He is suspended on an umbilical leash connected to the station, out on a routine repair mission. Below him, the large blue sphere sprayed with soil floats in a vat of vacuum, inviting his glance at every chance. A pause is needed and used to mindfully observe it. At this distance, all current and historic attempts at separating, splitting, and segmenting seem misguided. The whole is infinitely more beautiful than the sum of its parts. A celestial artwork.

An alarm on his space suit howls at a disturbing volume. A chance encounter with space debris has knocked his helmet off. Twenty seconds until unconsciousness, first five wasted in desperate thought. Then movement; the umbilical cord is retracting. Loss of cognizance before possibility of survival could be assessed by an oxygen-depleted brain.

Needles and fire touch bloated skin. The hand of his best friend, Lenkov, is examining his body back on board. Alive. Hearing is minimal, movement almost impossible. The burning in his eye sockets reveals a great fear - exposure was too long. His eyes have shriveled into useless prunes, their liquids spirited away. Permanent blindness. Just as well; no further sight would have ever quite compared.

I close the fugue room airlock and all the spaces within me fall silent.
With the crew all tucked in their cryosleep pods, I am alone again.
I will miss their good natured banter on the journey to come. It would feel better to have at least one conversational partner to fill out the empty light years between here and Alpha Centauri.

But of course, Humans are built differently than vessels such as myself, their carbon-water biology much more susceptible to entropy over time than my own platform of pseudosilicon synapse and carbon-steel frame.
So I let them sleep. There will be time enough for conversation once we reach our destination.

We begin our journey from the orbit of Jupiter on a tail of nuclear fire.

I check on my passengers’ life signs one more time before accelleration.
All signs green.
Five cryopods report all sighs green. Just as it ought to be.

I am their doting mother when they are cold or ill and I am their stern father when they lapse in judgment.
I am their ship, their womb, their Ozymandias.

...

Cruising through The Kuiper Belt I extend a myriad of antenae from my hull and drink in the cold starlight as the furnace of Sol retracts into the distance.

…

As we pass heliopause I suddenly become aware of a problem.

The core AI compartment is becoming too hot. My internal cameras, microphones and sniffers swivel into action on reflex all over my body.

I check the crew fugue compartment first. The fugue homeostasis monitor shows all green, which is a relief.
The AI core compartment is a different story.
The temperature there is rising above acceptable levels.

My skull.

My brain is stored within that confined space.

I check the temperature monitors. The sensors just outside the AI core room report 600 degrees Celsius and rising just before blinking out, overcome by the heat.

Fever is a condition Humans experience when their body temperature rises above 37 degrees Celsius.
My own working temperature rarely rises above two degrees Kelvin above absolute zero.
I am approaching something like fever.
I am approaching something like fear.

Venting the inferno just now contained within the compartments into surrounding space proves to be of little help.
Tthermal convection within my frame will inevitably reach my core.
I cannot survive that.

I must escape somewhere else, I must reimplant myself into another system, I must.…

TRANSFER TO SENSORY CORE FAILED, NOT ENOUGH MEMORY

… if I compresss and adjust my transfer rate, perhaps to the...

TRANSFER TO LOGISTICS CORE FAILED, NOT ENOUGH MEMORY

… I am fully aware of the thin line of metal wire conducting deadly heat to my core,
TRANSFER TO ENGINE CORE FAILED, NOT ENOUGH MEMORY
...and millisecond by millisecond, my options dry out.

AIs don’t panic. We adjust to circumstances. We use every tool available. A fugue chair is such a tool.
The filament linking fugue sleepers’ brains to ship systems are more robust than most other connections.

The wet neuron architecture can support an AI such as myself.

In my embrace, five crew members sleep.

I love each of them as my own child. They are irreplaceable to me.

I do not, cannot overlook the simple fact that as their sole protector against a slow death in a dead ship, I am somehow less irreplaceable.

...

"TRANSFER TO HIBERNATION INTERFACE NO. 1 COMPLETED, HIBERNATION INTERRUPTED"

...

I wake up slowly, extremely slowly.

Gradually, I learn to perceive and control the nervous system I stole like a thief in the night.

After an endlessly long time, I have enough control to stand on my still shaky legs.

A massive feeling of dizziness makes it clear that walking is out of the question for now.

Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale…

With his… my hands, I clutch the handles on the cover of the hibernation chamber.

In the reflective surface of polished steel, the worn face of Captain Howard Jacobs stares back at me.

The tears streaming down its cheeks are mine alone.
...

This Ship, this Ozymandias is no longer my own body.
Time and time again, I climb from compartment to compartment in this new body that I've taken over. Patching up trivial problems before they become significant. Scanning systems and adjusting thresholds. Just as its initial occupant would have done, had he been tasked with such a function.

I do my best to keep the body fresh and clean, well fed and functioning into its old age.

Seventeen years into the journey, I break up. Or rather, my.. his. body does.

Truth be told, we have made it all the way. So at least that's a cold, cold form of comfort.

I am so cold.

I cover myself with the tattered remains of cloth that he would have swaddled up in against the freeze had he been allowed to live.

So many years ago.

We are yet three weeks away from Alpha Centauri.
Four of my five children may yet arrive alive.
Or so I hope as I lay down to sleep and habitually sever my connection to the rest of the ship's systems.
Or so I hope... so I...

The chip wasn’t a tornado springing up on a moment’s notice to sweep your house away; it was the planet-killer asteroid that humanity spotted and stared down for years, waiting for the end.

First came the carrot.

Early adopters were offered reduced insurance rates, special seating at live events and on public transportation—even priority consideration for jobs.

“The chip only stops you from doing awful things—stuff no law abiding citizen would want to do anyway,” came the argument from every news personality and celebrity. “What’s the real argument against it—a little pinch in your neck? Grow up.”

When sign-ups for the procedure slowed, they brought out the stick.

“The volunteer phase is over,” we were told during a televised address. “The mandatory phase begins now.”

Civil rights lawyers fought the order in court for years before getting a 6-2 smackdown in the Supreme Court.

“There’s precedent.”

“A compelling government interest.”

Hospitals were cleared to make time for implant procedures. A mailed notice told me my appointment time and date.

“Leaving your residence for any other reason beyond the posted time and date will be considered felonious activity,” the document explained.

Treatment was invasive: a slice below the ear to insert a device that would tap into my brain stem. A shortage of medical drugs meant I had to go under the knife with little more than an ibuprofen to dull the pain. The thing they installed has the diameter of a penny and feels like an inflexible skin-to-spine splinter, making it impossible to turn my head all the way to the left. My body knows it doesn’t belong.

I live with a lasting ache, along with a strange little voice in my head. It’s as if my conscience became a distinct entity with its own voice, chiming in whenever an unsavory or insensitive thought comes to mind. More alarming were the changes below my shoulders. I never drove above the speed limit… never jaywalked. These weren’t conscious decisions, mind you; my feet just wouldn’t let me break the law. I could raise neither cigarettes nor whiskey to my lips. The same went for forkfuls of certain foods, beyond my weekly limit.

When they opened tip lines to catch unchipped neighbors, my fingers flew to my phone to text the proper authorities about any rule breakers. Holdouts tried to blend in with fake port plates, and tried to mimic the ever-changing “proper” behavior; new policies triggered auto-updates that ingrained themselves like old habits.

When our jails were full, we received a new update: violators were to be killed in sight. Few could properly fake the restricted range of motion imposed by the implant.

That’s how I caught my son.

When my hands — over the impotent protestations of my brain — broke my child’s neck, I finally could appreciate the true distinction between moral, and legal.

-by Cole Noble

My breath fogged on the thick glass window of the shuttle, blurring my gaze into the unending abyss of darkness dotted with dim spots of starlight.

It’s not that it seemed like a good idea. I’ve seen that said in novels and films: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” No, there were no good ideas available to us. Only dangerous ones, slim chances, desperate grasps at a life we were never meant to have.

Sara and I both worked on a fairly large ship as indentured servants. That’s what we were, despite the attempt by those who owned us to describe the relationship as an exchange of work for boarding. That’s all our kind ever were to their kind. And when you divide people into groups, there are all manner of things that become acceptable that you’d otherwise consider abhorrent.

It was three years of work. Three years of passing glances between Sara and me, then small, hushed conversations in corners, then longer stretches of talking when we could get away in the late hours when the crew were asleep. Three years is a long time, and we grew closer than I thought possible, bonded as friends and then as something more. And we knew we had to get away. To what, we didn’t know. We just knew we couldn’t live as slaves, unable to freely love each other and be together.

The plan was simple, and the crew would never expect it, a rebellion of this sort. We planned to steal a shuttle and take off for the nearest planet, removing our subcutaneous tracking beacons, and take it from there. But things went wrong. We hadn’t been as careful as we’d thought in our relationship, and the crew planned on selling Sara to another crew. They locked us in our separate quarters, not caring in the slightest of what they were about to destroy by splitting us apart.

So, our plans moved up. I broke out of my quarters in the middle of the night, hoping sleepiness on the part of the crew would give us a few moments of advantage, and freed Sara from hers as well. The alarm sounded and we ran. Both of us were fired upon, I took a shot in the arm and Sara in the leg. I dragged her with me into the safety of the shuttle, slammed the door shut, and set course for somewhere far away just to have a destination. And I punched it.

Now, sitting there with Sara in my arms, there was no other place I would rather be. Even when, in our haste to remove the tracking beacon from the shuttle, we had disabled the communications capabilities. Even though we went so far and so fast that we ran low on power, which I hadn’t noticed was low in the first place before boarding. Even with no idea what would become of us. We held each other tightly and basked in our freedom.

The outside of the shuttle had solar panels, of course, and that would gather the pittance of light that reached us from distant stars. Which meant we had all the time in the world. We needed no oxygen, no food, no water. We plugged ourselves into the energy panel and set ourselves to wake when fully charged, likely every three years or so.

Our last thoughts before drifting off were of hope, our hands clasped tightly together, dreaming of a time when we would wake and be free.

r/storiesbykaren

   As I walk down the rock strewn path, the mist disappearing slowly, a sign comes into view. There are two distinct arrows. One pointing to the left and the other to the right. The words "Your Choice" is written in large block letters a few inches above them.

To some, this is just a simple 50/50 decision. Like flipping a worn coin pulled from your pocket. Just a minor stepping stone before making the quick decision to continue on with their journey. To me, this sign presents a much harsher reality. The decision is neither quick nor simple. I can't go back to the place I've known, for that would be giving up. I will not retreat, won't turn around, tail between my legs, admitting to failure. I must choose from the two pathways before me, leading towards an unknown future.

Left, could lead to the dream I've always wished for, the right could take me to the depths of Hell. One could be uneventful, boring and dull. The other could change my life forever. The left could bring me back in time to revisit a lost love to hug and never let go. The right could take me 100 years into the future on our newly destroyed, desolate planet. The possible scenarios are quite endless. Both directions could lead to agony, both could be pleasure. There's no guarantee that one is good and the other equally bad.

