« Go to Chapter 18

I want to remember every detail of that day.

I was on my way to work. We knew it could be any day now.

The previous week, I had felt something. I thought it was a contraction, so we rushed to the Vital Arc.

We were sent back. “False alarm,” they said.

This time was different.

I had barely left the cabin when I stopped walking. I felt an intense pressure, followed by an urge to push.

I called Julian.

“I think this is it.”

“Where are you?”

“I just left the cabin.”

“Go back. Wait for me there. I’ll be there soon.”

The corridor felt longer than usual.

The walk back to the cabin felt even longer.

After Julian arrived, everything started moving quickly.

The Vital Arc.

The examination.

The pain.

The epidural.

People coming in and out of the room.

My mother checking the displays.

Someone telling me when to breathe.

Then the pushing.

“Push, Kyla. Push.”

Julian stayed beside me the entire time, holding my hand and telling me I was doing great.

For some reason, I wanted to punch him.

I told him that.

He laughed.

I did not.

Then something changed.

There was movement around me. Voices became shorter. Faster.

All I could hear was my mother.

I knew that tone.

Something was wrong.

For a moment, she was not my mother anymore. She was Dr. Soria.

Then I heard what was happening.

The umbilical cord was wrapped around Alex’s neck.

The same thing that had kept him alive, the thing that had connected us for months, was now wrapped around his neck.

I remember asking if he was okay.

No one answered me.

For a few seconds, there was no sound.

Maybe it was only a second.

Then Alex cried.

The first thing I ever heard from my son was a cry.

“He’s breathing,” my mother said. “Everything is all right.”

Her voice had changed again.

She was no longer Dr. Soria.

She was his grandmother.

I want to remember when they brought him to me.

The first time I saw his face.

His little hands.

How warm he felt against me.

I remember looking at Julian.

He was crying.

I think I was too.

My father arrived afterward.

He stood beside the bed and stared at Alex for a long time without saying anything.

Dad always has something to say.

That day he did not.

He touched Alex’s hand with one finger.

Alex grabbed it.

My father cried.

I had never seen him cry before.

Maybe that is why I remember it so clearly.

Everyone cried that day.

My mother told me once that people are built differently from systems.

We cry. We laugh. We hope. We grieve.

We are living stories.

I think I understand what she meant now.

In one day, I went through all of those emotions.

We all did.

It was the happiest day of my life.

But for some reason, I also felt sad.

Empty.

I am still trying to understand those other feelings.

Alex has been with us for only a few weeks, and he already has different cries.

There is the hungry one.

There is the angry one when we change him.

There is the tired one, where he seems offended that sleep exists.

Sometimes he cries and neither Julian nor I can figure out why.

Those are the hardest.

I pick him up. I walk around the cabin. I feed him.

And sometimes he keeps crying anyway.

I have cried with him more than once.

That part is harder to write about.

I thought having Alex would make me happy.

It does.

I love him more than I knew I could love someone.

Sometimes I look at him while he sleeps and cannot understand how he was inside me only a few weeks ago.

But I am not happy all the time.

Some mornings I wake up and do not want to get out of bed.

Sometimes Julian takes Alex and I feel relieved.

Then I feel guilty for feeling relieved.

Sometimes Alex cries and something inside me becomes angry before I can stop it.

Not angry at him.

Just angry.

Then I cry because I was angry.

My mother says the changes after pregnancy affect people differently.

Dr. Navarro called it postpartum depression.

I do not like the name.

It sounds like something simple enough to put into a medical record.

A diagnosis.

A few words.

Something that can be recorded and filed away.

“Logminter, save this to my diary.”

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log archival.

Integrity check: Validated. Data saved by authorized user.

Authorized user: Anwar Cloutier Soria, Kyla. Created at: 2788.123.1428.

“Logminter, how many entries have I recorded about the day Alex was born?” Kyla said.

> You have recorded 27 entries referencing events that occurred on 2788.052.

“Twenty-seven?”

Kyla looked back at the display.

“I feel like every time I remember that day, something changes.”

> Archived entries remain unchanged after validation.

“That’s not what I mean.”

Logminter paused.

> Human recollection may vary between retrieval events. Recalling the past can change how an event is remembered in the future.

Kyla read the response again.

“So every time I remember that day, my memory can change?”

> Correct. Human memory is reconstructive. It is an active process of rebuilding past experiences rather than playing back an exact recording.

“But you remember every version exactly the way it was recorded.”

> Archived records preserve the information provided at the time of recording until they are deleted or destroyed.

Kyla looked toward Alex.

He had just woken up. He opened his eyes, looked at her, and started to cry.

Kyla smiled and changed her voice without thinking, the way she always did when talking to him.

“Oh, are you hungry? Is that what it is?”

She stood and picked him up.

“Come here, my baby. Let’s get you fed.”

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Kyla sat near the end of the row in the medical waiting area.

Alex was asleep against her chest.

She had learned that moving too quickly after he fell asleep was a mistake, so she stayed still.

Behind her, a wall display cycled through reminders about nutrition, hydration, and sleep.

The door from the corridor opened.

Alyka ran inside.

“Alyka,” Layna called after her. “Slow down.”

Alyka stopped when she saw Kyla.

“Kai-yah!”

Layna followed a few steps behind.

“Hi,” Kyla said.

Layna smiled when she saw Alex.

“Oh, look at him.”

“He finally fell asleep.”

Alyka moved closer.

