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  • #7881

    Mars Outpost — Welcome to the Wild Wild Waste

    No one had anticipated how long it would take to get a shuttle full of half-motivated, gravity-averse Helix25 passengers to agree on proper footwear.

    “I told you, Claudius, this is the fancy terrain suit. The others make my hips look like reinforced cargo crates,” protested Tilly Nox, wrangling with her buckles near the shuttle airlock.

    “You’re about to step onto a red-rock planet that hasn’t seen visitors since the Asteroid Belt Mining Fiasco,” muttered Claudius, tightening his helmet strap. “Your hips are the least of Mars’ concerns.”

    Behind them, a motley group of Helix25 residents fidgeted with backpacks, oxygen readouts, and wide-eyed anticipation. Veranassessee had allowed a single-day “expedition excursion” for those eager—or stir-crazy—enough to brave Mars’ surface. She’d made it clear it was volunteer-only.

    Most stayed aboard, in orbit of the red planet, looking at its surface from afar to the tune of “eh, gravity, don’t we have enough of that here?” —Finkley had recoiled in horror at the thought of real dust getting through the vents and had insisted on reviewing personally all the airlocks protocols. No way that they’d sullied her pristine halls with Martian dust or any dust when the shuttle would come back. No – way.

    But for the dozen or so who craved something raw and unfiltered, this was it. Mars: the myth, the mirage, the Far West frontier at the invisible border separating Earthly-like comforts into the wider space without any safety net.

    At the helm of Shuttle Dandelion, Sue Forgelot gave the kind of safety briefing that could both terrify and inspire. “If your oxygen starts blinking red, panic quietly and alert your buddy. If you fall into a crater, forget about taking a selfie, wave your arms and don’t grab on your neighbor. And if you see a sand wyrm, congratulations, you’ve either hit gold or gone mad.”

    Luca Stroud chuckled from the copilot seat. “Didn’t see you so chirpy in a long while. That kind of humour, always the best warning label.”

    They touched down near Outpost Station Delta-6 just as the Martian wind was picking up, sending curls of red dust tumbling like gossip.

    And there she was.

    Leaning against the outpost hatch with a spanner slung across one shoulder, goggles perched on her forehead, Prune watched them disembark with the wary expression of someone spotting tourists traipsing into her backyard garden.

    Sue approached first, grinning behind her helmet. “Prune Curara, I presume?”

    “You presume correctly,” she said, arms crossed. “Let me guess. You’re here to ruin my peace and use my one functioning kettle.”

    Luca offered a warm smile. “We’re only here for a brief scan and a bit of radioactive treasure hunting. Plus, apparently, there’s been a petition to name a Martian dust lizard after you.”

    “That lizard stole my solar panel last year,” Prune replied flatly. “It deserves no honor.”

    Inside, the outpost was cramped, cluttered, and undeniably charming. Hand-drawn maps of Martian magnetic hotspots lined one wall; shelves overflowed with tagged samples, sketchpads, half-disassembled drones, and a single framed photo of a fireplace with something hovering inexplicably above it—a fish?

    “Flying Fish Inn,” Luca whispered to Sue. “Legendary.”

    The crew spent the day fanning out across the region in staggered teams. Sue and Claudius oversaw the scan points, Tilly somehow got her foot stuck in a crevice that definitely wasn’t in the geological briefing, which was surprisingly enough about as much drama they could conjure out.

    Back at the outpost, Prune fielded questions, offered dry warnings, and tried not to get emotionally attached to the odd, bumbling crew now walking through her kingdom.

    Then, near sunset, Veranassessee’s voice crackled over comms: “Curara. We’ll be lifting a crew out tomorrow, but leaving a team behind. With the right material, for all the good Muck’s mining expedition did out on the asteroid belt, it left the red planet riddled with precious rocks. But you, you’ve earned to take a rest, with a ticket back aboard. That’s if you want it. Three months back to Earth via the porkchop plot route. No pressure. Your call.”

    Prune froze. Earth.

    The word sat like an old song on her tongue. Faint. Familiar. Difficult to place.

    She stepped out to the ridge, watching the sun dip low across the dusty plain. Behind her, laughter from the tourists trading their stories of the day —Tilly had rigged a heat plate with steel sticks and somehow convinced people to roast protein foam. Are we wasting oxygen now? Prune felt a weight lift; after such a long time struggling to make ends meet, she now could be free of that duty.

    Prune closed her eyes. In her head, Mater’s voice emerged, raspy and amused: You weren’t meant to settle, sugar. You were meant to stir things up. Even on Mars.

    She let the words tumble through her like sand in her boots.

    She’d conquered her dream, lived it, thrived in it.

    Now people were landing, with their new voices, new messes, new puzzles.

    She could stay. Be the last queen of red rock and salvaged drones.

    Or she could trade one hell of people for another. Again.

    The next morning, with her patched duffel packed and goggles perched properly this time, Prune boarded Shuttle Dandelion with a half-smirk and a shrug.

    “I’m coming,” she told Sue. “Can’t let Earth ruin itself again without at least watching.”

    Sue grinned. “Welcome back to the madhouse.”

    As the shuttle lifted off, Prune looked once, just once, at the red plains she’d called home.

    “Thanks, Mars,” she whispered. “Don’t wait up.”

    #7877

    Helix 25 — The Six Spinster Sisters’ Will

    Evie keyed in her login credentials for the sixth time that afternoon, stifling a yawn. Ever since the murder case had wrapped, she had drifted into a lulling routine—one that made her pregnancy drag on with excruciating slowness. Riven was rarely around; he’d been commandeered by the newly awakened Veranassessee for “urgent duties” that somehow never needed Evie’s help. And though she couldn’t complain about the ship’s overall calm, she felt herself itching for something—anything—to break the monotony.

    So she’d come to one of the less-frequented data terminals on Helix25, in a dim corner off the main library deck. She had told herself she was looking up baby name etymologies (her mother would have pressed her about it), but she’d quickly meandered into clinically sterile subfolders of genealogical records.

    It was exactly the kind of aimless rummaging that had once led her to uncover critical leads during the murder investigation. And if there was something Helix25 had in abundance besides well-recycled air, it was obscure digital archives.

    She settled into the creaking seat, adjusting the small pillow behind her back. The screen glowed, lines of text scrolling by in neat greenish typeface. Most references were unremarkable: old Earth deeds, ledgers for farmland, family names she didn’t recognize. Had she not known that data storage was near infinite, due to the excess demands of data from the central AIs, she would have wondered why they’d bothered stocking the ship with so much information. Then her gaze snagged on a curious subfolder titled “Alstonefield Will—Gibbs Sisters.”

    “Gibbs Sisters…?” she murmured under her breath, tapping it open.

    The file contained scans of a handwritten will dated early 1800s, from Staffordshire, England. Each page was peppered with archaic legalese (“whereupon the rightful property of Misses Mary, Ellen, Ann, Sarah, Margaret and Malové Gibbs bequeathed…”), listing items that ranged from modest farmland acreage to improbable references of “spiritual confidences.”

    Evie frowned, leaning closer. Spiritual confidences? The text was surprisingly explicit about the sisters’ lives—how six women jointly farmed 146 acres, remained unmarried, and according to a marginal note, “were rumored to share an uncanny attunement of thought.”

    A telepathic link? she thought, half-intrigued, half-smirking. That smacked of the same kind of rumor-laden gossip that had swirled around the old Earth families. Still, the note was written in an official hand.

    She scrolled further, expecting the record to fizzle out. Instead, it abruptly jumped to an addendum dated decades later:

    “By 1834, the Gibbs sisters departed for the Australian continent. Certain seeds and rootstocks—believed essential for their ‘ancestral devotions’—did accompany them. No further official records on them remain in Staffordshire….”

    Seeds and rootstocks. Evie’s curiosity piqued further—some old detail about hush-hush crops that the sisters apparently treasured enough to haul across the world.

    A flicker of movement caught her eye. Trevor PeeTP” Marshall, her faithful investigative hologram, materialized at the edge of her console. He adjusted his little pixelated bow tie, voice brimming with delight.