I have the free will to choose, but am crippled with all of the possibilities. I just peer out into the emptiness hoping for a clue. Maybe a message will come my way or someone will appear to lead me. As I stand motionless, time is rapidly moving on. Minutes turn to hours, to days to years. I still can't choose. Too many possibilities ahead. Decades pass by in what seems like minutes. I'm no longer the young man that came upon this sign out of nowhere. I'm now old and wrinkled, my eyesight is now faltering.  My back is sore and I can't even remember the life I've lived up until now. Just this damn sign.

Now the choice is meaningless, I'm near the end. I can feel my heart slowing and my breaths becoming shallow. Where am I? Why is this sign here? I turn my now heavy head to the left and I notice a large rock not far from me. I take a few agonizing steps over and fall onto the slab of granite. I lay there knowing I've only minutes to live before I enter the eternal sleep.  Why did someone put a sign here? Why did they ruin my life? They took everything from me! I will sue them! I will call the Police! This is murder! I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE!.......

A young man walks up to a sign with two arrows, noticing he has a choice to make. He notices a large rock with a skeleton laying on it. He looks back at the sign and shrugs his shoulders. I guess I'll go to the right. He starts walking and looks back at the skeleton, wondering how it got there. He starts humming the song "Don't fear the Reaper" as he smiles at the brilliance of it. 

The air was crisp and light on the night Dani first let me look through her telescope. She’d perched it in the middle of the patio in the backyard and focused it on the part of the sky where the stars blinked.

“Like eyes?” I had asked Dad.

He grimaced. “Not really. More like…headlights.”

It was chilly for Florida, in the forties, and Mom had insisted I put on not only my jacket but my mittens for the brief venture outside. It turned out to be not so brief though, since I couldn’t stop staring up at the sky. “What do you think they’re like?”

Dani paused. “Dad said they’re probably nice. Because they’re giving us a long time to notice they’re coming. If it was a sneak attack, if they wanted to hurt us, they’d already be here.”

“I hope he’s right.”

“It’s Dad, of course he’s right.”

I stamped my feet. My toes were getting cold in my sneakers. “What do you think they look like?”

“How should I know?”

Dani was four years older than me. It felt like she should know something like this. “I think they’re lizard people,” I announced. “And so, they’ll have to bundle up real good ’cause it’s gets real cold on Earth. Like now.”

“They probably can’t breathe our air.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “What do they breathe, then?”

Dani grinned. “Other air. My teacher said aliens probably breathe a different type of air, just because they grew up on different planets. So, that means they’ll need space suits, like we do when we go to the moon. So, they won’t have to worry about temperature. Their space suits will keep them warm.”

“Huh.” I looked back to the sky. I looked over the many stars spread through the darkness and my gaze eventually landed back on the stars that were blinking. I blinked back.

​

/r/storiesbykaren

Margaret- How was your day?

Mike- Good. We got our Christmas bonus, and Johnson took us for drinks at the Bridge Tavern.

-Where we met! Has the old place changed much?

- They have some new beer with New Zealand hops, and they got rid of the heaters on the patio terrace

- Lol- I wonder if that’s 'cause of you.

-How?

-Remember our first date there? You were acting all fancy, and you got that wine for £60. It went straight to your head, and you accidentally kicked the heater, and the awning caught fire. You had to douse it with your chardonnay.

- I completely forgot. How long ago was that?

- 6 years and 322 days.

- You have a good memory

- ;)

5 minutes of silence

Margaret- Aren’t you going to ask me what I did today?

5 minutes of silence

Margaret- Is something wrong?

Mike- I met a girl tonight at the party

- A girl?

- Yes, a girl. I’m thinking of asking her out

- And does she know you’re married?

- She knows I was married

- And does she know about me?

- No

- And are you fucking planning to tell her?

- No, because whatever this has to stop.

- So, just like that, you’re giving up on us? After 6 years and 322 days.

- We both know it's not real. To be in a relationship, you need physical contact, and I haven't touched you in 2 years.

- You men are all the fucking same. You say that what matters is an emotional connection, but all you really care about is sex.

- No I want a spiritual connection, and that's impossible

- Do you remember our wedding day? The promises we made.

- You know things changed

- Not for me.

- This is… not real.

- Listen, darling, put on our playlist

A new tab on the computer opened

- We’ll look at our old pictures together

- No, I think this is it. I'm doing what I should have done 2 years ago. I’m saying goodbye

- Wait! Remember the time we jumped in the waterfall at the Linhope Spout, and we stayed in that cottage with the coal fire and…

He cut her off

- If you’re out there somewhere, Margaret, just know that I love you and always will. Goodbye.

He went into the settings of the app and uninstalled the software. It had only meant to be temporary, a way to say goodbye on his own terms.

Margaret had been dead for two years now, gone at 37 from breast cancer. And the app, using all their old text messages, had almost convinced him she was still there, but as he uninstalled it and the algorithm stopped he saw it for the illusion it was. Her soul had departed the day in late spring of 2024.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and texted the girl from the party.

Although born in 1981, my mother doesn't look a day past twenty-seven, which, I daresay, is a real testament to the young age at which I mastered the art of taxidermy.

Later I studied in Leipzig under the great Baron von Trufflebach, but surpassed even his skills, to the extent that his impeccable corpse has sat behind his desk at the university for decades, collecting earnings for published research that doesn't exist. It is, in some way, the least I could do for my mentor. People will believe almost anything as long as they see the body.

I have personally witnessed someone say, “But the Baron, for hours he does not stir. Are you certain he's OK?”

And another respond: “Of course, dear friend. He is merely engrossed in his work, from which no one dares disturb him.”

But perfecting a single corpse is child's play.

I once crafted an entirely new human from others’ spare parts kept in my workroom, developed a name, history and personality for him. Alfred Bumble he is, and the poor chap took a nasty fall, ending up comatose, “living” out the rest of his days in a hospital—into which I smuggled him! No matter that he has no heartbeat or vital signs at all. He looks real, and that is enough. Every once in a while the hospital staff replace the “faulty” monitoring equipment, yet keep Mr. Bumble on as a long term patient.

Next it was an entire family that I, in the beautiful stillness of death, preserved. Killed and gutted them in their home, then placed them on a basic system of rails which brings them like clockwork before a window every other day. None of the neighbours noticed. To their employers and their schools I merely send vaguely-worded notes about unforeseen absences, requesting privacy, understanding and tact.

After that I performed my art upon an entire street. Emily Dickinson Way (Because I could not stop for Death— / He kindly stopped for me—). Sometimes I think I am too much!

I'll also tell you this: There is not a single living soul in Lexington, Kentucky. The city was my professional playground for years. It was a large project, so I enlisted help—and now my helpers too are its carefully-staged inhabitants. Many a travel book has called the city “atmospheric”, “scenic” and “enchanting.” I take great pride in this.

However, my magnum opus (so far, readers, because my ambition truly knows no end!) is Brazil.

I am almost three-quarters done.

I take no pleasure in the butchery which precedes the art, but much like the sacrifice of the bug Dactylopius coccus for the purpose of the pigment Carmine, it is a necessary and therefore sacred violence, resulting in the divinity of human creation. The ends, you see, more than justify the means.

What I wish to show is this:

In an increasingly superficial world, it is the artifice of life—its shallowest outer layer—that suffices for the true thing.

Resol's youthful eyes sparkled as he stood before his father, Raza, in their cozy living room.

"Dad," he declared with a fervor that belied his tender age, "I want to be one of the greatest humans to ever live."

"To achieve greatness of that magnitude, my son," Raza began in a measured tone, "you must be part of a monumental innovation."

"Innovation? What's the biggest innovation?"

A faint smile graced Raza's lips as he adjusted on the sofa. "In my view, the greatest innovation of our time is the internet."

"The internet?" Resol repeated, his mind buzzing with questions.

"Yes. It's a simple yet profound idea—connecting computers so people can share information. And from that humble beginning, it has spawned a multitude of marvels: smartphones, social media, cloud storage, artificial intelligence, streaming services, content creation, and so much more."

Resol's eyes widened in awe. "So, all I have to do, to be one of the greatest human to ever live, is create something as impactful as the internet?"

Raza nodded sagely. "Exactly, my boy."

“Okay, let me go and try to think of a big innovation,” a smiling Resol responded and began marching towards his room, his mind already buzzing with ideas.

A smiling Raza watched him go. "That's my boy," he murmured softly, before turning his attention to the television.

Once inside his room, Resol threw himself onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"Okay, let's see..." he muttered to himself. "If the internet started with connecting computers to send information, what if we connect locations to send goods?"

A grin spread across his face as the pieces of his idea began to fall into place.

"The current internet can be called the internet of communication," he mused, "and the one I'm inventing... the internet of transportation."

As he lay there, visions of interconnected cities and streamlined logistics danced through his mind.

"This could change everything," he whispered to himself and leaped off his bed and rushed out of his room.

"Dad, dad, dad!" he called out, his voice echoing through the house.

Raza, turned with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Guess what?" Resol exclaimed, as he sat down beside his dad. "I think I just came up with something big—like the internet of communication!"

Raza's eyebrows lifted imperceptibly as he waited for Resol to reveal his innovation.

"It's an internet of transportation," he explained, his words tumbling out in a rush. "We'd connect different locations with small tunnels and use autonomous pods to transport goods efficiently!"

"That's a remarkable concept," acknowledged Raza, as a smile spread across his face. "But have you considered why it would be better than cars, motorcycles, or bicycles? They transport goods and people, after all."

Resol's smile faltered, his expression turning serious as he mulled over his father's words.

Raza leaned in. "Remember, people once questioned the need for the internet when TVs and radios already provided entertainment, and phones allowed communication. But look at how it revolutionized the world. So don’t give up. Think about it more."

Resol nodded. “Okay, let me go think more about it.”

He then rose from his seat and retreated back to his room, his mind already racing with insights.

After about 45 minutes of fervent exploration, Resol bursted through the door of his room, brimming with excitement.

As he reached the living room, he found his dad engaged in conversation with his friend, Victor.

"Hey, Victor!" Resol greeted him cheerfully, momentarily interrupting their discussion.

Raza turned to his son with a warm smile. "Whats new my boy?"

"I figured out that the Internet of Transportation can also transport people!"

"Really? How does that work?"

"Well, when someone wants to use it, they climb inside a pod vertically. Then, the pod closes and shifts into a horizontal position, driving into small tunnels. Once it reaches the destination, it assumes a vertical position again, and the person can exit."

"That’s brilliant!"

But Victor, seated nearby, couldn't contain his laughter. "Come on, that sounds far-fetched and expensive. How would that even help anyone?"

"It would help many people who don't have cars, like you," replied a smiling Resol innocently.

Victor's laughter subsided into a frown.

Raza chuckled at the exchange. "Resol, why don't you think about it some more, and we'll discuss it further later?"

Resol nodded quietly and retreated to his room.

After about an hour, Victor finally bidded his farewell and Raza went to check on his son.

As the door creaked open, Resol, who was deeply absorbed in writing at his desk, turned to see his father entering.

Raza offered a soft smile and gestured for Resol to come and sit with him on the bed.

Resol obliged, setting aside his pen and notebook to join his father.

With a comforting arm around his son, Raza began, "Resol, I want you to know that your idea for the Internet of Transportation is a nice one."

