley, as if I haven’t got enough to worry about with this group of wandering savages …

    Finkley inhaled sharply as Romualdo stepped into view. She held her breath, pressing even closer to the doorway. He was so cute. Unclean, of course, but so adorable.

    She pondered whether she could overlook the hygiene. Maybe … if he bathed first?

    Get a grip. Finja’s snarl crashed through her musings, complete with eye-roll.

    Finkley reddened. She had momentarily forgotten that Finja was there.

    So Herbert was looking for something. But what?

    I bet they didn’t disinfect properly. Finja’s response was immediate. See what you can find out later. 

    Inside, Romualdo picked up a book from his workbench and waved it. Finkley barely needed to read the title before Finja’s shocked cry of recognition filled her mind.

    Liz Tattler!

    A feeling of nostalgia swept over Finkley.

    Yes Liz Tattler. Finley’s Liz. 

    Finley—another member of the family. She cleaned for Liz Tattler, the mad but famous author. It was well known—at least within the family— that Liz’s fame was largely due to Finley’s talents as a writer. Which meant, whatever this was, it had somehow tangled itself up in the FF network.

    Liz’s Finley hasn’t responded for years —I assumed… Finja’s voice trailed off.

    There’s still hope! You never know with that one. She was always stand-offish and mysterious. And that Liz really abused her good nature. 

    Finkley swallowed hard. They were close to something big—something hidden beneath layers of time and mystery. And whatever it was, it had just become personal.

    Finja, there’s no time to lose! We need to find out more. 

    #7799

    Helix 25 – Lower Decks – Secretive Adjustments

    Sue Brittany Kaleleonālani Forgelot moved with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to being noticed—but tonight, she walked as someone trying not to be. The Upper Deck was hers, where conversations flowed with elegant pretense and where everyone knew her by firstname —Sue, she would insist. There would be none of that bowing nonsense to her noble lineages —bless her distinguished ancestors.

    Here, in the Lower Decks, she was a curiosity at best, an intrusion at worst.

    Unlike the well-maintained Upper Decks, here the air was warmer, and one could sense mingled with the recycled air, a distinct scent of metal, oil, and even labouring bodies. Maintenance bots were limited, and keeping people busy with work helped with the social order. Lights flickered erratically in narrow corridors, nothing like the pristine glow of the Upper Deck’s crystal chandeliers. The Lower Decks were functional, built for work and survival, not for leisure. And deeper still—past the bustling workstations, past the overlooked mechanics keeping Helix 25 from falling apart—the Hold.

    The Hold was where she found Luca Stroud.

    A heavy, reinforced door hissed as it unlocked, and Sue stepped inside his dimly lit workshop. Stacks of salvaged tech lined the walls, interspersed with crates of unauthorized modifications in this workspace born of a mixture of necessity, ingenuity, and quiet rebellion.

    Luca barely looked up as he wiped oil from his hands. “You’re late, dear.”

    Sue huffed, settling into the chair he had long since designated for her. “A lady does not rush. Besides, I had affairs to attend to.” She crossed one leg over the other, her silk shawl catching on the metallic seam of a cybernetic limb beneath it. “And I had to dodge half the ship to get here unnoticed.”

    Luca grunted, kneeling beside her. “You wouldn’t have to sneak if you’d just let one of the Upper Deck doctors service this thing.” He tapped lightly on the synthetic skin to reveal the metallic prosthetic, watching as the synthetic nerves twitched in response.

    Sue’s expression turned sharp. “You know why I can’t.”

    Luca said nothing, but his smirk spoke volumes.

    There were things she couldn’t let the Upper Deck medics see. Upgrades, modifications, small enhancements that gave her just enough edge. In the circles she moved in, knowledge was power. And she was far too valuable to be at the mercy of those who wanted her dependent.

    Luca examined the joint, nodding to himself. “You’ve been walking too much on it.”

    “Well, forgive me for using my own legs.”

    He tightened a wire. Sue winced, but he ignored it. “You need recalibration. And I need better parts.”

    Sue gave a slow, knowing smile. “And what minor favors will you require this time?”

    Luca leaned back, thoughtful. “Information. Since you’re generous with it.”

    She sighed, shifting in her seat. “Fine. You’re lucky I find you amusing.”

    He adjusted a component with expert hands. “Tell me about the murder.”

    Sue arched a brow. “Everyone wants to talk about that. You’d think no one had ever died before.”

    “They haven’t,” Luca countered, voice flat. “Not for a long time. And not like this.”

    She studied him, his interest piquing her own. “So you think it was a real murder.”

    Luca let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, it was a murder alright. And you know it.”

    Sue exhaled, considering what to share. “Well, rumor has it, the DNA found in the crime scene doesn’t belong here. It’s from the past. Far past.”

    Luca glanced up, intrigued. “How far?”

    Sue leaned in, voice hushed. “Crusader far.”

    He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “That’s… new.”

    She tilted her head. “What does that mean to you?”

    Luca hesitated, then shrugged. “Means whoever’s playing god with DNA sequencing isn’t as smart as they think they are.”

    Sue smiled at that, more amused than disturbed. “And I suppose you have theories?”

    Luca gave her cybernetic limb one final adjustment, then stood. “I have suspicions.”

    Sue sighed dramatically. “How thrilling.” She flexed her leg, satisfied with the result. “Keep me informed, and I’ll see what I can find for you.”

    Luca smirked. “You always do.”

    As she rose to leave, she paused at the door. “Oh, one last thing, dear.”

    Luca glanced at her. “What?”

    Sue’s smirk deepened. “Should I put in a good word to the Captain for you?”

    The question hung between them.

    Luca narrowed his eyes. “Nobody’s ever met the Captain.”

    She nodded, satisfied, and left him to his thoughts.

    #7794
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Some pictures selections

      Evie and TP Investigating the Drying Machine Crime Scene

      A cinematic sci-fi mini-scene aboard the vast and luxurious Helix 25. In the industrial depths of the ship, a futuristic drying machine hums ominously, crime scene tape lazily flickering in artificial gravity. Evie, a sharp-eyed investigator in a sleek yet practical uniform, stands with arms crossed, listening intently. Beside her, a translucent, retro-stylized holographic detective—Trevor Pee Marshall (TP)—adjusts his tiny mustache with a flourish, pointing dramatically at the drying machine with his cane. The air is thick with mystery, the ship’s high-tech environment reflecting off Evie’s determined face while TP’s flickering presence adds an almost comedic contrast. A perfect blend of noir and high-tech detective intrigue.

