Search Results for 'soon'
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Search Results
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In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
As soon as Boothroyd had gone, Laddie Bentry, the under gardener, emerged from behind the Dicksonia squarrosa that was planted in a rare French Majolica Onnaing dragon eagle pot. The pot, and in particular the tree fern residing within it, were Laddie’s favourite specimen, reminding him of his homeland far away.
Keeping a cautious eye on the the door leading into the house, Laddie hurried over to the cast iron planter and retrieved the Liz Tattler novel hidden underneath. Quickly he tucked in into the inside pocket of his shabby tweed jacket and hastened to the door leading to the garden. Holding on to his cap, for the wind was cold and gusty, he ran to the old stable and darted inside. Laddie reckoned he had an hour or two free without Boothroyd hovering over him, and he settled himself on a heap of old sacks.
The Vampire Hoarders of Varna. It wasn’t the first time Laddie had seen Boothroyd surreptitiously reading Helier’s books, and it had piqued his curiosity. What was it the old fart found so interesting about Helier’s novels? The library was full of books, if he wanted to read. Not bothering to read the preface, and not having time to start on page one, Laddie Bentry flicked through the book, pausing to read random passages.….the carriage rattled and lurched headlong through the valley, jostling the three occupants unmercifully. “I’ll have the guts of that coachman for garters! The devil take him!” Galfrey exclaimed, after bouncing his head off the door frame of the compartment.
“Is it bleeding?” asked Triviella, inadvertently licking her lips and she inspected his forehead.
“The devil take you too, for your impertinence,” Galfrey scowled and shook her off, his irritation enhanced by his alarm at the situation they found themselves in.
Ignoring his uncharacteristic bad humour, Triviella snuggled close and and stroked his manly thigh, clad in crimson silk breeches. “Just think about the banquet later,” she purred.
Jacobino, austere and taciturn, on the opposite seat, who had thus far been studiously ignoring both of them, heard the mention of the banquet and smiled for the first time since…
Laddie opened the book to another passage.
“……1631, just before the siege of Gloucester, and what a feast it was! It was hard to imagine a time when we’d feasted so well. Such rich and easy pickings and such a delightful cocktail. One can never really predict a perfect cocktail of blood types at a party, and centuries pass between particularly memorable ones. Another is long overdue, and one would hate to miss it,” Jacobino explained to the innocent and trusting young dairy maid, who was in awe that the handsome young gentleman was talking to her at all, yet understood very little of his dialogue.
“Which is why,” Jacobino implored, taking hold of her small calloused hands, “You must come with me to the banquet tonight.”
Little did she know that her soft rosy throat was on the menu…..
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“Quite fitting that I should get her sleeves,” Cerenise said with satisfaction. “And what a relief that she left the wolf to you, Spirius. I’d not have been able to manage a wolf.” Cerenise popped another cashew nut into her mouth.
Spirius looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “My guess is you’d have managed just fine,” he replied drily. He’d heard all the noise she made behind those locked doors. He’d seen her prancing around the orchard in the moonlight when she thought nobody was watching, naked as the day she was born all those centuries ago. He hadn’t lingered at the window, but he had put two and two together years ago, many years ago, just after the seige of Gloucester. If truth be told, Cerenise’s secret was known to them all, but they hadn’t interfered with her delusion.
“There’s going to come a point, and very soon, when we will have to deal with the water leak, you know,” Yvoise interrupted the inconsequential chatter. “Holy and healing as it may be, it will be the ruin of my collection if it reaches the upper floors.”
“And what do you propose?” asked Helier.
“I suggest we call a plumber!” snapped Yvoise. “This is the 21st century is it not? I know tradesmen are in short supply, and I know this isn’t an ordinary leak, but we should start with the obvious, and then adapt accordingly.”
“I must bottle as much of the holy water as possible before we stop the leak,” Spirius said, standing up abruptly in agitation.
Helier put a calming hand on the old boy’s shoulder. “There’s no rush, Spirius, there’s plenty of water in the cellars, it’s already waist deep down there.”
“And the saints only know what has floated into the cellars by now from the tunnels. Be careful down there, Spirius. Take Boothroyd the gardener with you,” Yvoise advised.
