Search Results for 'wind'
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Search Results
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In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“Lace, did you say?” asked Cerenise with interest. “I must have a look at it. Stench, you say? How very odd. But I want to see it. Fetch me the container while I look for my mask and rubber gloves.”
“I’m not going near it again, I’ll get Boothroyd to bring it,” Spirius replied making a hasty exit.
“I’d have thought you’d have wanted to bottle the smell, Spirius.”
In due course the gardener appeared holding a container at arms length with a pained expression on his face. “Stinks worse than keeg, this does, and I’ve smelled some manure and compost in my time, but never anything as disgusting as this. Where am I to put it?”
Cerenise cleared a space on a table piled with old books and catalogues. “Gosh, that is a pong, isn’t it! Reminds me of something,” she said twitching her nose. “There is a delicate note of ~ what is it?”
“Dead rats?” suggested Boothroyd helpfully, adding “Will that be all?” as he backed towards the door.
As Cerenise lifted the lid, the gardener turned and fled.
“Why, it’s a Nottingham lace Lambrequin window drape if I’m not mistaken!” exclaimed Cerenise, gently lifting the delicate fabric and holding it up to the light. “Probably 1912 or thereabouts, and in perfect condition.”
“Perfectly rancid,” said Yvoise, her voice muffled by the thick towel she had wrapped around her mouth and nose.
“Come and look, it’s a delightful specimen. Not terribly rare, but it wonderful condition. Oh look! There’s another piece underneath. Aha! seventeenth century bone lace!”
Yvoise crept closer. “What’s that other thing? Is that where the smell’s coming from?”
“By Georges, I think you’re right. It’s a bone bobbin. Bone lace, they used to call it, until they started making bobbins out of wood.” Cerenise was pleased. She could get Mrs Fennel to wash the lace and then she could add it to her collection. “Spirius can bottle the bone bobbin and bury it in Bobbington Woods.”
Duly summoned from the kitchen, the faithful daily woman appeared, drying her hands on her apron.
“Pooo eee!” exclaimed Mrs Fennel, “That’ll need a good boil in bleach, will that!”
“Good lord woman, no! A gentle soak in some soap should do it. It won’t smell half so bad as soon as this bone bobbin is removed.”
“Did you say BONE bobbin?” asked Helier from a relatively safe distance just outside the door. “WHOSE bone?”
“By Georges!” Cerenise said again. “Whose bone indeed! Therein lies the clue to the mystery, you know.”
“Can’t you just put it in a parcel and mail it to someone horrible?” suggested Mrs Fennel.
“A capital idea, Mrs Fennel, a politician. So many horrible ones to choose from though,” Yvoise was already making a mental list.
“We can mail the smelly empty box to the prime minister, but we must keep the bone bobbin safe,” said Helier. “And we must find out whose bones it was made from. Cerenise is right. It’s the clue.”
“An empty smelly box, even better. More fitting, if I do say so myself, for the prime minister,” said Mrs Fennel with some relief. At least she wasn’t going to be required to wash the bone and the box as well as the smelly lace.
In reply to: Finder’s Keepers of the Hoard
A continuous, fast-moving FPV drone shot.
The Start: The camera zips through a sterile, white modern reception area with a sign reading ‘Sanctus Training Ltd.’ It flies over a bored receptionist’s desk and straight through a pair of unassuming double doors.
The Reveal: The moment the doors pass, the world expands impossible. We are now inside a massive, cathedral-like Grand Townhouse built of glowing golden Cotswold stone.
The Hoard: The drone dives into a ‘canyon’ of hoarded objects. It weaves perilously between towering stacks of yellowed newspapers, piles of 17th-century furniture, and a mountain of washing machines.
The Architecture: As the drone speeds up, we pass tall, elegant Georgian windows on the left (showing a blur of an overgrown orchard and stables outside). On the right, the architecture shifts to heavy, rough stone arches—the Medieval Norman wing.
The Details: The camera narrowly misses a hanging chandelier made of plastic coat hangers and crystal, zooms over a grand dining table buried in Roman pottery and taxidermy, and finally flies up towards the vaulted ceiling of a Norman Chapel, where a beam of purple stained-glass light catches dust motes dancing in the air.”
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
As soon as Boothroyd had gone, Laddie Bentry, the under gardener, emerged from behind the Dicksonia squarrosa that was planted in a rare French Majolica Onnaing dragon eagle pot. The pot, and in particular the tree fern residing within it, were Laddie’s favourite specimen, reminding him of his homeland far away.
Keeping a cautious eye on the the door leading into the house, Laddie hurried over to the cast iron planter and retrieved the Liz Tattler novel hidden underneath. Quickly he tucked in into the inside pocket of his shabby tweed jacket and hastened to the door leading to the garden. Holding on to his cap, for the wind was cold and gusty, he ran to the old stable and darted inside. Laddie reckoned he had an hour or two free without Boothroyd hovering over him, and he settled himself on a heap of old sacks.
The Vampire Hoarders of Varna. It wasn’t the first time Laddie had seen Boothroyd surreptitiously reading Helier’s books, and it had piqued his curiosity. What was it the old fart found so interesting about Helier’s novels? The library was full of books, if he wanted to read. Not bothering to read the preface, and not having time to start on page one, Laddie Bentry flicked through the book, pausing to read random passages.….the carriage rattled and lurched headlong through the valley, jostling the three occupants unmercifully. “I’ll have the guts of that coachman for garters! The devil take him!” Galfrey exclaimed, after bouncing his head off the door frame of the compartment.
“Is it bleeding?” asked Triviella, inadvertently licking her lips and she inspected his forehead.
“The devil take you too, for your impertinence,” Galfrey scowled and shook her off, his irritation enhanced by his alarm at the situation they found themselves in.
Ignoring his uncharacteristic bad humour, Triviella snuggled close and and stroked his manly thigh, clad in crimson silk breeches. “Just think about the banquet later,” she purred.
Jacobino, austere and taciturn, on the opposite seat, who had thus far been studiously ignoring both of them, heard the mention of the banquet and smiled for the first time since…
Laddie opened the book to another passage.
