Author: fionagreywrites (Page 5 of 29)

The USS Chocolate Chip Cookie had been on a decelerating approach toward the structure for the past month, drawing out the journey of decades spent frozen in stasis.

The astrophysicist who’d discovered the space station had warned the captain to expect a relic. Life was out there, but the anticipation had been tempered with realism. What were the chances alien life would still be alive by the time anyone came to say hello?

The crew had been chosen with the expectation they’d be part archaeologist, part repairman.

But as they’d drawn closer, it had become clear that not only was the station habitable, it was in fact…inhabited.

The silver twinkle of departing and arriving ships had been the first sign, but the sensors had been blaring life form indicators for weeks.

They’d practiced welding a lot more than diplomacy. Wasn’t like the Cookie could turn around at this point to pick up a State Department liaison. Hell, State wouldn’t get their message tentatively confirming life for several years.

No, the Cookie was on her own.

Captain Cassie Berdt’s chest spasmed. She let out a breath and the twinge passed. The tension between her shoulder blades did not.

“Shuttle on approach,” reported the lieutenant whose chair she was gripping hard enough to leave a titanium dent.

Cass sucked in another gulp of stale air. “Steady as she goes.”

A crackle came over the comms. “Port door is opening. Shimmer indicates shield tech.” A pause, followed by another burst of static. “Scanners confirm. Looks like a crowd is gathering at the dock.”

Sergeant Penny broke in over Commander James’ measured tones. “They’re humanoid!”

“Confirmed, majority humanoid,” the commander added, but Cass was probably the only one still paying attention, judging by the murmur on the bridge.

“Two hundred meters to docking,” a cool British voice announced.

“Let Winston take it in,” Cass ordered. “Hold targeting to calculations only. Stay friendly but all systems and crew alert for trouble.”

“Aye, Captain,” the AI responded. “Fifty meters.”

“Shuttle crew, don’t forget to document.”

“Recording logs activated,” Commander James replied.

Sergeant Penny let out a nervous giggle. “Ooo. That one’s cute.”

“Try to avoid local mating rituals until we find out what they are,” Cass stated calmly. She held in her eyeroll and affected a posture of poise and control. Penny was a sharp junior NCO, but she would pull a stunt like this right as the formal logs started.

“Sorry, Captain.” Penny always was.

Winston broke in crisply. “Translator activated and broadcasting to shuttle crew. Docking in five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.”

The bridge crew had held their breath collectively this time, judging by the exhales after the bump.

“Atmosphere normalized. Breathable air.” Penny was back to business as she focused on her sensor pad.

“No pathogens detected,” Winston added.

“Confirmed. Hatch is safe to open.” Clanking mingled with hydraulic whirs.

“Ooo lá lá,” James murmured.

Cass choked on her stale, cold coffee. “Commander?”

He didn’t answer.

Above the murmur of the alien crowd, Penny’s voice gave a clue. “Do you smell that? It’s beautiful. The scent memories it’s evoking are amazing…”

“We are surrounded,” James said, his baritone dropping to a dreamy bass.

“I don’t think I mind.” Penny giggled coquettishly.

“You should join us, Captain.” The unmistakable sounds of kissing followed.

Cass felt her face redden, suddenly glad she hadn’t given into crew pressure and broadcast the shuttle feed live.

“Abort! About mission! All crew, retreat to the Cookie immediately. Winston, evacuate them by force if necessary. I don’t care if it starts an intergalactic war, we’re not leaving them behind.”

“Apologies, Captain.” Winston sounded…mussed. “All circuits are busy. This station AI is unlike anything I’ve ever analyzed…”

***

Had some fun with the inhabited station – thanks, Becky! My prompt went to nother Mike. Check out more at MOTE!

Jerry studied the white disk a white-gloved waiter had just handed him on a silver-rimmed china plate.

“Wondering what it is?” A cooly amused blonde in a shimmering gown the color of moonlight gave a ghost of a smile and made her way toward him, heels clicking on the marble floor. She lifted her flute of champagne. “Elena.”