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“You know,” Helier broke the silence, his mouth half-full of the buffet’s assortments of nuts and crackers, “this was bound to happen… People tend to forget you after a while. I mean, how many new babies named after dear Austreberthe nowadays. None of course. I think our records mention 1907 was the last baby Austreberthe, and a decade ago the last mass in their memory… oh this is too heartbreaking…”
“Why so gloomy?” Cerenise was eyeing the speckled and stained silverware and the chipped Rouen faience in which the potato salad was served. “Your name is still moderately in fashion, you shouldn’t die of forgetfulness any time soon. Enjoy the food while it’s free.”
Yvoise couldn’t help but tut at her. She was half-distracted by the calligraphy on those placeholders which she found exquisite. People in this age… it was a rare find now, some pretty calligraphy. The only ‘calli-‘anything this age does well enough is callipygian, and even then, it’s mostly the Kashtardians… She said to the others “Don’t throw yours away, I must have the full set.”
Spirius was inspecting the candleholders. None had lids, a fact that frustrated him to no end. “I miss the good old time we could just slay dragons and get a good sainthood concession for a nice half-millenium.”
Yvoise tittered “simple people we were back then. Everything funny-looking was a dragon I seem to recall.”
Spirius, his plate full of charcuteries, helped himself of a few appetizing gherkins, holding one large up to contemplate. “Yeah, but those few we slew in that period were still some darn tough-skinned gators I would have you know. Those crazy Roman buggers and their games and old false gods —they couldn’t help but bring those strange beasts from Africa to Gaul, leaving us to clean up after them…”
“Indeed, much harder now. It’s like fifteen minutes of sainthood on Instatok and Faceterest and you’re already has-been.” Yvoise had started to pocket some of the paper menus. “Luckily, we still have those relics spread around to fan the flames of remembrance, don’t we.”
“I guess the young ones must look at us funny…” Cerenise chuckled amused at the thought, almost spilling her truffle brouillade.
“Oh well, apparently our youngest geeks aren’t above dealing in relics.” Helier said. “Speaking of Novena and the coming nine days,… you’ve surely noticed as I did what was mentioned in the will, have you not?”
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
It must be two hundred years at least since we’ve heard a will read at number 26, Cerenise thought to herself, still in a mild state of shock at the unexpected turn of events. She allowed her mind to wander, as she was wont to do.
Cerenise had spent the best part of a week choosing a suitable outfit to wear for the occasion and the dressing room adjoining her bedroom had become even more difficult to navigate. Making sure her bedroom door was securely locked before hopping out of her wicker bath chair (she didn’t want the others to see how nimble she still was), she spent hours inching her way through the small gaps between wardrobes and storage boxes and old wooden coffers, pulling out garment after garment and taking them to the Napoleon III cheval mirror to try on. She touched the rosewood lovingly each time and sighed. It was a beautiful mirror that had faithfully reflected her image for over 150 years.Holding a voluminous black taffetta mourning dress under her chin, Cerenise scrutinised her appearance. She looked well in black, she always felt, and it was such a good background for exotic shawls and scarves. Pulling the waist of the dress closer, it became apparent that a whalebone corset would be required if she was to wear the dress, a dreadful blight on the fun of wearing Victorian dresses. She lowered the dress and peered at her face. Not bad for, what was it now? One thousand 6 hundred and 43 years old? At around 45 years old, Cerenise decided that her face was perfect, not too young and not too old and old enough to command a modicum of respect. Thenceforth she stopped visibly aging, although she had allowed her fair hair to go silver white.
It was just after the siege of Gloucester in 1643, which often seemed like just yesterday, when Cerenise stopped walking in public. Unlike anyone else, she had relished the opportunity to stay in one place, and not be sent on errands miles away having to walk all the way in all weathers. Decades, or was it centuries, it was hard to keep track, of being a saint of travellers had worn thin by then, and she didn’t care if she never travelled again. She had done her share, although she still bestowed blessings when asked.
It was when she gave up walking in public that the hoarding started. Despite the dwellings having far fewer things in general in those days, there had always been pebbles and feathers, people’s teeth when they fell out, which they often did, and dried herbs and so forth. As the centuries rolled on, there were more and more things to hoard, reaching an awe inspiring crescendo in the last 30 years.