“……1631, just before the siege of Gloucester, and what a feast it was! It was hard to imagine a time when we’d feasted so well. Such rich and easy pickings and such a delightful cocktail. One can never really predict a perfect cocktail of blood types at a party, and centuries pass between particularly memorable ones. Another is long overdue, and one would hate to miss it,” Jacobino explained to the innocent and trusting young dairy maid, who was in awe that the handsome young gentleman was talking to her at all, yet understood very little of his dialogue.
“Which is why,” Jacobino implored, taking hold of her small calloused hands, “You must come with me to the banquet tonight.”
Little did she know that her soft rosy throat was on the menu…..
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“Quite fitting that I should get her sleeves,” Cerenise said with satisfaction. “And what a relief that she left the wolf to you, Spirius. I’d not have been able to manage a wolf.” Cerenise popped another cashew nut into her mouth.
Spirius looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “My guess is you’d have managed just fine,” he replied drily. He’d heard all the noise she made behind those locked doors. He’d seen her prancing around the orchard in the moonlight when she thought nobody was watching, naked as the day she was born all those centuries ago. He hadn’t lingered at the window, but he had put two and two together years ago, many years ago, just after the seige of Gloucester. If truth be told, Cerenise’s secret was known to them all, but they hadn’t interfered with her delusion.
“There’s going to come a point, and very soon, when we will have to deal with the water leak, you know,” Yvoise interrupted the inconsequential chatter. “Holy and healing as it may be, it will be the ruin of my collection if it reaches the upper floors.”
“And what do you propose?” asked Helier.
“I suggest we call a plumber!” snapped Yvoise. “This is the 21st century is it not? I know tradesmen are in short supply, and I know this isn’t an ordinary leak, but we should start with the obvious, and then adapt accordingly.”
“I must bottle as much of the holy water as possible before we stop the leak,” Spirius said, standing up abruptly in agitation.
Helier put a calming hand on the old boy’s shoulder. “There’s no rush, Spirius, there’s plenty of water in the cellars, it’s already waist deep down there.”
“And the saints only know what has floated into the cellars by now from the tunnels. Be careful down there, Spirius. Take Boothroyd the gardener with you,” Yvoise advised.
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“In the name of god amen I Auftreberthe saint of wafhing and water of the parifh of Gloucefter in the county of Gloucefterfhire being weak of body but of sound and perfect mind and memory do hereby commit my soul to the almighty and hereby do make thif my laft will and teftament in manner and form af followeth…”
And so began the reading of Austreberthe’s will to the small gathering assembled in the library of the emporium. Bartholomew Gosnold, the aged barrister, stood behind the large oak desk, clearing his throat frequently and pausing to peer over his spectacles. The library was atwinkle with lamps of a variety of styles and ages, but was otherwise dark and vast in the areas outside of the pools of light. Heavy brocade curtains covered the windows, and a fire glowed in the hearth, for it was winter, the last day of the year, and darkness came early and freshly fallen snow blanketed the town in frigid holy silence.
Despite the fire, it was chilly in the library which was rarely heated, and Cerenise wound her ancient Kashmiri shawl aound her neck and shoulders, pausing to finger the cloth appreciatively. It was an exquisite Kani shawl, woven with intricate floral motifs in warm shades of red and plum, soft as a rabbit. She inched her wicker bath chair closer to the fire, accidentally tipping over a small table and sending the contents of a green glazed Tamegroute bowl skittering across the floor.
Yvoise tutted loudly as she rose from her chair to collect all the buttons and stand the little table back up. Luckily the bowl had landed on the Tabriz rug and hadn’t broken.
Bartholomew Gosnold paused until Yvoise had finished, and then resumed his reading of the will, after first clearing his throat again.
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
“Whatever happened to Miss Mossy Trotter, Finnley?” Liz asked, conversationally. She had a good idea what had happened to that innovative story writer, but she wanted to hear what Finnley had to say, before she mentioned it to Godfrey.
“What to YOU think happened to her?” Finnley responded, in her customary rudely intuitive manner.
“Sit down on that stool for a minute, and put the feather duster down,” Liz instructed, “And let’s have a talk about this because we both know that the possible ramifications don’t bear thinking about. Now then, sit still for five minutes and tell me everything.”
Unseen by either of them, Roberto had sidled up to the French windows and was peering inside, listening.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Still visibly shaken, Sir Humphrey blinked up at the canopy. “Is it… raining? Is it raining ants?”
“It’s not rain,” muttered Thiram, checking his gizmos. “Not this time. It’s like… gazebo fallout. I’d venture from dreams hardening midair.”
Kit shuffled closer to Amy, speaking barely above a whisper. “Aunt Amy, is it always like this?”
Amy sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and said, “No, sweetheart. Sometimes it’s worse.”
“Right then,” declared Carob, making frantic gestures in the air, as though she’d been sparring the weather. “We need to triangulate the trajectory of the gazebo, locate the Sabulmantium, and get Sir Humphrey a hat before his dignity leaks out his ears.”
“I feel like Garibaldi,” Sir Humphrey murmured, dazedly stroking his forehead.
“Do you remember who Garibaldi is?” Chico asked, narrowing his eyes.
“No,” the Padre confessed. “But I’m quite certain he’d never have let his gazebo just float off like that.”
Meanwhile, Madam Auringa had reappeared behind a curtain of mist smelling faintly of durian and burnt cinnamon.
“The Sabulmantium has been disturbed,” she intoned. “Intent without anchor will now spill into unintended things. Mice shall hold council. Socks will invert themselves. Lost loves shall write letters that burn before reading.”
“Typical,” muttered Thiram. “We poke one artifact and the entire logic stack collapses.”Kit raised a trembling hand. “Does that mean I’m allowed to choose my name again?”
“No,” said Amy, “But you might be able to remember your original one—depending on how many sand spirals the Sabulmantium spins.”
“I told you,” Chico interjected, gesturing vaguely at where the gazebo had vanished over the treetops. “It was no solar kettle. You were all too busy caffeinating to notice. But it was focusing something. That sand’s shifting intent like wind on a curtain.”
“And we’ve just blown it open,” said Carob.
“Yup,” said Amy. “Guess we’re going gazebo-chasing.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
The wind picked up just as Thiram adjusted the gazebo’s solar kettle. At first, he blamed the rising draft on Carob’s sighing—but quickly figured out that this one had… velocity.
Then the scent came floating by: jasmine, hair spray, and over-steeped calamansi tea.