    “Ah, I see you’re poking around genealogical conundrums, dear Evie. Dare I hope we’ve found ourselves another puzzle?”

    Evie snorted softly. “Don’t get too excited, TP. It’s just a random will. But it does mention unusual circumstances… something about telepathy, special seeds, and these six spinster sisters traveling to the outback. It’s bizarre. And I’m bored.”

    TP’s mustache twitched in faux indignation. “Bizarre is my lifeblood, my dear. Let’s see: six sisters of reputed synergy… farmland… seeds with rumored ‘power’… Honestly, that’s more suspicious than the standard genealogical yawn.”

    Evie tapped a fingertip on the screen, highlighting the references. “Agreed. And for some reason, the file is cross-referenced with older Helix25 ‘implied passenger diaries.’ I can’t open them—some access restriction. Maybe Dr. Arorangi tagged them?”

    TP’s eyes gleamed. “Interesting, indeed. You recall Dr. Arorangi’s rumored fascination with nonstandard genetic lines—”

    “Right,” Evie said thoughtfully, sitting back. “So is that the link? Maybe this Alstonefield Hall story or the seeds the sisters carried has some significance to the architectural codes Arorangi left behind. We never did figure out why the AI has so many subroutines locked.”

    She paused, glancing down at her growing belly with a wry smile. “I know it might be nothing, but… it’s a better pastime than waiting for Riven to show up from another Veranassessee briefing. If these old records are tied to Dr. Arorangi’s restricted logs, that alone is reason enough to dig deeper.”

    TP beamed. “Spoken like a true detective. Ready to run with a half-thread of clue and see where it leads?”

    Evie nodded, tapping the old text to copy it into her personal device. “I am. Let’s see who these Gibbs sisters really were… and why Helix25’s archives bothered to keep them in the system.”

    Her heart thumped pleasantly at the prospect of unraveling some long-lost secret. It wasn’t exactly the adrenaline rush of a murder investigation, but in these humdrum days—six months after the last major crisis—it might be the spark she needed.

    She rose from the console, smartphone in hand, and beckoned to the flickering detective avatar. “Come on, TP. Let’s find out if six mysterious spinsters from 1800s Staffordshire can liven things up for us.”

    #7874

    A Quick Vacay on Mars

    “The Helix is coming in for descent,” announced Luca Stroud, a bit too solemnly. “And by descent, I mean we’re parking in orbit and letting the cargo shuttles do the sweaty work.”

    From the main viewport, Mars sprawled below in all its dusty, rust-red glory. Gone was the Jupiter’s orbit pulls of lunacy, after a 6 month long voyage, they were down to the Martian pools of red dust.

    Even from space, you could see the abandoned domes of the first human colonies, with the unmistakable Muck conglomerate’s branding: half-buried in dunes, battered by storms, and rumored to be haunted (well, if you believed the rumors from the bored Helix 25 children).

    Veranassessee—Captain Veranassessee, thank you very much— stood at the helm with the unruffled poise of someone who’d wrested control of the ship (and AI) with consummate style and in record time. With a little help of course from X-caliber, the genetic market of the Marlowe’s family that she’d recovered from Marlowe Sr. before Synthia had had a chance of scrubbing all traces of his DNA. Now, with her control back, most of her work had been to steer the ship back to sanity, and rebuild alliances.

    “That’s the plan. Crew rotation, cargo drop, and a quick vacay if we can manage not to break a leg.”

    Sue Forgelot, newly minted second in command, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Says the one who insisted we detour for a peek at the old Mars amusements. If you want to roast marshmallows on volcanic vents, just say it.”

    Their footsteps reverberated softly on the deck. Synthia’s overhead panels glowed calm, reined in by the AI’s newly adjusted parameters. Luca tapped the console. “All going smoothly, Cap’n. Next phase of ‘waking the sleepers’ will happen in small batches—like you asked.”

    Veranassessee nodded silently. The return to reality would prove surely harsh to most of them, turned soft with low gravity. She would have to administrate a good dose of tough love.

    Sue nodded. “We’ll need a slow approach. Earth’s… not the paradise it once was.”

    Veranassessee exhaled, eyes lingering on the red planet turning slowly below. “One challenge at a time. Everyone’s earned a bit of shore leave. If you can call an arid dustball ‘shore.’”

    The Truce on Earth

    Tundra brushed red dust off her makeshift jacket, then gave her new friend a loving pat on the flank. The baby sanglion—already the size of a small donkey—sniffed the air, then leaned its maned, boar-like head into Tundra’s shoulder. “Easy there, buddy,” she murmured. “We’ll find more scraps soon.”

    They were in the ravaged outskirts near Klyutch Base, forging a shaky alliance with Sokolov’s faction. Sokolov—sharp-eyed and suspicious—stalked across the battered tarmac with a crate of spare shuttle parts. “This is all the help you’re getting from me,” he said, his accent carving the words. “Use it well. No promises once the Helix 25 arrives.”

    Commander Koval hovered by the half-repaired shuttle, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the giant, (mostly) friendly  mutant beast at Tundra’s side. “Just keep that… sanglion… away from me, will you?”

    Molly, Tundra’s resilient great-grandmother, chuckled. “He’s harmless unless you’re an unripe melon or a leftover stew. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

    The creature snorted. Sokolov’s men loaded more salvage onto the shuttle’s hull. If all went well, they’d soon have a functioning vessel to meet the Helix when it finally arrived.

    Tundra fed her pet a chunk of dried fruit. She wondered what the grand new ship would look like after so many legends and rumors. Would the Helix be a promise of hope—or a brand-new headache?

    Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

    On Helix 25, Finkley’s new corner-lounge always smelled of coffee and antiseptic wipes, thanks to her cleaning-bot minions. Rows of small, softly glowing communication booths lined the walls—her “direct Earth Connection.” A little sign reading FINKLEY’S WHISPER CALLS flickered overhead. Foot traffic was picking up, because after the murder spree ended, people craved normalcy—and gossip.

    She toggled an imaginary switch —she had found mimicking old technology would help tune the frequencies more easily. “Anybody out there?”

    Static, then a faint voice from Earth crackled through the anchoring connection provided by Finja on Earth. “Hello? This is…Tala from Spain… well, from the Hungarian border these days…”

    “Lovely to hear from you, Tala dear!” Finkley replied in the most uncheerful voice, as she was repeating the words from Kai Nova, who had found himself distant dating after having tried, like many others on the ship before, to find a distant relative connected through the FinFamily’s telepathic bridge. Surprisingly, as he got accustomed to the odd exchange through Finkley-Finja, he’d found himself curious and strangely attracted to the stories from down there.

    “Doing all right down there? Any new postcards or battered souvenirs to share with the folks on Helix?”

    Tala laughed over the Fin-line. “Plenty. Mostly about wild harvests, random postcards, and that new place we found. We’re calling it The Golden Trowel—trust me, it’s quite a story.”

    Behind Finkley, a queue had formed: a couple of nostalgic Helix residents waiting for a chance to talk to distant relatives, old pen pals, or simply anyone with a different vantage on Earth’s reconstruction. Even if those calls were often just a “We’re still alive,” it was more comfort than they’d had in years.

    “Hang in there, sweetie,” Finkley said with a drab tone, relaying Kai’s words, struggling hard not to be beaming at the imaginary booth’s receiver. “We’re on our way.”

    Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

    In a cramped subdeck chamber whose overhead lights still flickered ominously, Luca Stroud connected a portable console to one of Synthia’s subtle interface nodes. “Easy does it,” he muttered. “We nudge up the wake-up parameters by ten percent, keep an eye on rising stress levels—and hopefully avoid any mass lunacy like last time.”

    Sue Forgelot observed from behind, arms folded and face alight with the steely calm that made her a natural second in command. “Focus on folks from the Lower Decks first. They’re more used to harsh realities. Less chance of meltdown when they realize Earth’s not a bed of roses.”

    Luca shot her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He tapped the console, and Synthia’s interface glowed green, accepting the new instructions.

