Search Results for 'tall'
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Search Results
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In reply to: The Hoards of Emporium AD26
“In the name of god amen I Auftreberthe saint of wafhing and water of the parifh of Gloucefter in the county of Gloucefterfhire being weak of body but of sound and perfect mind and memory do hereby commit my soul to the almighty and hereby do make thif my laft will and teftament in manner and form af followeth…”
And so began the reading of Austreberthe’s will to the small gathering assembled in the library of the emporium. Bartholomew Gosnold, the aged barrister, stood behind the large oak desk, clearing his throat frequently and pausing to peer over his spectacles. The library was atwinkle with lamps of a variety of styles and ages, but was otherwise dark and vast in the areas outside of the pools of light. Heavy brocade curtains covered the windows, and a fire glowed in the hearth, for it was winter, the last day of the year, and darkness came early and freshly fallen snow blanketed the town in frigid holy silence.
Despite the fire, it was chilly in the library which was rarely heated, and Cerenise wound her ancient Kashmiri shawl aound her neck and shoulders, pausing to finger the cloth appreciatively. It was an exquisite Kani shawl, woven with intricate floral motifs in warm shades of red and plum, soft as a rabbit. She inched her wicker bath chair closer to the fire, accidentally tipping over a small table and sending the contents of a green glazed Tamegroute bowl skittering across the floor.
Yvoise tutted loudly as she rose from her chair to collect all the buttons and stand the little table back up. Luckily the bowl had landed on the Tabriz rug and hadn’t broken.
Bartholomew Gosnold paused until Yvoise had finished, and then resumed his reading of the will, after first clearing his throat again.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
John Brooks
The Father of Catherine Housley’s Mother, Elizabeth Brooks.I had not managed to find out anything about the Brooks family in previous searches. We knew that Elizabeth Brooks father was J Brooks, cooper, from her marriage record. A cooper is a man who makes barrels.
Elizabeth was born in 1819 in Sutton Coldfield, parents John and Mary Brooks. Elizabeth had three brothers, all baptised in Sutton Coldfield: Thomas 1815-1821, John 1816-1821, and William Brooks, 1822-1875. William was known to Samuel Housley, the husband of Elizabeth, which we know from the Housley Letters, sent from the family in Smalley to George, Samuel’s brother, in USA, from the 1850s to 1870s. More to follow on William Brooks.
Elizabeth married Samuel Housley in Wolverhampton in 1844. Elizabeth and Samuel had three daughters in Smalley before Elizabeth’s death from TB in 1849, the youngest, just 6 weeks old at the time, was my great great grandmother Catherine Housley.
Elizabeth’s mother Mary died in 1823, and it not known if Elizabeth, then four, and William, a year old, stayed at home with their father or went to stay with relatives. There were no census records during those years.
John Brooks married Mary Wagstaff in 1814 in Birmingham. A witness at their marriage was Elizabeth Brooks, and this was probably John’s sister.
On the 1841 census (which was the first census in England) John Brooks, cooper, was living on Dudley Road, Wolverhampton, with wife Sarah. I was unable to find a marriage for them before a marriage in 1845 between John Brooks and Sarah Hughes, so presumably they lived together as man and wife before they married.
Then came the lucky find with John Brooks place of birth: Netherseal, Leicestershire. The place of birth on the 1841 census wasn’t specified, thereafter it was. On the 1851 census John Brooks, cooper, and Sarah his wife were living at Queens Cross, Dudley, with a three year old granddaughter E Brooks. John was born in 1791 in Netherseal.
It was commonplace for people to move to the industrial midlands around this time, from the surrounding countryside. However if they died before the 1851 census stating place of birth, it’s usually impossible to find out where they came from, particularly if they had a common name.
John Brooks doesn’t appear on any further census. I found seven deaths registered in Dudley for a John Brooks between 1851 and 1861, so presumably he is one of them.NETHERSEAL
On 27 June 1790 appears in the Netherseal parish register “John Brooks the son of John and Elizabeth Brooks Priestnal was baptised.” The name Priestnal does not appear in the transcription, nor the Bishops Transcripts, nor on any other sibling baptism. The Priestnal mystery will be solved in the next chapter.
John Brooks senior married Elizabeth Wilson by marriage licence on 20 November 1788 in Gresley, a neighbouring town in Derbyshire (incidentally near to Swadlincote and the ancestral lines of the Warren family, which also has branches in Netherseal. The Brooks family is the Marshall side). John Brooks was a farmer.
I haven’t found a baptism yet for John Brooks senior, but his death in Netherseal in 1846 provided the age at death, eighty years old, which puts his birth at 1766. The 1841 census has his birth as 1766 as well.
In 1841 John Brooks was 75, and “independent”, meaning that he was living on his own means. The name Brooks was transcribed as Broster, making this difficult to find, but it is clearly Brooks if you look at the original.
His wife Elizabeth, born in 1762, is also on the census, as well as the Jackson family: Joseph Jackon born 1804, Elizabeth Jackson his wife born 1799, and children Joseph, born 1833, William 1834, Thomas 1835, Stephen 1836, and Mary born 1838.
John and Elizabeths daughter Elizabeth Brooks, born in 1799, married Joseph Jackson, the son of an “opulent farmer” (newspaper archives) of Tatenhill, Staffordshire. They married on the 19th January 1832 in Burton on Trent. (Elizabeth Brooks was probably the witness on John Brooks junior’s marriage to Mary Wagstaff in Birmingham in 1814, although it could have been his mother, also Elizabeth Brooks.)