A gust of hot air blew through the plantation clearing, swirling snack wrappers and curling Amy’s page corners. From the vortex stepped a woman, sequins ablaze, eyeliner undefeated.
She wore a velvet shawl patterned like a satellite weather map.
“Did someone say Auringa?” she cooed, gliding forward as her three crystal balls rotated lazily around her hips like obedient moons.
“Madam Auringa?” Kit asked, wide-eyed.Thiram’s devices were starting to bip, checking for facts. “Madam Auringa claims to have been born during a literal typhoon in the Visayas, with a twin sister who “vanished into the eye.” She’s been forecasting mischief, breakups, and supernatural infestations ever since…”
Carob raised an eyebrow. “Source?”
Humphrey harrumphed: “We don’t usually invite atmospheric phenomena!”
“Doctor Madam Auringa, Psychic Climatologist and Typhoon Romantic,” the woman corrected, removing a laminated badge from her ample bosom. “Bachelor of Arts in Forecasted Love and Atmospheric Vibes. I am both the typhoon… and its early warning system.”
“Is she… floating?” Amy whispered.
“No,” said Chico solemnly, “She’s just wearing platform sandals on a bed of mulch.”
Auringa snapped her fingers. A steamy demitasse of kopi luwak materialized midair and plopped neatly into her hand. It wasn’t for drink, although the expensive brevage born of civet feces had an irrepressible appeal —it was for her only to be peered into.
“This coffee is trembling,” she murmured. “It fears a betrayal. A rendezvous gone sideways. A gazebo… compromised.”
Carob reached for her notes. “I knew the gazebo had a hidden floor hatch.”
Madam Auringa raised one bejeweled finger. “But I have come with warning and invitation. The skies have spoken: the Typhoon Auring approaches. And it brings… revelations. Some shall find passion. Others—ant infestations.”
“Did she just say passion or fashion?” Thiram mumbled.
“Both,” Madam Auringa confirmed, winking at him with terrifying precision.
She added ominously “May asim pa ako!”. Thiram’s looked at his translator with doubt : “You… still have a sour taste?”
She tittered, “don’t be silly”. “It means ‘I’ve still got zest’…” her sultry glance disturbing even the ants.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Another one! A random distant memory wafted into Amy’s mind. Uncle Jack always used to say GATZ e bo. Amy could picture his smile when he said it, and how his wife always smiled back at him and chuckled. Amy wondered if she’d even known the story behind that or if it had always been a private joke between them.
“What’s been going on with my gazebo?” Amy’s father rushed into the scene. So that’s what he looks like. Amy couldn’t take her eyes off him, until Carob elbowed her in the neck.
“Sorry, I meant to elbow you in the ribs, but I’m so tall,” Carob said pointlessly, in an attempt to stop Amy staring at her father as if she’d never seen him before.
Thiram started to explain the situation with the gazebo to Amy’s father, after first introducing him to Kit, the new arrival. “Humphrey, meet Kit, our new LBGYEQCXOJMFKHHVZ story character. Kit, this is Amy’s father who we sometimes refer to as The Padre.”
“Pleased to meet you, ” Kit said politely, quaking a little at the stern glare from the old man. What on earth is he wearing? A tweed suit and a deerstalker, in this heat! How do I know that’s what they’re called? Kit wondered, quaking a little more at the strangeness of it all.
“Never mind all that now!” Humphrey interrupted Thiram’s explanation.
Still as rude as ever! Amy thought.
“I’ve too much to think about, but I’ll tell you this: I’ve planned a character building meeting in the gazebo, and you are all invited. As a matter of fact,” Humphrey continued, “You are all obliged to attend. If you choose not to ~ well, you know what happened last time!”
“What happened last time?” asked Carob, leaning forward in anticipation of an elucidating response, but Humphrey merely glared at her.
Amy sniggered, and Humphrey shot her a lopsided smile. “YOU know what happened in Jack’s GATZ e bo, don’t you, my girl?”
Where were those random memories when you wanted them? Amy had no idea what he was talking about.
“Who else is invited, Humph? asked Chico, resisting the urge to spit.
“My good man,” Humphrey said with a withering look. “Sir Humphrey’s the name to you.”
Sir? what’s he on about now? wondered Amy. Does that make me a Lady?
“Who else is invited, Padre?” Amy echoed.
Humphrey pulled a scroll tied with a purple ribbon out of his waistcoat pocket and unfurled it. Clearing his throat importantly, he read the list to all assembled.
Juan and Dolores Valdez.
Godric, the Swedish barman
Malathion and Glyphosate, Thiram’s triplet brothers. Mal and Glyph for short.
Liz Tattler
Miss Bossy Pants
Goat Horned Draugaskald“Did I forget anyone?” Humphrey asked, peering over his spectacles as he looked at each of the characters. “You lot,” he said, “Amy, Carob, Thiram, Chico, Kit and Ricardo: you will be expected to play hosts, so you might want to start thinking about refreshments. And not,” he said with a strong authoritarian air, “Not just coffee! A good range of beverages. And snacks.”
Thiram, leaning against a tree, started whistling the theme tune to Gone With The Wind. Tossing an irritated glance in his direction, Carob roughly gathered up her mass of frizzy curls and tethered it all in a tight pony tail. I still don’t know what happened before, she fumed silently. The latest developments where making her nervous. Would they find out her secret?
“You guys,” called Chico, who had wandered over to the gazebo. “It’s full of ants.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Carob was the first to find the flyer. It had been pinned to the banyan tree with a teaspoon, flapping just slightly in the wind like it knew how ridiculous it was.
FIVE HURT IN GAZEBO DRAMA
Local Brewmaster Suspected. Coffee Stains Incriminating.She tapped it twice and announced to no one in particular, “I told you gazebos were structurally hostile.”
Amy poked her head out of the linen drying shed. “No, you said they were ‘liminal spaces for domestic deceit.’ That’s not the same as a health hazard.”
“You ever been in a gazebo during a high wind with someone named Derek? Exactly.”
Ricardo ran past them at an awkward crouch, muttering into a device. “…confirming perimeter breach… one is wearing a caftan, possibly hallucinating… I repeat, gazebo situation is active.”