       

      Riven Holt and Zoya Kade Confronting Each Other in a Dimly Lit Corridor

      A dramatic, cinematic sci-fi scene aboard the vast and luxurious Helix 25. Riven Holt, a disciplined young officer with sharp features, stands in a high-tech corridor, his arms crossed, jaw tense—exuding authority and restraint. Opposite him, Zoya Kade, a sharp-eyed, wiry 83-year-old scientist-prophet, leans slightly forward, her mismatched layered robes adorned with tiny artifacts—beads, old circuits, and a fragment of a key. Her silver-white braid gleams under the soft emergency lighting, her piercing gaze challenging him. The corridor hums with unseen energy, a subtle red glow from a “restricted access” sign casting elongated shadows. Their confrontation is palpable—a struggle between order and untamed knowledge, hierarchy and rebellion. In the background, the walls of Helix 25 curve sleekly, high-tech yet strangely claustrophobic, reinforcing the ship’s ever-present watchfulness.

       

      Romualdo, the Gardener, Among the Bioluminescent Plants

      A richly detailed sci-fi portrait of Romualdo, the ship’s gardener, standing amidst the vibrant greenery of the Jardenery. He is a rugged yet gentle figure, dressed in a simple work jumpsuit with soil-streaked hands, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. His eyes scan an old, well-worn book—one of Liz Tattler’s novels—that Dr. Amara Voss gave him for his collection. The glowing plants cast an ethereal blue-green light over him, creating an atmosphere both peaceful and mysterious. In the background, the towering vines and suspended hydroponic trays hint at the ship’s careful balance between survival and serenity.

       

      Finja and Finkley – A Telepathic Parallel Across Space

      A surreal, cinematic sci-fi composition split into two mirrored halves, reflecting a mysterious connection across vast distances. On one side, Finja, a wiry, intense woman with an almost obsessive neatness, walks through the overgrown ruins of post-apocalyptic Earth, her expression distant as she “listens” to unseen voices. Dust lingers in the air, catching the golden morning light, and she mutters to herself about cleanliness. In her reflection, on the other side of the image, is Finkley, a no-nonsense crew member aboard the gleaming, futuristic halls of Helix 25. She stands with hands on her hips, barking orders at small cleaning bots as they maintain the ship’s pristine corridors. The lighting is cold and artificial, sterile in contrast to the dust-filled Earth. Yet, both women share a strange symmetry—gesturing in unison as if unknowingly mirroring one another across time and space. A faint, ghostly thread of light suggests their telepathic bond, making the impossible feel eerily real.

      #7789

      Helix 25 – Poop Deck – The Jardenery

      Evie stepped through the entrance of the Jardenery, and immediately, the sterile hum of Helix 25’s corridors faded into a world of green. Of all the spotless clean places on the ship, it was the only where Finkley’s bots tolerated the scent of damp earth. A soft rustle of hydroponic leaves shifting under artificial sunlight made the place an ecosystem within an ecosystem, designed to nourrish both body and mind.

      Yet, for all its cultivated serenity, today it was a crime scene. The Drying Machine was connected to the Jardenery and the Granary, designed to efficiently extract precious moisture for recycling, while preserving the produce.

      Riven Holt, walking beside her, didn’t share her reverence. “I don’t see why this place is relevant,” he muttered, glancing around at the towering bioluminescent vines spiraling up trellises. “The body was found in the drying machine, not in a vegetable patch.”

      Evie ignored him, striding toward the far corner where Amara Voss was hunched over a sleek terminal, frowning at a glowing screen. The renowned geneticist barely noticed their approach, her fingers flicking through analysis results faster than human eyes could process.

      A flicker of light.

      “Ah-ha!” TP materialized beside Evie, adjusting his holographic lapels. “Madame Voss, I must say, your domain is quite the delightful contrast to our usual haunts of murder and mystery.” He twitched his mustache. “Alas, I suspect you are not admiring the flora?”

      Amara exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples, not at all surprised by the holographic intrusion. She was Evie’s godmother, and had grown used to her experiments.

      “No, indeed. I’m admiring this.” She turned the screen toward them.

      The DNA profile glowed in crisp lines of data, revealing a sequence highlighted in red.

      Evie frowned. “What are we looking at?”

      Amara pinched the bridge of her nose. “A genetic anomaly.”

      Riven crossed his arms. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

      Amara gave him a sharp look but turned back to the display. “The sample we found at the crime scene—blood residue on the drying machine and some traces on the granary floor—matches an ancient DNA profile from my research database. A perfect match.”

      Evie felt a prickle of unease. “Ancient? What do you mean? From the 2000s?”

      Amara chuckled, then nodded grimly. “No, ancient as in Medieval ancient. Specifically, Crusader DNA, from the Levant. A profile we mapped from preserved remains centuries ago.”

      Silence stretched between them.

      Finally, Riven scoffed. “That’s impossible.”

      TP hummed thoughtfully, twirling his cane. “Impossible, yet indisputable. A most delightful contradiction.”

      Evie’s mind raced. “Could the database be corrupted?”

      Amara shook her head. “I checked. The sequencing is clean. This isn’t an error. This DNA was present at the crime scene.” She hesitated, then added, “The thing is…” she paused before considering to continue. They were all hanging on her every word, waiting for what she would say next.

      Amara continued  “I once theorized that it might be possible to reawaken dormant ancestral DNA embedded in human cells. If the right triggers were applied, someone could manifest genetic markers—traits, even memories—from long-dead ancestors. Awakening old skills, getting access to long lost secrets of states…”

      Riven looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”

      Amara exhaled. “I’m saying I don’t know. But either someone aboard has a genetic profile that shouldn’t exist, or someone created it.”

      TP’s mustache twitched. “Ah! A puzzle worthy of my finest deductive faculties. To find the source, we must trace back the lineage! And perhaps a… witness.”

      Evie turned toward Amara. “Did Herbert ever come here?”

      Before Amara could answer, a voice cut through the foliage.

      “Herbert?”

      They turned to find Romualdo, the Jardenery’s caretaker, standing near a towering fruit-bearing vine, his arms folded, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. He was a broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered skin, dressed in a simple coverall, his presence almost too casual for someone surrounded by murder investigators.

      Romualdo scratched his chin. “Yeah, he used to come around. Not for the plants, though. He wasn’t the gardening type.”

      Evie stepped closer. “What did he want?”

      Romualdo shrugged. “Questions, mostly. Liked to chat about history. Said he was looking for something old. Always wanted to know about heritage, bloodlines, forgotten things.” He shook his head. “Didn’t make much sense to me. But then again, I like practical things. Things that grow.”

      Amara blushed, quickly catching herself. “Did he ever mention anything… specific? Like a name?”

      Romualdo thought for a moment, then grinned. “Oh yeah. He asked about the Crusades.”

      Evie stiffened. TP let out an appreciative hum.

      “Fascinating,” TP mused. “Our dearly departed Herbert was not merely a victim, but perhaps a seeker of truths unknown. And, as any good mystery dictates, seekers who get too close often find themselves…” He tipped his hat. “Extinguished.”

      Riven scowled. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

      Romualdo snorted. “Sounds about right, though.” He picked up a tattered book from his workbench and waved it. “I lend out my books. Got myself the only complete collection of works of Liz Tattler in the whole ship. Doc Amara’s helping me with the reading. Before I could read, I only liked the covers, they were so romantic and intriguing, but now I can read most of them on my own.” Noticing he was making the Doctor uncomfortable, he switched back to the topic. “So yes, Herbert knew I was collector of books and he borrowed this one a few weeks ago. Kept coming back with more questions after reading it.”

