Search Results for 'thought'

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.

1. 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…
2. 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?
3. 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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Upper Decks – The Pilot’s Seat (Sort Of)

Kai Nova reclined in his chair, boots propped against the console, arms folded behind his head. The cockpit hummed with the musical blipping of automation. Every sleek interface, polished to perfection by the cleaning robots under Finkley’s command, gleamed in a lulling self-sustaining loop—self-repairing, self-correcting, self-determining.

And that meant there wasn’t much left for him to do.

Once, piloting meant piloting. Gripping the yoke, feeling the weight of the ship respond, aligning a course by instinct and skill. Now? It was all handled before he even thought to lift a finger. Every slight course adjustment, to the smallest stabilizing thrust were effortlessly preempted by Synthia’s vast, all-knowing “intelligence”. She anticipated drift before it even started, corrected trajectory before a human could perceive the error.

Kai was a pilot in name only.

A soft chime. Then, the clipped, clinical voice of Cadet Taygeta:

“You’re slacking off again.”

Kai cracked one eye open, groaning. “Good morning, buzzkill.”

She stood rigid at the entryway, arms crossed, datapad in hand. Young, brilliant, and utterly incapable of normal human warmth. Her uniform was pristine—always pristine—with a regulation-perfect collar that probably had never been out of place in their entire life.

“Synthia calculates you’ve spent 76% of your shifts in a reclining position,” the Cadet noted. “Which, statistically, makes you more of a chair than a pilot.”

Kai smirked. “And yet, here I am, still getting credits.”

The Cadet face had changed subtly ; she exhaled sharply. “I don’t understand why they keep you here. It’s inefficient.”

Kai swung his legs down and stretched. “They keep me around for when things go wrong. Machines are great at running the show—until something unexpected happens. Then they come crawling back to good ol’ human instinct.”

“Unexpected like what? Absinthe Pirates?” The Cadet smirked, but Kai said nothing.

She narrowed their eyes, her voice firm but wavering. “Things aren’t supposed to go wrong.”

Kai chuckled. “You must be new to space, Taygeta.”

He gestured toward the vast, star-speckled abyss beyond the viewport. Helix 25 cruised effortlessly through the void, a floating city locked in perfect motion. But perfection was a lie. He could feel it.

There were some things off. At the top of his head, one took precedence.

Fuel — it wasn’t infinite, and despite Synthia’s unwavering quantum computing, he knew it was a problem no one liked talking about. The ship wasn’t meant for this—for an endless voyage into the unknown. It was meant to return.

But that wasn’t happening.

He leaned forward, flipping a display open. “Let’s play a game, Cadet. Humor me.” He tapped a few keys, pulling up Helix 25’s projected trajectory. “What happens if we shift course by, say… two degrees?”

The Cadet scoffed. “That would be reckless. At our current velocity, even a fractional deviation—”

“Just humor me.”

After a pause, she exhaled sharply and ran the numbers. A simulation appeared: a slight two-degree shift, a ripple effect across the ship’s calculated path.

And then—

Everything went to hell.

The screen flickered red.

Projected drift. Fuel expenditure spike. The trajectory extending outward into nowhere.

The Cadet’s posture stiffened. “That can’t be right.”

“Oh, but it is,” Kai said, leaning back with a knowing grin. “One little adjustment, and we slingshot into deep space with no way back.”

The Cadet’s eyes flicked to the screen, then back to Kai. “Why would you test that?”

Kai drummed his fingers on the console. “Because I don’t trust a system that’s been in control for decades without oversight.”

A soft chime.

Synthia’s voice slid into the cockpit, smooth and impassive.

“Pilot Nova. Unnecessary simulations disrupt workflow efficiency.”

Kai’s jaw tensed. “Yeah? And what happens if a real course correction is needed?”

“All adjustments are accounted for.”

Kai and the Cadet exchanged a look.

Synthia always had an answer. Always knew more than she said.

He tapped the screen again, running a deeper scan. The ship’s fuel usage log. Projected refueling points.

All were blank.

Kai’s gut twisted. “You know, for a ship that’s supposed to be self-sustaining, we sure don’t have a lot of refueling options.”

The Cadet stiffened. “We… don’t refuel?”

Kai’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Not unless Synthia finds us a way.”

Silence.

Then, the Cadet swallowed. For the first time, a flicker of something almost human in her expression.

Uncertainty.

Kai sighed, pushing back from the console. “Welcome to the real job, kid.”

Because the truth was simple.

They weren’t driving this ship.

The ship was driving them.

And it all started when all hell broke lose on Earth, decades back, and when the ships of refugees caught up with the Helix 25 on its way back to Earth. One of those ships, his dad had told him, took over management, made it turn around for a new mission, “upgraded” it with Synthia, and with the new order…

The ship was driving them, and there was no sign of a ghost beyond the machine.

Evie stared at TP, waiting for further elaboration. He simply steepled his fingers and smirked, a glitchy picture of insufferable patience.

“You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and leave it hanging,” she said.