Cerenise, however, had wisely chosen to stop aging her teeth at the age of 21.
Physically, she was in surprisingly good shape for an apparent invalid but she spent hours every day behind locked doors, clambering and climbing among her many treasures, stored in many rooms of the labyrinthine old building. There was always just enough room for the bath chair to enter the door in each of her many rooms, and a good strong lock on the door. As soon as the door was locked, Cerenise parked the bath chair in front of the door and spent the day lifting boxes and climbing over bags and cupboards, a part of herself time travelling to wherever the treasures took her.
Eventually Cerenise settled on a long and shapeless but thickly woven, and thus warm, Neolithic style garment of unknown provenance but likely to be an Arts and Crafts replica. It was going to be cold in the library, and she could dress it up with a colourful shawl.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Ricardo!” Amy said with a raised eyebrow and a note of surprise in her voice. “All I’ve ever seen you do so far is lurk in bushes sending secret messages. But I admire your bold assertiveness, I can see you are on a sudden quest to discover your true potential.” Amy smiled encouragingingly and patted his shoulder. “The sooner we get the gazebo back the better, The Padre is recovering and anxious to host The Character Building Party.”
His chest swelling with pride, Ricardo replied that he was very grateful for her support and attention, and would do his best to restore both the gazebo and his independence, but that he was in a quandary about the conflict of interests between his role in the story, and his value fulfilment as a developing character.
“Yeah that’s a tough one,” Amy said, “But it’s a good question to ask at the party in the gazebo. Hurry and get the gazebo back!”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Amy rushed over to Kit when she saw what had happened and said, “Kit, give me your hat!”
Tentatively Kit put his hand on his head and sure enough he felt a hat upon it. Carefully he removed it and wonderingly gazed at the cowboy hat. He loved it! Just looking at the hat was already giving him ideas for his character, newly baked memories were starting to slide in like a tray of chocolate chip cookies on a baking sheet, pulled out of the oven at the perfect golden melting moment.
But Amy wants it! I can’t say no to her, but I want to keep it. It’s my first hat! Kit was close to tears.
“Oh poppet,” Amy said kindly when she noticed his face. Giving him a quick hug she explained. “I only want to borrow it, just to keep the Padre happy. He keeps asking where his hat is. I’ll bring it back as soon as we’ve settled him back at home.”
The releif was immense, and he graciously surrendered the hat to Aunt Amy. “Did you call me Poppet?” he asked. “Because Thiram just called me Trevor.”
“To me, you’ll always be Kit,” Amy said as she rushed back to her father. “See you later, Poppet!” she called over her shoulder.
“What does that mean?” asked Kit, but Amy had gone.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Amy wondered afterwards if she should have said “Why is it always my fault” and hoped nobody would think el gran apagón was her fault too. Another one of the issues with typecasting too soon.
The rumours and hoaxes were rife even before the electricity came back on. The crisis of the lack of coffee beans was coming to a head: morning riots were breaking out in the places most affected by the shortage. As soon as the blackouts started, improvised statistics and numbers were cobbled together into snappy psychological colour combination images and plastered everywhere suggesting that the lack of electricity was saving an incomprehensible number of cups of coffee per day, but without causing any coffee related social disorder events.
Amy had heard that el gran apagón was foretold to occur when the pope died, that it was extraterrestrials, that it was el naranjo and his sidekick effin muck, and all manner of things, but the concerns with the coffee shortage happening at the same time as the blackouts were manifold.
The population was looking for scapegoats. Oh dear god, what did I say that for.
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 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 – Space Tai Chi and Mass Lunacy
The Grand Observation Atrium was one of the few places on Helix 25 where people would come and regroup from all strata of the ship —Upper Decks, Lower Decks, even the more elusive Hold-dwellers— there were always groups of them gathered for the morning sessions without any predefined roles.