      Evie took the book and glanced at the cover. The Blood of the Past: Genetic Echoes Through History by Dr. Amara Voss.

      She turned to Amara. “You wrote this?”

      Amara stared at the book, her expression darkening. “A long time ago. Before I realized some theories should stay theories.”

      Evie closed the book. “Looks like someone didn’t agree.”

      Romualdo wiped his hands on his coveralls. “Well, I hope you figure it out soon. Hate to think the plants are breathing in murder residue.”

      TP sighed dramatically. “Ah, the tragedy of contaminated air! Shall I alert the sanitation team?”

      Riven rolled his eyes. “Let’s go.”

      As they walked away, Evie’s grip tightened around the book. The deeper they dug, the stranger this murder became.

      #7780
      Jib
      Participant

        Orrin Holt gripped the wheel of the battered truck, his knuckles white as the vehicle rumbled over the dry, cracked road. The leather wrap was a patchwork of smooth and worn, stichted together from whatever scraps they had—much like the quilts his mother used to make before her hands gave out. The main road was a useless, unpredictable mess of asphalt gravels and sinkholes. Years of war with Russia, then the collapse, left it to rot before anyone could fix it. Orrin stuck to the dirt path beside it. That was the only safe way through. The engine coughed but held. A miracle, considering how many times it had been patched together.

        The cargo in the back was too important for a breakdown now. Medical supplies—antibiotics, painkillers, and a few salvaged vials of something even rarer. They’d traded well for it, risking much. Now he had to get it back to Base Klyutch (Ukrainian word for Key) without incident. If he continued like that he could make it before noon.

        Still, something bothered him. That group of people he’d seen.

        They had been barely more than silhouettes on top of a hill. Strangers, a rarity in these times. His first instinct had been to stop and evaluate who they were. But his instructions let room for no delay. So, he’d pushed forward and ignored them. The world wasn’t kind to the wandering. But they hadn’t looked like raiders or scavengers. Lost, perhaps. Or searching.

        The truck lurched forward as he pushed it harder. The fences of the base rose in the distance, grey and wiry against the blue sky. Base Klyutch was a former military complex, fortified over the years with scavenged materials, steel sheets, and watchtowers. It wasn’t perfect, but it kept them alive.

        As he rolled up to the main gate, the sentries swung the barricade open. Before he could fully cut the engine, a woman wearing a pristine white lab coat stepped forward, her sharp eyes scanning the truck’s cargo bed. Dr. Yelena Markova, the camp’s chief doctor, a former nurse who had to step up when the older one died in a raid on their camp three years ago. Stern-faced and wiry, with a perpetual air of exhaustion, she moved with the efficiency of someone who had long stopped hoping for ease. She had been waiting for this delivery.

        “Finally,” she murmured, motioning for her assistants to start unloading. “We were running low. This will keep us going for a while.”

        Orrin barely had time to nod before Dmytro Koval, the de facto leader of the base, strode toward him with the gait of a tall bear. His face seemed to have been carved out by a dulled blade, hardened by years of survival. A scar barred his mouth, pulling slightly at the corner when he spoke, giving the impression of a permanent sneer.

        “Did you get it?” Koval asked, voice low.

        Orrin reached into his kaki jacket and pulled out a sealed letter, along with a small package.

        Koval took both, his expression unreadable. “Anything on the road?”

        Orrin exhaled and adjusted his stance. “Saw something on the way back. A group, about a dozen, on a hill ten kilometers out. They seemed lost.”

        “Armed?” asked Koval with a frown.

        “Can’t say for sure.”

        Dr. Markova straightened. “Lost? Unarmed? Out in the open like that, they won’t last long with Sokolov’s gang roaming the land. We have to go take them in.”

        Koval grimaced. “Or they’re Sokolov’s spies. Trying to infiltrate us and find a weakness in our defenses. You know how it works.”

        Before Koval could argue, a new voice cut in. “Or they could just be people.”

        Solara Ortega had stepped into the conversation, brushing dirt from her overalls. A woman of lean strength, with the tan of someone spending long hours outside. Her sharp amber eyes carried the weight of someone who had survived too much but refused to be hardened by it. Orrin shoved down a mix of joy and ache at her sight. Her voice was calm but firm. “We can’t always assume the worst. We need more hands and we don’t leave people to die if we can help it. And in case you forgot, Koval, you don’t make all the decisions around here. I say we send a team to assess them.”

        Koval narrowed his eyes, but he held his tongue. There was tension between them, but the council wasn’t a dictatorship.

        “Fine,” Koval said after a moment, his jaw tense. “A team of two. They scout first. No direct contact until we’re sure. Orrin, you one of them take whoever wants to accompany you, but not one of my men. We need to maintain tight security.”

        Dr. Markova sighed with relief when the man left. “If he wasn’t good at what he does, I would gladly kick him out of our camp.”

        Solara, her face framed by strands of dark hair, shot a glance at Orrin. “I’m coming with you.”

        This time, Orrin couldn’t repress a longing for a time before everything fell apart, when she had been his wife. The collapse had torn them apart in an instant, and by the time he found her again, years later, she had built a new life within the base in Ukraine. She had a husband now, one of the scientists managing the radio equipment, and two children. Orrin kept his expression neutral, but the weight of time pressed heavy on him.

        “Then let’s get on the move. They might not stay there long.”

        #7779

        Gregor gratefully clambered onto Tundra’s horse, with the assistance of Mikhail and Jian.  Molly had long since trained her horse, Berlingo (named after the last car she’d had),  to lie down to enable her to mount easily.  Riding wasn’t easy at a such an advanced age but it was preferable to walking long distances.

        Tundra didn’t mind in the least giving up hers to the old man, as she wanted to walk with Vera and Yulia.  “Helix will keep stopping to graze,” Tundra warned Gregor, to which he replied, “Don’t you worry about me, I used to ride and I haven’t forgotten how.  Thank you kindly, young miss.”

        Mikhail and Anya led the way, and Molly and Gregor brought up the rear, riding side by side.

        #7778

        The truck disappeared from view as it descended into a valley.   They waited for it to reappear over the hill, but they waited in vain.  The truck had disappeared.

        “It must have been a mirage,” said Vera. “There was no truck, it was wishful thinking.”

        “I don’t think any of us were hoping to see a truck this morning, Vera,” Anya replied, “Nobody expected to see a truck, and yet we all saw one.”

        “You don’t know much about mirages then, do you. I saw a fata morgana once and so did everyone else on the beach, we weren’t all expecting to see a floating city that day either.”

        “Nobody needs to hear about that now,” Mikhail interrupted, “We need to walk over to where we saw it and look for the tyre tracks.”

        Tundra moved over to stand next to Vera and impulsively grabbed her arm. “Can you tell me about the fata morgana later? I want to see one too.”