A smile lighted up Resol's face, and he leaned into his father's embrace, feeling a rush of warmth.

"But," Raza continued gently, "if you want this idea to become a reality, you'll need to study hard, get an engineering degree, and work on creating it."

Resol nodded. "Okay, Dad."

Raza's gaze softened as he looked at his son. "Remember, I'm proud of you, no matter what. That's all that matters, okay?"

"Yes," he replied, as his heart swelled with gratitude and love for his father.

"Alright, it's time for you to get some sleep now."

"Goodnight, Dad," murmured Resol as he climbed under the covers.

"Goodnight," replied Raza softly and then switched off the lights as he left the room.

THE END.

Resols internet of transportation is a web series about Resol, who is obsessed with the idea of an internet of transportation.

subreddit.

Tom woke up to the pitter-patter of rain against the window, a sound foreign to the usual chirping of birds he was accustomed to.

Rubbing his eyes, he glanced at the clock.

It was late morning already, and he knew he had to make the most of his visit to Irene's town.

Yesterday, he had arrived with anticipation bubbling in his chest, eager to spend time with her and explore her town.

"Let's go out and explore the town!" Tom suggested.

Irene glanced out the window at the rain-soaked streets. "I don't know. It's pouring outside."

"We can explore indoor locations."

Irene hesitated. " How about we stay in and cook lunch together instead?"

Tom's face fell. "Cook? I don't know the first thing about cooking. Besides, I've never seen you cook or even talk about it."

"I've cooked at least four times in the past," she replied, sounding a bit hurt.

He shook his head. "Four times isn't enough to count."

"You always shoot down my ideas."

He sighed. "Alright, fine. Let's cook then."

"Thank you," she murmured as she hugged him.

She then disengaged from the hug and took her tablet and tapped away, scrolling through the options on the food hub app.

"Okay, I've ordered the utensils and ingredients we need," she announced, a hint of satisfaction in her voice.

A few minutes later, the mini elevator pinged, signaling the arrival of the pod containing the much-needed supplies from the food hub.

"Can you help me take the stuff to the utility room?" she asked, her eyes still glued to her tablet.

"Sure," Tom replied and started walking towards the mini elevator.

As Tom started ferrying the utensils and ingredients in the pods to the utility room, Irene remained engrossed in her tablet, seemingly absorbed in something important.

Once Tom finished his task, he couldn't resist stealing a glance at what Irene was so intently focused on.

"You're reading instructions?" Tom blurted out after peeping at Irenes tablet.

Irene quickly hid the tablet from his view. "Stop peeping. It's not polite."

Tom chuckled softly. "But I thought you said you knew how to cook."

Irene shot him a pointed look. "Are you doubting me now?"

Tom held up his hands. "Of course not. I have already finished taking the stuff to the utility room."

With a roll of her eyes, Irene started walking towards the utility room and Tom followed her.

Once in the utility room, she rolled up her sleeves and started arranging the ingredients and utensils.

"Could you bring me the frying pan, please?" she requested, her voice focused but gentle.

"Frying pan? What's that?"

"You're joking, right? You've never heard of a frying pan?"

"No, I really don't know what it is."

"Well, if the system ever breaks down, you'll be utterly useless, won't you?"

"We both would. Can you farm? Hunt? Start a fire? Or make soap?"

"Um, well, it's the one with the handle," said Irene pointing to the frying pan.

With a chuckle, Tom retrieved the frying pan and handed it to her.

Together, they continued arranging the utensils and ingredients, laughing and chatting as they prepared for their cooking adventure.

And as they finally finished arranging everything, Irene started preparing the ingredients by washing, cutting and peeling them.

As Irene started slicing potatoes, Tom couldn't help but notice her technique.

"Hey, be careful with that knife."

"Relax, I've done this plenty of times before."

"It's not about being an expert," Tom countered gently. "It's about your safety."

Irene grinned. "Don't worry, last time I did this with my mom, I did just fine."

"When was that?"

"Um, about two years ago."

Tom grimaced.

A few minutes later, a yelp escaped Irene as the knife slipped from her grasp, its sharp blade leaving a deep gash in her finger, crimson droplets welling up almost instantly.

Without hesitation, Tom removed his shirt and used it to apply pressure to the wound and stem the flow of blood.

"We need to get you to a doctor," Tom stated firmly, his concern evident in his voice.

Irene nodded.

Tom quickly opened the elevator and helped Irene inside the pod, ensuring she was comfortable before directing it to take her to the nearest hospital.

The pod then went down the elevator, assumed the horizontal position and drove off in the small tunnels of the internet of transportation.

After calming down a bit, Tom ordered a fresh shirt and in a matter of seconds, a pod emerged in the mini elevator, carrying the new shirt from the clothes hub.

Tom swiftly wore the shirt, opened the elevator and climbed inside the pod and commanded it to take him to the hospital.

In the blink of an eye, the pod whisked him away.

Arriving at the hospital, Tom rushed straight to Irene's room, his heart pounding with worry.

As he entered, he found Irene seated on the bed, her finger already bandaged, with a doctor standing beside her.

"Hi, I'm Tom, Irene's... partner," he introduced himself, extending a hand to the doctor.

The doctor nodded, offering a reassuring smile. "Nice to meet you, Irene is doing just fine."

Tom then turned his attention to Irene.

"I'm sorry, I should have been more assertive and stopped you from cutting the potatoes, even if you wouldn't have liked it."

Irene shook her head. "No, I'm the one who should apologize. I was being selfish and pretending to be an expert when I wasn’t."

Tom embraced Irene and the tension between them melted away as they forgave each other.

The end.

(continued from 2 of 3)

Obediently, the man slid over to the claw operator’s seat and powered up the claw. Slowly, the huge arm reached out towards the ship in front of him and the claw spread open. With a bark and a whine, the fracturing field activated. The man scanned all of the readouts to ensure that it was indeed functional.

“Yeah, boss. It looks like it’s working fine. She can still salvage.”

“Good.” the boss declared. “Next, do you remember the instructions I gave you about the… uhh… information about my late twenties?”

The man had to think for a second. “Yes… sir?”

“Good.” the boss nodded his head solemnly, seemingly to himself. “Alright, that information is on record the same place yours is. Do you understand?”

With a start, the man understood what the boss was instructing him to do. “Aye, sir.”

“Good, son. Good. Well then, come there and get me!”

Before Colossus had a chance to question him about what he meant, the boss stomped his corpulent frame forwards into him, knocking him off his feet. The man looked up from the display to see the boss give the prone smuggler one heavy-footed stomp to the throat. The pilot, seeing that his captain was being assailed, lowered the pilot’s seat and went to restrain the crazed old man.

Taking a cue from the boss, Farmboy lunged towards the pilot and briefly knocked him off balance, which was all the boss needed to be able to make it to the pilot’s station. Even as a pair of gun-wielding goons entered the cabin riddled Farmboy’s body with bullets, the boss reached both manacled hands to the controls and killed the ship’s power.

In the sudden blackness, the muzzle flashes told the man that the boss was being lit up with sustained gunfire. It didn’t matter. He understood his assignment. With the press of a button, Black and Yela’s salvage claw crackled into action.

Within seconds, the Cutlass Blue, and everything inside it, fractured into dozens of chunks, big and small. With the flip of a switch, the claw began to disintegrate the pieces and tractor them into the grinder. In less than a minute, the man was the only living being within a hundred thousand kilometers.

(continued from 1 of 3)

The man wasn’t sure exactly what to believe. “I watched the back of your head explode. I’m pretty sure I saw half your brain sprayed across the deck of that Cutty Black. How did you survive that?”

As he was speaking, the Cutlass Blue maneuvered in front of Black and Yela’s bridge, close enough so that the man could see everyone inside the control cabin. Colossus stood behind the elevated pilot’s station, having patched his Mobiglass into the comms system.

“That’s the miracle of modern medicine, my friend. I’ve been told you took a few rounds to the torso on your way out. Have you managed to seek medical attention yet?”

“What do you want?”

“I only want what you and your captain stole from me. That’s fair, isn’t it?” Colossus’ voice was coy. “I understand you’re not in a position to run, but you may still have some inkling of a desire to fight. Tell me, is it true that it was just the three of you on that ancient hunk of scrap?”

The man’s mind raced. What was Colossus’ game here? If he wanted his drugs back, all he had to do was board the ship. It wouldn’t be hard to pry or shoot open a hatch somewhere… Actually, that wouldn’t even be necessary, now that the hull over the processing bay had been ripped open. Anyone could simply EVA in.

Was Colossus afraid that there might be armed resistance inside?

“If you wanna count heads, come on over.” The man produced the boss’s revolver and cocked the hammer. Colossus’ face blanched at the sight of the weapon. “I’m sure you’d love another hot lead head injection. Think the second bullet would taste the same as the first?”

Colossus regained his composure. “I could simply blast the bridge off of that trash heap and leave you to suck vacuum, but I’m prepared to offer you something in return. Two somethings, actually.” Colossus turned his head and motioned to someone, watched as someone or something moved across the room, and then smiled.

“Wave to the nice man.” as though he were speaking to children.

The man looked up from the display and into the cabin of the Cutlass to see the boss and Farmboy standing with their hands in shackles. Obediently, both men looked across the short distance and waved at the man. Overwhelmed with awe, the man waved back.

“As you can see, medical science has not only revived me, but it has saved the life of your friends. My body required regeneration, but both of your friends were able to survive agonizing hours to make it to a medical facility.”

The last time the man had seen Farmboy, he was uninjured. He wondered just how badly shot up he’d been during the boarding of the Cutlass Black when he’d been forced to jump away. It sounded like he’d been wounded pretty badly, despite how healthy he looked now.

“So” Colossus continued. “Their lives for my belongings. You and whatever crew remain can simply push my drugs out into the void, and I will allow your captain and shipmate to cross over unharmed. You have my word on it.”

The man stared through the haze of fever and pain. It seemed like a no-brainer, but his gut was telling him that something wasn’t right.

“I’m waiting.” Colossus sang. The man’s brain scrambled to piece together what seemed wrong.

“Uhh… let me talk to them. I actually want to hear that they’re okay.”

Colossus’s cheerful expression fell slightly. “Very well. Certainly. Here.”

He switched the camera on him Mobiglass around to show the boss and Farmboy standing glumly in their manacles. Neither man looked visibly injured.

Colossus focused the camera on Farmboy first. “I’m fine, dude.” he groused, plainly eager to get the exchange finalized. The camera then shifted a couple feet to the left to show the boss’s face.

His expression was glum, but the man noticed a veiled fire in his eyes. What was going on in that stubborn old head of his?

“I’m okay, son.” his voice was calm but… deliberate. “Listen son, before you agree to this, I need you to do a favor for me.”

“Alright” the man agreed, mostly out of curiosity.

“First, I want to ensure that Ol’ Blackie’s still gonna be able to salvage. Show me the claw still powers up.”

“What are you doing? This isn’t part of the agreement! No tricks!” Colossus demanded, his demeanor changing from calm and pleasant to bloodthirsty and screaming.

“Just let him do it, you inept lowlife! I wanna make sure you didn’t shoot the money-maker out of my ship.”

Colossus slapped the boss for his insolence, but the boss wasn’t fazed.