(Elizabeth Jackson nee Brooks was the aunt of Elizabeth in the portrait)
Joseph Jackson was declared bankrupt in 1833 (newspapers) and in 1834 a noticed in the newspapers “to the creditors of Joseph Jackson junior”, a victualler and farmer late of Netherseal, “following no business, who was lately dischared from his Majesty’s Gaol at Stafford” whose real estate was to be sold by auction. I haven’t yet found what he was in prison for.
In 1841 Joseph appeared again in the newspapers, in which he publicly stated that he had accused Thomas Webb, surgeon of Barton Under Needwood, of owing him money “just to annoy him” and “with a view to extort money from him”. and that he undertakes to pay Thomas Webb or his attorney, the costs within 14 days.
Joseph and Elizabeth had twins in 1841, born in Netherseal, John and Ruth. Elizabeth died in 1850.
Thereafter, Joseph was a labourer at the iron works in Wednesbury, and many generations of Jacksons continued working in the iron industry in Wednesbury ~ all orignially descended from farmers in Netherseal and Tatenhill.In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Ricardo noticed, with growing unease, that he hadn’t been included in recent events.
Had he been written out? Or worse, had he written himself out?New characters were arriving constantly, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of most of them — especially with their ever-changing names.
He contemplated slinking back behind the bush … but this tree business, all the crouching and lurking, was getting embarrassing.
For goodness’ sake, Ricardo, he admonished himself, stop being so pathetic.
It wasn’t until the words echoed back at him that he realised, with horror, his internal voice now sounded exactly like Miss Bossy Pants.
He frantically searched for a different voice.
It’s a poor workman blames his tools, Ricardo. Miss Herbert, Primary School. Her long chin and pursed lips hovering above his scribbled homework.
Really, Ricardo. A journalist? Is that what you want to be? His father’s voice, dripping with disdain.
Any hope for a comment, Ricardo? Miss Bossy Pants again, eyes rolling.
Ricardo sighed. Then — brainwave! If he could be the one to return the gazebo, maybe they’d write him back in
Or … he stood up tall and squared his shoulders … he would jolly well write himself back in!
He’d have his work cut out to beat Chico, though, with the elaborate triple-reverse-double-flip of the worry beads and all that purposeful striding. One had to admit, the man had momentum when he made the effort. It was uncharitable, he knew, but Ricardo decided he preferred Chico when he was spitting.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Solar kettle, my ass,” Chico muttered, failing to resist the urge to spit. After wiping his chin on his tattood forearm, he spoke up loudly, “That was no solar kettle in the gazebo. That was the Sabulmantium!”
An audible gasp echoed around the gathering, with some slight reeling and clutching here and there, dropping jaws, and in the case of young Kit, profoundly confused trembling.
Kit desperately wanted to ask someone what a Sabulmantium was, but chose to remain silent.
Amy was frowning, trying to remember. Sure, she knew about it, but what the hell did it DO?
A sly grin spread across Thiram’s face when he noticed Amy’s perplexed expression. It was a perfect example of a golden opportunity to replace a memory with a new one.
Reading Thiram’s mind, Carob said, “Never mind that now, there’s a typhoon coming and the gazebo has vanished over the top of those trees. I can’t for the life of me imagine how you can be thinking about tinkering with memories at a time like this! And where is the Sabulmantium now?”
“Please don’t distress yourself further, dear lady, ” Sir Humphrey gallantly came to Carob’s aid, much to her annoyance. “Fret not your pretty frizzy oh so tall head.”
Carob elbowed him in the eye goodnaturedly, causing him to stumble and fall. Carob was even more annoyed when the fall rendered Sir Humphrey unconscious, and she found herself trying to explain that she’d meant to elbow him in the ribs with a sporting chuckle and had not intentionally assaulted him.
Kit had been just about to ask Aunt Amy what a Sabulmantium was, but the moment was lost as Amy rushed to her fathers side.
After a few moments of varying degrees of anguish with all eyes on the prone figure of the Padre, Sir Humphrey sat up, asking where his Viking hat was.
And so it went on, at every mention of the Sabulmantium, an incident occured, occasioning a diversion on the memory lanes.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Another one! A random distant memory wafted into Amy’s mind. Uncle Jack always used to say GATZ e bo. Amy could picture his smile when he said it, and how his wife always smiled back at him and chuckled. Amy wondered if she’d even known the story behind that or if it had always been a private joke between them.
“What’s been going on with my gazebo?” Amy’s father rushed into the scene. So that’s what he looks like. Amy couldn’t take her eyes off him, until Carob elbowed her in the neck.
“Sorry, I meant to elbow you in the ribs, but I’m so tall,” Carob said pointlessly, in an attempt to stop Amy staring at her father as if she’d never seen him before.
Thiram started to explain the situation with the gazebo to Amy’s father, after first introducing him to Kit, the new arrival. “Humphrey, meet Kit, our new LBGYEQCXOJMFKHHVZ story character. Kit, this is Amy’s father who we sometimes refer to as The Padre.”
“Pleased to meet you, ” Kit said politely, quaking a little at the stern glare from the old man. What on earth is he wearing? A tweed suit and a deerstalker, in this heat! How do I know that’s what they’re called? Kit wondered, quaking a little more at the strangeness of it all.
“Never mind all that now!” Humphrey interrupted Thiram’s explanation.
Still as rude as ever! Amy thought.