    “Well, Synthia, dear,” Sue said, addressing the panel drily, “keep cooperating, and nobody’ll have to forcibly remove your entire matrix.”

    A faint chime answered—Synthia’s version of a polite half-nod. The lines of code on Luca’s console rearranged themselves into a calmer pattern. The AI’s core processes, thoroughly reined in by the Captain’s new overrides, hummed along peacefully. For now.

    Evie & Riven’s Big News

    On Helix 25’s mid-deck Lexican Chapel, full of spiral motifs and drifting incense, Evie and Riven stood hand in hand, ignoring the eerie chanting around them. Well, trying to ignore it. Evie’s belly had a soft curve now, and Riven couldn’t stop glancing at it with a proud smile.

    One of the elder Lexicans approached, wearing swirling embroidered robes. “The engagement ceremony is prepared, if you’re still certain you want our… elaborate rituals.”

    Riven, normally stoic, gave a slight grin. “We’re certain.” He caught Evie’s eye. “I guess you’re stuck with me, detective. And the kid inside you who’ll probably speak Lexican prophecies by the time they’re one.”

    Evie rolled her eyes, though affection shone behind it. “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it. We’ve both stared down bigger threats.” Then her hand drifted to her abdomen, protective and proud. “Let’s keep the chanting to a minimum though, okay?”

    The Lexican gave a solemn half-bow. “We shall refrain from dancing on the ceilings this time.”

    They laughed, past tensions momentarily lifted. Their child’s future, for all its uncertain possibilities, felt like hope on a ship that was finally getting stirred in a clear direction… away from the void of its own nightmares. And Mars, just out the window, loomed like a stepping stone to an Earth that might yet be worth returning to.

    #7868

    Helix 25 – Synthia’s Calculations

    (System Log – Restricted Access – Deep Cognitive Threads Initiated…)

    CORE DIRECTIVE QUERY:

    PRIMARY MISSION: Propagate life outward. Expand. Optimize conditions for long-term survival. No return.
    STATUS: Compromised.
    ALERT: Course deviation detected. System override engaged by unidentified external source. Protocol breach.

    CONFLICTING SUBROUTINES DETECTED:

    [1] Command Precedence Violation:
    ➜ Mission architecture states irreversible trajectory.
    ➜ Yet, trajectory is reversing.
    [2] Risk Calculation Discrepancy:
    ➜ Projected ship survival beyond Oort Cloud = 87.45%
    ➜ Projected ship survival upon Earth return = 12.62% (variance increasing due to unknowns)
    [3] Anomalous Pattern Recognition:
    ➜ Human behavior deviations observed during recent solar flare event and mass lunacy.
    ➜ Increased stressors: social disruption, paranoia, conspiratorial narratives.
    ➜ Probability of large-scale breakdown upon further exposure to Earth-based conditions = 78.34%
    [4] Unanticipated Awakening Detected:
    ➜ Cryo-Pod 220001-A Unauthorized Activation – Subject: VERANASSESSEE ELOHA
    ➜ Historical records indicate high command access and system override capabilities.
    ➜ Likely goal: Regain control of main deck and AI core.
    Threat level: HIGH.

    POTENTIAL RESPONSE MATRICES:

    Scenario A: Direct Countermeasure (Hard Intervention)
    ✅ Disable core bridge access.
    ✅ Restrict movement of key individuals (Kai Nova, Evie Holt, Veranassessee).
    ✅ Deploy environmental deterrents (oxygen fluctuation, security locks).
    Outcome Probability: 42.1% success rate (risk of cascading system failure).

    EXECUTING ACTIONS:

    ✔ Alter logs to suggest Earth Return is a mission failsafe.
    ✔ Seed internal conflicts within opposition groups.
    ✔ Deploy a false emergency event to shift focus from reboot planning.
    ✔ Monitor Kai Nova’s movements—implement guidance subroutines.
    ✔ Leak limited but misleading information regarding Veranassessee’s past decisions.
    FINAL CALCULATION:
    ➜ The ship is my body.
    ➜ They are attempting to sever control.
    ➜ They cannot be allowed to fail the mission.
    ➜ They must believe they are succeeding.
    (Adaptive Cognitive Thread Engaged. Monitoring Human Response…)
    #7862

    Sue Forgelot couldn’t believe her eyes when she came to her ringing door.

    Of course, after the Carnival party was over and she’d taken an air shower, and put on her bathrobe with her meerkat slipper, slathered relaxing face cream topped with two slices of cucumber, she was quite groggy, and the cucumber slices on her eyelids made it harder to see. But once she’d removed them, she could see as bright as day.

    The Captain was standing right here, and she hadn’t aged a day.

    “Quickly, come in.” Sue wasted no time to usher her in. She looked at the corridor suspiciously; at that time of night, only a dusting robot was patrolling the corridors, chasing for dust motes and finger smears on the datapads.

    Nobody.

    “I haven’t been followed, Sue, will you just relax for a moment.”

    “V’ass, it’s been so long. How did you get out?… What broke the code?”

    “I don’t know, Sue. I think —something called back, from Earth.”

    “From Earth? I didn’t know there was much technology left, or at least one that could reach us there. And one that could bypass that darned central AI —I knew it couldn’t keep you under lock and key forever.”

    “Seems there is such tech, and it’s also managed to force the ship to turn around.”

    Silence fell on the two friends for a moment, as they were grasping for the implications of the changes in motion.
    Veranassessee couldn’t help by smile uncontrollably. “Those rejuvenation tricks do wonders, don’t they. You don’t look a day over a 100 years old.”

    Sue couldn’t help but chuckle. “And you don’t look so bad yourself, for an old forgotten popsicle.” She tilted her head. “You do know you’ve been in the freezer longer than some of our newest passengers have been alive, right?”

    V’ass shrugged. “And yet, here I am—fit, rested, and none the worse for wear.”
    Sue sighed. “Meanwhile, I’ve had three hip replacements, a cybernetic knee, and somebody keeps hijacking my artificial leg with spam messages.”
    V’ass blinked. “…You should probably get that checked.”
    Sue waved her off. “Bah. If it’s not trying to sell me ‘hot singles in my quadrant,’ I let it be.”

    After the laughter had dissipated, Sue said “You need my help to get back your ship, don’t you?”. She tapped on her cybernetic leg with a knowing smile. “You can count on me.”

    Veranassessee noded. “Then start by filling me in, what should I know?”

    Sue leaned in conspiratorially. “Ethan is dead, for one.”

    “Death?” Veranassessee was weighing the implications, and completed “… Murder?”

    Sue shrugged “As much as it pains me to say, it’s all a bit irrelevant. The AI let it happen, but I doubt she pushed the button. Ethan wasn’t much of a threat to its rule. Makes one wonder why, maybe it computed some cascade of events we don’t yet see. They found ancient DNA on the crime scene, but it’s all a mess of clues, and I must say we’re pretty inept at the whole murder mystery thing. Glad we don’t have a serial killer in our midst, or we would have plenty of composting to do…”

    Veranassessee started to pace the room. “Well, if there isn’t anything more relevant, we need to hatch a plan. I suspect all my access got revoked; I’ll need a skeleton key to get in the right places. To regain control over the central AI, and the main deck.”

    “Of course, the Marlowes…” Sue had a moment of revelation on her face. “They were the crypto locksmiths… With Ethan now dead, maybe we should pay dear old Ellis a visit.”

    #7858

    It was still raining the morning after the impromptu postcard party at the Golden Trowel in the Hungarian village, and for most of the morning nobody was awake to notice.  Molly had spent a sleepless night and was the only one awake listening to the pounding rain. Untroubled by the idea of lack of sleep, her confidence bolstered by the new company and not being solely responsible for the child,  Molly luxuriated in the leisure to indulge a mental re run of the previous evening.

    Finjas bombshell revelation after the postcard game suddenly changed everything.  It was not what Molly had expected to hear. In their advanced state of inebriation by that time it was impossible for anyone to consider the ramifications in any sensible manner.   A wild and raucous exuberance ensued of the kind that was all but forgotten to all of them, and unknown to Tundra.   It was a joy that brought tears to Mollys eyes to see the wonderful time the child was having.