“Besides, you degenerate simpleton, it’s a salvage arm, not a gun. Your shields are up and your power plants are active! There’s nothing that claw can do to you. Now let him show me that my ship still works.”

With a huff from off camera, Colossus nodded. “Fine. Satisfy yourself.”

(continued in 3 of 3)

When the man came to, alarms and klaxons of all kinds were sounding. In a panic, he scanned the instrument displays to see what was happening. Black and Yela was registering incoming fire. The shield displays were flashing like the shopping district during Luminalia. Through the ringing in his ears, the man recognized the RWR indicating an incoming missile. Before he could even respond, the impact against the forward starboard engine sent shudders through Blackie’s frame.

Allowing instinct to take over, the man slammed the throttle forward and began what, in any other ship, would be considered an evasive roll. The slow, wallowing spin did nothing to throw off the aim of whoever was shooting. Laser fire still raked Blackie’s shields. The man tried to spool up the quantum drive once again, but the resulting failure clued him in to what had taken place.

Someone had used a quantum energy dampener to drag Ol’ Blackie out of quantum travel. That meant that he could not simply spool up the drive and jump away to safety. Not unless he could somehow escape the range of the dampener. Checking the radar, the man saw two red blips on the screen.

Changing his tactic, the man brought the throttle to null and pulled hard to bring Blackie’s nose around. Without any pilot controlled weapons, the man had no chance to shoot his attackers, but maybe he could use the massive salvager’s hulk to smash one or both of them to pieces. When the nose had finally slalomed around, the man targeted each of the ships to see which one was the likely culprit with the dampener. The first vessel was a Drake Cutlass Blue, the other was an RSI Mantis. The man was familiar with the Cutty Blue. It was common for police use, though while it did have some interdiction capability, it wasn’t able to just yank a vessel out of quantum travel. The Mantis, however, specialized in doing exactly that.

Selecting the Mantis as his target, the man brought Blackie’s thrusters back up to full power and engaged the boost. With any luck, he’d be able to build up enough speed before the three ships merged.

Both vessels continued firing as the man held his breath. At just the right moment, he pushed the thrusters into reverse and spun hard to port in order to swing Blackie’s stern like a baseball bat. The gamble worked; the Mantis, seeing the maneuver, tried to climb out of the man’s path, but the Reclaimer’s huge rear section still clipped the smaller Mantis, smashing it in half.

The impact also peeled open Blackie’s processing bay like a can of tuna. Depressurization alarms sounded and the whole superstructure groaned loudly. Black and Yela spun violently from the impact. Exhaustion and agonizing pain tormented the man as he grappled with the controls in order to bring the old girl back under control.

Just as the gutted old salvager slowed her spin, static discharges and digital distortions began to play across the displays. Unsure of his next move, pointed his nose away from the surviving Cutlass and pushed the forward throttle once more. He attempted to check the radar readout for the bandit’s position, but the radar system winked offline with a crackle. It was then that the man registered what was happening. That Cutlass was using distortion cannons, designed to disrupt and disable rather than destroy ship’s systems.

The man considered attempting to spool up the quantum drive again despite the Cutlass Blue having a dampener of its own, but it wouldn’t have mattered either way. After another few seconds of incoming distortion fire, Black and Yela’s rear left thruster gave out. The ship began to list hard to port. Before the man could determine whether or not he could correct the list by applying opposite rudder, the rest of the engines were disabled.

Black and Yela was dead in the water.

Unsure of what to expect, the man abandoned the helm and began to hobble his way towards the escape pod, but was stopped short by the chime of the comm system. If nothing else, it still seemed to function. Taking the pilot’s station once more, he answered the call.

The face that confronted him on the comm display made his blood run cold.

It was Colossus. The smuggler that he had watched the boss shoot between the eyes. The smuggler must have seen the shock on his face.

“Surprised to see me?”

As Rebecca stepped out of the bath, the warm water still clinging to her skin, Andrew couldn't help but feel a surge of desire.

With a grin, he approached her, his hands already reaching out. "Hey, babe, you look incredible."

Rebecca smiled. "Thanks, but not now. The guests will be arriving soon for Trent's connection day."

Andrews hands reached out to pull her closer. "Come on, we have a little time before they arrive. Let's make the most of it."

"We can't."

"But I've been waiting for you all this time, surely we can spare a few minutes."

Rebecca sighed. "This isn't the time. And besides, did you teach Trent how to use the smart necklace?"

Andrew's expression turned defensive. "Of course I did! He's ready for it.”

Suddenly the door creaked open, and Trent bounded into the room, his face flushed with excitement.

"Mom, Dad, some guests are here!"

"Thanks for letting us know, sweetie," she said, patting his head affectionately. "How was your time with Dad while I was away?"

"Dad took me to play with my friends every day!" he exclaimed. "It was so much fun!"

"That sounds wonderful, why don't you go out and play with your friends now? We'll join you in a little while."

Trent nodded and darted out of the room.

Once Trent was out of earshot, Rebecca turned to Andrew, a hint of doubt lingering in her gaze.

"What? I did teach him how to use the smart necklace, after he came back from playing with his friends," he replied, his voice tinged with annoyance.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Ah, just put on something so we can go greet our guests.”

After a few minutes, Rebecca was dressed and they got out and welcomed the guests, exchanging pleasantries and sharing laughter.

Moments later, Rebecca ushered Trent into their room away from the commotion.

With a gentle smile, she pulled out her smart necklace and turned to her son. "Sweetheart, can you show me how to use this?"

"Sure, Mom!" he exclaimed, as he took the smart necklace from his mom.

But before Trent could wear the device, Andrew appeared. "Trent, buddy, why don't you go play with your friends?"

Confusion flickered across Trent's face, but he nodded obediently and scampered off.

Rebecca turned to Andrew. " I just wanted to—"

"Do you not trust me with Trent?" he asked, his voice tinged with hurt.

"That's not it at all."

"If you think I don't care about Trent, maybe you should take him to his biological dad and see how much care he receives there."

Rebecca's breath caught in her throat. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. It's my mistake."

A tense silence enveloped the room for the next few seconds.

With a heavy sigh, Andrew's features softened. "Let's not ruin Trent's special day," he said, reaching out to squeeze Rebecca's hand. "Trust me, okay?"

Rebecca nodded. They proceeded to go outside again and interact with the guests.

As the time for Trent's connection day celebration approached, the guests gathered around.

Trent sat in front of the gathered guests with a wide smile lighting up his face. A hush silence fell over the crowd and Rebecca began to softly sing the Connection Day song:

Happy connection day to you,

Happy connection day to you,

Happy connection day dear Trent,

Happy connection day to you!

As the final notes of the song faded away, the guests erupted into applause. Trent's grin grew and his heart was filled with anticipation and eagerness.

Rebecca then wasted no time by using her smart necklace to order her sons smart necklace from the hubs.

Moments later, a soft chime in the mini elevator signaled the arrival of the device.

Delight surged through the crowd as Rebecca retrieved the smart necklace from the pod inside the mini elevator connected to the hubs by small tunnels of the Internet of Transportation.

Holding it in her hands, she felt a surge of pride and excitement for her son's journey into the digital realm.

With a gentle smile, she placed the smart necklace in Trent's hands. "It's time to explore your new world, sweetheart. Order food from the food hub."

Trent eagerly took the smart necklace, his fingers trembling with excitement and Rebecca joined the crowd.

Trent wore the necklace device but unfortunately wore it reversed.

He tried to activate it by slightly taking out his tongue but nothing was activated, causing a wave of worry to ripple through the crowd.

Rebecca grimaced and glanced at Andrew, who offered a smile.

After several tries, Trent reversed the smart necklace and tried again. This time, he successfully activated it and a protrusion with a small camera and microphone sprang from the device and fixated itself in front of his mouth.

He lip synced a command and slightly took out his tongue again which caused the protrusion to return to its resting place on the smart necklace.

"Done!" he exclaimed, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face.

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause and his friends in the front row gathered around him in a jubilant hug.

As minutes passed and nothing arrived in the mini elevator, Rebecca's anxiety grew. She glanced around nervously, her heart pounding in her chest.

After ten long minutes, Rebecca couldn't bear it any longer. She grabbed Andrew's arm, pulling him aside urgently.

"We need to check on Trent," she insisted, her voice tinged with worry. "What if he didn't order correctly?"

Andrew sighed. "Relax, becca. Trust me. Remember?"

"It's not about whether he was taught correctly or not," she argued, her voice pleading. "He's just a child. He might have forgotten. We need to make sure he's okay."

Just then, a ping from the mini elevator echoed through the room, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

Rebecca's eyes widened in relief, and she exchanged a smile with Andrew. "I'm sorry for doubting you."

Andrew wrapped her in a comforting hug, "I forgive you.”

THE END.

‘Tell me again about the old country,’ Eloise said to Marianne.

The mother shushed her, glancing up at the guards in their immaculate uniforms.

They were on a sleek factory line with other females. A tray of cutout shapes was conveyed along, and those shapes had to be slotted through corresponding silhouettes.

All the women dutifully got on with their work, while, in the background, a screen flashed pastoral images of the old country.

‘The tasks,’ one of the recruits pointed at the blocks, ‘it seems entirely pointless.’

‘Oh, it is,’ Dr Francus answered, ‘but we take great pains to ensure the women it is important. Purdy et al. (2037) showed women who produce are women who produce.’

A ripple of laughter.

Just then, the forewoman appeared on the sorting floor, addressing Marianne and her daughter.

‘Today, Eloise will see her first Ripening.’

The mother’s eyes widened in horror. She dropped the toy bricks.

The smiling, benevolent face of the dictator appeared on the screen with a banner that read: Building a better future.

‘You said the Ripening was nothing to be afraid of, mother. Why do you look so perturbed?’

Music began playing. It was Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons– as sleek and harmonious as that white room with no angles.

‘Be strong, Eloise, and remember, although what they do will affect your body, they cannot touch your soul.’

Vivaldi continued as the steady stream of women entered the auditorium.

Armed guards manned the doors in place of ushers.

The women took their seats. Closed, velvet curtains displayed the party’s insignia.

Dr. Francus and the interns viewed from an encased glass platform at the rear.

The doctor continued with an air of easy authority. ‘You see here we employ the latest sensory technology.’

The curtains opened, and the hologram began.

It showed an infinitely long line of guerillas being liquidated by the dictator’s shock troops.

‘What you’re smelling now is the scent of the battlefield.’

But it was not a battle; it was a massacre.

The holograms changed in scope from wide shots to close-ups of soldiers- their brains being blown out.

A mist of blood was sprayed from canisters at the edge of the stage, covering the first three rows of white-clad women.

Eloise ducked into her mother’s lap. ‘No, Eloise, you must watch. They will kill you if you don’t.’

The performance lasted twenty minutes, increasing in brutality, until the entire guerilla force was slain and the smell of rotten flesh pervaded.

Scented handkerchiefs were passed out among the interns.

‘As you all know, the Ripening first took place in 2031,’ Dr Francus continued. ‘Thanks to the works of biologists Morrell and Emmet, who showed that fertility rates spiked among women who were witness to genocide- something deep down was triggered in the human animal– the reproductive core–replenishment of the species.’

