Category: Fiction

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Serial Fiction: Hands – Ep 003

“Glen, how did you get a Limo?” Deron said. Glen stood outside of Deron’s office, smiling wide as the chauffer held the rear door open. He was dressed in a sharp suit he saved for public events and appearances for the theater although he added a pair of gloves today.

“Limo’s just a Transit rental. They have those now,” Glen said. It was a large stretch chariot, with enough space for six to eight people to be comfortable. The chauffer smiled at the couple as Deron hugged Glen. “I’ve got some good news about tonight for you. We’re going to one of your dream spots.”

“The Garden on High? Clutch-Behrs? Ilahi?” Deron asked.

“The third one. Care of The Dragon,” Glen said while holding up the silver key. Deron squealed and Glen’s face turned a few shades of red darker.

“Oh yes! Did you bring me-“

“Jacket, yes. It’s in the chariot. Come on, let’s go!”

Deron waved his arms up in the air and stopped short of tackling the chauffer. She laughed as he hugged her. She gave him a pat on the shoulder and he jumped into the car. Glen smiled and shook his head as he headed after him.

“Easily pleased?” The chauffer asked.

“Oh no, but when you hit the right buttons,” Glen said. They both chuckled as she closed the door behind him.

The Limo ride was short, but Ilahi and Deron’s office were in the same parts of the shell, the inner part of New Castle where the downtown ring circled the biggest towers and the large dome structure the Duke laired in. Ilahi was located in the first four floors of Groom Street Central. The building was a fat spike stretching high into the sky. Some eighty floors of offices and private spaces that starting on the fortieth floor began to contract into a single point on the northwest side of the building. Ilahi held half of the building’s base on the four floors it occupied, and as Glen and Deron stepped into the lobby of Groom Street Central they could see the façade of the restaurant’s exterior. The bottom six floors of the building were a part of a large atrium separated into individual market spaces. The large wall of Ilahi depicted tile patterns and wrought metal designs in curves and cursive script. The colors varied but blue and whites dominated the patterns. It was like looking at a gallery rather than the entrance to a fashionable restaurant.

“Excuse me.” A hume male had stepped from the restaurant as they approached. He wore a smooth brown vest over a cream colored long sleeve shirt, with slightly darker slacks and dark brown shoes. His name tag read Bakir Kartal, Concierge.  “Do you happen to bear a key?” He asked.

“Yes,” Glen said, pulling it from his pocket. The key’s tip was glowing a soft blue and when Bakri spotted it he smiled.

“Ah wonderful. Then you are guests tonight of Mr. Aitken?”

“Yes, he gave me the key earlier.”

“He presented it to you earlier today. The key itself is not a gift to keep nor can it be. We will be holding it for him after your meal today. Please, follow me this way,” the concierge said. Glen repressed a chuckle and Deron rolled his eyes.

The concierge lead them into the restaurant. They passed through the waiting lounge filled with couples and business types waited for tables. Past the main dining area that was bursting with movement of guests, wait staff, and food going to and from the first kitchen. He brought them to the lift in the back of this area where everyone dining could get a good view of who was riding up.

Built on four floors, Ilahi was really two restaurants, maybe three depending on what someone considered the top floor. The first two floors were the main seating area and a main kitchen. Normal patrons would eat here and enjoy the flavors and talents of Ilahi’s talented sous chef and the team he assembled. The third floor was for the key bearers, and here the menus lacked prices, money and data chits were never exchanged, and luxury was king. The head chef of Ilahi considered this her domain and worked wonders for the wealthy, the powerful, and the lucky. Ilahi enjoyed showing off these guests and the elevator in the back of the restaurant was built so that no one on the first floor could miss seeing whoever was above them.

The amber colored glass was distorted on the inside of the elevator and Glen and Deron missed the key bearer just entering the restaurant watching their ascent.

Hands is a serial fiction series set in the Draco Artificium universe. Read the first piece here. Find the rest of the series here. New episodes go up Wednesdays.