“I’ve too much to think about, but I’ll tell you this: I’ve planned a character building meeting in the gazebo, and you are all invited. As a matter of fact,” Humphrey continued, “You are all obliged to attend. If you choose not to ~ well, you know what happened last time!”
“What happened last time?” asked Carob, leaning forward in anticipation of an elucidating response, but Humphrey merely glared at her.
Amy sniggered, and Humphrey shot her a lopsided smile. “YOU know what happened in Jack’s GATZ e bo, don’t you, my girl?”
Where were those random memories when you wanted them? Amy had no idea what he was talking about.
“Who else is invited, Humph? asked Chico, resisting the urge to spit.
“My good man,” Humphrey said with a withering look. “Sir Humphrey’s the name to you.”
Sir? what’s he on about now? wondered Amy. Does that make me a Lady?
“Who else is invited, Padre?” Amy echoed.
Humphrey pulled a scroll tied with a purple ribbon out of his waistcoat pocket and unfurled it. Clearing his throat importantly, he read the list to all assembled.
Juan and Dolores Valdez.
Godric, the Swedish barman
Malathion and Glyphosate, Thiram’s triplet brothers. Mal and Glyph for short.
Liz Tattler
Miss Bossy Pants
Goat Horned Draugaskald“Did I forget anyone?” Humphrey asked, peering over his spectacles as he looked at each of the characters. “You lot,” he said, “Amy, Carob, Thiram, Chico, Kit and Ricardo: you will be expected to play hosts, so you might want to start thinking about refreshments. And not,” he said with a strong authoritarian air, “Not just coffee! A good range of beverages. And snacks.”
Thiram, leaning against a tree, started whistling the theme tune to Gone With The Wind. Tossing an irritated glance in his direction, Carob roughly gathered up her mass of frizzy curls and tethered it all in a tight pony tail. I still don’t know what happened before, she fumed silently. The latest developments where making her nervous. Would they find out her secret?
“You guys,” called Chico, who had wandered over to the gazebo. “It’s full of ants.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“I don’t know, Amy. I thought it was Chico who was mysterious — subversively spitting at every opportunity.”
“Well, Carob, maybe we could just agree they’re equally mysterious?” suggested Amy, turning her attention back to her search.
Carob shrugged. “A woman in Greece is divorcing her husband because AI read her coffee cup and said he was cheating.”
Amy paused and looked up. “For real?”
“Yeah. I read it on Thiram’s news stream. He left it running on that weird device of his — over there, next to his half-drunk coffee. Not sure where he went, actually.”
Amy gasped and clapped her hands. “Oh! Oh! Brainwave occurring — let’s get AI to read Thiram’s coffee cup!”
Carob snorted. “Genius.”
They raced over to the small folding table where Thiram’s cup sat. Carob held up her phone.
“Okay. One quick pic. Hold it steady!”
They excitedly uploaded the image to an AI analysis app Thiram had installed on his device.
The app whirred for a few minutes:
DEEP COFFEE CUP ANALYSIS COMPLETE
Latent emotional residue: contemplative, fond of secrets.
Foam pattern suggests hidden loyalty to an entity known only as “The Port.”
Swirling suggests alignment with larger forces not currently visible.
Presence of cardamom notes: entirely unaccounted for.
Recommendation: approach carefully with gentle questioning.“Blimey, what does that mean?” asked Carob.
Amy nodded solemnly, perhaps with just a touch of smugness. “He is a man of mystery. Didn’t I say it?”
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Godric
⚫ Godric
What We Know Visually:
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Identified as Swedish, possibly tall and pale by stereotype.
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A barista-channeler, so likely has the look of a mystical hipster.
Inferred Presence/Style:
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May wear layered scarves, bracelets with charms, or ceremonial aprons.
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The term Draugaskalds connects him to Norse aesthetics—he might carry old symbols or tattoos.
Unclear:
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Concrete outfit, facial expression, or posture.
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Age and physical habits.
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Amy & Carob
☕ Amy Kawanhouse
Directly Stated Visual Traits:
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Hair: Long, light brown
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Eyes: Hazel, often sweaty or affected by heat/rain
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Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves
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Body: Short and thin, with shapely legs in denim
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Style impression: Understated and practical, slightly tomboyish, no-frills but with a hint of self-aware physicality
Inferred From Behavior:
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Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.
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Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.
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Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.
☕ Carob Latte
Directly Stated Visual Traits:
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Height: Tall (Amy refers to her as “looming”)
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Hair: Frizzled—possibly curly or electrified, chaotic in texture
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General Look: Disheveled but composed; possibly wears layered or unusual clothing (fitting her dreamy reversal quirks)
Inferred From Behavior:
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Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.
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Likely wears things with big pockets or flowing elements—goat-compatible.
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There’s an aesthetic at play: eccentric wilderness mystic or mad cartographer.
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Key Characters (with brief descriptions)
Amy Kawanhouse – Self-aware new character with metatextual commentary. Witty, possibly insecure, reflective; has a goat named Fanella and possibly another, Finnley, for emergencies. Often the first to point out logical inconsistencies or existential quirks.
Carob Latte – Tall, dry-humored, and slightly chaotic. Fond of coffee-related wordplay and appears to enjoy needling Amy. Described as having “frizzled” hair and reverse-lucid dreams.
Thiram Izu – The practical one, technologically inclined but confused by dreams. Tends to get frustrated with the group’s lack of coordination. Has a history of tension with Amy, and a tendency to “zone out.”