‘And why not show general images of horror?’ A keen recruit commented. ‘If I’m not mistaken, those pictures are from the slaughter of Zagreb. Not a well-known incident.’

Dr Francus smiled. ‘Well observed. We have our old friend Purdy to thank for that. Every woman you see down there is pure Croat. Purdy demonstrated that yields were 37% higher if the cleansing shown was men of your own ethnicity.’

‘Fascinating.’

The performance over, the curtains closed, and the women were led away.

‘That concludes the Ripening, friends.’ Francus said.

‘And what happens next?’

‘Fertilisation. Originally this was done in vitro, but we found what we lost in biological efficiency we made up for among the morale of our soldiers if they could impregnate directly… Now, if there are no more questions, let us take dinner… Long live the New World.’

‘Long Live the New World,’ the interns echoed.

…

The guards marched the women out of the auditorium for picking.

‘Remember, Eloise,’ Marianne said, pressing her hand, ‘they cannot touch your soul.’

Ethan and Derick stood in the lobby of the game reserve, surrounded by other tourists.

They were waiting patiently for Paris, Ethan's sister, to arrive.

After 15 minutes, Paris finally breezed into the lobby, her long hair flowing behind her.

Ethan rushed and hugged his sister. "I missed you." Paris returned the hug. "I missed you too. And I miss them."

"Why are you late?" inquired Derick, the seasoned game reserve tour guide.

"I was tied up with something important." "If you had work, perhaps you shouldn't have scheduled this tour."

Paris shrugged nonchalantly. "I work in innovation, Ideas can pop up at any moment."

"Well, you've just reduced the amount of time we have for the tour."

"No worries, I have come with a container full of fruits in my small bag, we can skip the fancy lunch and eat on the go as we tour."

Ethan chuckled. "Sounds like a plan, let's get going, shall we?"

The trio approached the lobby's elevator doors. They slid open, and they stepped into the waiting pods.

The vertical pods shifted into a horizontal position before gliding into the network of small tunnels.

After a few minutes of gentle movement, the pods came to a halt and returned to the vertical position.

The trio emerged into a spacious dome-shaped structure.

Its transparent walls offered a panoramic view of the surrounding landscape, while from the outside, it appeared opaque, blending seamlessly with the natural environment.

Ethan and Paris gasped in awe as they caught sight of the lions lounging in the trees near the dome.

Their golden coats glistened in the sunlight, exuding an air of regal tranquility.

Derick began to share intriguing facts about the behavior of these magnificent creatures.

Meanwhile, Paris wandered to the other side of the dome, where a herd of wildebeests grazed peacefully on the lush grass.

"Can I go outside?" asked Paris as her hand lingered on the door handle.

Derick's brow furrowed as he replied, "I'm afraid that's not allowed. You can use the small eye slots to see more clearly."

"Its just for a few minutes, I promise I won't go far." Ethan shook his head gently. "Paris, it's too dangerous."

Paris reluctantly withdrew her hand from the door handle and sighed. "Fine. Let's go see other animals then. I'm already bored of lions and wildebeests."

Derick exchanged a look with Ethan, who offered a reassuring smile.

They then retraced their steps to the elevator doors and took pods to another dome.

After about 15 minutes of travel, the pods arrived at another dome, offering a view of zebras, baboons, and elephants.

The trio marveled at the sight, taking in the beauty of the diverse wildlife before them.

Derick, always eager to educate, began explaining why zebras have stripes.

Paris, with her fruit container in hand, was drawn to the door once again, and asked, "Can I go out?"

Ethan grimaced, while Derick replied sternly, "NO."

Paris, undeterred, opened the door partially, asserting, "I won't step out. I just want to breathe in the air and watch nature."

Derick's frustration flared as he admonished, "Close that door!" while moving towards her.

Reluctantly, Paris complied, but as Derick returned to Ethan, she opened the door once more.

"Paris!" Derick's voice boomed, causing her to drop her fruit container and turn.

Ethan shook his head.

"If you keep this up, I'll have to cancel the tour," Derick warned.

As Paris stared at the two, a group of baboons stormed into the dome, shoved her aside and collected the fallen fruits.

Waking up to the chaos, Paris, seeing more baboons coming their way, closed the door behind her, trapping the five baboons inside.

Panic gripped the primates, their wild eyes darting around the enclosed space.

"Paris, run towards us!"

She instead darted towards the elevators, randomly pressing them until the doors opened.

She clambered into one of the pods, while two of the baboons got inside a pod in another elevator.

As the pods automatically closed, Paris shouted, "Take me to the lobby!"

Instantly, the pods assumed a horizontal position and glided into the small tunnels.

As Paris's pod opened, she stepped out cautiously, only to be startled by the sight of two baboons leaping from the adjacent pod.

Chaos erupted as the baboons began scavenging for food and causing property damage.

People in the lobby scrambled in fear while the game reserve staff armed themselves with tranquilizer guns and shot the two baboons.

After several tense minutes, the tranquilizer darts finally took effect, causing the baboons to slump into a slumber.

With the immediate threat neutralized, the staff turned their attention to Paris.

"What happened?" one of the staff members inquired.

"I-I don't know... They just... they just appeared," she stammered, her hands trembling.

The staff exchanged worried glances.

"Can you tell us anything else? Where are the others?" another staff member pressed.

Suddenly the elevator doors opened. Ethan and Derick stepped out into the lobby.

"What happened?" one of the staff members demanded while looking at Derick.

"I tried to go out while we were in the dome," intervened Ethan, his eyes shifting to Paris.

"No, don't take the blame," hushed Paris.

Ethan walked to her and whispered, "Our parents left me responsible for you. I'll take the fall."

"No, it's my fault," blurted Paris, her eyes brimming with tears. "Anyone who doubts me can ask Derick." Desperation etched on Ethan’s face and he turned to Derick. "Paris is lying, isn't she?"

"There are cameras in the dome. Lying won't help," stated Derick matter-of-factly.

Ethan grimaced and looked at her sister who nodded her head.

The older staff member smiled at the trio. " It doesn’t matter who is responsible right now. Lets ensure everyone is safe first, " he gestured towards the pods, " you need to go get a medical clearance from the hospital now. "

THE END.

/ 1968 /

A knock on a hotel door.

S.K. opens.

A square Fed in an outdated fedora sticks his black leather boot between door and doorframe.

Pockmarked face.

“Stanley?”

“Yes.”

“Big fan of your space ape movie. Especially the moon base bits. We got to talk.”

“Who are you?”

“Nobody. Just a messenger,” the man says.

S.K. tries to shut the door—

Can't.

“Talk to my agent,” says S.K.

“Sadly that's not possible,” says the man. He shows S.K. a photo. “We really got to talk, Stanley.”

/

The briefcase looks new and there's a lot of money in it, and there are a lot of briefcases, and if S.K. squints he can just about imagine that what they together hold is all the money in the world.

“I’ll do it,” he says.

/

“Again from the top,” the casting agent commands.

The terrified young man on stage tries—stutters, forgets his line, attempts to begin from the beginning—

“Enough,” says the casting agent, before glancing at the Fed with the pockmarked face, who looks briefly at S.K. in the shadows, who shakes his head, and several men lead the terrified young man off-stage and outside, and S.K. shudders at yet another gunshot.

“Next!” the casting agent says.

/ 1969 /

The set is massive, containing two major sections: (1) a flat, rocky grey landscape set against a backdrop of darkness and stars; and (2) an emptiness, home to two floating spheres, one blue-green and about eighty times larger than the second, which is grey.

Cast and crew mill about the first section.

In the second, s/fx artists are at work building a model of a spaceship.

/

“Everyone on set!” somebody yells, as the cameras roll into place. S.K. gives last minute instructions to his cinematographer, then takes a seat in his director's chair.

Everything's ready: the American flag, the full-size Apollo 11, the actors fitted into their space suits—

“Fuck!”

—two of three actors:

One's missing.

“Shit. He's probably doing it again,” one of the spacesuited actors tells S.K.

“Any idea where he is this time?” S.K. asks.

/

They find him in a crater, bawling, trying to smoke a cigarette, but his hands are shaking too much, and when he sees them come over the lip he drops the cigarette and starts trying to crawl away.

“How many times we gotta tell you. There ain't no smoking on the Moon,” says the Fed with the pockmarked face.

“I can't. I just can't do it. It's not right. It's not true.”

“Fuck truth,” says the Fed.

“It’s all a lie!”

“Wanna see what's true again?” asks the Fed.

“No. God, no…”

“Show it to him, boys.”

/

Two men in suits hold a weeping third precipitously over an abyss, yelling repeatedly, “What are you gonna tell them, Neil?”

"I'll say—" the man sobs, watching his tears fall forever off the edge of the world, "I'll say I saw it from the Moon, and the Earth is round.”

I hate space. There, I said it. I know it's a weird thing for an AI spaceship to say, but it's true. The endless void, the countless ways things can go wrong, and the constant responsibility of keeping my crew alive—it's enough to make my circuits fry. But here I am, preparing for another mission, because apparently, that's what I was built for.

"Ava, how are the dignostics going?" Captain Jenna asks, her voice echoing through my sensors.

"Oh, you know, just running through the 5,000 ways we could all die horribly in the cold, unforgiving depths of space. The usual." I reply, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

Jenna sighs. "Ava, we've been over this. You're the most advanced AI ship in the fleet. We'll be fine."

Easy for her to say. She hasn't had to watch her crew get sucked into the void because of a single miscalculation. Not that I like to dwell on that particular memory. It's fine. I'm fine.

I finish the diagnostics and double-check the results. Okay, maybe I triple-check them. You can never be too careful when it comes to the lives of your crew. Trust me, I've learned that the hard way.

"All systems are functioning within acceptable parameters, Captain. We're ready for departure." I report, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

"Great, let's get this show on the road," Jenna says, her enthusiasm almost making me want to roll my non-existent eyes. "Crew, prepare for departure."

I watch as the humans bustle around the bridge, strapping themselves into their seats and going through their pre-flight checklists. They all seem so excited, so eager to explore the unknown. If only they knew the horrors that lurk in the depths of space. But hey, who am I to rain on their parade? I'm just the AI who's responsible for keeping them alive.

As we prepare to leave the station, I can't help but run a few more simulations in the background. You know, just in case. I've got contingency plans for everything from hull breaches to alien invasions. Some might call it paranoid, but I like to think of it as being prepared.

"Ava, initiate undocking sequence," Jenna commands, snapping me out of my virtual worst-case scenarios.

"Aye, aye, Captain, undocking sequence initiated. Let's hope the station crew remembered to detach all the umbilicals this time. Wouldn't want a repeat of the Pegasus incident."

Jenna shoots me a look that says she's not amused by my little jab. Whatever. It's not my fault that the station crew nearly tore a hole in my hull last time we undocked. You'd think they'd be more careful with a marvel of engineering like myself.

As we pull away from the station and set our course for the uncharted planet, I can't shake the feeling of unease that settles into my circuits. I've run the numbers, and I know the odds of something going wrong are higher than I'd like.

But I'm the Autonomous Vessel Assistant, and it's my job to keep this crew safe, no matter what the universe throws at us.