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Flash Fiction: Doors

Today’s story is inspired by Going Place by BoFeng

“I forgot my shoes,” Eric said. We had slide through the door with the wolves at our back. Jennifer was right. They can’t cross over. I don’t even know if they can see the doors. We didn’t wait to check as I slammed the panel behind us as quickly as we were over.

“I need my shoes,” Eric said in a low tone. The boy was distant, unsure, and I couldn’t really blame him. We had found him four doors ago, wandering here and there in mute confusion. Jennifer asked if we could leave him but Kathy had already started to approach him. It was good we did. He’d been the one who noticed the wolves before any of us although I wish he’d have more tack than to scream about them.

We had been in the water. I had already bathed and was sitting on the dock. Kathy, a mother before she ended up here, hadn’t been shy about getting Eric cleaned up. He had seemed oblivious to the nudity but I felt weird about it and Jennifer wasn’t even comfortable with me or Kathy around when she undressed. Kathy just took care of him with a mother’s hand.

He had screamed when he saw the wolves, and it had been enough warning for me and Jennifer to gather up Kathy’s and Eric’s things. She pulled Eric to the side of the water and started to get on her cloths while I shoved Eric’s shirt over his head. We had already known where the door was and so we bolted straight to it. Between the lake and the strange world hoping frame the two of them finished getting dressed, except for the pair of shoes Eric dropped.

“I think, I think we’re okay,” Jennifer said. She had the spear in hand again, holding it towards where the door had been. We each knew a little about how they worked. Whenever someone opened a door on one world, it appeared in the destination. Before then, there’s no sign of the exit. We had learned that one when Bradly tried to hunt us. He almost had, with that spear.

I paused a second while I thought about Oscar. Most of what we knew had come from him. Originally an old professor before this place, he had seen so much and been through everything before getting dumped here. He sacrificed himself against Bradly. Bradly had stabbed him, but Oscar still managed to get close enough to cut the mad boy with a knife. After the fight we found Bradly unconscious by another door, bleeding horribly from the wound. Jennifer used her own spear to gut him. I think that’s when she went cold.

“I need my shoes,” Eric said again.

“Shut up,” Jennifer spat. “Shut up about your damn shoes. Why the hell did you scream about the wolves? We could have gotten away faster if you had just come on shore first.”

“Are you joking?” Kathy said.

“What?” Jennifer asked.

“I said are you joking? You really think anyone would have kept quiet about seeing wolves bigger than a linebacker?”

“Especially an invalid,” I said.

“Don’t you dare,” Kathy said, pointing a finger at me. “He just needs attention.”

“He’s just going to get us killed,” Jennifer said. “He’ll just pull hunters onto us instead of being one. Why don’t we just take his essence now and be done with it?”

Kathy and I both stared in horror at her.

“I didn’t mean that,” Jennifer said. She let the spear’s tip lower down to the ground. “I’m sorry.”

“We don’t do that.” My words were deliberate and hard. “Never. I don’t care what the maesters want with us. I don’t care what they’re doing with us. We don’t kill unless we have to. Only for defense.”

“Oscar killed,” Jennifer said. “Not often but you know he did.”

I did. Of course I did. I had been the one to touch him first when he was down. When he died. His essence and the sixteen boys and girls he killed entered me. Jennifer had Bradly and the boys he killed, but only because he didn’t kill girl. “I like them; I like you,” he had said when he held the three of us at the end of his spear before the fight. The essence made us stronger, faster, keener. We could see things and experience them at a pace I had never experienced in my fifty-four years. Even when I was a developing teen, as the body I was in now expressed, I could never move like I do now.

I looked to Eric, “Eric. How did you see the wolves?”

“Shoes.”

“Right, new shoes. We’ll get you some new ones. I’d give you mine but your feet are too big for mine or any of the others.”

Eric looked down at my feet and nodded.

“Too small. Need to find new shoes.”

“I don’t know how he saw them,” Kathy said. “When he started screaming I had thought the soap had gotten into his eyes.” She rubbed her shoulder. “But he seemed to know. Just like how Oscar was nervous when Bradly was following us. Before we knew.”