Chico Ray – Mysterious newcomer. May have appeared out of nowhere. Unclear loyalties. Possibly former friend or frenemy of the group, annoyed by past incidents.
Juan & Dolores Valdez – Fictional coffee icons reluctantly acknowledging their existence within a meta-reality. Dolores isn’t ready to be real, and Juan’s fine with playing the part when needed.
Godric – Swedish barista-channeler. Hints at deeper magical realism; references Draugaskalds (ghost-singers) and senses strange presences.
Ricardo – Appears later. Described in detail by Amy (linen suit, Panama hat), acts as a foil in a discussion about maps and coffee geography. Undercover for a mission with Miss Bossy.
The Padre – Could be a father or a Father. Offstage, but influential. Concerned about rain ruining crops. A source of exposition and concern.
Fanella – Amy’s cream goat, serves as comic relief and visual anchor.
Finnley, the unpredictable goat, is reserved for “life or death situations.”In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
To say that Amy was shocked when she looked up the word thiram would be an understatement. Who would name a baby after a toxic fungicide?
“Oh, guess what!” Thiram announced, entirely coincidentally. “My brothers are coming to join us, Malathion and Glyphosate. We’re triplets,” he added.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“So, what are we even doing here?” asked Carob. She tilted her head to look down at Amy. “You said we had to protect the coffee…?”
“From the rain,” said Amy. She folded her arms and stood up as tall as she could — which, to be fair, wasn’t very tall.
“Could be the least of our worries,” muttered Thiram, who had been checking his messages. “AI’s having an emotional meltdown and the plantation irrigation system’s gone haywire.”
He frowned at his screen. “And if that’s not enough, a group of rogue Lucid Dreamers have started sleep-parachuting onto the plantation and creating havoc.”
“Wow,” said Carob. She pulled up the hood of her coat, then tugged it forward until it nearly covered her eyes. “That’s a lot.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Sorry I’m late,” said Carob as she crouched down to fuss over Fanella. “I have excuses, but they’re not interesting. I’m feeling a little underdeveloped as a character, so I’m not sure what to say yet.”
“That’s okay,” said Amy. “Just remember … if you don’t tell us who you are early on…” She squinted and glanced around suspiciously. “Others will create you.”
“I’d rather just slowly percolate.” Carob screwed up her face. “Get it? Percolate?”
She stood up and slapped a hand to her head as Amy rolled her eyes. “Sorry … ” She patted her head curiously. “Oh wait—do I have curls?”
“I’d say more like frizzes than curls,” answered Amy.
Thiram nodded. “Totally frizzled.”
“Cool … must be the damp weather,” said Carob. She brushed a twig from her coat. The coat was blue-green and only reached her thighs. Many things were too small when you were six foot two.
“Oh—and I’ve been lucid dreaming in reverse,” she added. “Last night I watched myself un-make and un-drink a cup of coffee.” She gave a quick snort-laugh. “Weirdo”.
“Was it raining in the dream?” asked Thiram.
Carob frowned. “Probably… You know how in scary movies they always leave the curtains open, like they want the bad guys to see in? It felt like that.” She shuddered and then smiled brightly. “Anyway, just a dream. Also, I bumped into your father, Amy. He said to tell you: Remember what happened last time.”
She regarded Amy intently. “What did happen last time?”
“He worries too much,” said Amy, waving a hand dismissively. “Also, I didn’t even write that in, so how should I know?” She looked out toward the trees. “Where’s Chico?”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Mars Outpost — Fueling of Dreams (Prune)
I lean against the creaking bulkhead of this rust-stained fueling station, watching Mars breathe. Dust twirls across the ochre plains like it’s got somewhere important to be. The whole place rattles every time the wind picks up—like the metal shell itself is complaining. I find it oddly comforting. Reminds me of the Flying Fish Inn back home, where the fireplace wheezed like a drunk aunt and occasionally spit out sparks for drama.
Funny how that place, with all its chaos and secret stash hidey-holes, taught me more about surviving space than any training program ever could.
“Look at me now, Mater,” I catch myself thinking, tapping the edge of the viewport with a gloved knuckle. “Still scribbling starships in my head. Only now I’m living inside one.”
Behind me, the ancient transceiver gives its telltale blip… blip. I don’t need to check—I recognize the signal. Helix 25, closing in. The one ship people still whisper about like it’s a myth with plumbing. Part of me grins. Half nostalgia, half challenge.
Back in ’27, I shipped off to that mad boarding school with the oddball astronaut program. Professors called me a prodigy. I called it stubborn curiosity and a childhood steeped in ghost stories, half-baked prophecies, and improperly labeled pickle jars. The real trick wasn’t the calculus—it was surviving the Curara clan’s brand of creative chaos.
After graduation, I bought into a settlers’ programme. Big mistake. Turns out it was more con than colonization, sold with just enough truth to sting. Some people cracked. I just adjusted course. Spent some time bouncing between jobs, drifted home a couple times for stew and sideways advice, and kept my head sharp. Lesson logged: deceit’s just another puzzle with missing pieces.
A hiss behind the wall cuts into my thoughts—pipes complaining again. I spin, scan the console. Pressure’s holding. “Fine,” which out here means “still not exploding.” Good enough.
I remember the lottery ticket that got me here— 2049, commercial flights to Mars at last soared skyward— and Effin Muck’s big lottery. At last a seat to Mars, on section D. Just sheer luck that felt like a miracle at the time. But while I was floating spaceward, Earth went sideways: asteroid mining gone wrong, panic, nuclear strikes. I watched pieces of home disappear through a porthole while the Mars colonies went silent, one by one. All those big plans reduced to empty shells and flickering lights.