        Vera smiled gratefully at the child and patted her shoulder.  “I’ll tell you all about it, and lots of other stories if you like.  And you can tell me all your stories, and all about your family. Is that your real granny?”

        “Great gran actually and she’s as real as any of you are,” Tundra replied, not understanding the question.

        Mikhail is right,” said Jian. Everyone turned to look at young Chinese man who rarely voiced an opinion. “We need to find out what other equipment they have. Where they came from, and where they’re going.”

        Anya clapped her hands together loudly.  “Right then, we’re all agreed.  Gather everything up and let’s go.  Mikhail, lead the way!”

        Petro made a harrumphing noise and mumbled something about nobody asking him what he thought about traipsing all over the coutryside, but he slung his bag over his shoulder and followed. What else was he to do?

        #7777

        The Survivors:

        “Well, I’ll be damned,” Gregor said, his face cracking into another toothless grin. “Beginning to think we might be the last ones.”

        “So did we.” Molly glanced nervously around at the odd assortment of people staring at her and Tundra. “I’m Molly. This is Tundra.”

        “Tundra? Like the frozen wasteland?” Yulia asked.

        Tundra nodded. “It’s because I’m strong and tough.”

        “Would you like to join us?” Tala motioned toward the fire.

        “Yes, yes, of course, ” Anya said. “Are you hungry?”

        Molly hesitated, glancing toward the edge of the clearing, where their horses stood tethered to a low branch. “We have food,” she said. “We foraged.”

        “I’d have foraged if someone didn’t keep going on about food poisoning,” Yulia muttered.

        Finja sniffed. “Forgive me for trying to keep you alive.”

        Molly watched the exchange with interest. It had been years since she’d seen people bicker over something so trivial. It was oddly comforting.

        She lowered herself slowly onto the log next to Vera. “Alright, tell me—who exactly are you lot?”

        Petro chuckled. “We’ve escaped from the asylum.”

        Molly’s face remained impassive. “Asylum?”

        “It’s okay,” Tala said quickly. “We’re mostly sane.”

        “Not completely crazy, anyway,” Yulia added cheerfully.

        “We were left behind years ago,” Anya said simply. “So we built our own kind of life.”

        A pause. Molly gave a slow nod, considering this. Vera leaned towards her eagerly.

        “Where are you from? Any noble blood?”

        Molly frowned. “Does it matter?”

        “Oh, not really,” Vera said dejectedly. “I just like knowing.”

        Tundra, warming her hands by the fire, looked at Vera. “We came from Spain.”

        Vera perked up. “Spain? Fascinating! And tell me, dear girl, have you ever traced your lineage?”

        “Just back to Molly. She’s ninety-three,” Tundra said proudly.

        Mikhail, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. “You travelled all the way from Spain?”

        Molly nodded. “A long time ago. There were more of us then… ” Her voice wavered. “We were looking for other survivors.”

        “And?”Mikhail asked.

        Molly sighed, glancing at Tundra. “We never found any.”

        ________________________________________

        That night, they took turns keeping watch, though Molly tried to reassure them there was no need.

        “At first, we did too,” she had said, shaking her head. “But there was no one…”

        By dawn, the fire had burned to embers, and the camp stirred reluctantly to life.

        They finished off the last of their cooked vegetables from the night before, while Molly and Tundra laid out a handful of foraged berries and mushrooms. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start the day.

        “Right,” Anya said, stretching. “I suppose we should get moving.” She looked at Molly and Tundra. “You’re coming with us, then? To the city?”

        Molly nodded. “If you’ll have us.”

        “We kept going and going, hoping to find people. Now we have,” Tundra said.

        “Then it’s settled,” Anya said. “We head to the city.”

        “And what exactly are we looking for?” Molly asked.

        Mikhail shrugged. “Anything that keeps us alive.”

        ________________________________________________

        It was late morning when they saw it.

        A vehicle—an old, battered truck, crawling slowly toward them.

        The sight was so absurd, so impossible, that for a moment, no one spoke.

        “That can’t be,” Molly murmured.

        The truck bounced over the uneven ground, its engine a dull, sluggish rattle. It wasn’t in good shape, but it was moving.

        #7776

        Epilogue & Prologue

        Paris, November 2029 – The Fifth Note Resounds

        Tabitha sat by the window at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, letting the murmur of conversations and the occasional purring of the espresso machine settle around her. It was one of the few cafés left in the city where time still moved at a human pace. She stirred her cup absentmindedly. Paris was still Paris, but the world outside had changed in ways her mother’s generation still struggled to grasp.

        It wasn’t just the ever-presence of automation and AI making themselves known in subtle ways—screens adjusting to glances, the quiet surveillance woven into everyday life. It wasn’t just the climate shifts, the aircon turned to cold in the midst of November, the summers unpredictable, the air thick with contradictions of progress and collapse of civilization across the Atlantic.

        The certainty of impermanence was what defined her generation. BANI world they used to say—Brittle, Anxious, Nonlinear, Incomprehensible. A cold fact: impossible to grasp and impossible to fight. Unlike her mother and her friends, who had spent their lives tethered to a world that no longer existed, she had never known certainty. She was born in the flux.

        And yet, this café remained. One of the last to resist full automation, where a human still brought you coffee, where the brass bell above the door still rang, where things still unfolded at a human pace.

        The bell above the door rang—the fifth note, as her mother had called it once.

        She had never been here before, not in any way that mattered. Yet, she had heard the story. The unlikely reunion five years ago. The night that moved new projects in motion for her mother and her friends.

        Tabitha’s fingers traced the worn edges of the notebook in front of her—Lucien’s, then Amei’s, then Darius’s. Pieces of a life written by many hands.

        “Some things don’t work the first time. But sometimes, in the ruins of what failed, something else sprouts and takes root.”

        And that was what had happened.

        The shared housing project they had once dreamed of hadn’t survived—not in its original form. But through their rekindled bond, they had started something else.

         

        True Stories of How It Was.

         

        It had begun as a quiet defiance—a way to preserve real, human stories in an age of synthetic, permanent ephemerality and ephemeral impermanence, constantly changing memory. They were living in a world where AI’s fabricated histories had overwhelmed all the channels of information, where the past was constantly rewritten, altered, repackaged. Authenticity had become a rare currency.

        As she graduated in anthropology few years back, she’d wondered about the validity of history —it was, after all, a construct. The same could be said for literature, art, even science. All of them constructs of the human mind, tenuous grasp of the infinite truth, but once, they used to evolve at such a slow pace that they felt solid, reliable. Ultimately their group was not looking for ultimate truth, that would be arrogant and probably ignorant. Authenticity was what they were looking for. And with it, connections, love, genuineness —unquantifiables by means of science and yet, true and precious beyond measure.

        Lucien had first suggested it, tracing the idea from his own frustrations—the way art had become a loop of generated iterations, the human touch increasingly erased. He was in a better place since Matteo had helped him settle his score with Renard and, free of influence, he had found confidence in developing of his own art.