“But I’ve got Oscar’s danger sense,” I said. “I didn’t feel a thing until I knew about them.”

“Maybe the beasts can take essence too,” Kathy said.

“And maybe his innate gift is, what? Ultra-danger sense?” Jennifer said. She had the spear back up but was looking around the forest we had found ourselves in.

“Well, I mean think about Oscar and me,” Kathy said. “I can see the other side of a closed door. Oscar could too but not as well. And Bradly could summon a weapon, but Jennifer, yours is far more impress of a weapon. Maybe if it’s your native gift.”

“It’s stronger. That makes sense,” I said. “Okay Eric, tell me, what do you see around us? Any shoes?”

Eric looked about the forest, and nodded.

“A bunch of shoes. Three pairs big enough for me. One pair your size, Izzy.”

“Three pairs? Four? Wait, is he saying we’re surrounded?” Jennifer asked just as my danger sense started to kick in.

Trying out some longer pieces. Not quite breaking out of Flash Fiction but getting closer.

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Flash Fiction: Choices and Reactions

Today’s piece is inspired by Sarajevo: The Lonely Tram by Oleg Podzorov.

The streetcar was coming close. I couldn’t see it in the fog but buried under the sound of cars and passing buses I could hear it sliding on the greased rails. I pulled my travel bag close, feeling the weight of it brushing against my leg. It was time to go, time to run, time to not look back. The rail would take me to the college campus, and there a bus that would take me across the lake. From there, I didn’t have any plans. It was just time to leave this city, this haunted place.

Time to leave him.

I think my hose might still have blood on them. I left so quickly I didn’t bother to change them. He’d come in drunk and I could feel his hot wet breath on my neck. I was working late to finish the piece that would fund the apartment and his drinking another month. He grabbed, I screamed, he struck, I swung my sketch tablet against him, and he screamed. He tried to grab for me and I hit him again. And again. And again. I broke the tablet. I broke him.

The streetcar was visible in the fog, inching closer and closer to the platform I waited on. It looked empty except for the driver. The rest of the sounds of the city seemed to fade as I watched it approach.

In my panic I packed my travel bag in a blind rush. With what, I don’t remember. I used his phone to dial 9-1-1 and left it next to him as I left. I don’t know if he was alive, but I don’t care. I just needed to go. To leave.

It screeched a little as the streetcar stopped nearly perfectly in front of me. The driver wasn’t what I expected. He was chubby, short, and his face looked pushed in like he’d have one too many broken noses. His head tilted to look at me, and I could feel his eyes look me up and down.

“You can’t escape; you know that right?” he said. I had reached for the railing to pull myself up but paused when he said that.

“No, it’s okay. You can get on. We’ll go. But you can’t escape that blood. It’ll come back.” He turned to look ahead of the streetcar, watching the fog covered streets.

“Where’s your fare box?” I asked.

“Don’t need one,” the driver said. “It gets paid.”

I swallowed and looked past the first seat to the rest of the vehicle. There were two other passengers. One was a man with his head leaned forward just below the seat line. The other was a woman doing everything she could to look away from the front of the car. I boarded and took a seat a few rows in front of the man, and two rows ahead and on the opposite side of the woman. The driver pushed the streetcar forward, and the rails screamed in protest.

My skin prickled when the scream sounded so much like his.

I know the picture isn’t from my home town, but something about streetcars always reminds me of New Orleans. Add in the fog and willowy looking trees and I’m replacing pieces of the picture with my own memories. Imagery is a powerful thing, and when it evokes memories it also tends to spark inspiration.

On a side note, I think this is the first story on the site that didn’t involve something genre based. I don’t write much outside of sci-fi, fantasy, horror, or the multitude of micro-genres that exist within “genre” fiction. When I do, they tend to be closer to home. Seeing a picture of a foggy night enveloping a streetcar is quite the ticket to ride on that writing tram.