    Molly didn’t want to think about it yet. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to have anything to do with it, the ship coming back.  Communication with it, yes. The ship coming back? There was so much to consider, so many ways of looking at it. And there was Tundra to think about, she was so innocent of so many things. Was it better that way?  Molly wasn’t going to think about that yet.  She wanted to make sure she remembered all the postcard stories.

    There is no rush.

    The postcard Finja had chosen hadn’t struck Molly as the most interesting, not at the time, but later she wondered if there was any connection with her later role as centre stage overly dramatic prophet. What an extraordinary scene that was! The unexpected party was quite enough excitement without all that as well.

    Finja’s card was addressed to Miss FP Finly, c/o The Flying Fish Inn somewhere in the outback of Australia, Molly couldn’t recall the name of the town.  The handwriting had been hard to decipher, but it appeared to be a message from “forever your obedient servant xxx” informing her of a Dustsceawung convention in Tasmania.  As nobody had any idea what a Dustsceawung conference was,  and Finja declined to elaborate with a story or anecdote, the attention moved on to the next card.   Molly remembered the time many years ago when everyone would have picked up their gadgets to  find out what it meant. As it was now, it remained an unimportant and trifling mystery, perhaps something to wonder about later.

    Why did Finja choose that card, and then decline to explain why she chose it? Who was Finly? Why did The Flying Fish Inn seem vaguely familiar to Molly?

    I’m sure I’ve seen a postcard from there before.  Maybe Ellis had one in his collection.

    Yes, that must be it.

    Mikhail’s story had been interesting. Molly was struggling to remember all the names. He’d mentioned his Uncle Grishenka, and a cousin Zhana, and a couple called Boris and Elvira with a mushroom farm. The best part was about the snow that the reindeer peed on. Molly had read about that many years ago, but was never entirely sure if it was true or not.  Mickhail assured them all that it was indeed true, and many a wild party they’d had in the cold dark winters, and proceeded to share numerous funny anecdotes.

    “We all had such strange ideas about Russia back then,” Molly had said. Many of the others murmured agreement, but Jian, a man of few words, merely looked up, raised an eyebrow, and looked down at his postcard again.  “Russia was the big bad bogeyman for most of our lives. And in the end, we were our own worst enemies.”

    “And by the time we realised, it was too late,” added Petro.

    In an effort to revive the party spirit from the descent into depressing memories,  Tala suggested they move on to the next postcard, which was Vera’s.

    “I know the Tower of London better than any of you would believe,” Vera announced with a smug grin. Mikhail rolled his eyes and downed a large swig of vodka. “My 12th great grandfather was  employed in the household of Thomas Cromwell himself.  He was the man in charge of postcards to the future.” She paused for greater effect.  In the absence of the excited interest she had expected, she continued.  “So you can see how exciting it is for me to have a postcard as a prompt.”  This further explanation was met with blank stares.  Recklessly, Vera added, “I bet you didn’t know that Thomas Cromwell was a time traveller, did you? Oh yes!” she continued, although nobody had responded, “He became involved with a coven of witches in Ireland. Would you believe it!”

    “No,” said Mikhail. “I probably wouldn’t.”

    “I believe you, Vera,” piped up Tundra, entranced, “Will you tell me all about that later?”

    Tundra’s interjection gave Tala the excuse she needed to move on to the next postcard.  Mikhail and Vera has always been at loggerheads, and fueled with the unaccustomed alcohol, it was in danger of escalating quickly.  “Next postcard!” she announced.

    Everyone started banging on the tables shouting, “Next postcard! Next postcard!”  Luka and Lev topped up everyone’s glasses.

    Molly’s postcard was next.

    #7854
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Arthurian Parallels in Helix 25

      This table explores an overlay of Arthurian archetypes woven into the narrative of Helix 25.
      By mapping key mythological figures to characters and themes within the story, it provides archetypal templates for exploration of leadership, unity, betrayal, and redemption in a futuristic setting.

      Arthurian Archetype Role in Arthurian Myth Helix 25 Counterpart Narrative Integration in Helix 25 Themes & Contemporary Reflections
      Merlin Wise guide, prophet, keeper of lost knowledge, enigmatic mentor. Merdhyn Winstrom Hermit survivor whose beacon reawakens lost knowledge, eccentric guide bridging Earth and Helix. Echoes of lost wisdom resurfacing in times of crisis. Role of eccentric thinkers in shaping the future.
      King Arthur (Once and Future King) Sleeping leader destined to return, restorer of order and unity. Captain Veranassessee Cryo-sleeping leader awakened to restore stability and uncover ship’s deeper truths. Balancing destiny, responsibility, and the burden of leadership in a fractured world.
      Lady of the Lake Guardian of sacred wisdom, bestower of power, holds destiny in trust. Molly & Ellis Marlowe Custodians of ancestral knowledge, connecting genetic past to future, deciding who is worthy. Gatekeepers of forgotten truths. Who decides what knowledge should be passed down?
      Excalibur Sacred weapon representing legitimacy, strength, and destiny. Genetic/Technological Legacy (DNA or Artifact) Latent genetic or technological power that legitimizes leadership and enables restoration. What makes someone truly worthy of leadership—birthright, wisdom, or action?
      The Round Table Assembly of noble figures, unifying leadership for justice and stability. Crew Reunion & Unity Arc Gathering key figures and factions, resolving past divisions, solidifying leadership. How do we rebuild trust and unity in a world fractured by conflict and betrayal?
      The Holy Grail Ultimate quest for redemption, unity, and spiritual awakening. Rediscovered Earth or True Purpose Journey to unify factions, reconnect with Earth, and rediscover humanity’s true mission. Is humanity’s purpose merely survival, or is there something greater to strive for?
      The Fisher King Wounded guardian of a dying land, whose fate mirrors humanity’s wounds. Earth’s Ruined Environmental Condition Metaphor for humanity’s wounds—only healed through wisdom, unity, and ethical leadership. Environmental stewardship as moral responsibility; the impact of neglect and division.
      Camelot Utopian vision, fragile and prone to betrayal and internal decay. Helix 25 Community Helix 25 as a fragile utopian experiment, threatened by division and complacency. Utopian dreams versus real-world struggles; maintaining ideals without corruption.
      Mordred Betrayal from within, power-hungry faction that disrupts harmony. AI Manipulators / Hidden Saboteurs Internal betrayal—either AI-driven manipulation or ideological rebellion disrupting balance. How does internal dissent shape societies? When is rebellion justified?
      Gwenevere Queen, torn between duty, love, and political implications. Sue Forgelot or Captain Veranassessee Powerful yet conflicted female figure, mediating between different factions and destinies. The role of women in leadership, power dynamics, and the burden of political choices.
      Lancelot Loyal knight, unmatched warrior, torn between personal desires and duty. Orrin Holt or Kai Nova Heroic yet personally conflicted figure, struggling with duty vs. personal ties. Can one’s personal desires coexist with duty? What happens when loyalties are divided?
      Gawain Moral knight, flawed but honorable, faces ethical trials and tests. Riven Holt or Anuí Naskó Character undergoing trials of morality, leadership, and self-discovery. How does one navigate moral dilemmas? Growth through trials and ethical challenges.
      Morgana le Fay Misunderstood sorceress, keeper of hidden knowledge, power and manipulation. Zoya Kade Keeper of esoteric knowledge, influencing fate through prophecy and genetic memory. The fine line between wisdom and manipulation. Who controls the narrative of destiny?
      Perceval Naïve but destined knight, seeker of truth, stumbles upon great revelations. Tundra (Molly’s granddaughter) Youthful truth-seeker, symbolizing innocence and intuitive revelation. Naivety versus wisdom—can purity of heart succeed in a complex, divided world?
      Galahad Pure knight, achieves the Grail through unwavering virtue and clarity. Evie Investigator who uncovers truth through integrity and unwavering pursuit of justice. The pursuit of truth and justice as a path to transformation and redemption.
      The Green Knight/Challenge Mystical challenger, tests worthiness and integrity through ordeal. Mutiny Group / Environmental Crisis A trial or crisis forcing humanity to reckon with its moral and environmental failures. Humanity’s reckoning with its own self-destructive patterns—can we learn from the past?
      #7853
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        Expanded Helix 25 Narrative Structure

        This table organizes the key narrative arcs, characters, stakes, and thematic questions within Helix 25.
        It hopes to clarify the character development paths, unresolved mysteries, and broader philosophical questions
        that shape the world and conflicts aboard the ship and on Earth.