I was supposed to be evacuated, too. Instead, my lowly post at this fueling station—this rust bucket perched on a dusty plateau—kept me in place. Cosmic joke? Probably. But here I am. Still alive. Still tinkering with things that shouldn’t work. Still me.
I reprogrammed the oxygen scrubbers myself. Hacked them with a dusty old patch from Aunt Idle’s “Dream Time” stash. When the power systems started failing and had to cut all the AI support to save on power, I taught myself enough broken assembly code to trick ancient processors into behaving. Improvisation is my mother tongue.
“Mars is quieter than the Inn,” I say aloud, half to myself. “Only upside, really.”
Another ping from the transceiver—it’s getting closer. The Helix 25, humanity’s last-ditch bottle-in-space. They say it’s carrying what’s left of us. Part myth, part mobile city. If I didn’t have the logs, I’d half believe it was a fever dream.
But no dream prepares you for this kind of quiet.
I think about the Inn again. How everyone swore it had secret tunnels, cursed tiles, hallucinations in the pantry. Honestly, it probably did. But it also had love—scrambled, sarcastic love—and enough stories to keep you wondering if any of them were real. That’s where I learned to spot a lie, tell a better one, and stay grounded when the walls started talking.
I smack the comm panel until it stops crackling. That’s the secret to maintenance on Mars: decisive violence.
“All right, Helix,” I mutter. “Let’s see what you’ve got. I’ve got thruster fuel, half-functional docking protocols, and a mean kettle of tea if you’re lucky.”
I catch my reflection in the viewport glass—older, sure. Forty-two now. Taller. Calmer in the eyes. But the glint’s still there, the one that says I’ve seen worse, and I’m still standing. That kid at the Inn would’ve cheered.
Earth’s collapse wasn’t some natural catastrophe—it was textbook human arrogance. Effin Muck’s greedy asteroid mining scheme. World leaders playing hot potato with nuclear codes. It burned. Probably still does… But I can’t afford to stew in it. We’re not here to mourn; we’re here to rebuild. If someone’s going to help carry that torch, it might as well be someone who’s already walked through fire.
I fiddle with the dials on the fuel board. It hums like a tired dragon, but it’s awake. That’s all I need.
“Might be time to pass some of that brilliance along,” I mutter, mostly to the station walls. Somewhere, I bet my siblings are making fun of me. Probably watching soap dramas and eating improperly reheated stew. Bless them. They were my first reality check, and I still measure the world by how weird it is compared to them. Loved them for how hard they made me feel normal after all.
The wind howls across the shutters. I stand up straight, brush the dust off my sleeves. Helix 25 is almost here.
“Showtime,” I say, and grin. Not the nice kind. The kind that says I’ve got one wrench, three working systems, and no intention of rolling over.
The Flying Fish Inn shaped me with every loud, strange, inexplicable day. It gave me humor. It gave me bite. It gave me an unshakable sense of self when everything else fell apart.
So here I stand—keeper of the last Martian fueling post, scrappy guardian of whatever future shows up next.
I glance once more at the transceiver, then hit the big green button to unlock the landing bay.
“Welcome to Mars,” I say, deadpan. Then add, mostly to myself, “Let’s see if they’re ready for me.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – The Murder Board
Evie sat cross-legged on the floor of her cramped workspace, staring at the scattered notes, datapads, and threads taped to the wall. Finding some yarn on the ship had not been as easy as she thought, but it was a nice touch she thought.
The Murder Board, as Riven Holt had started calling it, was becoming an increasingly frustrating mess of unanswered questions.
Riven stood nearby, arms crossed, with a an irritated skepticism. “Almost a week,” he muttered. “We’re no closer than when we started.”
Evie exhaled sharply. “Then let’s go back to the basics.”
She tapped the board, where the crime scene was crudely sketched. The Drying Machine. Granary. Jardenery. Blood that shouldn’t exist.
She turned to Riven. “Alright, let’s list it out. Who are our suspects?”
He looked at his notes, dejected for a moment; “too many, obviously.” Last census on the ship was not accurate by far, but by all AI’s accounts cross-referenced with Finkley’s bots data, they estimated the population to be between 15,000 and 50,000. Give or take.
They couldn’t interview possibly all of them, all the more since there the interest in the murder had waned very rapidly. Apart from the occasional trio of nosy elderly ladies, the ship had returned mostly to the lull of the day-to-day routine.
So they’d focused on a few, and hoped TP’s machine brain could see patterns where they couldn’t.- First, the Obvious Candidates: People with Proximity to the Crime Scene
Romualdo, the Gardener – Friendly, unassuming. He lends books, grows plants, and talks about Elizabeth Tattler novels. But Herbert visited him often. Why?
Dr. Amara Voss – The geneticist. Her research proves the Crusader DNA link, but could she be hiding more? Despite being Evie’s godmother, she couldn’t be ruled out just yet.
Sue Forgelot – The socialite with connections everywhere. She had eluded their request for interviews. —does she know more than she lets on?
The Cleaning Staff – they had access everywhere. And the murder had a clean elegance to it… - Second, The Wild Cards: People with Unknown Agendas
The Lower Deck Engineers – Talented mechanic, with probable cybernetic knowledge, with probable access to unauthorized modifications. Could they kill for a reason, or for hire?