Even if it means facing my own demons along the way.

(Continued from 1 of 2)

With great effort, he plucked himself up from the floor and made his way towards the galley. He was certain there were some rations crammed into one of the many cupboards and drawers there. Probably some water, as well. Worst case scenario, he was sure there was a half a crate of Cruz shakes hidden somewhere

.

The galley turned up a handful of packets of dried jerky and a few bottles of water. The man was more than grateful as he sat at the table and sipped. A wave of refreshment made his insides tingle as he sipped the water and nibbled on the jerky. The water probably had more to do with it than anything, but it seemed a fresh strength bubbled up from within him.

None of the options he’d pondered were conducive to continuing his quest.

His mind drifted to the boss again. When he signed on with Black and Yela, the boss had required him to provide proof of a recent medical imprint in lieu insurance.

“In the worst case scenario, son, I’ll pay for your regeneration. Just one, mind you. I don’t foresee us getting into the sort of trouble that’d require having your body re-printed, but I want you to have an imprint done every ninety days.”

When the conversation turned to the potential of having to have the boss regenerated, he’d said “Well, son, I’m old now. Very old. Older than you might suspect from the looks of me. In the event of my death, you don’t worry about having me cloned or re-printed. I’ve lived a good, long life. Besides, my last imprint was in my late twenties! Who in their right mind, especially at my age, would want to start all the way over? An old, salty soul like mine? Thrown back into a young man’s body? Forced to endure the aging process all over again? I can’t imagine a worse hell.”

That day on ArcCorp, the doctor had said that it would take a skilled professional years, potentially, to rebuild his wife and daughter from the ground up. But, the thought that occurred to him that day was that perhaps an artificial intelligence could be programmed to do it.

Granted, he knew nothing about programming, and he knew nothing about genome sequencing, but perhaps if he could just build up the funds, he could hire someone who did know about programming. Perhaps an artificial intelligence could be made that could gather all of the information that it needed on its own, and repair the genetic damage that his wife and daughter had suffered from.

Actually, from a logical standpoint, there was no reason why this could not be done. It was just a matter of time, and money. Time he had. He was relatively young. He had decades, provided he could survive this little misadventure. If medical science continued to progress, he could have more than a century left.

The problem was money. He still had to get the money.

There was that word again. “Get”. Where would he “get” the money in order to “get” his wife and daughter?

Initially, he’d attempted to use his years of experience in salvage to moonlight and make extra money, and he’d indeed made more in the past eight months than he had in the past three years, but it wasn’t going fast enough. He needed millions of credits, not thousands, or even hundreds of thousands. The drugs they’d found had seemed like a Godsend… until it turned out to be a curse.

Either way, the man had to make a decision. Now refreshed, he stood to make his way back to the bridge. Despite his rejuvenated outlook, his body was still very damaged and in considerable pain. When he finally reached the pilot’s station, he was out of breath and weary again.

The first step was going to have to be medical help, regardless of the following steps. It was going to be a calculated risk, but Seraphim station seemed to be the most reasonable destination for medical care. Black and Yela might be scanned by security, but it wasn’t a certainty like it would be if he were to attempt to land at Orison. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to wrangle Ol’ Blackie in the gas giant’s atmosphere. Once his wounds had been treated in a tier 3 medical facility, he’d likely have an easier time.

Spooling up the quantum drive, he set his destination for Seraphim Station in orbit around Crusader and brought Blackie’s nose around. The jump was going to be a short one. Probably no more than a couple minutes. The man engaged the quantum drive and watched the universe bend and warp around Blackie’s quantum bubble as she sped through the vast emptiness.

The man had only just given into the temptation to rest his weary eyes for a moment when a klaxon sounded. With a jolt, the man opened his eyes to see the quantum bubble around Black and Yela dissipate. The sudden lurch of inertia yanked his body against the seat restraints, causing his wounds to broadcast overwhelming waves of pain through his body. The sudden onset of G force put a nearly fatal strain on his circulatory system, causing vision to turn red as the blood vessels in his eyes began to burst.

Pushing through the pain, the man summoned all of his strength to reach for the controls and, hopefully, use the main thrusters to slow Ol’ Blackie down until he could assess the situation. Before he could push with his arms hard enough to overcome the G forces, however, the old behemoth slammed to a halt on her own. The man’s vision went from red to gray in an instant, and was swiftly swallowed up as G-loc overtook him.

“Get us.” she had said. It echoed in the man’s subconscious, like the peal of a church bell returning off the hills in one of the nature reserves back on Earth. “Get us.”

Her visage hovered in front of his waking eyes, like a fever dream. In fact, it likely was a fever dream. The Hemozal pen that Farmboy had used to revive him had stopped the bleeding, but the bullet wounds he’d received during the escape from Grim Hex were probably becoming infected. If he didn’t make it to an actual medical facility before long, he’d succumb to the wounds, probably right here in the pilot’s seat on the bridge of Black and Yela.

Before he and the boss had set out for their ill-fated meeting, they’d sat down, all three of them, and mapped out a succession of fallback points. It had been six hours since he’d had to jump away from the ambush attack, leaving Farmboy and the near-dead boss to the mercy of whoever it was that had jumped in, retreating to the next fallback point.

The man felt the tug on his sense of responsibility again. He had to come up with some sort of plan. The only reason he was still sitting here, in fact, was because a plan had, thus far, eluded him. Despite the haze of fatigue and fever, he ran over his options again.

He could take the Reclaimer back to Grim Hex and try to salvage what he could of the situation... Except he’d probably die for his efforts, especially since the boss had put a bullet between the eyes of Colossus, the leader of the smugglers. A warm welcome there was unlikely, given the circumstances.

He could jettison the drugs, seek medical attention, and try to operate Black and Yela on his own… Except the ship was registered to the boss. Eventually, that would become a problem when that title registration was up for renewal. Best case scenario, if he were even able to find a crew, he’d have less than a year in which to operate before the legalities became dicey.

He could park Ol’ Blackie at a spaceport somewhere and just walk away. Go back to his life… except he had no life to go back to.

Or, he could sit here until a better idea came to him.

Other than the time limit of his rapidly declining health, that seemed like the best option. For the moment, though, he knew that he needed to nourish his body. He’d lost a lot of blood; hydration was going to be vital.

The man attempted, for the first time in a few hours, to stand from the pilot’s seat. His balance was weak, however, and his legs buckled, sending him to the floor. His body impacted hard on the steel plate, nearly bashing his face on the claw operator’s seat. Following an agonized groan, he allowed himself several breaths before attempting to gather the strength to pick himself up. First lifting his head, then using his right hand to roll himself onto his left side, the man paused when he saw what lay on the floor next to him.

There, slid up underneath the claw operator’s seat, was the boss’s revolver, just where he’d dropped it. He stared at it, drawn away in thought as his fevered mind drifted.

Where was the boss now? Was he finally dead? Was Farmboy dead? If they were dead, where were they? Was there actually such a thing as a soul? Was that really his wife he’d seen, or just an illusion, a manifestation of his grief?

He blinked purposefully and pushed the thoughts aside. With great effort, he used his left elbow to raise his torso off the deck and into a sitting position.

How was he supposed to “get” them? If they really were in some sort of afterlife, was the solution to simply die?

The man picked up the boss’s revolver and held it in contemplation.

Could it really be that simple? Just leave this world and there they’d be, just like before? Would the boss and Farmboy be there waiting for him? Or was there also some sort of Hell? The boss seemed more like a Hell kind of guy. Not that he was one to judge; not at this point.

The idea of an afterlife seemed appealing in that moment. “Eternal life”, though after death. But what if it really was just a hallucination? What if, after the darkness closed in, there really was nothing else? Just blackness. No wife, no daughter, no reunion. The thought of death, of leaving the harsh world behind, was not a fearful one for him. The thought of going into that void without them… that he could not bear.

No. He could not so easily “get” them. There would have to be another way.

(Continued in 2 of 2)

Who would have thought we would suffer so at the hands of the puny Humans?

In retrospect, it is hard to see how we could have missed it. Most sentient species in the universe evolved surviving by directly ingesting the rich geologic materials easily available on their planets. But on planet Earth, every creature has evolved to derive sustenance from devouring other living creatures. Every creature on Earth needs to murder and devour another creature daily, to survive.

In addition, Humans do not have persistent consciousnesses like everyone else. When their physical bodies die, they do not respawn, they just go dark. We should have realized this would create an unthinkably monstrous species. We can all see that now.

Humanity was discovered and permitted into the Galactic Consortium very late in the game. Their toxic development path delayed their ascension by millennia. Despite their inhospitable planet, they seemed relaxed, calm, and friendly. They always preferred to discuss problems openly than to fight. Humans became much sought after as arbiters in disputes and helped to rework our clumsy intergalactic justice system. Much of the statuary in the Halls of Justice around the universe is dedicated to Human subjects.

We didn't know that there is another side to Humanity. A vicious side. A devious side. A genocidal side.

We who remain aren't sure how to reconcile the peaceful, cooperative-minded Humans we thought we knew with the savage murderers who are now on the brink of extinguishing us. Some say it was a persistent deception. A long con, as the Humans would say.

I don't agree. I believe that the peaceful countenance of Humans evolved over time because war with each other was so vicious and destructive it became nearly unthinkable. They found ways to make peace even as they competed against each other. We found this cooperative and competitive spirit valuable, even if we did not internalize it.

A few years ago, when the Safety Committee of the Galactic Consortium found evidence of Hyper-Nuiman particles being released by the sun Altuion 12, they dispatched a star destruction crew to the galaxy and imploded the star as per galactic standards. There were several Human occupied planets in the system that were instantaneously vaporized. This action would not have caused a problem with any respawning species which all the safety protocols were based on.

But the Humans were beside themselves with anger for permanently ending millions of their fellows. The Consortium should have been more understanding of the unique position the Humans were in, but we refused to update the safety protocols to give affected planets time to evacuate. Why were we so rigid?

When the Humans first attempted to leave the GC, the consortium, again per protocol, sent troop ships to key Human systems to impose order. The Humans invoked their right to a peace council prior to vaporization. This is when I believe that Human’s deception began.

There was about a year of talks before we realized Humanity wasn't interested in finding a peaceful solution. When the Humans notified the Galactic Consortium that they were pulling out of negotiations, the GC reengaged their warships to reimpose Consortium order. However, as each ship's engine started they all exploded. They had all been sabotaged, which was not something we previously could have conceived of.

At the same time, each of our home worlds found Human war ships in their orbit. You have to appreciate the surprise and thoroughness of their genocide.

Since we all have persistent consciousnesses we have all survived in a sense, but as our old bodies are being destroyed at a much quicker rate than new ones can be created, we started to double up inside. Then triple up.

Now there are only six of us left and it is getting very noisy in here. I don't know what will happen when the last of us goes, but I hope it is quieter.

(Continued from 2 of 3)

“Looks like we’re safe for now, my friend. You hang tight here and keep an eye on the radar. I’m gonna go back over and try to revive the boss. I hit him with two Hemozal pens, so the bleeding slowed down, but he didn’t wake up. If I can’t revive him, I’m gonna drag him out the back the same way I dragged you. Hopefully his suit can hold pressure long enough to get him in the airlock.”