He lifted his own glass toward her. “Wondering how to eat it with my hands full and nowhere to set these down.” He peered ostentatiously at the plate, which revealed no secrets to its audience. “But also what it might be, yes, and whether it’s edible.”

The round disk looked like smooth styrofoam, dazzled with either pebbles or the dullest edible confetti he’d ever seen.

“Orphans on the moon,” Elena said with a smile nearly as dazzling as the diamonds circling her neck. “It’s a themed meringue disk. My chef’s creation.”

Jerry softened, lifting his gaze as if to study her for the first time. Other than her curls, she matched her picture. “So you’re the host.”

“First time at one of my fundraisers?” Her words held a bite of irony. “Apologies. That was uncalled for.”

“I gave it away, didn’t I?” He grinned, urging on the charm and grateful his itchy fingers were occupied. Those diamonds were singing to be handled by someone who’d appreciate them more than an evening accessory. “Not knowing how to handle the food or pretend to be all blasé.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded.

“But I’m one of the ones who made it big after being raised in an orphanage on the moon, and it’s time for me to give back as well.”

“Fascinating,” drawled Elena. “The modern version of local boy made good. Mister…”

“Jim,” he said hastily, giving her his code name for the evening. He dropped his champagne on a passing waiter’s tray, untouched.

He tapped two fingers against his lapel pin, the agreed-upon signal for target acquired. A signal that also looked like it was an invitation to move closer.

“Now, would you care to help me test this delectable treat before we orbit into the auction room?”

He held up the lightweight disk, gave her a devil-may-care grin reminiscent of the Apollo program, and knew they’d never make it that far.

***

Did nother Mike expect the unexpected from the moon orphanage to be a gang of orbital thieves? And what did Becky Jones do with terraforming? Find out over at MOTE!

“The Belle Notation is coming into firing position, Captain.” The ensign’s voice squeaked at the end, with a flush to match. He cleared his throat. “Shields remain at sixty-one percent and rising.”

Captain Chiv studied the comm device in her hand, poking at it with a long finger. “Engineering is doing a wonderful job. A pity we can’t increase the shielding further during wormhole travel.”

“Yes, Mum,” and this time the tension kept his voice high. “In the meantime, shall we maneuver? Or perhaps you have other orders you wish to provide?”

She quirked an eyebrow. “First time in space, Ensign Aubring?”

He stiffened. “Graduated the academy last month, Captain.”

The XO drifted past, slapping the ensign lightly on the shoulder. “Everything gon’ be okay. Cop’tin will take care ov us.”

“Gimeson knows what he’s about. Grew up on Mars, you know. He’s a good role model.”

“If I live, Mum.”

Chiv tapped her comm again. “There’s always a doomsayer aboard the watch. Next tour, it’ll be someone else. You’ll get there. Enjoy the view. Io’s beautiful this time of year.”

“Captain,” he begged. “I’d like to point out that the Belle is now warming up her torpedo tubes.”

“Shields at seventy,” called the XO.

“Thanks, Gimeson.” Chiv extracted her draped legs from the Captain’s chair and stood with her feet shoulder width apart, easy with long practice in limited grav. She leaned forward slightly to study the display. “There they are, right on time.”

“Neutral signal, Mum.”

A crackle emerged from the console radio. “Neutral party with deliveries for parties on the Belle Notation and the Grammatically Incorrect. Please spin down for Galactic Delivery Services.”

Aubring groaned. “Deliveries always come at inconvenient times, don’t they? That poor tug will be toast in thirty seconds.”

“Law ov the galaxy,” Gimeson said laconically.

“Neutral party,” Chiv said with a slight smile, and held up her comm for Aubring to inspect. “As long as the tug avoids pirates – which he will, in this area, with two of us squaring off, not even they’re that daring – he’ll make it here. And we’re obliged to let him take as long as he likes to deliver.”