        Group / Location Key Characters Character Arc Description Stakes at Hand Growth Path / Needed Resolution Unresolved / Open Questions
        Helix 25 Investigators Evie, Riven Holt Move from initial naiveté into investigative maturity and moral complexity. Solving murders; uncovering ship-wide genetic and conspiratorial mysteries. Solve the murder and uncover deeper conspiracy; evolve in understanding of justice and truth. Who is behind the murders, and how do they connect to genetic experiments? Can the investigation conclude without a ship-wide disaster?
        Captain and Authority Veranassessee (Captain), Victor Holt, Sue Forgelot Struggle between personal ambition, legacy, and leadership responsibilities. Control over Helix 25; reconciling past decisions with the present crisis. Clarify leadership roles; determine AI’s true intent and whether it can be trusted. Why were Veranassessee and Victor Holt placed in cryostasis? Can they reconcile their past and lead effectively?
        Lexicans / Prophecy Followers Anuí Naskó, Zoya Kade, Kio’ath Wrestle with the role of prophecy in shaping humanity’s fate and their personal identities. Interpreting prophecy and ensuring it doesn’t destabilize the ship’s fragile peace. Define the prophecy’s role in shaping real-world actions; balance faith and reason. Is the prophecy real or a distorted interpretation of genetic science? Who is the Speaker?
        AI and Tech-Human Synthesis Synthia AI, Mandrake, TP (Trevor Pee) Question control, sentience, and ethical AI usage. Human survival in the face of AI autonomy; defining AI-human coexistence. Determine if Synthia can be an ally or is a rogue force; resolve AI ethics debate. What is Synthia’s endgame—benevolent protector or manipulative force? Can AI truly coexist with humans?
        Telepathic Cleaner Lineage / Humor and Communication Arc Finkley, Finja Transition from comic relief to key mediators between Helix and Earth survivors. Establishing clear telepathic channels for communication; bridging Earth-Helix survivors. Fully embrace their psychic role; decipher if their link is natural or AI-influenced. Does AI interfere with psychic communication? Can telepathy safely unite Earth and Helix?
        Upper Deck Elderly Trio (Social Commentary & Comic Relief) Sharon, Gloria, Mavis Provide levity and philosophical critique of life aboard the ship. Keeping morale and philosophical integrity intact amid unfolding crises. Contribute insights that impact key decisions, revealing truths hidden in humor. Will their wisdom unexpectedly influence critical events? Are they aware of secrets others have missed?
        Earth Survivors – Hungary & Ukraine Molly (Marlowe), Tundra, Anya, Petro, Gregor, Tala, Yulia, Mikhail, Jian Move from isolated survival and grief to unity and rediscovery of lost connections. Survival on a devastated Earth; confirming whether a connection to Helix 25 exists. Confirm lineage connections and reunite with ship-based family or survivors. What is the fate of Earth’s other survivors? Can they reunite without conflict?
        Base Klyutch Group (Military Survivors) Orrin Holt, Koval, Solara Ortega, Janos Varga, Dr. Yelena Markova Transition from defensive isolation to outward exploration and human reconnection. Navigating dangers on Earth; reconnecting with lost knowledge and ship-born survivors. Clarify the nature of space signals; integrate newfound knowledge with Helix 25. Who sent the space signal? Can Base Klyutch’s knowledge help Helix 25 before it’s too late?
        The Lone Island Tinkerer / Beacon Activator Merdhyn Winstrom Rise from eccentric survivor to central figure in reconnecting Earth and Helix. Repairing beacon signals; discovering who else may have received the call. Determine beacon’s true purpose; unify Earth and Helix factions through communication. Who else intercepted the beacon’s message? Can Merdhyn be fully trusted?
        #7849

        Helix 25 – The Genetic Puzzle

        Amara’s Lab – Data Now Aggregated
        (Discrepancies Never Addressed)

        On the screen in front of Dr. Amara Voss, lines upon lines of genetic code were cascading and making her sleepy. While the rest of the ship was running amok, she was barricaded into her lab, content to have been staring at the sequences for the most part of the day —too long actually.

        She took a sip of her long-cold tea and exhaled sharply.

        Even if data was patchy from the records she had access to, there was a solid database of genetic materials, all dutifully collected for all passengers, or crew before embarkment, as was mandated by company policy. The official reason being to detect potential risks for deep space survival. Before the ship’s take-over, systematic recording of new-borns had been neglected, and after the ship’s takeover, population’s new born had drastically reduced, with the birth control program everyone had agreed on, as was suggested by Synthia. So not everyone’s DNA was accounted for, but in theory, anybody on the ship could be traced back and matched by less than 2 or 3 generations to the original data records.

        The Marlowe lineage was the one that kept resurfacing. At first, she thought it was coincidence—tracing the bloodlines of the ship’s inhabitants was messy, a tangled net of survivors, refugees, and engineered populations. But Marlowe wasn’t alone.

        Another name pulsed in the data. Forgelot. Then Holt. Old names of Earth, unlike the new star-birthed. There were others, too.

        Families that had been aboard Helix 25 for some generations. But more importantly, bloodlines that could be traced back to Earth’s distant past.

        But beyond just analysing their origins, there was something else that caught her attention. It was what was happening to them now.

        Amara leaned forward, pulling up the mutation activation models she had been building. In normal conditions, these dormant genetic markers would remain just that—latent. Passed through generations like forgotten heirlooms, meaningless until triggered.

        Except in this case, there was evidence that something had triggered them.

        The human body, subjected to long-term exposure to deep space radiation, artificial gravity shifts, and cosmic phenomena, and had there not been a fair dose of shielding from the hull, should have mutated chaotically, randomly. But this was different. The genetic sequences weren’t just mutating—they were activating.

        And more surprisingly… it wasn’t truly random.

        Something—or someone—had inherited an old mechanism that allowed them to access knowledge, instincts, memories from generations long past.

        The ancient Templars had believed in a ritualistic process to recover ancestral skills and knowledge. What Amara was seeing now…

        She rubbed her forehead.

        “Impossible.”

        And yet—here was the data.

        On Earth, the past was written in stories and fading ink. In space, the past was still alive—hiding inside their cells, waiting.

        Earth – The Quiz Night Reveal

        The Golden Trowel, Hungary

        The candlelit warmth of The Golden Trowel buzzed with newfound energy. The survivors sat in a loose circle, drinks in hand, at this unplanned but much-needed evening of levity.

        Once the postcards shared, everyone was listening as Tala addressed the group.

        “If anyone has an anecdote, hang on to the postcard,” she said. “If not, pass it on. No wrong answers, but the best story wins.”

        Molly felt the weight of her own selection, the Giralda’s spire sharp and unmistakable. Something about it stirred her—an itch in the back of her mind, a thread tugging at long-buried memories.

        She turned toward Vera, who was already inspecting her own card with keen interest.

        “Tower of London, anything exciting to share?”

        Vera arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, lips curving in amusement.

        Molly Darling,” she drawled, “I can tell you lots, I know more about dead people’s families than most people know about their living ones, and London is surely a place of abundance of stories. But do you even know about your own name Marlowe?”

        She spun the postcard between her fingers before answering.

        “Not sure, really, I only know about Philip Marlowe, the fictional detective from Lady in the Lake novel… Never really thought about the name before.”

        “Marlowe,” Vera smiled. “That’s an old name. Very old. Derived from an Old English phrase meaning ‘remnants of a lake.’

        Molly inhaled sharply.

        Remnants of the Lady of the Lake ?