        Amei —her mother—, had changed in a way Tabitha couldn’t quite define. Her restlessness had quieted, not through settling down but through accepting impermanence as something other than loss. She had started writing again—not as a career, not to publish, but to preserve stories that had no place in a digitized world. Her quiet strength had always been in preserving connections, and she knew they had to move quickly before real history faded beneath layers of fabricated recollections.

        Darius, once skeptical, saw its weight—he had spent years avoiding roots, only to realize that stories were the only thing that made places matter. He was somewhere in Morocco now, leading a sustainable design project, bridging cultures rather than simply passing through them.

        Elara had left science. Or at least, science as she had known it. The calculations, the certainty, the constraints of academia, with no escape from the automated “enhanced” digital helpers. Her obsession and curiosities had found attract in something more human, more chaotic. She had thrown herself into reviving old knowledge, forgotten architectures, regenerative landscapes.

        And Matteo—Matteo had grounded it.

        The notebook read: Matteo wasn’t a ghost from our past. He was the missing note, the one we didn’t know we needed. And because of him, we stopped looking backward. We started building something else.

        For so long, Matteo had been a ghost of sorts, by his own account, lingering at the edges of their story, the missing note in their unfinished chord. But now, he was fully part of it. His mother had passed, her past history unraveling in ways he had never expected, branching new connections even now. And though he had lost something in that, he had also found something else. Juliette. Or maybe not. The story wasn’t finished.

        Tabitha turned the page.

        “We were not historians, not preservationists, not even archivists. But we have lived. And as it turned out, that was enough.”

        They had begun collecting stories through their networks—not legends, not myths, but true accounts of how it was, from people who still remembered.

        A grandfather’s voice recording of a train ride to a city that no longer exists.
        Handwritten recipes annotated by generations of hands, each adding something new.
        A letter from a protest in 2027, detailing a movement that the history books had since erased.
        An old woman’s story of her first love, spoken in a dialect that AI could not translate properly.

        It had grown in ways they hadn’t expected. People began sending them recordings, letters, transcripts, photos —handwritten scraps of fading ink. Some were anonymous, others carefully curated with full names and details, like makeshift ramparts against the tide of time.

        At first, few had noticed. It was never the goal to make it worlwide movement. But little by little, strange things happened, and more began to listen.

        There was something undeniably powerful about genuine human memory when it was raw and unfiltered, when it carried unpolished, raw weight of experience, untouched by apologetic watered down adornments and out-of-place generative hallucinations.

        Now, there were exhibitions, readings, archives—entire underground movements dedicated to preserving pre-synthetic history. Their project had become something rare, valuable, almost sacred.

        And yet, here in the café, none of that felt urgent.

        Tabitha looked up as the server approached. Not Matteo, but someone new.

        “Another espresso?”

        She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. And a glass of water, please.”

        She glanced at the counter, where Matteo was leaning, speaking to someone, laughing. He had changed, too. No longer just an observer, no longer just the quiet figure who knew too much. Now, he belonged here.

        A bell rang softly as the door swung open again.

        Tabitha smiled to herself. The fifth note always sounded, in the end.

        She turned back to the notebook, the city moving around her, the story still unfolding in more directions than one.

        #7765
        Jib
        Participant

          Zoya clicked her tongue, folding her arms as Evie and her flickering detective vanished into the dead man’s private world. She listened to the sounds of investigation. The sound of others touching what should have been hers first. She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured.

          The body was elsewhere, dried and ruined. That didn’t matter. What mattered was here—hairs, nail clippings, that contained traces, strands, fragments of DNA waiting to be read like old parchments.

          She stepped forward, the soft layers of her robes shifting.

          “You can’t keep me out forever, young man.”

          Riven didn’t move. Arms crossed, jaw locked, standing there like a sentry at some sacred threshold. Victor Holt’s grandson, through and through, she thought.

          “I can keep you out long enough.”

          Zoya clicked her tongue. Not quite amusement, not quite irritation.

          “I should have suspected such obstinacy. You take after him, after all.”

          Riven’s shoulders tensed.

          Good. Let him feel it.

          His voice was tight. “If you’re referring to my grandfather, you should choose your words carefully.”

          Zoya smiled, slow and knowing. “I always choose my words carefully.”

          Riven’s glare could have cut through metal.

          Zoya tilted her head, studying him as she would an artifact pulled from the wreckage of an old world. So much of Victor Holt was in him—the posture, the unyielding spine, the desperate need to be right.

          But Victor Holt had been wrong.

          And that was why he was sleeping in a frozen cell of his own making.

          She took another step forward, lowering her voice just enough that the curious would not hear what she said.

          “He never understood the ship’s true mission. He clung to his authority, his rigid hierarchies, his outdated beliefs. He would have let us rot in luxury while the real work of survival slipped away. And when he refused to see reason—” she exhaled, her gaze never leaving his, “he stepped aside.”

          Riven’s jaw locked. “He was forced aside.”

          Zoya only smiled. “A matter of perspective.”

          She let that hang. Let him sit with it.

          She could see the war in his eyes—the desperate urge to refute her, to throw his grandfather’s legacy in her face, to remind her that Victor Holt was still here, still waiting in cryo, still a looming shadow over the ship. But Victor Holt’s silence was the greatest proof of his failure.

          Riven clenched his jaw.

          Anuí’s voice, smooth and patient, cut through the tension.

          “She is not wrong.”

          Zoya frowned. She had expected them to speak eventually. They always did.

          They stood just a little apart, hand tucked in their robes, their expression unreadable.

          “In its current state, the body is useless,” Anuí said lightly, as if stating something obvious, “but that does not mean it has left no trace.” Then they murmured “Nāvdaṭi hrás’ka… aṣṭīr pālachá.”

          Zoya glanced at them, her eyes narrowing. In an old tongue forgotten by all, it meant The bones remember… the blood does not lie. She did not trust the Lexicans’ sudden interest in genetics.

          They did not see history in bloodlines, did not place value in the remnants of DNA. They preferred their records rewritten, reclaimed, restructured to suit a new truth, not an old one.

          Yet here they were, aligning themselves with her. And that was what gave her pause.

          “Your people have never cared for the past as it was,” she murmured. “Only for what it could become.”

          Anuí’s lips curved, withholding more than they gave. “Truth takes many forms.”

          Zoya scoffed. They were here for their own reasons. That much was certain. She could use that

          Riven’s fingers tightened at his sides. “I have my orders.”

          Zoya lifted a brow. “And whose orders are those?”

          The hesitation was slight. “It’s not up to me.”

          Zoya stilled. The words were quiet, bitter, revealing.

          Not up to him.

          So, someone had ensured she wouldn’t step foot in that room. Not just delayed—denied.

          She exhaled, long and slow. “I see.” She paused. “I will find out who gave that order.”

          And when she did, they would regret it.