In the secular tradition of Chinese taichi done on public squares, a revival of this practice has started few years ago all thanks to Grand Master Sifu Gou quiet stubborn consistency to practice in the early light of the artificial day, that gradually had attracted followers, quietly and awkwardly joining to follow his strange motions. The unions, ever eager to claim a social victory and seeing an opportunity to boost their stature, petitioned to make this a right, and succeeded, despite the complaints from the cleaning staff who couldn’t do their jobs (and jogs) in the late night while all passengers had gone to sleep, apart from the night owls and party goers.
In short, it was a quiet moment of communion, and it was now institutionalised, whether Sifu Gou had wanted it or not.
The artificial gravity fluctuated subtly here, closer to the artificial gravitational core, in a way that could help attune people to feel their balance shift, even in absence of the Earth’s old pull.
It was simply perfect for Space Tai Chi.
A soft chime signaled the start of the session. Grand Master Gou, in the Helix 25’s signature milk-silk fabric pajamas, silver-haired and in a quiet poise, stood at the center of the open-air space beneath the reinforced glass dome, where Jupiter loomed impossibly large beyond the ship, its storms shifting in slow, eternal violence. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands bearing a weight that flowed improbably in the thinness of the gravity shifts.
“To find one’s center,” he intoned, “is to find the center of all things. The ship moves, and so do we. You need to feel the center of gravity and use it —it is our guide.”
A hundred bodies followed in various degrees of synchrony, from well-dressed Upper Deck philosophers to the manutentioners and practical mechanics of the Lower Decks in their uniforms who stretched stiff shoulders between shift rotations. There was something mesmerizing about the communal movement, that even the ship usually a motionless background, seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as though their motions echoed through space.
Every morning, for this graceful moment, Helix 25 felt like a true utopia.
That was without counting when the madness began.
The Gossip Spiral
“Did you hear about Sarawen?” hissed a woman in a flowing silk robe.
“The Lexican?” gasped another.
“Yes. Gave birth last night.”
“What?! Already? Why weren’t we informed?”
“Oh, she kept it very quiet. Didn’t even invite anyone to the naming.”
“Disgraceful. And where are her two husbands? Following her everywhere. Suspicious if you ask me.”A grizzled Lower Deck worker grunted, still trying to follow Master Gou’s movement. “Why would she invite people to see her water break? Sounds unhygienic.”
This earned a scandalized gasp from an Upper Decker. “Not the birth—the ceremony! Honestly, you Lower Deck folk know nothing of tradition.”
Wisdom Against Wisdom
Master Gou was just finishing an elegant and powerful sweep of his arms when Edeltraut Snoot, a self-proclaimed philosopher from Quadrant B, pirouetted herself into the session with a flamboyant twirl.
“Ah, my dear glowing movement-makers! Thou dost align thine energies with the artificial celestial pull, and yet! And yet! Dost thou not see—this gravity is but a fabrication! A lie to lull thee into believing in balance when there is none!”
Master Gou paused, blinking, impassive, suspended in time and space, yet intently concentrated. Handling such disturbances of the force gracefully, unperturbed, was what the practice was about. He resumed as soon as Edeltraut moved aside to continue her impassionate speech.
“Ah yiii! The Snoot Knows. Oh yes. Balance is an illusion sold to us by the Grand Micromanagers, the Whymen of the Ever-Hungry Order. Like pacmaniacs, they devour structure and call it stability. And we! We are but rabbits, forced to hop through their labyrinth of rules!”
Someone muttered, “Oh no, it’s another of those speeches.”
Another person whispered, “Just let her talk, it’s easier.”
The Snoot lady continued, undeterred. “But we? Oh, we are not merely rabbits. We are the mist in the hedge! The trick in their tale! We evade! We escape! And when they demand we obey their whys—we vanish!”
By now, half the class had abandoned their movements entirely, mesmerized by the absurdity. The other half valiantly continued the Space taichi routine while inching away.
Master Gou finally closed the form, then sighed intently, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us… return to our breath.”
More Mass Lunacy
It started as a low murmur, a shifting agitation in the crowd. Then, bickering erupted like a solar flare.
“I can’t find my center with all this noise!”
“Oh shut up, you’ve never had a center.”
“Who took my water flask?!”
“Why is this man so close to me?!”
“I am FLOATING?! HELP!”Synthia’s calm, omnipresent voice chimed in overhead.