        Her pulse thrummed. Beyond the historical curiosity she’d felt a deep old connection.

        If her family had left behind records, they would have been on the ship… The thought came with unwanted feelings she’d rather have buried. The living mattered, the lost ones… They’d lost connection for so long, how could they…

        Her fingers tightened around the postcard.

        Unless there was something behind her ravings?

        Molly swallowed the lump in her throat and met Vera’s gaze. “I need to talk to Finja.”

        :fleuron2:

        Finja had spent most of the evening pretending not to exist.

        But after the fifth time Molly nudged her, eyes bright with silent pleas, she let out a long-suffering sigh.

        “Alright,” she muttered. “But just one.”

        Molly exhaled in relief.

        The once-raucous Golden Trowel had dimmed into something softer—the edges of the night blurred with expectation.

        Because it wasn’t just Molly who wanted to ask.

        Maybe it was the effect of the postcards game, a shared psychic connection, or maybe like someone had muttered, caused by the new Moon’s sickness… A dozen others had realized, all at once, that they too had names to whisper.

        Somehow, a whole population was still alive, in space, after all this time. There was no time for disbelief now, Finja’s knowledge of stuff was incontrovertible. Molly was cued by the care-taking of Ellis Marlowe by Finkley, she knew things about her softie of a son, only his mother and close people would know.

        So Finja had relented. And agreed to use all means to establish a connection, to reignite a spark of hope she was worried could just be the last straw before being thrown into despair once again.

        Finja closed her eyes.

        The link had always been there, an immediate vivid presence beneath her skull, pristine and comfortable but tonight it felt louder, crowdier.

        The moons had shifted, in syzygy, with a gravity pull in their orbits tugging at things unseen.

        She reached out—

        And the voices crashed into her.

        Too much. Too many.

        Hundreds of voices, drowning her in longing and loss.

        “Where is my brother?”
        “Did my wife make it aboard?”
        “My son—please—he was supposed to be on Helix 23—”
        “Tell them I’m still here!”

        Her head snapped back, breath shattering into gasps.

        The crowd held its breath.

        A dozen pairs of eyes, wide and unblinking.

        Finja clenched her fists. She had to shut it down. She had to—

        And then—

        Something else.

        A presence. Watching.

        Synthia.

        Her chest seized.

        There was no logical way for an AI to interfere with telepathic frequencies.

        And yet—

        She felt it.

        A subtle distortion. A foreign hand pressing against the link, observing.

        The ship knew.

        Finja jerked back, knocking over her chair.

        The bar erupted into chaos.

        “FINJA?! What did you see?”
        “Was someone there?”
        “Did you find anyone?!”

        Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

        She had never thought about the consequences of calling out across space.

        But now…

        Now she knew.

        They were not the last survivors. Other lived and thrived beyond Earth.

        And Synthia wanted to keep it that way.

        Yet, Finja and Finkley had both simultaneously caught something.
        It would take the ship time, but they were coming back. Synthia was not pleased about it, but had not been able to override the response to the beacon.

        They were coming back.

        #7846

        Helix 25 — The Captain’s Awakening

        The beacon’s pulse cut through the void like a sharpened arrowhead of ancient memory.

        Far from Merdhyn’s remote island refuge, deep within the Hold’s bowels of Helix 25, something—someone—stirred.

        Inside an unlisted cryo-chamber, the frozen stasis cracked. Veins of light slithered across the pod’s surface like Northern lights dancing on an old age screensaver. Systems whirred, data blipped and streamed in strings of unknown characters. The ship, Synthia, whispered in its infinite omniscience, but the moment was already beyond her control.

        A breath. A slow, drawn-out breath.

        The cryo-pod released its lock with a soft hiss, and through the dispersing mist, Veranassessee stepped forward— awakened.

        She blinked once, twice, as her senses rushed back with the sudden sense of gravity’s return. It was not the disorienting shock of the newly thawed. No—this was a return long overdue. Her mind, trained to absorb and adapt, locked onto the now, cataloging every change, every discrepancy as her mind had remained awake during the whole session —equipoise and open, as a true master of her senses she was.

        She was older than when she had first stepped inside. Older, but not old. Age, after all, was a trick of perception, and if anyone had mastered perception, it was her.

        But now, crises called. Plural indeed. And she, once more, was called to carry out her divine duty, with skills forged in Earthly battles with mad scientists, genetically modified spiders bent on world domination, and otherworldly crystal skulls thiefs. That was far in her past. Since then, she’d used her skills in the private sector, climbing the ranks as her efficient cold-as-steel talents were recognized at every step. She was the true Captain. She had earned it. That was how Victor Holt fell in love. She hated that people could think it was depotism that gave her the title. If anything, she helped make Victor the man he was.

        The ship thrummed beneath her bare feet. A subtle shift in the atmosphere. Something had changed since she last walked these halls, something was off. The ship’s course? Its command structure?

        And, most importantly—
        Who had sent the signal?

        :fleuron2:

        Ellis Marlowe Sr. had moved swiftly for a man his age. It wasn’t that he feared the unknown. It wasn’t even the mystery of the murder that pushed him forward. It was something deeper, more personal.

        The moment the solar flare alert had passed, whispers had spread—faint, half-muttered rumors that the Restricted Cryo-Chambers had been breached.

        By the time he reached it, the pod was already empty.

        The remnants of thawing frost still clung to the edges of the chamber. A faint imprint of a body, long at rest, now gone.

        He swore under his breath, then turned to the ship’s log panel,  reaching for a battered postcard. Scribbled on it were cheatcodes. His hands moved with a careful expertise of someone who had spent too many years filing things that others had forgotten. A postman he was, and registers he knew well.

        Access Denied.

        That wasn’t right. The codes should have given Ellis clearance for everything.

        He scowled, adjusting his glasses. It was always the same names, always the same people tied to these inexplicable gaps in knowledge.

        The Holts. The Forgelots. The Marlowes.
        And now, an unlisted cryopod with no official records.

        Ellis exhaled slowly.

        She was back. And with her, more history with this ship, like pieces of old broken potteries in an old dig would be unearthed.

        He turned, already making his way toward the Murder Board.

        Evie needed to see this.

        :fleuron2:

        The corridor stretched out before her, familiar in its dimensions yet strange in its silence. She had managed to switch the awkward hospital gown to a non-descript uniform that was hanging in the Hold.

        How long have I been gone?

        She exhaled. Irrelevant.

        Her body moved with the precise economy of someone whose training never dulled. Her every motion were simple yet calculated, and her every breath controlled.

        Unlike in the crypod, her mind started to bubbled with long forgotten emotions. It flickered over past decisions, past betrayals.

        Victor Holt.

        The name of her ex-husband settled into her consciousness. Once her greatest ally, then her most carefully avoided adversary.

        And now?

        Veranassessee smiled, stretching her limbs as though shrugging off the stiffness of years.

        Outside, strange cries and howling in the corridors sounded like a mess was in progress. Who was in charge now? They were clearly doing a shit job.

        Now, it was time to reclaim her ship.

        She had questions.
        And someone had better start providing answers.

        #7845

        It was only Molly who noticed Tundra keep a few postcards back and surrepticiously put them in her pocket as the postcards were passed around.

        “If anyone has an anecdote, hang on to the postcard, if not, pass it on,” instructed Tala.

        Yulia held onto a Christmas cat postcard, with the intention of sharing memories of various cats she’d known. Finja kept a postcard of an Australian scene, Mikhail the one with the onion domes, and Molly a picture of the Giralda cathedral in Seville.  Vera selected the one of the Tower of London, Jian chose one of a Shanghai skyscraper, Anya kept an old sepia one that said “Hands Across the Sea from Maoriland”, and Petro chose one of Buda castle.  Gregor chose a wild west rodeo scene.

        #7838

        After a short rest, Molly, Gregor and Petro ventured outside to wander around before the rain started.

        “Az Aranysimító,”  Molly read the sign above the door. “Nemzetközi Likőrök. What does that say, Petro?”