Gimeson slid toward the viewport. “Stalls the conflict until we’re ready. Maybe stops it a’tall.”

“Don’t suppose it’s pizza this time, Captain?” came a hopeful voice over the internal intercom. “Engineering could use a morale boost.”

“Kebabs,” Chiv answered absently. “They were faster. And bubbles, for the other crew, because I want them distracted, not unhappy if the food’s cold again.”

She headed for the hatch. “Diplomacy, Ensign. It’s got its quirks.”

***

This week, AC Young prompted me with: Mankind had colonised the solar system, but delivery companies still delivered stuff at the most inconvenient of times.

My prompt went to nother Mike: Still pools marred the dusty path, gleaming crystal-blue with reflected sky.

Check out more, over at MOTE!

The downpour blocked her view and trickled icy down her neck from where she huddled under the tiny awning. Sierra could barely see across the parking lot, let alone study the graffitied mural she’d watched the hooded artist create last year.

Last year, when she’d been able to afford the one-bedroom and she hadn’t minded sleeping on the couch. Not when Mama needed the bed after another round of poison that shrank her very bones, no matter that the doctors said it would save her.

Now…the baker’s wife had already tapped on the glass twice, and her arms ached from the stack of heavy books. She’d wasted the last of her funds unknowing, blithely secure in job and student status.

And now, the scent of damp pages rose from the precious art books in a thick technicolor miasma that blended with the fog and did nothing to blur the salt from her tears.

The next rap made her bolt across the street, heedless of the further damage to her shattered dreams. The one thing her mama had made her promise was not let go, and tonight her dreams flew on wings far above her reach.

Best she leave her mourning in the street with the last of the rain.

Tomorrow she’d search for a new job and settle into trudging dreariness.

Only she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, the remnant of swollen eyes and years she’d spent in hospitals rather than learning her way.

From the darkness came a golden, neon glow from an open door, and she was chilled enough now to dash for friendly lights and get her bearings.

And within the blur of falling water and glinting light arose wings bigger than any eagle she’d ever seen, rippling open and stretching beyond the wooden doors…

***

Leigh Kimmel prompted: The downpour had become so heavy you could barely see across parking lot. And then you glimpsed…

My prompt – The scheduling bot was the perfect assistant, until… – also went to Leigh this week. Check it out over at MOTE!

Archive No. 41,573. Provenance confirmed as an early journal entry of General Barstein, dated 01.05.2037 (rank at the time of documentation: Captain, United States Space Force).

5 January 2037

In retrospect, there’s no good way to explain the horror of the Toy Wars.

Retrospect. As if the nightmare’s already over. Let me add a snort of derision here.

I’ve barely made Captain, and I’m still hung over from the promotion party, but Trace was right. Once you’ve pinned on, nobody knows if you’re brand new or six years in and about to pin on Major. And even the newest of us Captain types (yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the “double Lieutenant” jokes) can tell this’ll go on for years before we’re close to winning. The older O3s – what’s left of them – are starting to look cynical, with creases at their eyes a few years too early.

Well, us noobs* can also tell that we let the propaganda get away from us.

*Editor’s note. Noobs: An archaic term referencing a participant’s newness to a task at hand. Often seen in groups known as swarms, and easily identifiable by the “noobs'” lack of practical knowledge regarding task completion or desire to complete the task by themselves. Contextual meaning: Likely self-mockery, given Gen Barstein’s company grade officer (i.e., low) rank at the time of data entry.

Toy Wars. Come on. Like it’s as low-stakes as those cartoons that my mom used to go on about.

It sounds wild, doesn’t it? Absolutely ridiculous.

Whatever pixie dust sprinkled on those first bits of plastic, from the day the first toy dragon came to life…I bet it was before then, and someone only noticed because a fire started. We couldn’t stop it, because patient zero was never found. Some idiot played with DNA computing, and boom, cross contamination.