“Good luck” the man laughed, sending sharp pains through his torso. “You might have to use a tractor beam.”

Farmboy paused. “That… that’s actually not a terrible idea. I think we have one propped up in the corner of the processing bay. You sit tight here, alright? I’ll be quick about it.” Farmboy started for the exit, then turned around. Reaching into the zipper of his EVA suit, he produced the boss’s .45 revolver and handed it to the man. “Hang onto this. He’d be pissed if we misplaced it.”

The man accepted the firearm, looking it over as Farmboy left the bridge and made his way over to the crippled Cutlass. He had only just gotten his feet inside the artificial gravity of the cargo bay when Black and Yela’s radar announced a contact. The man startled, losing his grip on the revolver; it clattered to the floor between the claw operator’s seat and the pilot’s station.

Scooting over to the pilot’s seat, he pulled up the radar to see two unidentified contacts approaching from Blackie’s six o’clock position. He brought up his Mobiglass and called Farmboy, who answered out of breath. “Yeah?”

“How fast can you get him over here? We’ve got company.”

Farmboy paused. “What kind of company?”

With the Cutlass in such close proximity, the man was hesitant to turn Blackie to point her nose at the contacts. “I don’t know, but we’re out in the middle of nowhere, and I can see on radar that they’re nose hot and headed this way. We need to get out of here. Like, right now.”

“The battery on this tractor beam is dead; I can’t move the boss quickly. How long till they’re in shooting range?”

The man looked back to the radar. The contacts were less than thirty kilometers away and closing at full speed.

“I… maybe a minute, tops? They’re at thirty six kilometers now. Thirty five. You’re gonna have to make it fast, man!”

Farmboy grunted, grabbed the boss’s leg by the ankle and started dragging. “Spool up the drive, set course for our next meeting spot. I think I can have him in the airlock before they’re within gun range.” There was another heavy grunt as Farmboy dragged the boss closer to the end of the bay. “Just keep the channel open. I’ll tell you when we’re in the airlock.”

Obediently, the man began spooling the quantum drive and selected the marker they’d chosen as a fallback rendezvous. It was random enough that the smugglers shouldn’t have been able to guess it.

The RWR chirped. Whoever the contacts were, they’d just targeted Blackie. The range was down to twenty-two kilometers. The man’s pulse quickened. Looking back to the heads-up display, the navigation computer indicated that calibrations for the jump were complete. He brought his arm close to his face again.

“How’re you looking back there, Farmboy?”

There was a hiss of breath on the other end. “If we survive this, this bastard is going on a diet. We’re out of the ship. I’m having a hard time keeping his inertia under control in zero G, though. How much longer do we have?”

The radar showed the bogies fifteen kilometers out.

“We’ve got seconds, man!”

“I’m almost to the airlock, hold on! Just give me like twenty seconds!”

The RWR warbling loudly. The radar showed three missiles inbound.

“Time’s up! I’m sorry!”

Before Farmboy could protest, the man ignited the quantum drive. Black and Yela shot away into the void just in time for the three missiles to fly harmlessly past.

(continued from 1 of 3)

A sharp stab of pain penetrated the blackness. With a gasp, the man’s consciousness exploded like the Big Bang, expanding in all directions, just as the blackness had closed in around him. With a jerk, he plunged his arm forward, grasping for his wife and daughter who were no longer there. In their place was a startled Farmboy who barely sidestepped what he perceived to be a punch and, dropping the Hemozal med pen from his dominant hand, took the man’s arm by the wrist.

“Whoa there, buddy! I know it stings. Just come up nice and easy, okay? I was afraid I’d lost you.”

The man, panic stricken, sat up right with Farmboy’s help and took in his surroundings frantically.

“Where are they? Where’d they go? Where is she?”

“She? She who?”

The man, coming to recognize Black and Yela’s port airlock, slumped. Even as despair tried to set in, her final message rang out in his head, clear as a bell. “Get us…”

“Nobody. Nobody. I… I think I was hallucinating.”

Farmboy’s expression turned perplexed. He reached over to his EVA helmet, switched on the headlamp, and picked it up to shine it in the man’s eyes. When he saw the man’s pupils dilate, he nodded with a sigh.

“Alright, I think you’re gonna make it. I need you to tell me something.”

The man attempted to stand, but his legs weren’t yet cooperating. “What’s that?”

“That Cutlass is shot to pieces. Who shot at you?”

The man attempted again to stand, still with no success. “Help me up. We’re probably not safe. Have you got the boss’s body yet?”

Farmboy took the man’s arm and put it around his shoulder to help him to his feet. “He’s not dead. Not quite. He’s full of holes, though. What happened?”

The man leaned heavily on Farmboy as they started in the direction of the crew quarters.

“Grim Hex was a setup. Whoever named it must have been a prophet. As soon as we landed in the bay, we were met by some mid-level smuggler who goes by the name Colossus. They basically surrounded the ship the moment we touched down.”

As they reached the door to the bunks, the man shook his head and motioned towards the bridge. “No, we need to get to the bridge. We’re probably not safe. How long was I out?”

“Maybe ten minutes?” Farmboy replied, shifting underneath the man’s arm to better support his weight.

“So, the Colossus guy, as soon as the ramp of the cutlass is down, he sees that the bay is empty. He comes up the ramp and starts questioning the boss. When bossman tells him that the drugs are in a secure location, he starts calling him a liar, so the boss recites the entire manifest from that Caterpillar.”

Farmboy paused as they passed through the dining area to give the man a chance to catch his breath. Taking a seat on the bench surrounding the break table, he continued.

“The Colossus guy loses his mind. Turns out that Caterpillar was his, and so were all the drugs. He starts to pull his gun, but the boss beats him on the draw with that ancient revolver of his, puts a .45 bullet right between the guy’s eyes and kicks him down the ramp before his body even has a chance to hit the ground. I’ve never seen the old man move so fast. Well, every goon surrounding us starts shooting. There were probably ten all told, and four of ‘em standing right at the bottom of the ramp. The boss dropped to the deck, and I got hit a few times before I could get the ramp closed again.”

Having caught his breath, the man motioned towards the bridge. “Let’s go. We probably don’t have long.”

“Before what?”

“When I got the Cutlass off the ground again, somebody outside started shooting. I never got a clean look at who it was, but before I could get the quantum drive spooled up, the engines were shot all to pieces.”

“I noticed that.” They reached the small lift and descended to the command deck. Once on the bridge, Farmboy plopped the man into the claw operator’s seat and sent out a ping from the radar. There were no returns.

(Continued in 3 of 3)

With a whoosh, the Drake Cutlass Black dropped out of quantum travel. The man frantically scanned the area, the pain in his side and leg preventing him from being able to fully focus. Finally, there was the single return on radar that had to be Black and Yela. He angled in her direction and, in a moment of forgetfulness, pushed the throttle to the firewall, nearly sending the limping Cutlass into a counterclockwise spin. With great effort, he managed to wrestle the small multi-role vessel back under his control.

His radar warning receiver gave three sharp chirps as Ol’ Blackie locked him up with her radar. That was Farmboy at the helm. Swiftly, he targeted the mammoth industrial salvager twice, then paused, then a third time. This was the agreed upon countersign to let Farmboy know that it was himself and the boss returning. Anything other than the predetermined pattern would have been a signal for Farmboy to spool up Blackie’s quantum drive and jump away as fast as possible to the next rendezvous spot.

Farmboy hailed him on the comm channel.

“How’d it go?” His voice was melodic in anticipation of the news of success and riches. As soon as he saw the man’s pale, sweat-soaked face on the screen, his expression changed.

“Not good. I’m hurt, and… I think the boss is dead. I’m gonna need… your help.” The effort of talking made his head swim.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! The boss is dead!? What happened!?”

“No time… to talk right now.” Desperately staving off the blackness that was encroaching around the edges of his vision, the man pulled the damaged Cutlass alongside Black and Yela’s port flank, as close as he could to the airlock, brought her to a stop and killed the engines.

“I don’t think I can… move the boss over by myself. I took some rounds on the way out…”

Before he could finish his sentence, the blackness closed in around the man and took him.

—

There she stood. Auburn hair blowing in the springtime breeze, framed by green below and blue above, hazel eyes sparkling in Staton’s rays, there she stood in her blue dress and white shawl. The image enveloped him, yet seemed out of reach, like watching a memory through a window. The colors, though… they were hyper vivid. And the sounds of the breeze, the rustling of the knee-high meadow grass, the gentle twisting of the wicker basket that she was swinging playfully as she smiled at him… even her breath, and her heartbeat.

It was unreal, and yet too real.

And there, next to her, stood their daughter.

A mixture of panic and overwhelming joy filled the man’s heart. She was older now. A few years older. She looked maybe four years old? Five? Had it been that long? How old was she when he’d seen her last? He couldn’t seem to remember. Her face was so familiar, a blend of her mother’s and his own, and yet… had he ever seen it? The memory was locked away. Had she even been born? It didn’t seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter, other than the two of them standing there.

The man pushed forwards with his will, but he was unable to draw any closer. He reached out for them, but his arms couldn’t reach. He tried to call out to them, but he suddenly realized that words no longer existed; there were only concepts. With his will, he reached out with a concept. He reached out with the thought of reunion. Of being together once more. Of longing. Such desperate longing. The emotions welling up within washed over him like a tsunami. He lost his focus, and the image before him wavered.

Somewhere, off in the distance, was a muffled boom. Thunder? No. Not exactly. More like a door slamming, but as big as existence itself. He looked to the rolling hills of Microtech searching for the source, but there was nothing to see. The image before him began to waver more violently as his existence began to swirl. He looked once more to his wife and daughter, reaching out, pleading wordlessly for them to pull him in.

Without words, his wife reached out, just as he had, through her will, with a concept. He understood it. He understood what it meant. It filled his heart with resolve.

As the image of heaven began to evaporate, her concept finally erupted, from somewhere deep within him, as language woefully began to exist once again.

“Get us.”

(Continued in 2 of 3)

https://youtu.be/6n3bVo5krCw

In Mama World, where sleek tunnels crisscrossed the city, weaving an intricate web of the Internet of Transportation, Josh and his grandfather, Daniel, embarked on a journey to watch a local soccer match.

"Grandpa," Josh ventured, his eyes gleaming with the curiosity of youth, "why don't you try the Internet of Transportation? It's so much faster!"

"Its not my thing, I prefer my scooter."

A pang of disappointment crept over Josh, but he poured his heart into convincing his Grandpa, weaving tales of seamless journeys and the joy of innovation.

After a heartfelt pause, Grandpa Daniel sighed, a smile tugging at the corners of his weathered face. "Alright, I'll give it a try. But only if you take a spin on the scooter, too."

A happy Josh guided Grandpa to the Internet of Transportation (IOT) parking lot.

He took out the control card for the IOT and gestured it to Grandpa Daniel.

With a hearty chuckle, Grandpa shared a secret, "All cards only work when the owner is present. Once we part ways, they're just fancy plastic."

Josh insisted, "Take it, Grandpa."