Zoya Kade and her Followers – They believe Helix 25 is on a doomed course, manipulated by a long-dead tycoon’s plan. Would they kill to force exposure of an inconvenient truth?
The Crew – Behind the sense of duty and polite smiles, could any of them be covering something up? - Third, The AI Factor: Sentient or Insentient?
Synthia, the AI – Controls the ship. Omnipresent. Can see everything, and yet… didn’t notice or report the murder. Too convenient.
Other personal AIs – Like Trevor Pee’s programme, most had in-built mechanisms to make them incapable of lying or harming humans. But could one of their access be compromised?
Riven frowned. “And what about Herbert himself? Who was he, really? He called himself Mr. Herbert, but the cat erm… Mandrake says that wasn’t his real name. If we figure out his past, maybe we find out why he was killed.”
Evie rubbed her temples. “We also still don’t know how he was killed. The ship’s safety systems should have shut the machine down. But something altered how the system perceived him before he went in.”
She gestured to another note. “And there’s still the genetic link. What was Herbert doing with Crusader DNA?”
A heavy silence settled between them.
Then TP’s voice chimed in. “Might I suggest an old detective’s trick? When stumped, return to who benefits.”
Riven exhaled. “Fine. Who benefits from Herbert’s death?”
Evie chewed the end of her stylus. “Depends. If it was personal, the killer is on this ship, and it’s someone who knew him. If it was bigger than Herbert, then we’re dealing with something… deeper.”
TP hummed. “I do hate deeper mysteries. They tend to involve conspiracies, misplaced prophecies, and far too many secret societies.”
Evie and Riven exchanged a glance.
Riven sighed. “We need a break.”
Evie scoffed. “Time means nothing here.”
Riven gestured out the window. “Then let’s go see it. The Sun.”
Helix 25 – The Sun-Gazing Chamber
The Sun-Gazing Chamber was one of Helix 25’s more poetic and yet practical inventions —an optically and digitally-enhanced projection of the Sun, positioned at the ship’s perihelion. It was meant to provide a psychological tether, a sense of humanity’s connection to the prime provider of life as they drifted in the void of the Solar System.
It was a beautifully designed setting where people would simply sit and relax, attuned to the shift of days and nights as if still on Earth. The primary setting had been voted to a massive 83.5% to be like in Hawai’i latitude and longitude, as its place was believed to be a reflection of Earth’s heart. That is was a State in the USA was a second thought of course.
Evie sat on the observation bench, staring at the massive, golden sphere suspended in the darkness. “Do you think people back on Earth are still watching the sunrise?” she murmured.
Riven was quiet for a moment. “If there’s anyone left.”
Evie frowned. “If they are, I doubt they got much of a choice.”
TP materialized beside them, adjusting his holographic tie. “Ah, the age-old existential debate: are we the lucky ones who left Earth, or the tragic fools who abandoned it?”
Evie ignored him, glancing at the other ship residents in the chamber. Most people just sat quietly, basking in the light. But she caught snippets of whispers, doubt, something spreading through the ranks.
“Some people think we’re not really where they say we are,” she muttered.
Riven raised an eyebrow. “What, like conspiracy theories?”
TP scoffed. “Oh, you mean the Flat-Earthers?” He tsked. “Who couldn’t jump on the Helix lifeboats for their lives, convinced as they were we couldn’t make it to the stars. They deserved what came to them. Next they’ll be saying Helix 25 never even launched and we’re all just trapped in a simulation of a luxury cruise.”
Evie was shocked at Trevor Pee’s eructation and rubbed her face. “Damn Effin Muck tech, and those “Truth Control” rubbish datasets. I thought I’d thoroughly scrubbed all the old propaganda tech from the system.”
“Ah,” TP said, “but conspiracies are like mold. Persistent. Annoying. Occasionally toxic.”
Riven shook his head. “It’s nonsense. We’re moving. We’ve been moving for decades.”
Evie didn’t look convinced. “Then why do we feel stuck?”
A chime interrupted them.
A voice, over the comms. Solar flare alert.
Evie stiffened.
Then: Stay calm and return to your quarters until further notice.
Evie raised an eyebrow. This was the first time something like that happened. She turned to Riven who was looking at his datapad who was flashing and buzzing.
He said to her: “Stay quiet and come with me, a new death has been reported. Crazy coincidence. It’s just behind the Sun-Gazing chamber actually, in the Zero-G sector.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – Below Lower Decks – Shadow Sector
Kai Nova moved cautiously through the underbelly of Helix 25, entering a part of the Lower Decks where the usual throb of the ship’s automated systems turned muted. The air had a different smell here— it was less sterile, more… human. It was warm, the heat from outdated processors and unmonitored power nodes radiating through the bulkheads. The Upper Decks would have reported this inefficiency.
Here, it simply went unnoticed, or more likely, ignored.
He was being watched.
He knew it the moment he passed a cluster of workers standing by a storage unit, their voices trailing off as he walked by. Not unusual, except these weren’t Lower Deck engineers. They had the look of people who existed outside of the ship’s official structure—clothes unmarked by department insignias, movements too intentional for standard crew assignments.
He stopped at the rendezvous point: an unlit access panel leading to what was supposed to be an abandoned sublevel. The panel had been manually overridden, its system logs erased. That alone told him enough—whoever he was meeting had the skills to work outside of Helix 25’s omnipresent oversight.
A voice broke the silence.
“You’re late.”