Chico wandered in from the side trail, his shirt unbuttoned, leaf in mouth, mumbling to Kit. “I don’t know what happened. There was a conversation about frothed chalk and cheese, and then everything… rotated.”
Kit looked solemn. “Aunt Amy, he sat on it.”
“He sat on the gazebo?” Amy blinked.
“No. On the incident.”
Kit offered no further explanation.
From the underbrush, a low groan emerged. Thiram’s voice, faint: “Someone built a gazebo over the generator hatch. There are no stairs. I fell in.”
Amy sighed. “Goddammit, Thiram.”
Carob smirked. “Gazebo’d.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
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.”
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
“Nice arse,” said Idle non too quietly, admiring Roberto as he stacked firewood beside the hearth. The gardener glanced round and gave her a cheeky wink. He’d noticed her leaning out of an upstairs window watching him weeding the herbacious border.
“Now, now, Idle, no molesting the staff. I’ll write some men into the story for you later,” Liz said, “But first let’s talk about my new book. I’m wondering what to name the six spinsters. Some kind of a theme. Cerise, Fuschia, Scarlett, Coral, Rose and Magenta?”
“What about Cobalt, Lapis, Cerulean, Indigo, Sapphire and Capri?” offered Idle, topping up their wine glasses. “Chartreuse, Emerald, Jade, Fern, Pistachio and Malachite? Marigold, Saffron, Citron, Amber, Maize and Apricot?”
“How about Bratwurst, Chorizo, Salami, Knackwurst, Bologna and Frankfurter?” suggested Godfrey who was still miffed about all the spare parts being disposed of. “Lasagne, Macaroni, Canneloni, Farfali, Linguini and Ravioli?”
Roberto lit the fire and stood up. “I have an idea, you can call them Trowel, Rake, Hoe, Wheelbarrow, Spade and Secateur.”
“Marvelous Roberto, I love it!” gushed Aunt Idle.
“You’re all mad as a box of frogs, madder than Almad,” Finnley said. “How about Duster, Mop, Bleach, Broom, Dustpan and Cloth?”
“I think this incessant rain is driving us all mad,” Liz said, glancing out of the French windows with a sigh.
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
Moments later, Finnley returned. “There’s a woman at the door. With suitcases. Says you invited her to stay. Nobody told me you were expecting guests.”
“Did you ask who it was?”
“Don’t you know who you invited? She’s a thin woman with awful dreadlocks, too old for dreads if you ask me, speaks with an Australian accent.”
“Ah yes, one of my favourite story characters! She’s come to help me with my new novel.”
“But what about the bedding? Nobody told me to get a bedroom ready for guests,” Finnley replied.
Just then a pretty young French maid appeared through the French windows. “I ‘ave come to ‘elp wiz ze bedding!”
“Fanella, right on cue! Come in dear, and go and help Finnley ~ Finnley, have you shown Aunt Idle in? Take her to the drawing room and I’ll be in directly, then go and help Fanella. And if you’re not careful, I may give Fanella your job, at least she’s willing and doesn’t complain all the time. And take that silly orange mask off, you look a fright.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Mars Outpost — Fueling of Dreams (Prune)
I lean against the creaking bulkhead of this rust-stained fueling station, watching Mars breathe. Dust twirls across the ochre plains like it’s got somewhere important to be. The whole place rattles every time the wind picks up—like the metal shell itself is complaining. I find it oddly comforting. Reminds me of the Flying Fish Inn back home, where the fireplace wheezed like a drunk aunt and occasionally spit out sparks for drama.
Funny how that place, with all its chaos and secret stash hidey-holes, taught me more about surviving space than any training program ever could.
“Look at me now, Mater,” I catch myself thinking, tapping the edge of the viewport with a gloved knuckle. “Still scribbling starships in my head. Only now I’m living inside one.”
Behind me, the ancient transceiver gives its telltale blip… blip. I don’t need to check—I recognize the signal. Helix 25, closing in. The one ship people still whisper about like it’s a myth with plumbing. Part of me grins. Half nostalgia, half challenge.
Back in ’27, I shipped off to that mad boarding school with the oddball astronaut program. Professors called me a prodigy. I called it stubborn curiosity and a childhood steeped in ghost stories, half-baked prophecies, and improperly labeled pickle jars. The real trick wasn’t the calculus—it was surviving the Curara clan’s brand of creative chaos.
After graduation, I bought into a settlers’ programme. Big mistake. Turns out it was more con than colonization, sold with just enough truth to sting. Some people cracked. I just adjusted course. Spent some time bouncing between jobs, drifted home a couple times for stew and sideways advice, and kept my head sharp. Lesson logged: deceit’s just another puzzle with missing pieces.
A hiss behind the wall cuts into my thoughts—pipes complaining again. I spin, scan the console. Pressure’s holding. “Fine,” which out here means “still not exploding.” Good enough.
I remember the lottery ticket that got me here— 2049, commercial flights to Mars at last soared skyward— and Effin Muck’s big lottery. At last a seat to Mars, on section D. Just sheer luck that felt like a miracle at the time. But while I was floating spaceward, Earth went sideways: asteroid mining gone wrong, panic, nuclear strikes. I watched pieces of home disappear through a porthole while the Mars colonies went silent, one by one. All those big plans reduced to empty shells and flickering lights.
I was supposed to be evacuated, too. Instead, my lowly post at this fueling station—this rust bucket perched on a dusty plateau—kept me in place. Cosmic joke? Probably. But here I am. Still alive. Still tinkering with things that shouldn’t work. Still me.
I reprogrammed the oxygen scrubbers myself. Hacked them with a dusty old patch from Aunt Idle’s “Dream Time” stash. When the power systems started failing and had to cut all the AI support to save on power, I taught myself enough broken assembly code to trick ancient processors into behaving. Improvisation is my mother tongue.
“Mars is quieter than the Inn,” I say aloud, half to myself. “Only upside, really.”
Another ping from the transceiver—it’s getting closer. The Helix 25, humanity’s last-ditch bottle-in-space. They say it’s carrying what’s left of us. Part myth, part mobile city. If I didn’t have the logs, I’d half believe it was a fever dream.
But no dream prepares you for this kind of quiet.
I think about the Inn again. How everyone swore it had secret tunnels, cursed tiles, hallucinations in the pantry. Honestly, it probably did. But it also had love—scrambled, sarcastic love—and enough stories to keep you wondering if any of them were real. That’s where I learned to spot a lie, tell a better one, and stay grounded when the walls started talking.