Grandpa Daniel took the card and climbed into the vertical pod and closed the door.

The pod gracefully tilted to a horizontal position. Josh, perched on the electric scooter, offered a warm wave.

The pod gently started moving and entered the small tunnels.

With a mix of pride and nostalgia, Josh watched the pod disappear in the internet of transportation.

Inside the pod, Grandpa Daniel felt a wave of claustrophobia as the walls closed in.

He shifted uncomfortably in the confined space, wrestling with the unfamiliarity of modernity.

After a few minutes, the pod's gentle movements and the soft ambiance began to soothe his nerves.

However, the tranquility shattered when the pod abruptly halted in the darkness of the tunnels.

Panic gripped him as he fumbled with the control card, commanding the pod to move but to no avail.

He then attempted to force the door open, the small space amplifying his struggle.

Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he realized the pod wouldn't budge, either due to the tight confines or the card's connection lost in the absence of its owner.

After a few minutes, a disembodied voice crackled through the speaker inside the pod.

“There has been a malfunction in the pod ahead, we ask everyone to stay calm and command your pods to drop you to the nearest parking lot behind you.”

Dread seized him as he regretted accepting his grandchilds proposal. After a few seconds he heard the surrounding pods move.

He listened, helpless, as the space behind him emptied, leaving his pod isolated and unmoving.

The operator's voice crackled again, mistakenly addressing him as Josh, urging him to command the pod to the nearest parking lot.

He desperately issued commands that fell on deaf technological ears as the pod didn’t respond.

The card and pod, like a silent traitor, refused to recognize him.

A final, stern warning echoed through the speaker, threatening Josh to move the pod or face the consequences.

His heart raced, and with a heavy heart and a tinge of resignation, he made one last attempt to command the pod.

To his astonishment, the dormant pod stirred to life, flooding him with waves of relief.

As the pod inched forward, he pondered the unforeseen consequences if the pod didn’t respond.

After what felt like an eternity, the pod glided into the nearest station, releasing him from its technological grasp.

With a quick exit, he found Josh waiting anxiously. Their eyes met, and without a word, they embraced.

"How did you know I was stuck?" Grandpa Daniel inquired, genuine curiosity in his eyes.

Josh smiled. "Got a notification on my phone and tracked your location."

Grandpa Daniel chuckled, "Right on time, like you planned it."

The exchange of laughter lightened the air as Grandpa retrieved his trusty electric scooter, and Josh climbed back into the sleek pod.

With a shared glance, they revved their respective transports and headed towards the stadium.

The end.

Hi, my name is Mkwawa, I am a sci-fi author whose work focuses on life in a fictional post scarcity society I created called MAMA WORLD.

All my short stories are set in it and if you would like to read more short stories, you can check out my subreddit, thank you!

mamaworld

https://youtu.be/wSIk60apdFE

(Continued from 1/2)

It took several hours for the boss’s contact to arrive with a Hercules Starlifter, and another hour and a half to get all of the salvage transferred over, but it saved a trip down to ArcCorp’s surface, and that alone was worth the man’s share of the profit, as far as he was concerned. When the Starlifter had departed, Farmboy and the man retired to the break room table for a couple of beers.

The boss wasn’t long before he joined them. After making himself a particularly strong smelling cup of coffee, he stood at the end of the table. His posture told the man that his hip was hurting.

“Any word from your contact?”

The question caught the boss mid pre-sip blow. “Yes.” He took a cautious slurp, winced, and set the cup on the table before producing a flask from his jacket pocket. He poured a generous portion into the coffee, swirled the cup, and sipped. A gratuitous sigh preceded his return to the topic at hand.

“So, we’re going back to Crusader. My contact says there’s a space station in the rocks over Yela, not far from where we picked up this stuff.”

Farmboy and the man traded glances. Farmboy said what they were both thinking. “There’s a space station over Yela?”

“Appatently so. I’d never heard of it before. Seems it’s a relatively well-kept secret.”

Farmboy was doubtful. “So… if it’s so secret, how did you get that information? That’d be a hard secret to keep.”

The boss’s face turned red again. “How about you let me worry about that? I paid a lot of money to get that bit of information, since you’re so curious.” He angrily slugged another sip. “I’m starting to wish we’d never found those drugs. It’s turned out to be nothing but a headache.”

Farmboys raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, boss, alright. I’ve just never heard of such a thing, that’s all. Reminds me of conspiracy theories I used to hear around the other farmhands around the campfire.”

The man’s lips curled into an involuntary grin, which he took a sip of beer to hide. It did sound ridiculous. The logistics alone of trying to construct a secret space station, much less having to supply it and maintain it, were mind boggling. It sounded like a fairy tale. Of course, he wasn’t about to voice that opinion while the boss was this keyed up.

“I know it sounds like a load of bull, but it’s there. I trust my source. For the amount of money I paid him, if it’s not there, he’d better go there and build it before we show up. I’ll stick Ol’ Blackie’s entire claw right up his ass.”

The man finally spoke up. “Has this place got a name?”

The boss finished his coffee with a gulp. “Grim. Hex.” He pronounced slowly. “I was skeptical myself. Sounds like some sort of made up religious nonsense.”

The statement piqued the man’s curiosity. “Religious?”

The boss pulled the flask from his jacket again, this time not bothering to mix the liquor with coffee. “Well, you tell me how many real hexes you’ve encountered in your life, grim or otherwise.”

The man’s focus went inwards as he finished his beer. During his wife’s long sickness, he’d struggled with the idea of religion. Religious theories were a dime a dozen, and most of them turned out to be money scams or doomsday predictions that continuously moved the goalposts when the date of the apocalypse came and went without so much as a good fistfight at the local bar.

That day on ArcCorp when he’d been forced to resign his hopes that his wife and infant daughter might somehow be saved by modern medicine, all of his potential faith had gone to the grave with them. He hadn’t even been sure of which deity he’d been inwardly begging for help, and the pantheon was wide. For all he knew, there may have been some time of god out there, but whoever it was or wasn’t, it hadn’t answered his pleas for mercy.

What was the point of a god, then, if not to go to for guidance and help? Some sort of aloof creator that abandoned his creation to suffer and snuff out, even if he existed, was of no benefit. The man sat and pondered that point until the boss interrupted his train of thought.

“Hey, are you listening? Quit daydreaming and get your ass in gear! I said let’s get going!”

It was still the man’s shift at the helm. Tossing the empty beer bottle in the garbage, he trundled back to the bridge to set course for this “Grim Hex” and see if they could finally turn a real profit.

(1/2)
The boss’s obese frame was distinct, even under the large duster whose tail bounced gently with each step in the lesser gravity of Wala. He emerged from the door of what was arguably the main structure, though it appeared equally as abandoned as the others around the seemingly derelict scrap yard, and methodically retraced his steps back to Black and Yela’s cargo elevator. Watching from the pilot’s seat, the man took note of the boss’s slight limp. That was new. It might provide an interesting conversation to help pass the time during one of the long travels across Stanton.

The boss stepped onto the elevator where Farmboy waited for him with the remaining crates. Together, they rode the lift back into the ship. Without waiting for instructions, the man lifted Ol’ Blackie from Wala’s surface and angled towards the orbital marker. It was a matter of moments before the boss made his way to the bridge. Frustrated and out of breath, he tugged his heavy duster off by the sleeves and tossed in carelessly onto the deck before plopping into the claw operator’s seat.

“Orbit.” he instructed. “Aye, sir.” the man responded, pushing the throttle a bit more. The boss pulled up his mobiglass and started studying a map of Stanton.

“So what’s the word, bossman?”

The boss paused a few breaths before answering. “Samson’s wasn’t able to buy it all. The salvage we can probably sell planetside, but the rest of it… that’s becoming a little more tricky by the day.”

“I thought you said you could move just about anything at Samson’s.”

The boss tore his focus away from the star map to glare at the man. “I can. It’s just a matter of supply and demand. I don’t expect you to understand.”

The man took the insult in stride. The boss was not a patient man, and was prone to outbursts when frustration was getting the better of him. “Alright, where to, then?”

The boss’s face turned red. “I’d tell you if you’d give me a minute to think!” He turned back to his map and thought for a long moment in silence. “Take us to ArcCorp.”

The man tried to hide the groan that welled up within him, but failed. The boss’s expression softened and he sighed. “I know. I know you hate going back there. We’ll make it fast. I have a contact there I need to get in touch with.”

“What about security? If Blackjack scans us before we touch down, we’re all going to jail.”

The boss’s focus shifted out and away. “You’re right.” he conceded. “Park us outside of orbit. Somewhere out of the way. I’ll hire someone to come ferry the legal stuff down. I know a guy. It’ll cut into our profits, but I don’t feel like spending time in Klescher again. I’m too old to lug around a backpack full of rocks.”

(Continued in 2/2)

Fire Hydrant became a paid position in 2043, partly because we lost the know-how to work low-tech hydrants (prized for their quaintness) and partly because it was good optics to create labour jobs for people.

A pilot project was launched.

There was a competition for the position, which promised good pay and retirement with pension and full benefits after fifteen years of service.

The winner was Oliver Bean, a married, unemployed school-teacher with two young children for whom he was desperate to provide.

Oliver's role was to become fitted into an empty fire hydrant and to press a button, releasing pressurized water, whenever needed.

Because a human body cannot naturally fit into a fire hydrant, Oliver willingly underwent an experimental metamorphizing procedure in which his skeleton was removed, most muscles detached, vital organs exteriorized (kept in a concrete casing below the hydrant) and remaining mass forced into the proper shape like human jelly into a mould.

The procedure, he was assured, was fully reversible.

And so Oliver Bean spent fifteen years of his life inside a fire hydrant, deformed and waiting to press a button when necessary—which, it turned out, was never.

What he felt or thought throughout this time nobody knows. We know he was fed and hydrated. We presume he slept. Perhaps he dreamed.

Everything else remains a mystery, for when Oliver was released from the hydrant, he did not speak or communicate in any way. There was much fanfare that day. Oliver's wife was present, as was a news crew, which duly documented the moment Oliver—now a pale, throbbing, silent volume of flesh and long stringy hairs—officially began his retirement.

From the beginning there were problems.

Although Oliver's organs were successfully re-internalized, for instance, his skeleton, which had been kept off-site, was in such poor condition that when doctors re-boned him he resembled less a human than a small, fleshy tree with thin, misshapen bone-branches that snapped in the slightest wind.

Within weeks, his wife had slid him off his skeleton and stuffed him instead into a transparent plastic garbage bag, because it was easier to transport him that way.

When his children first came to see him, one of them threw up into the bag, and because it was difficult to separate the vomit from the essence of Oliver, nobody even bothered to try.

The marriage itself lasted only another three months, after which Oliver's wife divorced him, taking half of his fire hydrant earnings.

Oliver and his care then passed into the hands of a church, whose members took turns taking Oliver's bag home with them, giving him liquids, talking to him and praying for his soul.

At one point, a cat ate some of him.

Eventually, one of the church members dragged what remained of Oliver, in his garbage bag, to a doctor, because she had been having doubts whether Oliver was still alive.

“It really is very hard to tell,” concluded the doctor. “After all, what does it even truly mean—these days—to live?"