Kai turned, keeping his stance neutral. The speaker was of indistinct gender, shaved head, tall and wiry, with sharp green eyes locked on his movements. They wore layered robes that, at a glance, could have passed as scavenged fabric—until Kai noticed the intricate stitching of symbols hidden in the folds.
They looked like Zoya’s brand —he almost thought… or let’s just say, Zoya’s influence. Zoya Kade’s litanies had a farther reach he would expect.
“Wasn’t aware this was a job interview,” Kai quipped, leaning casually against the bulkhead.
“Everything’s a test,” they replied. “Especially for outsiders.”
Kai smirked. “I didn’t come to join your book club. I came for answers.”
A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, followed by the shifting of figures stepping into the faint light. Three, maybe four of them. It could have been an ambush, but that was a display.
“Pilot,” the woman continued, avoiding names. “Seeker of truth? Or just another lost soul looking for something to believe in?”
Kai rolled his shoulders, sensing the tension in the air. “I believe in not running out of fuel before reaching nowhere.”
That got their attention.
The recruiter studied him before nodding slightly. “Good. You understand the problem.”
Kai crossed his arms. “I understand a lot of problems. I also understand you’re not just a bunch of doomsayers whispering in the dark. You’re organized. And you think this ship is heading toward a dead end.”
“You say that like it isn’t.”
Kai exhaled, glancing at the flickering emergency light above. “Synthia doesn’t make mistakes.”
They smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “No. It makes adjustments.” — the heavy tone on the “it” struck him. Techno-bigots, or something else? Were they denying Synthia’s sentience, or just adjusting for gender misnomers, it was hard to tell, and he had a hard time to gauge the sanity of this group.
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered figures.
Kai tilted his head. “You think she’s leading us into the abyss?”
The person stepped closer. “What do you think happened to the rest of the fleet, Pilot?”
Kai stiffened slightly. The Helix Fleet, the original grand exodus of humanity—once multiple ships, now only Helix 25, drifting further into the unknown.
He had never been given a real answer.
“Think about it,” they pressed. “This ship wasn’t built for endless travel. Its original mission was altered. Its course reprogrammed. You fly the vessel, but you don’t control it.” She gestured to the others. “None of us do. We’re passengers on a ride to oblivion, on a ship driven by a dead man’s vision.”
Kai had heard the whispers—about the tycoon who had bankrolled Helix 25, about how the ship’s true directive had been rewritten when the Earth refugees arrived. But this group… they didn’t just speculate. They were ready to act.
He kept his voice steady. “You planning on mutiny?”
They smiled, stepping back into the half-shadow. “Mutiny is such a crude word. We’re simply ensuring that we survive.”
Before Kai could respond, a warning prickle ran up his spine.
Someone else was watching.
He turned slowly, catching the faintest silhouette lingering just beyond the corridor entrance. He recognized the stance instantly—Cadet Taygeta.
Damn it.
She had followed him.
The group noticed, shifting slightly. Not hostile, but suddenly alert.
“Well, well,” the woman murmured. “Seems you have company. You weren’t as careful as you thought. How are you going to deal with this problem now?”
Kai exhaled, weighing his options. If Taygeta had followed him, she’d already flagged this meeting in her records. If he tried to run, she’d report it. If he didn’t run, she might just dig deeper.
And the worst part?
She wasn’t corruptible. She wasn’t the type to look the other way.
“You should go,” the movement person said. “Before your shadow decides to interfere.”
Kai hesitated for half a second, before stepping back.
“This isn’t over,” he said.
Her smile returned. “No, Pilot. It’s just beginning.”
With that, Kai turned and walked toward the exit—toward Taygeta, who was waiting for him with arms crossed, expression unreadable.
He didn’t speak first.
She did.
“You’re terrible at being subtle.”
Kai sighed, thinking quickly of how much of the conversation could be accessed by the central system. They were still in the shadow zone, but that wasn’t sufficient. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” Her voice was even, but her fingers twitched at her side. “You know this is treason, right?”
Kai ran a hand through his hair. “You really think we’re on course for a fresh new paradise?”
Taygeta didn’t answer right away. That was enough of an answer.
Finally, she exhaled. “You should report this.”
“You should,” Kai corrected.
She frowned.
He pressed on. “You know me, Taygeta. I don’t follow lost causes. I don’t get involved in politics. I fly. I survive. But if they’re right—if there’s even a chance that we’re being sent to our deaths—I need to know.”
Taygeta’s fingers twitched again.
Then, with a sharp breath, she turned.
“I didn’t see anything tonight.”
Kai blinked. “What?”
Her back was already to him, her voice tight. “Whatever you’re doing, Nova, be careful. Because next time?” She turned her head slightly, just enough to let him see the edge of her conflicted expression.
“I will report you.”
Then she was gone.
Kai let out a slow breath, glancing back toward the hidden movement behind him.
No turning back now.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
At first, no one noticed.
They were still speculating about the truck—where it had come from, where it might be going, whether following it was a brilliant idea or a spectacularly bad one.
And, after all, Finja was always muttering about something. Dust, filth, things not put back where they belonged.
But then her voice rose till she was all but shouting.
“Of course, they’re all savages. I don’t know how I put up with them! Honestly, I AM AT MY WIT’S END!”
“Finja?” Anya called. “Are you okay?”
Finja strode on, intent on her diatribe.
“No, I don’t know where they are going,” she yelled. “If I knew that, I probably wouldn’t be here, would I?”
Tala hurried to catch up and stepped in front of Finja, blocking her path. “Finja, are you okay? Who are you talking to?”