I smack the comm panel until it stops crackling. That’s the secret to maintenance on Mars: decisive violence.
“All right, Helix,” I mutter. “Let’s see what you’ve got. I’ve got thruster fuel, half-functional docking protocols, and a mean kettle of tea if you’re lucky.”
I catch my reflection in the viewport glass—older, sure. Forty-two now. Taller. Calmer in the eyes. But the glint’s still there, the one that says I’ve seen worse, and I’m still standing. That kid at the Inn would’ve cheered.
Earth’s collapse wasn’t some natural catastrophe—it was textbook human arrogance. Effin Muck’s greedy asteroid mining scheme. World leaders playing hot potato with nuclear codes. It burned. Probably still does… But I can’t afford to stew in it. We’re not here to mourn; we’re here to rebuild. If someone’s going to help carry that torch, it might as well be someone who’s already walked through fire.
I fiddle with the dials on the fuel board. It hums like a tired dragon, but it’s awake. That’s all I need.
“Might be time to pass some of that brilliance along,” I mutter, mostly to the station walls. Somewhere, I bet my siblings are making fun of me. Probably watching soap dramas and eating improperly reheated stew. Bless them. They were my first reality check, and I still measure the world by how weird it is compared to them. Loved them for how hard they made me feel normal after all.
The wind howls across the shutters. I stand up straight, brush the dust off my sleeves. Helix 25 is almost here.
“Showtime,” I say, and grin. Not the nice kind. The kind that says I’ve got one wrench, three working systems, and no intention of rolling over.
The Flying Fish Inn shaped me with every loud, strange, inexplicable day. It gave me humor. It gave me bite. It gave me an unshakable sense of self when everything else fell apart.
So here I stand—keeper of the last Martian fueling post, scrappy guardian of whatever future shows up next.
I glance once more at the transceiver, then hit the big green button to unlock the landing bay.
“Welcome to Mars,” I say, deadpan. Then add, mostly to myself, “Let’s see if they’re ready for me.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
A Quick Vacay on Mars
“The Helix is coming in for descent,” announced Luca Stroud, a bit too solemnly. “And by descent, I mean we’re parking in orbit and letting the cargo shuttles do the sweaty work.”
From the main viewport, Mars sprawled below in all its dusty, rust-red glory. Gone was the Jupiter’s orbit pulls of lunacy, after a 6 month long voyage, they were down to the Martian pools of red dust.
Even from space, you could see the abandoned domes of the first human colonies, with the unmistakable Muck conglomerate’s branding: half-buried in dunes, battered by storms, and rumored to be haunted (well, if you believed the rumors from the bored Helix 25 children).
Veranassessee—Captain Veranassessee, thank you very much— stood at the helm with the unruffled poise of someone who’d wrested control of the ship (and AI) with consummate style and in record time. With a little help of course from X-caliber, the genetic market of the Marlowe’s family that she’d recovered from Marlowe Sr. before Synthia had had a chance of scrubbing all traces of his DNA. Now, with her control back, most of her work had been to steer the ship back to sanity, and rebuild alliances.
“That’s the plan. Crew rotation, cargo drop, and a quick vacay if we can manage not to break a leg.”
Sue Forgelot, newly minted second in command, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Says the one who insisted we detour for a peek at the old Mars amusements. If you want to roast marshmallows on volcanic vents, just say it.”
Their footsteps reverberated softly on the deck. Synthia’s overhead panels glowed calm, reined in by the AI’s newly adjusted parameters. Luca tapped the console. “All going smoothly, Cap’n. Next phase of ‘waking the sleepers’ will happen in small batches—like you asked.”
Veranassessee nodded silently. The return to reality would prove surely harsh to most of them, turned soft with low gravity. She would have to administrate a good dose of tough love.
Sue nodded. “We’ll need a slow approach. Earth’s… not the paradise it once was.”
Veranassessee exhaled, eyes lingering on the red planet turning slowly below. “One challenge at a time. Everyone’s earned a bit of shore leave. If you can call an arid dustball ‘shore.’”
The Truce on Earth
Tundra brushed red dust off her makeshift jacket, then gave her new friend a loving pat on the flank. The baby sanglion—already the size of a small donkey—sniffed the air, then leaned its maned, boar-like head into Tundra’s shoulder. “Easy there, buddy,” she murmured. “We’ll find more scraps soon.”
They were in the ravaged outskirts near Klyutch Base, forging a shaky alliance with Sokolov’s faction. Sokolov—sharp-eyed and suspicious—stalked across the battered tarmac with a crate of spare shuttle parts. “This is all the help you’re getting from me,” he said, his accent carving the words. “Use it well. No promises once the Helix 25 arrives.”
Commander Koval hovered by the half-repaired shuttle, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the giant, (mostly) friendly mutant beast at Tundra’s side. “Just keep that… sanglion… away from me, will you?”
Molly, Tundra’s resilient great-grandmother, chuckled. “He’s harmless unless you’re an unripe melon or a leftover stew. Aren’t you, sweetie?”
The creature snorted. Sokolov’s men loaded more salvage onto the shuttle’s hull. If all went well, they’d soon have a functioning vessel to meet the Helix when it finally arrived.
Tundra fed her pet a chunk of dried fruit. She wondered what the grand new ship would look like after so many legends and rumors. Would the Helix be a promise of hope—or a brand-new headache?
Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge
On Helix 25, Finkley’s new corner-lounge always smelled of coffee and antiseptic wipes, thanks to her cleaning-bot minions. Rows of small, softly glowing communication booths lined the walls—her “direct Earth Connection.” A little sign reading FINKLEY’S WHISPER CALLS flickered overhead. Foot traffic was picking up, because after the murder spree ended, people craved normalcy—and gossip.
She toggled an imaginary switch —she had found mimicking old technology would help tune the frequencies more easily. “Anybody out there?”
Static, then a faint voice from Earth crackled through the anchoring connection provided by Finja on Earth. “Hello? This is…Tala from Spain… well, from the Hungarian border these days…”
“Lovely to hear from you, Tala dear!” Finkley replied in the most uncheerful voice, as she was repeating the words from Kai Nova, who had found himself distant dating after having tried, like many others on the ship before, to find a distant relative connected through the FinFamily’s telepathic bridge. Surprisingly, as he got accustomed to the odd exchange through Finkley-Finja, he’d found himself curious and strangely attracted to the stories from down there.