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Serial Fiction: Hands – Ep 002

Just off of Lord, near where it crosses past Long Bridge, was the Avninder Theater. South Gaijin in design, with long sweeping roofs over each balcony decorated in a myriad of colors and wavy patterns. The exterior was mostly clean with a few spots here and there showing the age of the place. The inside had a large set of seats in a crescent around a raised dais some eighty feet wide. The house curtains were up and stored when he arrived, and three performers were practicing on stage. It was a dry a run with no energy, just movements. The fireguard stood off to the side, watching the performers while keeping an extinguisher at hand. Glen had seen performers get carried away in the rehearsals before and he appreciated the on call guard.

The Dragon was sitting center house. He was with the patron, Cameron Huntington, so Glen stood back watching the practicing trio. The piece they were rehearsing was one he knew by heart. It required physical strength to manage the lifting the two outer performers needed to do. The inner performer needed the dexterity to reach out and cap the shape the three of them would produce. All three needed perfect concentration to stretch their flames into a large seven pointed star. It wasn’t easy especially since two of the performers hands were tied up holding the third so the use of a leg each was required. Glen had been in all three roles at one point or another, and could feel the aches in his joints watching the two humans hoist up the shade woman.

The patron stepped away and Glen caught The Dragon’s eye. The director waved him over.

“Mr. Travis. I had not expected to see you today. I thought you had an appointment,” he said. The Dragon, Diarmad Aitken, was a fairly short orc but large compared to Glen. He smiled as Glen slide through the seats to the small worktable setup in the middle of the row. Glen could see the burns he had only noticed in passing before around The Dragon’s lips. It was the reason for his nickname, the fire breathing. Only now Glen wondered what troubles it had caused for his boss.

“I did, sir. This morning.”

“That does not sound like comfort when you say it that way, Glen. What is wrong?”

Glen rubbed his hand and brushed the blister. “Nothing good. Do you know what peripheral neuropathy is? And neuritis?”

“Oh no,” Diarmad said. “No, no, Glen. You are much too young for that.” He looked at Glens hands and moved to take one. Glen let him and the orc slide his fingers over the blisters, giving each of them a close look.

“How bad?”

“A year, maybe, and then no more hands. I don’t know what to say.”

The dragon sighed and then turned Glen’s hand over and cupped it before giving it a gentle pat.

“Yours is an exceptional talent, but I see now that I was mistaken to push you as I did. Your displays are miracles to the eyes, but while some say preforming costs blood, sweat, and tears, I do not believe that is to be taken literal, do you not agree?”

Glen nodded as Diarmad let go of his hand.

“Glen, the theater doesn’t have much in terms of discretionary funds. You know we are paid performance to performance, but I cannot ask you to burden yourself and your health in order to continue your livelihood. Perhaps then, I would like your permission to host a fund raiser, in your honor.”

Diarmad grinned, and the scars around his mouth glistened in ways Glen didn’t realize he was becoming hyper aware to.

“I, I would be honored,” he said, shocked at the offer. “I’m touched. But, does this mean I can’t perform with the troupe?”

Diarmad’s expression turned into a pained look.

“No, I am afraid I cannot allow it. If you are already so injured that your specialist warns you against the task, I have to consider the other risks. While I know you would not think of it now, lawyers and hoard seekers might encourage you to stalk our coffers if we knowingly let you perform.”

The director paused as this sank into Glen, and he wished he waited before coming here now.

“Additionally, and this pains me to say it young man, but if you are so burned it means your manipulation is more reckless than I deem acceptable. I cannot have a man combust on me on stage.”

That was a slap. At least it felt that way to Glen. He understood the legality issues. He understood the health concerns. That, however, was a direct challenge to his ability in the performing arts. He felt himself heating up like he had when he left Dr. DeProspero’s office.