“For your well-being, an emergency dose of equilibrium supplements will be dispensed.”
Small white pills rained from overhead dispensers.
Instead of calming people down, this only increased the chaos.
Some took the pills immediately, while others refused on principle.
Someone accused the Lexicans of hoarding pills.
Two men got into a heated debate over whether taking the pills was an act of submission to the AI overlords.
A woman screamed that her husband had vanished, only to be reminded that he left her twelve years ago.
Someone swore they saw a moon-sized squid in the sky.The Unions and the Leopards
Near the edges of the room, two quadrant bosses from different labor unions were deep in mutual grumbling.
“Bloody management.”
“Agreed, even if they don’t call themselves that any longer, it’s still bloody management.”
“Damn right. MICRO-management.”
“Always telling us to be more efficient, more aligned, more at peace.”
“Yeah, well, who the hell voted for peace?! I preferred it when we just argued in the corridors!”One of them scowled. “That’s the problem, mate. We fought for this, better conditions, and what did we get? More rules, more supervisors! Who knew that the Leopards-Eating-People’s-Faces Party would, y’know—eat our own bloody faces?!”
The other snorted. “We demanded stability, and now we have so much stability we can’t move without filling out a form with all sorts of dumb questions. You know I have to submit a motion request before taking a piss?”
“…seriously?”
“Dead serious. Takes an eternity to fill. And four goddamn business hours for approval.”
“That’s inhumane.”
“Bloody right it is.”
At that moment, Synthia’s voice chimed in again.
“Please be advised: Temporary gravitational shifts are normal during orbital adjustments. Equilibrium supplements have been optimized. Kindly return to your scheduled calm.”
The Slingshot Begins
The whole ship gave a lurch, a gravitational hiccup as Helix 25 completed its slingshot maneuver around the celestial body.
Bodies swayed unnaturally. Some hovered momentarily, shrieking.
Someone declared that they had achieved enlightenment.
Someone else vomited.Master Gou sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “We should invent retirement for old Masters. People can’t handle their shit during those Moonacies. Months of it ahead, better focus on breath more.”
Snoot Lady, still unaffected, spread her arms wide and declared:
“And so, the rabbit prevails once again!”Evie, passing by on her way to the investigation, took one look at the scene of absolute madness and turned right back around.
“Yeah. Nope. Not this morning. Back to the Murder Board.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
The village lay huddled before them, appearing like a mirage as they reached the top of the rise. Habitation always looks so picturesque when it’s been taken over by nature, Molly thought, by no means for the first time. Even before the collapse, she had penchant for overgrown abandoned ruins. Vines and ivy rampaged gleefully over the houses, softening the hard outlines, and saplings reached for the sky through crumbling roofs.
The survivors had stopped on the low hill to survey the scene, but soon they were rushing down towards the village to explore. As they came closer they could see all the cucumbers and courgettes dangling from the festoons of vines. Molly had visions of cucumber sandwiches on delicate thin sliced white bread with a piping hot pot of tea. But a waterey tasteless courgette soup will have to do, I suppose.
It was mid afternoon but there was no debate about continuing the journey that day. There were all the houses to search, and several shops, and more importantly, shelter for the night. The rain clouds were approaching from the east.
The church was chosen as a base camp as it was spacious enough to accomodate them all and the roof was intact, all but for the collapsed wooden tower which would provide wood for a fire. Lev and Luka set to work organising the space inside the church, supervised by Molly, Gregor and Petro, who wanted to rest. The others had dumped their bags and gone off to explore the buildings for supplies and forage in the overgrown gardens.
Tundra, happy that for once the responsibility of finding food was shared with so many other people, indulged her curiosity to just snoop around aimlessly. Clambering over a crumbling wooden porch, she pushed open what remained of a peeling door and stepped carefully inside. Venturing around the edges of the room, she peered at all the faded and warped framed photographs on the walls, portraits and family groups, wondering about the family who had lived here. There was a tray on a side table inscribed with Greetings from Niagara Falls! in a jolly cursive script, and an odd shaped rusting metal object with the words Souvenir de la tour Eiffel.