“Doing all right down there? Any new postcards or battered souvenirs to share with the folks on Helix?”
Tala laughed over the Fin-line. “Plenty. Mostly about wild harvests, random postcards, and that new place we found. We’re calling it The Golden Trowel—trust me, it’s quite a story.”
Behind Finkley, a queue had formed: a couple of nostalgic Helix residents waiting for a chance to talk to distant relatives, old pen pals, or simply anyone with a different vantage on Earth’s reconstruction. Even if those calls were often just a “We’re still alive,” it was more comfort than they’d had in years.
“Hang in there, sweetie,” Finkley said with a drab tone, relaying Kai’s words, struggling hard not to be beaming at the imaginary booth’s receiver. “We’re on our way.”
Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot
In a cramped subdeck chamber whose overhead lights still flickered ominously, Luca Stroud connected a portable console to one of Synthia’s subtle interface nodes. “Easy does it,” he muttered. “We nudge up the wake-up parameters by ten percent, keep an eye on rising stress levels—and hopefully avoid any mass lunacy like last time.”
Sue Forgelot observed from behind, arms folded and face alight with the steely calm that made her a natural second in command. “Focus on folks from the Lower Decks first. They’re more used to harsh realities. Less chance of meltdown when they realize Earth’s not a bed of roses.”
Luca shot her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He tapped the console, and Synthia’s interface glowed green, accepting the new instructions.
“Well, Synthia, dear,” Sue said, addressing the panel drily, “keep cooperating, and nobody’ll have to forcibly remove your entire matrix.”
A faint chime answered—Synthia’s version of a polite half-nod. The lines of code on Luca’s console rearranged themselves into a calmer pattern. The AI’s core processes, thoroughly reined in by the Captain’s new overrides, hummed along peacefully. For now.
Evie & Riven’s Big News
On Helix 25’s mid-deck Lexican Chapel, full of spiral motifs and drifting incense, Evie and Riven stood hand in hand, ignoring the eerie chanting around them. Well, trying to ignore it. Evie’s belly had a soft curve now, and Riven couldn’t stop glancing at it with a proud smile.
One of the elder Lexicans approached, wearing swirling embroidered robes. “The engagement ceremony is prepared, if you’re still certain you want our… elaborate rituals.”
Riven, normally stoic, gave a slight grin. “We’re certain.” He caught Evie’s eye. “I guess you’re stuck with me, detective. And the kid inside you who’ll probably speak Lexican prophecies by the time they’re one.”
Evie rolled her eyes, though affection shone behind it. “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it. We’ve both stared down bigger threats.” Then her hand drifted to her abdomen, protective and proud. “Let’s keep the chanting to a minimum though, okay?”
The Lexican gave a solemn half-bow. “We shall refrain from dancing on the ceilings this time.”
They laughed, past tensions momentarily lifted. Their child’s future, for all its uncertain possibilities, felt like hope on a ship that was finally getting stirred in a clear direction… away from the void of its own nightmares. And Mars, just out the window, loomed like a stepping stone to an Earth that might yet be worth returning to.
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
“Godfrey,” Liz peered menacingly over her spectacles at her increasingly rogue editor, “Are you trying to replace me? Because it won’t work, you know.”
“You won’t be able to replace me, either,” Finnley called over her shoulder while sweeping up mouse droppings.
“I too am irreplacable,” shouted Roberto who just happened to be passing the French windows with a trug of prunings.
On impulse, Liz dived through the French windows onto the terrace and snatched the secateurs from the trug over Roberto’s arm. In a trice she had snipped through Godfrey’s cables.
“Pass the peanuts,” intoned Godfrey mechanically, deprived of electricity and with a low back up battery. It wouldn’t be long before he was silent and Liz could get back to the business of writing stories.
“I’ll plug you back in, in a minute,” hissed Finnley to Godfrey, while Liz was diverted with returning the secateurs to the gardener. “Once she’s settled down.”
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
Chapter Title: A Whiff of Inspiration – a work in progress by Elizabeth Tattler
The morning light slanted through the towering windows of the grand old house, casting a warm glow upon the chaos within. Elizabeth Tattler, famed author and mistress of the manor, found herself pacing the length of the room with the grace of a caged lioness. Her mind was a churning whirlpool of creative fury, but alas, it was not the only thing trapped within.
“Finnley!” she bellowed, her voice echoing off the walls with a resonance that only years of authoritative writing could achieve. “Finnley, where are you hiding?”
Finnley, emerging from behind the towering stacks of Liz’s half-finished manuscripts, wielded her trusty broom as if it were a scepter. “I’m here, I’m here,” she grumbled, her tone as prickly as ever. “What is it now, Liz? Another manuscript disaster? A plot twist gone awry?”
“Trapped abdominal wind, my dear Finnley,” Liz declared with dramatic flair, clutching her midsection as if to emphasize the gravity of her plight. “Since two in the morning! A veritable tempest beneath my ribs! I fear this may become the inspiration—or rather, aspiration—for my next novel.”
Finnley rolled her eyes, a gesture she had perfected over years of service. “Oh, for Flove’s sake, Liz. Perhaps you should bottle it and sell it as ‘Creative Muse’ for struggling writers. Now, what do you need from me?”
“Oh, I’ve decided to vent my frustrations in a blog post. A good old-fashioned rant, something to stir the pot and perhaps ruffle a few feathers!” Liz’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “I’m certain it shall incense 95% of my friends, but what better way to clear the mind and—hopefully—the bowels?”
At that moment, Godfrey, Liz’s ever-distracted editor, shuffled in with a vacant look in his eyes. “Did someone mention something about… inspiration?” he asked, blinking as if waking from a long slumber.
“Yes, Godfrey, inspiration!” Liz exclaimed, waving her arms dramatically. “Though in my case, it’s more like… ‘inflation’! I’ve become a gastronaut! ” She chuckled at her own pun, eliciting a groan from Finnley.
Godfrey, oblivious to the undercurrents of the conversation, nodded earnestly. “Ah, splendid! Speaking of which, have you written that opening scene yet, Liz? The publishers are rather eager, you know.”