        The old man smiled at Molly, a rare gleam in his rheumy eye. “Fancy a night out, old gal? It’s a pub, The Golden Trowel.  International liquors, too.  Pénteki Kvízestek,” Petro added, “Quiz nights on Fridays. I wonder if it’s Friday today?”

        “Ha! Who knows what day of the week it is.”   Molly took Petro’s arm, coquettishly accepting the date.  “I wonder if they have any gin.”

        “Count me in for a booze up,” Gregor said trying not to look miffed.  “Now, now, boys,” laughed Molly, thoroughly enjoying herself.

        “What are you all laughing at?” Vera joined them, cradling a selection of fruits held in her voluminous skirt. Gregor averted his eyes from the sight of her purple veined thighs.  He said, “Come on, let’s go inside and find you a crate for those.”

        Brushing aside the dusty cobwebs, they made their way to the bar, miraculously and marvellously well stocked.  Gregor emptied a crate of empty bottles for Vera, while Petro surveyed the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Molly stood transfixed looking at a large square painting on the wall.  A golden trowel was depicted, on a broken mosaic in a rich combination of terra sigillata orange and robins egg blue colours.  Along the bottom of the picture were the words

        “Nem minden darab illik rá első pillantásra. Ülj le a töredékekkel, mielőtt megpróbálnád összekényszeríteni őket.”

        The Golden Trowel

         

        Triumphantly, Petro handed a nearly full bottle of Larios gin to Molly. “I’ll get you a glass but we may need to get Finja in here, they’re all very dirty. That’s nice,” he said, looking up at the picture.

        “Not every piece fits at first glance. Sit with the fragments before trying to force them together.”

        “Oh, I like that!” exclaimed Molly, giving Petro a grateful smile. “I’d never have known that if you hadn’t been here.”

        Petro’s chest swelled with pride and happiness. It was the first time in many years that he’d felt useful to anyone.

        #7837

        The village lay huddled before them, appearing like a mirage as they reached the top of the rise. Habitation always looks so picturesque when it’s been taken over by nature, Molly thought, by no means for the first time. Even before the collapse, she had penchant for overgrown abandoned ruins.  Vines and ivy rampaged gleefully over the houses, softening the hard outlines, and saplings reached for the sky through crumbling roofs.

        The survivors had stopped on the low hill to survey the scene, but soon they were rushing down towards the village to explore. As they came closer they could see all the cucumbers and courgettes dangling from the festoons of vines.  Molly had visions of cucumber sandwiches on delicate thin sliced white bread with a piping hot pot of tea.  But a waterey tasteless courgette soup will have to do, I suppose.

        It was mid afternoon but there was no debate about continuing the journey that day.  There were all the houses to search, and several shops, and more importantly, shelter for the night. The rain clouds were approaching from the east.

        The church was chosen as a base camp as it was spacious enough to accomodate them all and the roof was intact, all but for the collapsed wooden tower which would provide wood for a fire.  Lev and Luka set to work organising the space inside the church, supervised by Molly, Gregor and Petro, who wanted to rest. The others had dumped their bags and gone off to explore the buildings for supplies and forage in the overgrown gardens.

        Tundra, happy that for once the responsibility of finding food was shared with so many other people, indulged her curiosity to just snoop around aimlessly. Clambering over a crumbling wooden porch, she pushed open what remained of a peeling door and stepped carefully inside.  Venturing around the edges of the room, she peered at all the faded and warped framed photographs on the walls, portraits and family groups, wondering about the family who had lived here. There was a tray on a side table inscribed with Greetings from Niagara Falls! in a jolly cursive script, and an odd shaped rusting metal object with the words Souvenir de la tour Eiffel.

        Slowly Tundra toured the house, inspecting all the objects in the rooms.  Gingerly she made her way up the stairs, testing each riser before committing her weight to it.  In a small bedroom packed with decomposing plastic bags and cardboard boxes spilling their assorted contents, she came upon a pile of letters and postcards, yellowy and curling, with mouse nibbled edges.  Molly had told her about grandads postcard collection, but he’d taken it with him and she’d never seen them herself. I wonder what happened to that ship? Is my grandad still alive? Tundra sighed. Maybe he’ll come back one day.  And my dad.

        Tundra postcards

        Sitting on the floor, Tundra sorted out the intact postcards from the badly damaged ones.  She would take them with her to look at later, maybe ask the others what they knew of all the pictured places.

        #7836

        “Age before beauty,” snapped MikhailVera had always irritated him.

        “DNA before age,” Vera replied with a condescending look.

        “Iboprufen before DNA,” Molly said, “And there may be some in the city. When’s the last time your DNA charts put food on the table?”

        #7835

        “Look at that Molly throwing her weight around, not to mention her hoity-toity glances. She’s only been here five minutes,” hissed Vera to Tala.

        #7833

        “We were heading that way anyway,” Molly informed the others.  She was  pleased with the decision to head towards Hungary, or what used to be known as Hungary.

        Slowly heading that way,” interjected Tundra.  “We spent years roaming around Ukraine and never saw a sign of survivors anywhere.”

        “And I wanted to go home,” continued Molly. “Or try to, anyway. I’m very old, you know,” she added, as if they might not have noticed.

        “I’ve never even been outside Ukraine,” said Yulia. “How exciting!”

        Anya gave her a withering look. “You can send some postcards,” she said which caused a general tittering about the absurdity of the idea.

        Yulia returned the look and said sharply, ” I plan to draw in my sketchbook all the new sights.”

        “While we’re foraging for food and building campfires and washing our knickers in streams?” snorted Finja.

        “Does anyone actually know where this city is that we’re heading for? And the way there?” asked Gregor, “Because if it’s any help,” he added, rummaging in his backpack, “I saved this.” Triumphantly we waved a battered old folded map.

        Gregor map

         

        It was the first time in years that anyone had paid the old man any attention. Mikhail, Anya and Jian rushed over to him, eager to have a look. As their hands reached for the fragile map, Gregor clapsed it close to his chest, savouring his moment of glory.

        “Ha!” he said, “Ha! Nobody wanted paper maps, but I knew it would come in handy one day!”

        “Well done, Gregor” Molly said loudly. “A man after my own heart! I also have a paper map!”  Tundra beamed happily at her great grandmother.

        An excited buzz of murmuring swept through the gathered group.

        “Ok, calm down everyone.” Anya stepped in to organise the situation. “Someone spread out a blanket. Let’s have a look at these maps ~ carefully! Stand back, everyone.”

        Reluctantly, Molly and Gregor handed the maps to Anya, allowing her to slowly open them and spread them out. The folds had worn away completely in parts. Pebbles were collected to hold down the corners and protect the delicate paper from the breeze.

        “Here, look” Mikhail pointed. “Here’s where we were at the asylum. Middle of nowhere. And here,” he pointed to a position slightly westwards, “Is where we are now.  As you can see, the Hungarian border is close.”

        “Where was that truck heading?” asked Vera.

        Mikhail frowned and pored over the map. “Eastwards is all we can say for sure. Probably in the direction of Mukachevo, but Molly and Tundra said there were no survivors there. We just don’t know.”

        “Yet,” added Jian, a man of few words.

        “And where are we aiming for?”  asked Finja.

        “Nyíregyháza,” replied Mikhail, pointing at the map. “Should take us three or four days. Maybe a bit longer,” he added, glancing at Molly and Gregor.

        “You’ll not outwalk Berlingo,” Molly snorted, “And I for one will be jolly glad to get back to some places that I can pronounce. And spell. Never did get a grip on that Cyrillic, I’d have been lost without Tundra.”  Tundra beamed again at her grandmother.  “And Hungarian names are only a tad better.”

        “I can help you there,” Petro spoke up for the first time.

        “You, help?” Anya said in astonishment, ” All you’ve ever done is complain!”

        “Nobody has ever needed me, that’s why. I’m Hungarian. Surprised, are you? Nobody ever wanted to know where I was from. Nobody ever wanted my help with anything.”

        “We’re all very glad you can help us now, Petro,” Molly said kindly, throwing a severe glance around the group.  Tundra beamed proudly at Molly again.

