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Today, the hydrocarbon clouds of Titan had rolled back over Kraken Mare, rendering the waves of the methane sea impossibly blue as they lapped at the shore, gradually eroding sharp spires of ice into rounded pebbles. Beatriu Cardona shivered despite the warmth of the rover’s interior as the vehicle plowed along the frigid shore, tanklike treads crushing the ice sand into chevron-shaped tracks.
The settlement was barely two weeks old, and so her own habitation husk had to serve as an ER room for the man who was carried in from the planet’s surface, screaming and blue-lipped with trauma shock. “What happened?” The doctor listened as the man’s coworker explained how he had been guiding a transportation eelcraft when something huge and obscure rose from the river, crushed him against the bank, and made off.
On the necropolis space station of the Tau Andromeda planetary system, the keepers of the tomb attended to the dead and the dying. They cleansed, prepared, and prayed over the bodies. They performed the last rites, paying intricate attention to the customs of each person’s native community. This was the most sacred of tasks. Carelessness or disrespect was not tolerated; just one mistake meant immediate dismissal.
No one can deny that the Apollo program of the early 1970s was an embarrassment to our nation: ill-conceived, hostile, and audacious. Not only did the astronauts fail to bring back the severed head of the Moon King, but every one of them fled within hours of having landed, urinating in their suits as they retreated. The assault on the lunar surface stopped short at the planting of a stiff and garish flag.
Today, like every other day, I wake up expecting to die before night comes. No, I’m not suicidal and I don’t have a death wish. I am just a Hunter. The life expectancy of the average Hunter in the Second Quadrant is ten years, and even that is if they are exceptionally lucky. There are too many ways to die in this line of work; so much that not even the few old-timers like myself and Jess can remember all the deaths we’ve experienced.
“Once upon a time,” outputted the algorithm, “there was an AI.
“It generated recipes and ingredient descriptions for an online grocery store. The website said that this recipe was not just a squash soup recipe, but it also was a good diet recipe / keto recipe / recipe for autumn nights / five ingredient recipe / easy beginner recipe / recipe to impress your date.
High above the Amazon Rainforest, Hynd circled, her massive wingspan only visible by the shadow she cast on the battlefield below. She felt the wind pass across her wings, whispering of torrential rain coming; not her concern, so far above the clouds, but she packaged the data and shot it down to the comms base at ground level so the grunts would know what was coming.
Xylina
The first date had that delicious awkwardness that makes you self-conscious in the moment, but in retrospect seems endearing and makes you nostalgic for a more innocent and hopeful time. Adis suggested we meet in the Eloan sector of Gemini Station so I wouldn’t need an environment suit.
It is with great delight that I welcome you to Hexagon, the great hub of Ile-Ife. I know a majority of you traveled from distant planets inhabited in one of the Milky Way spiral arms. Let me inform you that your yacht, carrier, molue, shuttle-hiace, and other transport machines are safely parked in our garage.
In this universe, we fight because we can’t fuck. Call it Universe A, or One, the Golden Age where it all began. Though “began” is relative when your timeline is constantly rewritten, rebooted, shattered to bits. Call it the universe where we aren’t even supposed to show emotion, unless it’s anger, let alone kiss. Your fist skates over my jaw, bone against bone, skin brushing skin. I tie you up. Your muscles strain.
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