          #7763
          Jib
          Participant

            The corridor outside Mr. Herbert’s suite was pristine, polished white and gold, designed to impress, like most of the ship. Soft recessed lighting reflected off gilded fixtures and delicate, unnecessary embellishments.

            It was all Riven had ever known.

            His grandfather, Victor Holt, now in cryo sleep, had been among the paying elite, those who had boarded Helix 25, expecting a decadent, interstellar retreat. Riven, however had not been one of them. He had been two years old when Earth fell, sent with his aunt Seren Vega on the last shuttle to ever reach the ship, crammed in with refugees who had fought for a place among the stars. His father had stayed behind, to look for his mother.

            Whatever had happened after that—the chaos, the desperation, the cataclysm that had forced this ship to become one of humanity’s last refuges—Riven had no memory of it. He only knew what he had been told. And, like everything else on Helix 25, history depended on who was telling it.

            For the first time in his life, someone had been murdered inside this floating palace of glass and gold. And Riven, inspired by his grandfather’s legacy and the immense collection of murder stories and mysteries in the ship’s database, expected to keep things under control.

            He stood straight in front of the suite’s sealed sliding door, arms crossed on a sleek uniform that belonged to Victor Holt. He was blocking entry with the full height of his young authority. As if standing there could stop the chaos from seeping in.

            A holographic Do Not Enter warning scrolled diagonally across the door in Effin Muck’s signature font—because even crimes on this ship came branded.

            People hovered in the corridor, coming and going. Most were just curious, drawn by the sheer absurdity of a murder happening here.

            Riven scanned their faces, his muscles coiled with tension. Everyone was a potential suspect. Even the ones who usually didn’t care about ship politics.

            Because on Helix 25, death wasn’t supposed to happen. Not anymore.

            Someone broke away from the crowd and tried to push past him.

            “You’re wasting time. Young man.”

            Zoya Kade. Half scientist, half mad Prophet, all irritation. Her gold-green eyes bore into him, sharp beneath the deep lines of her face. Her mismatched layered robes shifting as she moved. Riven had no difficulty keeping the tall and wiry 83 years old woman at a distance.

            Her silver-white braid was woven with tiny artifacts—bits of old circuits, beads, a fragment of a key that probably didn’t open anything anymore. A collector of lost things. But not just trinkets—stories, knowledge, genetic whispers of the past. And now, she wanted access to this room like it was another artifact to be uncovered.

            “No one is going in.” Riven said slowly, “until we finish securing the area.”

            Zoya exhaled sharply, turning her head toward Evie, who had just emerged from the crowd, tablet in hand, TP flickering at her side.

            Evie, tell him.”

            Evie did not look pleased to be associated with the old woman. “Riven, we need access to his room. I just need…”

            Riven hesitated.

            Not for long, barely a second, but long enough for someone to notice. And of course, it was Anuí Naskó.

            They had been waiting, standing slightly apart from the others, their tall, androgynous frame wrapped in the deep-colored robes of the Lexicans, fingers lightly tapping the surface of their handheld lexicon. Observing. Listening. Their presence was a constant challenge. When Zoya collected knowledge like artifacts, Anuí broke it apart, reshaped it. To them, history was a wound still open, and it was the Lexicans duty to rewrite the truth that had been stolen.

            “Ah,” Anuí murmured, smiling slightly, “I see.”

            Riven started to tap his belt buckle. His spine stiffened. He didn’t like that tone.

            “See what, exactly?”

            Anuí turned their sharp, angular gaze on him. “That this is about control.”

            Riven locked his jaw. “This is about security.”

            “Is it?” Anuí tapped a finger against their chin. “Because as far as I can tell, you’re just as inexperienced in murder investigation as the rest of us.”

            The words cut sharp in Riven’s pride. Rendering him speechless for a moment.

            “Oh! Well said,” Zoya added.

            Riven felt heat rise to his face, but he didn’t let it show. He had been preparing himself for challenges, just not from every direction at once.

            His grip tightened on his belt, but he forced himself to stay calm.

            Zoya, clearly enjoying herself now, gestured toward Evie. “And what about them?” She nodded toward TP, whose holographic form flickered slightly under the corridor’s ligthing. “Evie and her self proclaimed detective machine here have no real authority either, yet you hesitate.”

            TP puffed up indignantly. “I beg your pardon, madame. I am an advanced deductive intelligence, programmed with the finest investigative minds in history! Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Marshall Pee Stoll…”

            Zoya lifted a hand. “Yes, yes. And I am a boar.”

            TP’s mustache twitched. “Highly unlikely.”

            Evie groaned. “Enough TP.”

            But Zoya wasn’t finished. She looked directly at Riven now. “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust Anuí. But you trust her.” She gave a node toward Evie. “Why?

            Riven felt his stomach twist. He didn’t have an answer. Or rather, he had too many answers, none of which he could say out loud. Because he did trust Evie. Because she was brilliant, meticulous, practical. Because… he wanted her to trust him back. But admitting that, showing favoritism, expecially here in front of everyone, was impossible.

            So he forced his voice into neutrality. “She has technical expertise and no political agenda about it.”

            Anuí left out a soft hmm, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but filing the information away for later.

            Evie took the moment to press forward. “Riven, we need access to the room. We have to check his logs before anything gets wiped or overwritten. If there’s something there, we’re losing valuable time just standing there arguing.”

            She was right. Damn it, she was right. Riven exhaled slowly.

            “Fine. But only you.”

            Anuí’s lips curved but just slightly. “How predictable.”

            Zoya snorted.

            Evie didn’t waste time. She brushed past him, keying in a security override on her tablet. The suite doors slid open with a quiet hiss.

            #7735

            The “do not enter, crime scene” sticker haphazardly printed, was not even sealing the door. Amateur job, but of course, this was to be expected when such murder event had not been seen in a generation.

            She entered surrepticiously, the door to the drying chamber slid shut with a hiss behind her, muffling the last of the frantic voices outside. Evie exhaled. She needed a moment. Just her, the crime scene, and—

            A flicker of light.

            “Ah-ha!” Trevor Pee Marshall, aka TP, materialized beside her, adjusting his holographic lapels with exaggerated precision. “What we have here, dear Evie, is a classic case of les morts très mystérieux.” His mustache twitched. “Or as my good friend Clouseau would say—‘Zis does not add up!’”

            Evie rolled her eyes. “Less theatrics, more analysis, TP.”

            Despite the few glitches, she was proud and eager to take her invention to a real-life trial run. Combining all the brilliant minds of enquêteur Jacques Clouseau, as well as the flair of Marshall Pee Stoll from the beloved Peaslanders children stories, TP was the help they needed to solve this.

            “Ahem.” TP straightened, flickering momentarily before reappearing near the machine, peering inside with a magnifying glass he absolutely didn’t need.

            Evie pulled up the logs. The AI had flagged the event—drying cycle activated at 0200 hours. Duration: excessive. But no shutdown? That was impossible.

            TP let out a thoughtful “hmm.” Then, with the gravitas of a seasoned investigator, he declared, “Madame, I detect a most peculiar discrepancy.”