Finja sighed loudly; it was tedious. People were so obsessed with explanations.
“If you must know,” she said, “I am conversing with my Auntie Finnley in Australia.”
“Ooooh!” Vera’s eyes lit up. “ A relative!”
Yulia, walking between Luka and Lev, giggled. She adored the twins and couldn’t decide which one she liked more. They were both so tall and handsome. Others found it hard to tell them apart but she always could. It was rumoured that at birth they had been joined at the hip.
“Finja is totally bonkers,” she declared cheerfully and the twins smiled in unison.
“I will have you know I’m not bonkers.” Finja felt deeply offended and misunderstood. “I have been communicating with Auntie Finnley since childhood. She was highly influential in my formative years.”
“How so?” asked Tala.
“Few people appreciate the importance of hygiene like my Auntie Finnley. She works as a cleaner at the Flying Fish Inn in the Australian Outback. Lovely establishment I gather. But terrible dust.”
Vera nodded sagely. “A sensible place to survive the apocalypse.”
“Exactly.” Finja rewarded her with a tight smile.
Jian raised an eyebrow. “And she’s alive? Your aunt?”
“I don’t converse with ghosts!” Finja waved a hand dismissively. “They all survived there thanks to the bravery of Aunt Finnley. Had to disinfect the whole inn, mind you. Said it was an absolute nightmare.” Finja shuddered at the thought of it.
Gregor snorted. “You’re telling us you have a telepathic connection with your aunt in Australia… and she is also mostly concerned about … hygiene?”
Finja glared at him. “Standards must be maintained,” she admonished. “Even after the end of the world.”
“Do you talk to anyone else?” Tala asked. “Or is it just your aunt?”
Finja regarded Tala through slitted eyes. “I’m also talking to Finkley.”
“Where is this Finkley, dear?” asked Anja gently. “Also at the outback?”
“OMG,” Finja said. “Can you imagine those two together?” She cackled at the thought, then pulled herself together. “No. Finkley is on the Helix 25. Practically runs it by all accounts. But also keeps it spotless, of course.”
“Helix 25? The spaceship?” Mikhail asked, suddenly interested. He exchanged glances with Tala who shrugged helplessly.
Yulia laughed. “She’s definitely mad!”
“So what? Aren’t we all,” said Petro.
Molly, who had been quietly watching with Tundra, finally spoke. “And you say they are both… cleaners?” She wasn’t sure what to make of this group. She wondered if it would be better to continue on alone with Tundra? She didn’t want to put the child in any danger.
“Cleanliness runs in the family,” Finja said. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I was mid-conversation.”
She closed her eyes, concentrating. The group watched with interest as her lips moved silently, her brow furrowed in deep thought.
Then, suddenly, she opened her eyes and threw her hands in the air.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she muttered. “Finkley is complaining about dust floating in low gravity. Finnley is complaining about the family not taking their boots off at the door. What a pair of whingers. At least I didn’t inherit THAT.”
She sniffed, adjusted her backpack, and walked on.
The others stood there for a moment, letting it all sink in.
Gregor clapped his hands together. “That was the most wonderfully insane thing I’ve heard since the world ended.”
Mikhail sighed. “So, we are following the direction of the truck?”
Anya nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on Finja. The stress is getting to her, and we have no meds if it escalates.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.
A link to another previous video I quite like.
Some rushes from Corrie and Clove, as we try to advertise the Flying Fish Inn.
La escena comienza con una toma aérea del bush australiano, mostrando extensas áreas de matorrales verdes y marrones, con un camino serpenteante que lleva al Flying Fish Inn, un encantador edificio rústico rodeado de naturaleza salvaje.
La imagen transiciona a una anciana enérgica en el jardín del Inn, riendo junto a un kookaburra posado en su hombro. Su expresión es cálida y acogedora.
La escena cambia rápidamente a la Tía Idle, con trenzas, en una habitación vibrante llena de murales de dreamtime, con las gemelas Clove y Corrie trabajando en su arte.
La vista serena del atardecer desde la veranda del Inn muestra un cielo pintado con tonos de naranja y rosa, mientras el entorno se sumerge en una tranquilidad mágica.
La pantalla se desvanece al logo del Flying Fish Inn, acompañado de información de contacto y un suave toque musical.
[Scene opens with a sweeping aerial shot of the Australian bush, transitioning to the rustic charm of the Flying Fish Inn nestled amidst the wild beauty.]
Narrator (calm, inviting voice): “Escape to the heart of the outback at the Flying Fish Inn, where stories come alive.”
[Cut to Mater, a sprightly centenarian, in the garden with her kookaburra friend, a warm smile on her face.]
Narrator: “Meet Mater, our beloved storyteller, celebrated for her legendary bush tucker cuisine.”
[Quick transition to Aunt Idle, in a vibrant room adorned with dreamtime murals, created by the twins Clove and Corrie.]
Narrator: “Join Aunt Idle, brimming with tales of adventure, and marvel at the dreamtime artwork by the creative twins.”
[Flashes of Prune with a telescope, gazing at the stars, embodying her dream of Mars.]Narrator: “And Prune, the stargazer, connecting dreams and reality under the vast desert sky.”[End with a serene sunset view from the Inn’s veranda, the sky painted with hues of orange and pink.]
Narrator: “Discover the magic of the bush and the warmth of community. Your outback adventure awaits at the Flying Fish Inn.”
[The screen fades to the Flying Fish Inn logo with contact information and a gentle musical flourish.]
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