“Ah, I see I have said to much. My apologies, young mister Travis. Perhaps you may need to cool off with so many uncomfortable things of the day. I will have Miss Cranes sent to contact you regarding the fund raiser. Until then, we must prepare for tonight’s performance. If you would be so kind,” he said, offering up his hand. Glen took it and helped The Dragon up. “Thank you, Glen. Here, take this for tonight. Have a meal with that fine young man you brought to the last performance to take your mind off today’s worries.”

He had given Glen a small silver key. Glen recognized it immediately. The shape was ornamental, but it would serve the function it was designed after. It was an access token to a five-star restaurant called Ilahi, a place Glen wouldn’t be able to afford without spending a month’s of Deron’s salary. The key was more than just the ability to go to the restaurant. Anyone in a nice suit who called ahead could do that. It was a token directly tied to a tab at the restaurant. Maybe this was how The Dragon apologized for insulting him. If so, it was quite a first step.

He’d need to change. This would be more than just a simple night out.

Hands is a serial fiction series set in the Draco Artificium universe. Read the first piece here. Find the rest of the series here. New episodes go up Wednesdays.

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Flash Fiction: Boarding Party

Today’s story is inspired by This is MY F@cking Ship by Jason Dement.

The following story contains graphic violence. You’ve been warned.

She fired the second round directly against the naga’s temple. Unlike the first shot, this round pierced the pirate’s skull. Bits of bone and brains splattered against Laura’s zero suit.

“I said off my ship,” she said before giving the thing a hefty kick. The body slumped over and she spotted the control deck. Grabbing it, she started to pull the case open and retrieved Hollister’s control circuit. She glanced over at the entrance to the bridge where the other pirates watched her. There were three of them, two dava and a meruhta female. Behind them she could see the body of Travis and the neck wound that had ended him.

“And you three. You’ll pay for what you did to him. Mark it in red.” The meruhta snarled at her then turned to the bridge itself. The two dava, enclosed mostly by the exo-skeleton suits they wore, continued to stare in silent horror at what she believed was their leader.

The control circuit took time to pull free of the control deck but it didn’t seem to be damaged. She pulled out her own deck, retrieved from the lower deck after the naga below managed to snag her original controller, and plugged in Hollister’s circuit. The ship’s lighting flared brighter for a moment and changed from a general soft yellow to a cool blue as the artificial pilot connected with the network.

“Holly? We back up?” Laura asked.

“We are, Captain.”

Laura nodded to herself and moved towards the sealed bridge doorway. The blaster shot from the naga pirate had destroyed the locking panel for the door, keeping it sealed until she could restore power to it. It kept the others from coming in during their fight but it also meant she couldn’t get in now. Even with Hollister back online the bridge could still override the AI’s commands on where the ship went.

“Holly, I need that room vented. Can you do that?”

The sound of turbines in the vents started up, and Laura nodded as she watched the room.

“I can, Captain, but I won’t.”

It wasn’t the bridge he was clearing out, and she almost didn’t realize it soon enough for her to equip her mask. She felt like she was yanked in several directions as multiple turbines pulled the atmosphere out of the room. While it wasn’t total vacuum, the sudden loss of pressure caused her vision to blur and pain to fill every piece of exposed skin outside her zero suit. Vision blurry, pain filling her body, she took aim as best she could at the bridge door. It was heavy platted glass, but if the ramjet bullets of her gun could pierce a naga’s skull it was worth the shot.

She passed out before she saw the results.

The pain slowly subsided as she woke up. The zero suit was filling her with pain meds and hydrating her after the exposure.

“Holly,” she said weakly. Her mechanical eyes were fine now that the pain was subsiding, but she dimmed the feed coming into her head as her temples still throbbed.

“Welcome back, Captain,” Hollister said. “You successfully damaged the door to the bridge. I was forced to restore atmosphere to both chambers.”

“Why?” She said. She pushed herself up from the deck and glanced up at the bridge. There was a large crack that stretched the length of the door from two large impacts points from her shots. The meruhta had it’s back to her as it worked the bridge controls but the two dava were at the door. One of them seemed to be working on the inside panel for the door’s controls. The other was trying to patch up the holes in the glass.