            Evie looked up. “Go on.”

            TP pivoted dramatically. “The AI should have stopped the cycle, yes? But what if… it never saw a problem?”

            Evie frowned. That wasn’t how safety protocols worked. Unless—

            She tapped rapidly through the logs. Her stomach dropped.

            The system hadn’t flagged a human inside at all.

            Someone had altered the ship’s perception of Mr. Herbert before he ever stepped into the machine.

            Evie’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just murder.

            It was premeditated.

            #7732

            Survivors in Ukraine

            Not for the first time Molly wished they’d never made the journey. She wanted to go back and end her days where she’d chosen to retire.  With Ellis gone, and then Ethan and Nina, there was nothing to keep her here, and nothing to keep Tundra here.  And there had been no reason to come, in the end. There were no survivors in Ukraine either, and they encountered none on the long and difficult journey from Spain.

            It was Nina’s idea to go back to her home country. She was a refugee from the war, she and her mother. Nina met Ethan at school in England and Ethan often used to bring her on holidays to visit his grandmother in Andalucia.  When the plague struck, they were there with Molly, quarantined and with no way to return to England.  Molly shuddered at the memory of the awful realisation that there was nobody else alive, but for her friend over the road who looked after the cows.  Just Molly, Ethan, Nina, and Antonio and all the bodies.

            It was Antonio’s idea to take all the bodies of the neighbours out into the fields for the vultures, rightly stating that it was impossible for him and Ethan to bury them all. And so they did.  Best photos of vultures I ever took, and nobody to show them to, Molly had grumbled at the time.

            They managed for a considerable time looting the neighbours pantries, garages, and barns and foraging further afield until all the cars in the village ran out of fuel, always hoping to find people, other survivors, but they never did.  When the fuel ran out they used the horses.  They could have managed for some time longer if they stayed where they were, but the desire to find people was strong.

            The decision was made to head north, along the once populous coast, taking 12 horses to carry themselves and essentials, hoping to find more people. There were no people. They kept walking, and when Nina suggested they keep walking to Ukraine, nobody could think of a good reason why not to.

            Molly’s sorrowful reminiscence sitting in the late afternoon sun was interrupted by a shout from Tundra who was running towards her. “Look, look over there!”   Molly winced as Tundra pulled her upright too quickly.  “Over there!” she said, pointing to a copse just below the hills on the horizon.

            “A wisp of smoke!” Molly whispered wonderingly. “Like…like a campfire or something…”

            The 93 year old woman and her twelve year old great granddaughter looked at each other in amazement. “People,” they whispered in unison.

            “Tundra, saddle up the horses. We can’t wait for morning”,  Molly said, “They may be gone. Run, girl!  Don’t just stand there with your mouth open!”

            Suddenly Molly felt like she was only 67 again.

            People!

            #7731

            The colours were bright, garish really, an impossibly blue sea and sky and splashes of pillar box red on the square shaped cars and dated clothes, but it was his favourite postcard of them all.  It wasn’t the most scenic, it wasn’t the most spectacular location, but it was an echo from those long ago days of summer, of seaside holidays, souvenirs and a dozen postcards to write at a beachside cafe. The days when the post was delivered by conscientious postmen such as he himself had been, and the postcards arrived at their destinations before the holidaymakers had returned to their suburban homes and city jobs. The scene in the postcard was bathed in glorious sunshine, but the message on the back told the usual tale of the weather and the rain and that it might brighten up tomorrow but they were having a lovely time and they’d be back on Sunday and would the recipients get them a loaf and a pint of milk.

            Ellis Marlowe put the Margate postcard to the back of the pile in his hand and pondered the image on the next one.  He sighed at the image of the Statue of Liberty, sickly green, sadly proclaiming the height of a lost empire, and quickly put it at the back of the pile. Nobody needed to dwell on that story.

            His perusal of the next image, an alpine meadow with an attractively skirted peasant scampering in a field, was interrupted with a bang on his door as Finkley barged in without waiting for a response.  “There’s been a murder on the ship! Murder!  Poor sod’s been dessicated like a dried tomato…”

            Ellis looked at her in astonishment. His hand shook slightly as he put his postcard collection back in the box, replaced the lid and returned it to his locker.  “Murder?” he repeated. “Murder? On here? But we’re supposed to be safe here, we left all that behind.”  Visibly shaken, Ellis repeated, almost shouting, “But we left all that behind!”

            #7730

            The Asylum 2050

            They had been talking about leaving for a long time.

            Not in any urgent way, not in a we must leave now kind of way, but in the slow, circling conversations of people who had too much time and not enough answers.

            Those who had left before them had never returned. Perhaps they had found something better, though that seemed unlikely. Perhaps they had found nothing at all. The first group left over twenty years ago—just for supplies. They never came back. Others drifted off over the years. They never came back either.

            The core group had stayed because—what else was there? The asylum had been safe, for the most part. It had become home. Overgrown now, with only a fraction of its former inhabitants. The walls had once kept them in; now, they were what kept the rest of the world out.

            But the crops were failing. The soil was thinning. The last winter had been long and cruel. Summer was harsh. Water was harder to find.

            And so the reasons to stay had been replaced with reasons to go.

            She was about forty now—or near enough, though time had softened the numbers. Natalia. A name from a past life; now they called her Tala.

            Her family had left her here years ago. Paid well for it, as if they were settling an expensive inconvenience. She had been young then—too young to know how final it would be. They had called her difficult, willful, unable to conform. She wasn’t mad, but they had paid to have her called mad so they could get rid of her. And in the world before, that had been enough.

            She had been furious at first. She tried to run away even though the asylum was many miles from anywhere. The drugs they made her take put an end to that. The drugs stopped many years ago, but she no longer wanted to run.

            She sat at the edge of the vegetable garden, turning soil between her fingers. It was dry, thinning. No matter how deep she dug, the color stayed the same—pale, lifeless.

            “Nothing wants to grow anymore,” said Anya, standing over her. Older—mid-sixties. Once a nurse, before everything had fallen apart. She had been one of the staff members who stayed behind when the first group left for supplies, but now she was the only one remaining. The others had abandoned the asylum years ago. At first, her authority had meant something. Now, it was just a memory, but she still carried it like an old habit. She was practical, sharp-eyed, and had a way of making decisions that others followed without question.

            Tala wiped her hands on her skirt and looked up. “We probably should have left last year.”

            Anya sighed. She dropped a brittle stalk of something dead into the compost pile. “Doesn’t matter now. We must go soon, or we don’t go at all.”

            There was no arguing with that.

            Later, in the old communal hall, the last of them gathered. Eleven of them.

            Mikhail leaned against the window, his arms crossed. He was a little older than Tala. He thought a long time before he spoke.

            “How many weapons do we have?”

            Anya shrugged. “A couple of old rifles with half a dozen bullets. A handful of knives. And whatever rocks and sticks we pick up on the way.”