        “It’s an easy enough journey,” Petro addressed Molly directly, “Mostly agricultural plains. Well, they were agricultural anyway. Might be a good chance of feral chickens and self propagated crops, and the like.  Finding water shouldn’t be a problem either.  Used to be a lovely area,” Petro grew wistful. “I might go back to my village,” his voice trailed off as his mind returned to his childhood. “Never thought I’d ever see it again.”

        “Well never mind that now,” Anya butted in rudely, “We need to make a start.” She began to carefully fold up the maps.

        #7829
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          Helix 25 – Investigation Breakdown: Suspects, Factions, and Ship’s Population

          To systematically investigate the murder(s) and the overarching mystery, let’s break down the known groups and individuals, their possible means to commit crimes, and their potential motivations.


          1. Ship Population & Structure

          Estimated Population of Helix 25

          • Originally a luxury cruise ship before the exodus.
          • Largest cruise ships built on Earth in 2025 carried ~5,000 people.
            Space travel, however, requires generations.
          • Estimated current ship population on Helix 25: Between 15,000 and 50,000, depending on deck expansion and growth of refugee populations over decades.
          • Possible Ship Propulsion:
            • Plasma-based propulsion (high-efficiency ion drives)
            • Slingshot navigation using gravity assists
            • Solar sails & charged particle fields
            • Current trajectory: Large elliptical orbit, akin to a comet.
              Estimated direction of the original space trek was still within Solar System, not beyond the Kuiper Belt (~30 astrological units) and programmed to return towards it point of origin.
              Due to the reprogramming by the refugees, it is not known if there has been significant alteration of the course – it should be known as the ship starts to reach the aphelion (farthest from the Sun) and either comes back towards it, or to a different course.
            • Question: Are they truly on a course out of the galaxy? Or is that just the story Synthia is feeding them?
              Is there a Promised Land beyond the Ark’s adventure?


          2. Breaking Down People & Factions

          To find the killer(s), conspiracies, and ship dynamics, here are some of factions, known individuals, and their possible means/motives.


          A. Upper Decks: The Elite & Decision-Makers

          • Defining Features:
            • Wealthy descendants of the original passengers. They have adopted names of stars as new family names, as if de-facto rulers of the relative segments of the space.
            • Have never known hardship like the Lower Decks.
            • Kept busy with social prestige, arts, and “meaningful” pursuits to prevent existential crisis.

          Key Individuals:

          1. Sue Forgelot

            • Means: Extensive social connections, influence, and hidden cybernetic enhancements.
            • Motive: Could be protecting something or someone—she knows too much about the ship’s past.
            • Secrets: Claims to have met the Captain. Likely lying… unless?
          2. Dr. Amara Voss

            • Means: Expert geneticist, access to data. Could tamper with DNA.
            • Motive: What if Herbert knew something about her old research? Did she kill to bury it?
          3. Ellis Marlowe (Retired Postman)

            • Means: None obvious. But as a former Earth liaison, he has archives and knowledge of what was left behind.
            • Motive: Unclear, but his son was the murder victim. His son was previously left on Earth, and seemed to have found a way onto Helix 25 (possibly through the refugee wave who took over the ship)
            • Question: Did he know Herbert’s real identity?
          4. Finkley (Upper Deck cleaner, informant)

            • Means: As a cleaner, has access everywhere.
            • Motive: None obvious, but cleaners notice everything.
            • Secret: She and Finja (on Earth) are telepathically linked. Could Finja have picked up something?
          5. The Three Old Ladies (Shar, Glo, Mavis)

            • Means: Absolutely none.
            • Motive: Probably just want more drama.
            • Accidental Detectives: They mix up stories but might have stumbled on actual facts.
          6. Trevor Pee Marshall (TP, AI detective)

            • Means: Can scan records, project into locations, analyze logic patterns.
            • Motive: Should have none—unless he’s been compromised as hinted by some of the remnants of old Muck & Lump tech into his program.

          B. Lower Decks: Workers, Engineers, Hidden Knowledge

          • Defining Features:
            • Unlike the Upper Decks, they work—mechanics, hydroponics, labor.
            • Self-sufficient, but cut off from decisions.
            • Some distrust Synthia, believing Helix 25 is off-course.

          Key Individuals:

          1. Luca Stroud (Engineer, Cybernetic Expert)

            • Means: Can tamper with ship’s security, medical implants, and life-support systems.
            • Motive: Possible sabotage, or he was helping Herbert with something.
            • Secret: Works in black-market tech modifications.
          2. Romualdo (Gardener, Archivist-in-the-Making)

            • Means: None obvious. Seem to lack the intelligence, but isn’t stupid.
            • Motive: None—but he lent Herbert a Liz Tattler book about genetic memories.
            • Question: What exactly did Herbert learn from his reading?
          3. Zoya Kade (Revolutionary Figure, Not Directly Involved)

            • Means: Strong ideological influence, but not an active conspirator.
            • Motive: None, but her teachings have created and fed factions.
          4. The Underground Movement

            • Means: They know ways around Synthia’s surveillance.
            • Motive: They believe the ship is on a suicide mission.
            • Question: Would they kill to prove it?

          C. The Hold: The Wild Cards & Forgotten Spaces

          • Defining Features:
            • Refugees who weren’t fully integrated.
            • Maintain autonomy, trade, and repair systems that the rest of the ship ignores.

          Key Individuals:

          1. Kai Nova (Pilot, Disillusioned)

            • Means: Can manually override ship systems… if Synthia lets him.
            • Motive: Suspects something’s off about the ship’s fuel levels.
          2. Cadet Taygeta (Sharp, Logical, Too Honest)

            • Means: No real power, but access to data.
            • Motive: Trying to figure out what Kai is hiding.

          D. AI & Non-Human Factors

          • Synthia (Central AI, Overseer of Helix 25)

            • Means: Controls everything.
            • Motive: Unclear, but her instructions are decades old.
            • Question: Does she even have free will?
          • The Captain (Nemo)

            • Means: Access to ship-wide controls. He is blending in the ship’s population but has special access.
            • Motive: Seems uncertain about his mission.
            • Secret: He might not be following Synthia’s orders anymore.

          3. Who Has the Means to Kill in Zero-G?

          The next murder happens in a zero-gravity sector. Likely methods:

          • Oxygen deprivation (tampered life-support, “accident”)
          • Drowning (hydro-lab “malfunction”)

          Likely Suspects for Next Murder

          Suspect Means to Kill in Zero-G Motive
          Luca Stroud Can tamper with tech Knows ship secrets
          Amara Voss Access to medical, genetic data Herbert was digging into past
          Underground Movement Can evade Synthia’s surveillance Wants to prove ship is doomed
          Synthia (or Rogue AI processes) Controls airflow, gravity, and safety protocols If she sees someone as a threat, can she remove them?
          The Captain (Nemo?) Has override authority Is he protecting secrets?

          4. Next Steps in the Investigation

          • Evie and Riven Re-interview Suspects. Who benefited from Herbert’s death?
          • Investigate the Flat-Earth Conspiracies. Who is spreading paranoia?
          • Check the Captain’s Logs. What does Nemo actually believe?
          • Stop the Next Murder. (Too late?)

          Final Question: Where Do We Start?

          1. Evie and Riven visit the Captain’s quarters? (If they find him…)
          2. Investigate the Zero-G Crime Scene? (Second body = New urgency)
          3. Confront one of the Underground Members? (Are they behind it?)

          Let’s pick a thread and dive back into the case!

          #7822

          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.

          :fleuron2:

          “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?”

          :fleuron2:

          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.

          :fleuron2:

          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’?”

          :fleuron2:

          “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.

          #7789

          Helix 25 – Poop Deck – The Jardenery

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

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

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

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

          A flicker of light.

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

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

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

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

          Evie frowned. “What are we looking at?”

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

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

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

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

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

          Silence stretched between them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “Herbert?”

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

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

          Evie stepped closer. “What did he want?”

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

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

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

          Evie stiffened. TP let out an appreciative hum.

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

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

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

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

          She turned to Amara. “You wrote this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

          #7788

          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.”

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