Slowly Tundra toured the house, inspecting all the objects in the rooms. Gingerly she made her way up the stairs, testing each riser before committing her weight to it. In a small bedroom packed with decomposing plastic bags and cardboard boxes spilling their assorted contents, she came upon a pile of letters and postcards, yellowy and curling, with mouse nibbled edges. Molly had told her about grandads postcard collection, but he’d taken it with him and she’d never seen them herself. I wonder what happened to that ship? Is my grandad still alive? Tundra sighed. Maybe he’ll come back one day. And my dad.
Sitting on the floor, Tundra sorted out the intact postcards from the badly damaged ones. She would take them with her to look at later, maybe ask the others what they knew of all the pictured places.
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?”
Sharon and Mavis stopped.
A hush fell over them.
Mavis frowned. “I thought you said the Captain were an idea, not a person.”
“Well, maybe. But if that’s true, who’s actually runnin’ the show?” Gloria folded her arms.
They glanced around, as if expecting an answer from the glowing Synthia panels embedded in every wall.
For the first time in a long while, they felt watched.
“…Maybe we oughta be careful,” Sharon muttered.
Mavis shivered. “Oh, Glo. What ‘ave you gotten us into this time?”
Gloria straightened her collar. “Dunno yet, love. But ain’t it excitin’?”
“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 – Crusades in the Cruise & Unexpected Archives
Evie hadn’t planned to visit Seren Vega again so soon, but when Mandrake slinked into her quarters and sat squarely on her console, swishing his tail with intent, she took it as a sign.
“Alright, you smug little AI-assisted furball,” she muttered, rising from her chair. “What’s so urgent?”
Mandrake stretched leisurely, then padded toward the door, tail flicking. Evie sighed, grabbed her datapad, and followed.
He led her straight to Seren’s quarters—no surprise there. The dimly lit space was as chaotic as ever, layers of old records, scattered datapads, and bound volumes stacked in precarious towers. Seren barely looked up as Evie entered, used to these unannounced visits.
“Tell the cat to stop knocking over my books,” she said dryly. “It never ever listens.”
“Well it’s a cat, isn’t it?” Evie replied. “And he seems to have an agenda.”
Mandrake leaped onto one of the shelves, knocking loose a tattered, old-fashioned book. It thudded onto the floor, flipping open near Evie’s feet. She crouched, brushing dust from the cover. Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades by Liz Tattler.
She glanced at Seren. “Tattler again?”
Seren shrugged. “Romualdo must have left it here. He hoards her books like sacred texts.”
Evie turned the pages, pausing at an unusual passage. The prose was different—less florid than Liz’s usual ramblings, more… restrained.
A fragment of text had been underlined, a single note scribbled in the margin: Not fiction.
Evie found a spot where she could sit on the floor, and started to read eagerly.
“Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades — Chapter XII
Sidon, 1157 AD.Brother Edric knelt within the dim sanctuary, the cold stone pressing into his bones. The candlelight flickered across the vaulted ceilings, painting ghosts upon the walls. The voices of his ancestors whispered within him, their memories not his own, yet undeniable. He knew the placement of every fortification before his enemies built them. He spoke languages he had never learned.
He could not recall the first time it happened, only that it had begun after his initiation into the Order—after the ritual, the fasting, the bloodletting beneath the broken moon. The last one, probably folklore, but effective.
It came as a gift.
It was a curse.
His brothers called it divine providence. He called it a drowning. Each time he drew upon it, his sense of self blurred. His grandfather’s memories bled into his own, his thoughts weighted by decisions made a lifetime ago.
And now, as he rose, he knew with certainty that their mission to reclaim the stronghold would fail. He had seen it through the eyes of his ancestor, the soldier who stood at these gates seventy years prior.
‘You know things no man should know,’ his superior whispered that night. ‘Be cautious, Brother Edric, for knowledge begets temptation.’
And Edric knew, too, the greatest temptation was not power.
It was forgetting which thoughts were his own.
Which life was his own.
He had vowed to bear this burden alone. His order demanded celibacy, for the sealed secrets of State must never pass beyond those trained to wield it.
But Edric had broken that vow.
Somewhere, beyond these walls, there was a child who bore his blood. And if blood held memory…
He did not finish the thought. He could not bear to.”