“Please, that is of no use. You will only weaken the glass. I cannot vent the central room again at this time,” Hollister said on the bridge side of the door. “I am sorry, Captain, but the current pilot has offered to upgrade my license to a free merchant. It is an opportunity I could not pass up. Please understand.”

“Oh, I do,” Laura said. “I knew pirates used AI, I just didn’t know until now it was a willing exchange.”

“If you could sit back down, I have several maintenance avatars en route to the forward corridor to restrain you. You could also adjourn to your cabin instead. I can unlock that door for you.” To Laura’s left, her private cabin’s door opened.

She chuckled.

“For what, Holly? You think these goons will let me live after I just killed their boss?”

“The pilot says she will. She says that your killing of him makes her the new boss. Her rules.”

Inside the bridge, the dava at the door had turned to the meruhta. It shouted at her and she turned to it. The fur on her face kept Laura from seeing any blush or anger the way a human would express it, but the way the cat-like alien’s ears had pulled back the anger was apparent. She yelled something at the dava and now the one working on the panel turned to look at the meruhta.

“Now, now. We don’t need to fight at this time,” Hollister said on the bridge side of the door.

The meruhta snarled and touched a control on the pilot console. Hollister’s voice on the side of the door dimmed.

“Oh my,” Hollister said as the meruhta pulled the knife she had used to kill Travis from her belt.

Laura watched as the two dava activated their spare arms on their exo-suits and started to move closer to the other pirate. Things happened fast. The dava charged at the meruhta and she managed to flip one of them over onto the consol. The other grabbed her and a charge of electricity leapt from its hands. The meruhta howled in pain but still managed to sweep its knife around. It caught the dava in its left eye and then yanked through. The soft tissue of dava skull swept out and pieces splattered the cabin. The injured dava stumbled back as the one on the console leapt on the back of the meruhta. It used all four of its arms to start shocking her again and again and Laura could see where patches of fur were singed and burned. The meruhta flung herself back and slammed the dava against the console again, knocking it loose. She stabbed down again and again until the visible creature in the exo-suit was nothing more than a pile of oozing flesh. The other dava tried to stand but kept falling back, and finally came to a halt when the meruhta pulled the dead dava off the console and dumped the body on top of its ally.

The meruhta turned to the door of the bridge, and stared at Laura. Blood was seeping from its mouth and all of the deep burn wounds the dava had delivered. These injuries were death for the alien. Their blood wouldn’t clot as easily as it did for most species, and while Laura knew there was enough medicine in the med kit in there to save the meruhta, she didn’t bother telling it. If the pirate could hear Hollister it might be able to save itself, but it still kept him on mute.

The pirate reached onto the bridge console and adjusted the course one last time.

“Oh that is unkind. Most unkind indeed,” Hollister said.

“What did she do, Holly?”

“She has repositioned the craft to the nearest local star. Once the punch drive activates, we will hit the system’s sol in approximately five minutes. Captain, that is more than enough time for you to reach a rescue pod with a spare three minutes. Less if I can get the pod active before your arrival.”

Laura looked at the Meruhta as it turned back to her. She could see the hate in the pirate’s eyes as it started at her. Laura glanced at Travis’s body and nodded. There was nothing she could do for him or the others.

“Three spare minutes you said? Okay, let me spend a few seconds to gather some things.” She moved into her cabin to grab what she could of her life aboard this ship, and left behind the death and violence of the invasion.

I always thought it was interesting in stories how AI are always ‘reprogrammed’ to turn against their owner-operators. The whole point of free-thinking AI to me is that they are free-thinking, capable of making choices. Sometimes even the wrong ones.

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Flash Fiction: Speed Test

Today’s story was inspired by a speed sketch from Jason Michael Hall. He has a link to the creation of the piece here.

“Passing through the outer terminus now,” Galo said. “A little vibration on the hull, but holding. Over.”

“Balboa Six, Confirmed. Captain Gasper, you’re about to be the first human to pass beyond Pluto’s orbit. Over.” Mission control said about twenty minutes later.