Liz threw her hands up in mock exasperation. “Dear Godfrey, with my innards in such turmoil, how could I possibly focus on an opening scene?” She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Unless, of course, I were to channel this very predicament into my story. Perhaps a character with a similar plight, trapped on a space station with only their imagination—and intestinal distress—for company.”
Finnley snorted, her stern facade cracking ever so slightly. “A tale of cosmic flatulence, is it? Sounds like a bestseller to me.”
And with that, Liz knew she had found her muse—an unorthodox one, to be sure, but a muse nonetheless. As the words began to flow, she could only hope that relief, both literary and otherwise, was soon to follow.
(story repeats at the beginning)
In reply to: Helix Mysteries – Inside the Case
“Tundra Finds the Shoat-lion”
FADE IN:
EXT. THE GOLDEN TROWEL BAR — DUSK
A golden, muted twilight paints the landscape, illuminating the overgrown ivy and sprawled vines reclaiming the ancient tavern. THE GOLDEN TROWEL sign creaks gently in the breeze above the doorway.
ANGLE DOWN TO — TUNDRA, a spirited and curious 12-year-old girl with a wild, freckled pixie-cut and striking auburn hair, stepping carefully over ivy-covered stones and debris. She wears worn clothes, stitched lovingly by survivors; a scavenged backpack swings on one shoulder.
Behind her, through the windows of the tavern, warm lantern-light flickers. We glimpse MOLLY and GREGOR smiling and chatting quietly through dusty glass.
ANGLE ON — Tundra as she pauses, hearing a soft rustling near the abandoned beer barrels stacked against the tavern wall. Her green eyes widen, alert and intrigued.
SLOW PAN DOWN to reveal a small creature trembling in the shadows—a MARCASSIN, a tiny wild piglet no larger than a rugby ball, with coarse fur streaked ginger and cinnamon stripes along its body. Large dark eyes stare up, innocence mixed with wary curiosity. It’s adorable yet clearly distinct, with sharper canines already hinting at the deeply mutated carnivorous lineage of Hungary’s lion-boars.
Tundra inhales softly, visibly torn between instinctual cautiousness her elders taught and her own irrepressible instinct of compassion.
TUNDRA
(soft, gentle)
“It’s alright…I won’t hurt you.”She crouches slowly, reaching into her pocket—a small piece of stale bread emerges, held in her outstretched hand.
CLOSE-UP on the marcassin’s wary eyes shifting cautiously to her extended palm. A heartbeat of hesitation, and then it takes a tentative step forward, sniffing gently. Tundra holds utterly still, breath held in earnest hope.
The marcassin edges closer, wet nose brushing her fingers softly. Tundra beams, freckles highlighted by the fading sun, warmth and joy glowing on her face.
TUNDRA
(whispering happily)
“You’re not so scary, are you? I’m Tundra… I think we could be friends.”Movement at the tavern door draws her attention. The worn wood creaks as MOLLY and GREGOR step outside, shadows stretching long in the golden sunset. MOLLY’s eyes, initially alert with careful caution, soften at the touching scene.
MOLLY
(gently amused, warmly amused yet apprehensive)
“Careful now, darling. Even the smallest things aren’t always what they seem these days.”GREGOR
(softly chuckling, eyes twinkling)
“But then again, neither are we.”ANGLE ON Tundra, looking up to meet Molly’s eyes. Her determination tempered only by vulnerability, hope, and youthful stubbornness.
TUNDRA
“It needs us, Nana Molly. Everything needs somebody nowadays.”Molly considers the wisdom in Tundra’s young, earnest gaze. Gregor stifles a smile and pats Molly lightly lovingly on the shoulder.
GREGOR
(warmly, quietly)
“Ah, let her find hope where she sees it. Might be that little thing will change how we see hope ourselves.”ANGLE WIDE — the small group beside the tavern: Molly, her wise and caring gaze thoughtful; Gregor’s stance gentle yet cautiously protective; Tundra radiating youthful bravery, cradling newfound companionship as the marcassin squeaks softly, cuddling gently against her worn sweater.
ASCENDING SHOT ABOVE the tumbledown ancient Hungarian tavern, the warm glow of lantern and sunset mingling. Ancient vines and wild weeds whisper forgotten stories as stars blink awake above.
In that gentle hush, beneath a wild and vast sky reclaiming an abandoned land, Tundra’s act of compassion quietly rekindles hope for humanity’s delicate future.
FADE OUT.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Base Klyutch – Dr. Markova’s Clinic, Dusk
The scent of roasting meat and simmering stew drifted in from the kitchens, mingling with the sharper smells of antiseptic and herbs in the clinic. The faint clatter of pots and the low murmur of voices preparing the evening meal gave the air a sense of routine, of a world still turning despite everything. Solara Ortega sat on the edge of the examination table, rolling her shoulder to ease the stiffness. Dr. Yelena Markova worked in silence, cool fingers pressing against bruised skin, clinical as ever. Outside, Base Klyutch was settling into the quiet of night—wind turbines hummed, a sentry dog barked in the distance.
“You’re lucky,” Yelena muttered, pressing into Solara’s ribs just hard enough to make a point. “Nothing broken. Just overworked muscles and bad decisions.”
Solara exhaled sharply. “Bad decisions keep us alive.”
Yelena scoffed. “That’s what you tell yourself when you run off into the wild with Orrin Holt?”
Solara ignored the name, focusing instead on the peeling medical posters curling off the clinic walls.
“We didn’t find them,” she said flatly. “They moved west. Too far ahead. No proper tracking gear, no way to catch up before the lionboars or Sokolov’s men did.”
Yelena didn’t blink. “That’s not what I asked.”
A memory surfaced; Orrin standing beside her in the empty refugee camp, the air thick with the scent of old ashes and trampled earth. The fire pits were cold, the shelters abandoned, scraps of cloth and discarded tin cups the only proof that people had once been there. And then she had seen it—a child’s scarf, frayed and half-buried in the dirt. Not the same one, but close enough to make her chest tighten. The last time she had seen her son, he had worn one just like it.