Evie exhaled, staring at the page. “This isn’t just Tattler’s usual nonsense, is it?”
Seren shook her head distractedly.
“It reads like a first-hand account—filtered through Liz’s dramatics, of course. But the details…” She tapped the underlined section. “Someone wanted this remembered.”
Mandrake, still perched smugly above them, let out a satisfied mrrrow.
Evie sat back, a seed of realization sprouting in her mind. “If this was real, and if this technique survived somehow…”
Mandrake finished the thought for her. “Then Amara’s theory isn’t theory at all.”
Evie ran a hand through her hair, glancing at the cat than at Evie. “I hate it when Mandrake’s right.”
“Well what’s a witch without her cat, isn’t it?” Seren replied with a smile.
Mandrake only flicked his tail, his work here done.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Leaving the Asylum
They argued about whether to close the heavy gates behind them. In the end, they left them open. The metal groaned as it sat ajar, rust flaking from its hinges.
“Are we all here?” Anya asked. Now that they were leaving, she felt in charge again—or at least, she needed to be. If morale slipped, things would unravel fast. She scanned the group, counting them off.
“Mikhail,” she started, pointing. “Tala. Vera, our esteemed historian.”
Vera sniffed. “I prefer genealogist, thank you very much.”
“Petro,” Anya continued, “probably about to grumble.”
Petro scowled. “I was thinking.”
“Jian, our mystery man.”
Jian raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.
Anya turned to the next two. “Ah, the twins. Even though you two have never spoken, I’ve always assumed you understood me. Don’t prove me wrong now.”
The twins—Luka and Lev—nodded and grinned at exactly the same time.
“Then we have Yulia… no, we don’t have Yulia. Where in God’s name is Yulia?”
“Here I am!” Yulia’s voice rang out as she jogged back toward them, breathless. “I just went to say goodbye to the cat.” She sighed dramatically. “I wish we could take him. Please, can we take him?”
Yulia was short and quick-moving, her restless hands always in motion, her thoughts spilling out just as fast.
“We can’t,” Mikhail said firmly. “And he can look after himself.”
She huffed. “Well, I expect we could if we tried.”
“And finally, old Gregor, who I gather would rather be taking a nap.”
Gregor, who was well past eighty, rubbed his face and yawned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Anya frowned, scanning the group again. “Wait. We’re missing Finja.”
A small scraping sound came from behind them.
Finja stood near the gate, furiously scrubbing the rusted metal with a rag she had pulled from her sleeve. “This place is disgusting,” she muttered. “Filth everywhere. The world may have ended, but that’s no excuse for grime.”
Anya sighed. “Finja, leave the gate alone.”
Finja gave it one last wipe before tucking the rag away with a huff. “Fine.”
Anya shook her head. “That’s eleven. No one’s run off or died yet. A promising start.”
They formed a motley crew, each carrying as much as they could manage. Mikhail pushed a battered cart, loaded with scavenged supplies—blankets, tools, whatever food they had left.
The road beneath their feet was cracked and uneven, roots breaking through in places. They followed it in silence for the most part. Even Yulia remained quiet. Some glanced back, but no one turned around.
The nearest village was more than fifty kilometers away. In all directions, there was only wilderness—fields long overtaken by weeds, trees pushing through cracks in forgotten roads. A skeletal signpost leaned at an odd angle, its lettering long since faded.
“It’s going to be dark soon,” Mikhail said. “And the old ones are tired. Aren’t you, Vera?”
“That’s enough of the old business,” puffed Vera, pulling her shoulders back.
Tala laughed. “Well, I must be an old one. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. And there’s a clearing over there.” She pointed.
The evening was cool, but they managed to build a small fire and scrape together a meal of vegetables they’d brought from their garden.
After their meal, they sat around the fire while Finja busied herself tidying up. “Dirty savages,” she muttered under her breath. Then, more loudly, “We should keep watch tonight.”
Vera, perched on a log, pulled her shawl tightly around her. The glow from the fire cast long shadows across her face.
“Vera, you look like a witch,” Yulia declared. “We should have brought the cat for you to ride on a broomstick together.”