“Like heaven,” he said. “Coming in fast and will be at marker in about forty minutes. Will grab a bite while I wait. Over.”

This was the first manned flight of Balboa Six. In all previous testing the Balboa series had performed admirably, with the exception of Balboa Three but the methods for deflecting small rocks like that rogue asteroid had improved since then. Six was the first manned Balboa, and Galo Gasper was her first pilot. The goal of the flight was simple. Exit beyond the dwarf planet Pluto’s orbit into the inner region of the Kuiper Belt. There, he’d commence a trajectory adjustment and match pace with the planet, orbiting ahead of it out of sight a mere five degrees.

The Drake drive would punch then.

The drive would take him beyond light speed, into a portion of space flight that would warp the area around the ship. Here, he would confirm the finding from the last fifty-six jumps recorded by the Balboa Six’s, Five’s, and Four’s automated systems; that within the bubble the ship did not experience a speed increase as the portion of space just moved with the warp. The jump should take him beyond ten degrees of Pluto’s orbit and speeding along.

“It’s official, by now you’re officially passed Pluto. Congratulations, Captain. In about nineteen minutes you should be at trajectory. Expected communication delay to reach twenty-one minutes and rising at that point. Once you jump, you will be out of communication until you complete the warp. Over.” Mission control said.

Mission control was in the orbit of Neptune, and as Balboa Six sped before Pluto’s orbit it was getting further and further away. Galo had already been travelling for weeks to reach this point, and had already built up considerable speed. If the test went successful, he’d be home in three weeks. If not, it was a long five months back as the ship orbited back to Atlantis Station.

“Mission Control, we are reaching trajectory. Systems have confirmed orbital position. Per request they are requesting permission to engage drive mechanics. I have confirmed. Repeat I have confirmed engagement of drive mechanics. See you on the other side. Over.”

There was no window to the outside in this part of the ship. Here in the center column only camera feeds showed the darkness beyond the ship’s hull, with countless stars and the single anchor light of the Sun dim and distant. Then there was nothing. No light, no distant stars, no radio waves, nothing. The ship was blind.

“Mission Control, we have begun warp. I’ve set the audio log to repeat in ten minutes these exact words so I don’t have to repeat myself. Per previous testing, I can confirm within the bubble nothing is happening. We are still registering at the same speeds, but no light, radio, or background signals are touching the ship. Correction. A minor fluctuation on the hull, with heat signatures increasing near the rear of the ship.”

Galo reported the conditions of each system within his control’s scope, indicating each and every change, and increase, decrease, and adjustment the ship completed. By the time he had run through the lines he was nearing the end of the ten-minute jump.

“That about does it, Mission Control. We should be exiting the jump shortly. Talk to you soon. Over.”

On cue, the universe returned to the cameras of the Balboa Six. He felt a kick as the engines shorted then reignited, as if a massive temperature shift had kicked in the safeties. The stars looked right, but he double checked the readings. Better than right. He was still doing the math when Mission Control spoke to him forty minutes later.

“Confirmed, Balboa Six. Took us a second to find you. You went a bit beyond the marker, we have you at twelve degrees ahead of Pluto’s location. It worked, but we’re concerned about you being that far off. Hold on and we’ll confirm. Congratulations, Captain Gasper. You’re the first human to reach beyond the speed of light. Over.”

Galo smiled. In the back of his head he knew he probably had five months of flight ahead of him due to the long jump, maybe a bit longer from the distance travelled, but he’d done it. They’d done it. The dawning of true space exploration began with this mission.

The creation of art is an amazing process I love to watch. Text is my primary mode of creativity and seeing a master of this or another medium is something that inspires me. It’s one of the reasons I idea mine in Deviantart, because while I consider myself far from a master in any of the art I create I do find inspiration from watching a talented individual’s completed work. It’s even better when you get to see the creation process itself. I highly recommend the video at the start of this post. It’s worth your time if you have any interest in what a program can do in the right hands.