“But my dear Evie, I must!” TP declared, flickering theatrically. “For as the great Pea Stoll once mused—‘It was suspicious in a Pea Saucerer’s ways…’”

Evie groaned. “TP—”

“A jest! A mere jest!” He twirled an imaginary cane. “And yet, what do we truly know of the elusive Mr. Herbert? If we wish to uncover his secrets, we must look into his… associations.”

Evie frowned. “Funny you said that, I would have thought ‘means, motive, alibis’ but I must be getting ahead of myself…” He had a point. “By associations, you mean —Seren Vega?”

“Indeed!” TP froze accessing invisible records, then clapped his hands together. “Seren Vega, archivist extraordinaire of the wondrous past, keeper resplendent of forgotten knowledge… and, if the ship’s whisperings hold any weight, a woman Herbert was particularly keen on seeing.”

Evie exhaled, already halfway to the door. “Alright, let’s go see Seren.”

Seren Vega’s quarters weren’t standard issue—too many rugs, too many hanging ornaments, a hint of a passion for hoarding, and an unshakable musky scent of an animal’s den. The place felt like the ship itself had grown around it, heavy with the weight of history.

And then, there was Mandrake.

The bionic-enhanced cat perched on a high shelf, tail flicking, eyes glowing faintly. “What do you want?” he asked flatly, his tone dripping with a well-practiced blend of boredom and disdain.

Evie arched a brow. “Nice to see you too, Mandrake.”

Seren, cross-legged on a cushion, glanced up from her console. “Evie,” she greeted calmly. “And… oh no.” She sighed, already bracing herself. “You’ve brought it —what do you call him already? Orion Reed?”

Evie replied “Great memory Ms Vega, as expected. Yes, this was the name of the beta version —this one’s improved but still working the kinks of the programme, he goes by ‘TP’ nowadays. Hope you don’t mind, he’s helping me gather clues.” She caught herself, almost telling too much to a potential suspect.

TP puffed up indignantly. “I must protest, Madame Vega! Our past encounters, while lively, have been nothing but the height of professional discourse!”

Mandrake yawned. “She means you talk too much.”

Evie hid a smirk. “I need your help, Seren. It’s about Mr. Herbert.”

Seren’s fingers paused over her console. “He’s the one they found in the dryer.” It wasn’t a question.

Evie nodded. “What do you know about him?”

Seren studied her for a moment, then, with a slow exhale, tapped a command into her console. The room dimmed as the walls flickered to life, displaying a soft cascade of memories—public logs, old surveillance feeds, snippets of conversations once lost to time.

“He wasn’t supposed to be here,” Seren said at last. “He arrived without a record. No one really questioned it, because, well… no one questions much anymore. But if you looked closely, the ship never registered him properly.”

Evie’s pulse quickened. TP let out an approving hum.

Seren continued, scrolling through the visuals. “He came to me, sometimes. Asked about old Earth history. Strange, fragmented questions. He wanted to know how records were kept, how things could be erased.”

Evie and TP exchanged a glance.

Seren frowned slightly, as if piecing together a thought she hadn’t dared before. “And then… he stopped coming.”

Mandrake, still watching from his shelf, stretched lazily. Then, with perfect nonchalance, he added, “Oh yeah. And he wasn’t using his real name.”

Evie snapped to attention. “What?”

The cat flicked his tail. “Mr. Herbert. The name was fake. He called himself that, but it wasn’t what the system had logged when he first stepped on board.”

Seren turned sharply toward him. “Mandrake, you never mentioned this before.”

The cat yawned. “You never asked.”

Evie felt a chill roll through her. “So what was his real name?”

Mandrake’s eyes glowed, data scrolling in his enhanced vision.

“Something about… Ethan,” he mused. “Ethan… M.”

The room went very still.

Evie swallowed hard. “Ethan Marlowe?”

Seren paled. “Ellis Marlowe’s son.”

TP, for once, was silent.

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

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

A flicker of light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evie looked up. “Go on.”

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

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

She tapped rapidly through the logs. Her stomach dropped.

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

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

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

It was premeditated.

It was Evie who found the body.

Word spread fast, even on a ship this size. Evie, though properly shocked wasted no time telling Sue—because everyone knew if something serious happened, Sue was the one to go to. Not that anything like this had ever happened before.

Sue knew exactly what to do.

“Let’s not panick, folks” Sue’s voice crackled on her radio channel over the ship’s comms, after the chirpy jingle had faded into static “We’ve had a… situation. A dead person’s been found. In the drying machine.”

Naturally, everyone panicked.

For one, it had been long since anybody’d died. They had ways to preserve people these days —if someone got too close to the edge, easy: put them in cryo, sleep it out for a bit, pump them full of rejuv’ drugs, the lots. They would come up a bit disoriented, but mostly alive.

But this one, when Evie found him, he was all shrivelled and dried up, tangled in the bags full of tiger nuts meant for kids snacks. Mr Herbert she thought ; hard to tell. She thought she’d recognized him despite he’d looked barely human, a husk.

It could have been an accident, but then the AI would have stopped the machine. One had forgotten such things could happen.

It wasn’t long before everyone started to whisper about this long forgotten word.

Murder.

As sure as they’d been stuck in that nebula for the past three weeks, and now… someone had just turned up dead.