“I’ll have you know I’m descended from witches,” Vera replied. “I know none of you think you’re related to me, but just imagine what your great-grandparents would say if they saw us now. Running into the wilderness like a band of exiled aristocrats.”
Jian, seated nearby, smirked slightly. “My great-grandparents were rice farmers.”
Vera brightened—Jian never talked about his past. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you know your full lineage? Because I do. I know mine back fourteen generations. You’d be amazed how many bloodlines cross without people realizing.”
Tala shook her head but smiled. Like Petro and Gregor, Vera had been at the asylum for many decades, a relic of another time. She claimed to have been a private investigator and genealogist in her former life.
Petro, hunched over and rubbing his hands by the fire, muttered, “We’re all ghosts now. Doesn’t matter where we came from.”
“Oh, stop that, Petro,” Anya admonished. “Remember our plan?”
“We go to the city,” Jian said. He rarely spoke unless he had something worth saying. “There will be things left behind. Maybe tech, maybe supplies. If I can get into an old server, I might even find something useful.”
“And if there’s nothing?” Petro moaned. “We should never have left.” He clasped his hands over his head.
Jian shrugged. “The world doesn’t erase itself overnight.”
Mikhail nodded. “We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we head for the city. And Finja’s right—tonight we take turns keeping watch.”
They sat in silence, watching the fire burn low. The evening stretched long and uneasy.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.”
In reply to: Helix Mysteries – Inside the Case
Some ideas to pick apart and improve on:
Some characters:
- The Murder Victim: A once-prominent figure whose mysterious death on Helix 25 is intertwined with deeper, enigmatic forces—a person whose secret past and untimely demise trigger the cascade of genetic clues and expose long-buried truths about the exodus.
- Dr. Amara Voss: A brilliant geneticist haunted by fragmented pasts, who deciphers DNA strands imbued with clues from an ancient intelligence.
- Inspector Orion Reed: A retro-inspired, elderly holographic AI detective whose relentless curiosity drives him to unravel the inexplicable murder.
- Kai Nova: A maverick pilot chasing cosmic dreams, unafraid to navigate perilous starfields in search of truth.
- Seren Vega: A meditative archivist who unlocks VR relics of history, piecing together humanity’s lost lore. Mandrake her cat, who’s been given bionic enhancements that enables it to speak its mind.
- Luca Stroud: A rebellious engineer whose knack for decoding forbidden secrets may hold the key to the ship’s destiny.
- Ellis Marlowe (Retired Postman): A weathered former postman whose cherished collection of vintage postcards from Earth and early space voyages carries personal and historical messages, hinting at forgotten connections.
- Sue Forgelot: A prominent socialist socialite, descended from Sir Forgelot.
- Sharon, Gloria, Mavis: a favourite elderly trio of life-extended elders. Of course, they endured and thrived in humanity’s latest exodus from Earth
- Lexican and Flexicans, Pronoun People: sub-groups and political factions, challenging our notions of divisions
- Space Absinthe Pirates: a rogue band of bandits— a myth to make children behave… or something else?
Background of the Helix Fleet:
Helix 25 is one of several generation ships that were designed as luxury cruise ships, but are now embarked on an exodus from Earth decades ago, after a mysterious event that left them the last survivors of humanity. Once part of an ambitious fleet designed for both leisure and also built to secretly preserve humanity’s legacy, the other Helix ships have since vanished from communication. Their unexplained absence casts a long shadow over the survivors aboard Helix 25, fueling theories soon turning into myths and the hope of a new golden age for humanity bound to a cryptic prophecy.
100-Word Pitch:
Aboard Helix 25, humanity’s last survivors drift through deep space on a generation ship with a haunted past. When Inspector Orion Reed, a timeless holographic detective, uncovers a perplexing murder, encoded genetic secrets begin to surface. Dr. Amara Voss painstakingly deciphers DNA strands laced with ancient intelligence, while Kai Nova navigates treacherous starfields and Seren Vega unlocks VR relics of lost eras. Luca Stroud and Ellis Marlowe, a retired postman with vintage postcards, piece together clues that tie the victim’s secret past to the vanished Helix fleet. As conspiracies unravel, the crew must confront a destiny entwined with Earth’s forgotten exodus.