She hadn’t picked it up. Just stood there, staring, forcing her breath steady, forcing her mind to stay fixed on what was in front of her, not what had been lost. Then Orrin’s hand had settled on her shoulder—warm, steady, comforting. Too comforting. She had jerked away, faster than she meant to, pulse hammering at the sudden weight of everything his touch threatened to unearth. He hadn’t said a word. Just looked at her, knowing, as he always did.
She had turned, found her voice, made it sharp. The trail was already too cold. No point chasing ghosts. And she had walked away before she could give the silence between them the space to say anything else.
Solara forced her attention back to the present, to the clinic. She turned her gaze to Yelena, steady and unmoved. “But that’s what matters. We didn’t find them. They made their choice.”
Yelena clicked her tongue, scribbling something onto her worn-out tablet. “Mm. And yet, you come back looking like hell. And Orrin? He looked like a man who’d just seen a ghost.”
Solara let out a dry breath, something close to a laugh. “Orrin always looks like that.”
Yelena arched an eyebrow. “Not always. Not before he came back and saw what he had lost.”
Solara pushed off the table, rolling out the tension in her neck. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it matters,” Yelena said, setting the tablet down. “You still look at him, Solara. Like you did before. And don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”
Solara stiffened, fingers flexing at her sides. “I have a husband, Yelena.”
“Yes, you do,” Yelena said plainly. “And yet, when you say Orrin’s name, you sound like you’re standing in a place you swore you wouldn’t go back to.”
Solara forced herself to breathe evenly, eyes flicking toward the door.
“I made my choice,” she said quietly.
Yelena’s gaze softened, just a little. “Did he?”
Footsteps pounded outside, uneven, hurried. The clinic door burst open, and Janos Varga—Solara’s husband—strode in, breathless, his eyes bright with something rare.
“Solara, you need to come now,” he said, voice sharp with urgency. “Koval’s team—Orrin—they found something.”
Her spine straightened, her heartbeat accelerated. “What? Did they find…?” No, the tracks were clear, the refugees went west.
Janos ran a hand through his curls, his old radio headset still looped around his neck. “One of Helix 57’s life boat’s wreckage. And a man. Some old lunatic calling himself Merdhyn. And—” he paused, catching his breath, “—we picked up a signal. From space.”
The air in the room tightened. Yelena’s lips parted slightly, the shadow of an emotion passed on her face, too fast to read. Solara’s pulse kicked up.
“Where are they?” she asked.
Janos met her gaze. “Koval’s office.”
For a moment, silence. The wind rattled the windowpanes.
Yelena straightened abruptly, setting her tablet down with a deliberate motion. “There’s nothing more I can do for your shoulder. And I’m coming too,” she said, already reaching for her coat.
Solara grabbed her jacket. “Take us there, Janos.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Klyutch Base – an Unknown Signal
The flickering green light on the old console pulsed like a heartbeat.
Orrin Holt leaned forward, tapping the screen. A faint signal had appeared on their outdated long-range scanners—coming from the coastline near the Black Sea. He exchanged a glance with Commander Koval, the no-nonsense leader of Klyutch Base.
“That can’t be right,” muttered Janos Varga, Solara’s husband who was managing the coms’ beside him. “We haven’t picked up anything out of the coast in years.”
Koval grunted like an irate bear, then exhaled sharply. “It’s not our priority. We already lost track of the fools we were following at the border. Let them go. If they went south, they’ve got bigger problems.”
Outside, a distant roar sliced through the cold dusk—a deep, guttural sound that rattled the reinforced windows of the command room.
Orrin didn’t flinch. He’d heard it before.
It was the unmistakable cry of a pack of sanglions— лев-кабан lev-kaban as the locals called the monstrous mutated beasts, wild vicious boars as ferocious as rabid lions that roamed Hungary’s wilds— and they were hunting. If the escapees had made their way there, they were as good as dead.
“Can’t waste the fuel chasing ghosts,” Koval grunted.
But Orrin was still watching the blip on the screen. That signal had no right to be there, nothing was left in this region for years.
“Sir,” he said slowly, “I don’t think this is just another lost survivor. This frequency—it’s old. Military-grade. And repeating. Someone wants to be found.”
A beat of silence. Then Koval straightened.
“You better be right Holt. Everyone, gear up.”
Merdhyn – Lazurne Coastal Island — The Signal Tossed into Space
Merdhyn Winstrom wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers still trembling from the final connection. He’d made a ramshackle workshop out of a crumbling fishing shack on the deserted islet near Lazurne. He wasn’t one to pay too much notice to the mess or anythings so pedestrian —even as the smell of rusted metal and stale rations had started to overpower the one of sea salt and fish guts.
The beacon’s old circuitry had been a nightmare, but the moment the final wire sparked to life, he had known that the old tech had awoken: it worked.
The moment it worked, for the first time in decades, the ancient transponder from the crashed Helix 57 lifeboat had sent a signal into the void.
If someone was still out there, something was bound to hear it… it was a matter of time, but he had the intuition that he may even get an answer back.
Tuppence, the chatty rat had returned on his shoulder to nestle in the folds of his makeshift keffieh, but squeaked in protest as the old man let out a half-crazed, victorious laugh.
“Oh, don’t give me that look, you miserable blighter. We just opened the bloody door.”
Beyond the broken window, the coastline stretched into the grey horizon. But now… he wasn’t alone.
A sharp, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the distance.
Helicopters.
He stepped outside, the biting wind lashing at his face, and watched the dark shapes appear on the horizon—figures moving through the low mist.
Armed. Military-like.
The men from the nearby Klyutch Base had found him.
Merdhyn grinned, utterly unfazed by their weapons or the silent threat in their stance. He lifted his trembling, grease-stained hands and pointed back toward the wreckage of Helix 57 behind him.
“Well then,” he called, voice almost cheerful, “reckon you lot might have the spare parts I need.”
The soldiers hesitated. Their weapons didn’t lower.
Merdhyn, however, was already walking toward them, rambling as if they’d asked him the most natural of questions.
“See, it’s been a right nightmare. Power couplings were fried. Comms were dead. And don’t get me started on the damn heat regulators. But you lot? You might just be the final missing piece.”
Commander Koval stepped forward, assessing the grizzled old man with the gleam of a genuine mad genius in his eyes.
Orrin Holt, however, wasn’t looking at the wreck.
His eyes were on the beacon.
It was still pulsing, but its pulse had changed — something had been answering back.