            “It’s not enough to defend ourselves,” Tala said. Petro, an older resident who couldn’t remember life before the asylum, moaned and rocked. “But we’ll have our wits about us,” she added, offering a small reassurance.

            Mikhail glanced at her. “We don’t know what’s out there.”

            Before communication went silent, there had been stories of plagues, wars, starvation, entire cities turning against themselves. People had come through the asylum’s doors shortly before the collapse, mad with what they had seen.

            But then, nobody came. The fences had grown thick with vines. And the world had gone quiet.

            Over time, they had become a kind of family, bound by necessity rather than blood. They were people who had been left behind for reasons that no longer mattered. In this world, sanity had become a relative thing. They looked after one another, oddities and all.

            Mikhail exhaled and pushed off the window. “Tomorrow, then.”

            #7727
            F LoveF Love
            Participant

              THE SURVIVORS ON EARTH

              2050. Civilization has collapsed.
              Global warming, famine, plague, and the Tit-for-Tax war have devastated the planet.
              The ultra-wealthy, led by entrepreneur Effin Muck, left Earth for luxury space colonies.
              As civilization fell apart, other groups started ejecting ships into space. please see above comments for more details.
              No one knows what happened to Effin.

              Ukraine. An isolated psychiatric facility.
              Holds supposed political prisoners and a few who are genuinely insane. But it’s a good community and they look out for each other.
              Self-sufficient, growing their own food.
              Unaware of the full extent of the world’s collapse.
              one day in around 2030 A group sstaff and patients leave on a supply run.
              They never return.
              The remaining residents wait for months and then years, relying on their harvest, speculating about the outside world. Many die. The remainder decide to leave the facility – Driven by necessity and curiosity.
              Enter a world they don’t recognize—barren, fractured, sparsely populated.
              Encounter scattered survivors.

              They Find an abandoned space station.
              It was one of many.
              Manage to establish communication with one of the ships. The Helix 25. It turns out there is a connection but that is to be expanded on. it is of a murder and genealogical form.

              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster
                #7711

                Matteo — December 2022

                Juliette leaned in, her phone screen glowing faintly between them. “Come on, pick something. It’s supposed to know everything—or at least sound like it does.”

                Juliette was the one who’d introduced him to the app the whole world was abuzz talking about. MeowGPT.

                At the New Year’s eve family dinner at Juliette’s parents, the whole house was alive with her sisters, nephews, and cousins. She entered a discussion with one of the kids, and they all seemed to know well about it. It was fun to see the adults were oblivious, himself included. He liked it about Juliette that she had such insatiable curiosity.

                “It’s a life-changer, you know” she’d said “There’ll be a time, we won’t know about how we did without it. The kids born now will not know a world without it. Look, I’m sure my nephews are already cheating at their exams with it, or finding new ways to learn…”

                “New ways to learn, that sounds like a mirage…. Bit of a drastic view to think we won’t live without; I’d like to think like with the mobile phones, we can still choose to live without.”

                “And lose your way all the time with worn-out paper maps instead of GPS? That’s a grandpa mindset darling! I can see quite a few reasons not to choose!” she laughed.
                “Anyway, we’ll see. What would you like to know about? A crazy recipe to grow hair? A fancy trip to a little known place? Write a technical instruction in the style of Elizabeth Tattler?”

                “Let me see…”

                Matteo smirked, swirling the last sip of crémant in his glass. The lively discussions of Juliette’s family around them made the moment feel oddly private. “Alright, let’s try something practical. How about early signs of Alzheimer’s? You know, for Ma.”

                Juliette’s smile softened as she tapped the query into the app. Matteo watched, half curious, half detached.

                The app processed for a moment before responding in its overly chipper tone:
                “Early signs of Alzheimer’s can include memory loss, difficulty planning or solving problems, and confusion with time or place. For personalized insights, understanding specific triggers, like stress or diet, can help manage early symptoms.”

                Matteo frowned. “That’s… general. I thought it was supposed to be revolutionary?”

                “Wait for it,” Juliette said, tapping again, her tone teasing. “What if we ask it about long-term memory triggers? Something for nostalgia. Your Ma’s been into her old photos, right?”

                The app spun its virtual gears and spat out a more detailed suggestion.
                “Consider discussing familiar stories, music, or scents. Interestingly, recent studies on Alzheimer’s patients show a strong response to tactile memories. For example, one groundbreaking case involved genetic ancestry research coupled with personalized sensory cues.

                Juliette tilted her head, reading the screen aloud. “Huh, look at this—Dr. Elara V., a retired physicist, designed a patented method combining ancestral genetic research with soundwaves sensory stimuli to enhance attention and preserve memory function. Her work has been cited in connection with several studies on Alzheimer’s.”

                “Elara?” Matteo’s brow furrowed. “Uncommon name… Where have I heard it before?”

                Juliette shrugged. “Says here she retired to Tuscany after the pandemic. Fancy that.” She tapped the screen again, scrolling. “Apparently, she was a physicist with some quirky ideas. Had a side hustle on patents, one of which actually turned out useful. Something about genetic resonance? Sounds like a sci-fi movie.”

                Matteo stared at the screen, a strange feeling tugging at him. “Genetic resonance…? It’s like these apps read your mind, huh? Do they just make this stuff up?”

                Juliette laughed, nudging him. “Maybe! The system is far from foolproof, it may just have blurted out a completely imagined story, although it’s probably got it from somewhere on the internet. You better do your fact-checking. This woman would have published papers back when we were kids, and now the AI’s connecting dots.”

                The name lingered with him, though. Elara. It felt distant yet oddly familiar, like the shadow of a memory just out of reach.

                “You think she’s got more work like that?” he asked, more to himself than to Juliette.

                Juliette handed him the phone. “You’re the one with the questions. Go ahead.”

                Matteo hesitated before typing, almost without thinking: Elara Tuscany memory research.

                The app processed again, and the next response was less clinical, more anecdotal.
                “Elara V., known for her unconventional methods, retired to Tuscany where she invested in rural revitalization. A small village farmhouse became her retreat, and she occasionally supported artistic projects. Her most cited breakthrough involved pairing sensory stimuli with genetic lineage insights to enhance memory preservation.”

                Matteo tilted the phone towards Juliette. “She supports artists? Sounds like a soft spot for the dreamers.”

                “Maybe she’s your type,” Juliette teased, grinning.

                Matteo laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, if she wasn’t old enough to be my mother.”

                The conversation shifted, but Matteo couldn’t shake the feeling the name had stirred. As Juliette’s family called them back to the table, he pocketed his phone, a strange warmth lingering—part curiosity, part recognition.

                To think that months before, all that technologie to connect dots together didn’t exist. People would spend years of research, now accessible in a matter of seconds.

                Later that night, as they were waiting for the new year countdown, he found himself wondering: What kind of person would spend their retirement investing in forgotten villages and forgotten dreams? Someone who believed in second chances, maybe. Someone who, like him, was drawn to the idea of piecing together a life from scattered connections.

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