Dolls strangling children in their cribs. Plastic toy soldiers found in veterans’ libraries, studying strategy and running field exercises. 3D-printed dinosaurs biting your ankles, which sounds hilarious until you realize the teeth are real, and you’re bleeding, and that little bastard’s ready to eat you alive.

Little kids, blinded by toys that go pew-pew, run over by trucks blaring ice-cream happy music, lured into traps to catch one last virtual critter that turned out to have too many teeth.

Even squishy toys got in on the action, stuffing themselves into open mouths at night.

Kids of the Last Generation having developmental delays, because what kid doesn’t use play to learn? You keep them away from plastic and a wooden stick serving in place of a poppet stabs them in the eye.

Against it all, the mothers screaming.

I remember the last year people had kids. The gullible believed the news, and swore off procreation. Others scoffed, and found out for themselves. Shattered the birth rate.

Annoys the crap out of me when people write down what everybody already knows, so why am I joining the hordes of people annotating their lives before they die in text as well as vids?

I aim to survive. Assuming I can accomplish that, I’m convinced the Space Force will have the solution. You’d think our size would help us win, but we’re outnumbered, but they don’t need to sleep, so they don’t stop.

It’s not like space lasers will help us win the fight. They’ve got those, too.

No, we’ve got to get off planet. And we’ve got to do it before we’re all too old to have children. And the lack of science lab proliferation in the toy departments finally works in humanity’s favor.

I think I made a discovery in the lab today. A big one. We’ll see if I’m right.

Because if I am, this changes everything.

Gen Linsey Bernstein (2015-2103) was the founder of the original Adeona asteroid belt colony and the inventor of early rapid terraforming technology.

The Verona Museum is grateful for the support provided by our generous sponsors that enable this special exhibit of early Toy Wars history:
The Honorable and Mrs James Persistia
Adelaide Ornstini
Smithers Horace and Family
Lady Winifred Jones and Sir Estegal Jones-Winfrey
The Mars Colony Society for the Preservation of Early Space History
The Toy Wars Veterans’ Association, Lodge No. 1105

***

This week, AC Young suggested I explore the day the toy dragon came alive, and I took it in a darker direction…even though I really wanted a live toy dragon as a kid!

My prompt went to nother Mike, who explored half a riddle. Find his response, and more, over at More Odds Than Ends – and don’t forget to get your entry in for the last prompts of 2023!

“But Mira-aaaan-da,” Greystone whined. “It’s freezing outside.”

The crimson dragon snorted — as if she’d never been to Court Etiquette and felt the wrath of Madame Harbison, may her soul rest in peace — and settled her head upon her claws, which in turn poked through the thick silk fibers of a hand-woven rug.

“We’re inside,” she pointed out. “In front of the castle’s great hearth, which has a merry fire crackling and popping. In fact, I’ve seen you jump at least once every minute. Isn’t that keeping you warm?”

“But I’m a cat,” he wheedled. “I wouldn’t get startled with the embarrassment of a kitten on a failed hunt if I was in a cozy, warm spot. I’d give it a good death glare and fall back asleep.”

“Your primary form is a snow leopard,” Miranda continued. “Thick fur. Mountain home. Bouncing through snow-covered rocks like your tail were a pogo stick.”

Greystone yawned, showing sharp fangs as his tongue extended. “And here I thought we were friends. What’s a bit of dry air between friends? So warm. Toasty, even. Come on, just a little breather?”

She pulled her head up and hissed at him, stretching her neck until she loomed over his fuzzy blue floor cushion. “You. Are. Flammable!”

***

This week’s prompt was from Cedar Sanderson – what’s a bit of dry air between friends? – and I didn’t quite know what to do with it, as apparently that’s slang I either don’t understand or identify with all too well.

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel, who’s dealing with the aftermath of forgotten answers. Check out her response (and more! you, too, can play along!) over at More Odds Than Ends. And if you’re enjoying these stories, feel free to leave a comment over at the MOTE site on whether 2024 should keep the prompts coming, or if we shake things up a bit.