“Baby.”

“Yes,” Kyla said. “His name is Alex.”

Alyka leaned forward to look at him.

Kyla smiled.

“She’s so big now.”

Layna sat beside her.

“She’s always been precocious. She talked early. Walked early.”

Kyla looked at Alyka.

“She looks like she’s already two.”

“Not yet,” Layna said. “We still have a little while.”

Alyka climbed onto the chair beside her mother.

“Is Alyka feeling well?” Kyla asked.

“Just routine vaccinations.”

Alyka immediately shook her head.

“No.”

Layna laughed.

“She knows what that word means now.”

Kyla smiled.

“Poor thing.”

“She’ll be fine. She gets more upset about having to sit still than about the injection.”

Alex moved against Kyla’s chest.

His face tightened.

“Shh… shh… it’s okay,” Kyla whispered.

He opened his eyes and started to cry.

Alyka looked at him.

“Baby cry.”

Kyla adjusted Alex against her shoulder.

Layna watched her for a moment.

“You look tired.”

Kyla looked at her.

“They say it is postpartum depression.”

Layna nodded slowly.

“I had it too.”

Kyla was surprised.

“You did?”

“After Alyka was born.”

Layna rested one hand on her daughter’s knee.

“People kept asking how she was doing. If she was eating. If she was sleeping.”

She looked back at Kyla.

“Nobody asked how I was doing.”

Kyla understood.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Alyka leaned against Layna.

Layna put an arm around her.

“It gets better,” she said.

Kyla looked at her.

“The depression?”

Layna nodded.

“It does.”

A door opened.

“Kyla Anwar?”

Dr. Navarro stood at the entrance to the examination corridor.

Kyla stood carefully, supporting Alex with one arm.

Layna reached out to steady her as she stood.

“Are you going back to work soon?” she asked.

“In two weeks.”

“Ready?”

Kyla looked at Alex.

“I don’t know.”

Layna smiled.

“It’ll be alright.”

Kyla smiled back.

“See you later.”

“See you.”

Kyla followed Dr. Navarro into the examination corridor.

Alex kept crying.

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« Go to Chapter 17

I was 85 when we received the bad news that Ra had been canceled. The Seeder 3 vessel would never depart. After that, we only received three more messages from Earth.

Kyla stopped reading. Her cabin was illuminated only by the light from the display.

She read the last sentence again.

After that, we only received three more messages from Earth.

Kyla scanned the next paragraph.

The last two messages arrived only months apart. It would take two years to get an answer to either one.

“Evaluate all your options to change your trajectory and immediately map the area for rogue planetary objects.”

Then the final one.

“The Seeder Project has been canceled. Central Command will shut down its operations next month.”

Kyla stared at the screen for a moment.

“Logminter.”

> Ready to record entry.

“Henry Solariam said Helios received three more messages from Earth after Ra was canceled,” Kyla said.

> Correct. Based on ‘2338: How We Got Here,’ Helios received three messages after Ra was canceled.

“But he only quoted two of them. Are there entries that contain all three messages?” Kyla asked.

Logminter paused.

> The final two messages are quoted in other entries corroborating Henry Solariam’s account. No entries containing all three messages were found. Helios has received no further communications from Earth since the Disconnect.

“When did we receive the message announcing that Ra had been canceled?”

> Based on the Captain’s logs, the message announcing that Ra had been canceled was received on 2337.363 at 17:53.

Kyla looked at the date.

“If it took about a year for the message to arrive, Ra was canceled before 2336.363, correct?”

> Based on the estimated communication delay, the message was transmitted approximately 427 days earlier, on 2336.301.

In the Gregorian calendar used on Earth, the equivalent date was December 26, 2336.

Kyla read all the dates again.

“Give me all communication records received after 2337.363. Search the Captain’s logs, the mission logs, and the content library.”

> There are only two accessible communication records after 2337.363.

“What do you mean by accessible?”

> One additional communication record is sealed, dated 2338.061. Two records are accessible and correspond to Henry Solariam’s account, dated 2338.147 and 2338.213.

“Computer, call Julian.”

Kyla’s Whisperzend pulsed.

“Hello, Sweetie. I’m on my way there,” Julian said.

“Okay, I’ll wait until you arrive.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I just want to show you something. See you soon.”

A few minutes later, the cabin door opened.

“Hi, I’m here.”

Kyla turned toward him.

“Come look at this.”

Julian walked to the desk, kissed her forehead, and pulled the chair beside her.

His hand moved instinctively to her belly.

“How is Alex doing?”

“He’s fine.”

Julian kept his hand there for a moment.

“You sounded serious when you called me,” Julian said.

“I found something serious.”

Julian exhaled.

“You scared me.”

“Sorry.”

He gave her belly a gentle rub before turning toward the display.

“What are we looking at?”

“Do you remember Henry Solariam’s story?”

Julian smiled.

“Of course. We read it with Instructor Mendez.”

Kyla pointed toward the display.

“Henry Solariam wrote that after Ra was canceled, Helios received three more messages from Earth.”

Julian leaned closer.

“He only quoted two of them,” Kyla said.

Julian’s smile faded.

“And you went looking for the third one.”

Kyla nodded.

“I think I found it, but it is sealed.”

“Let’s go to my desk. Maybe I can see what is going on,” Julian said.

They moved across the cabin. Julian sat in front of his workstation and activated the display.

A projected keyboard appeared above the desk.

He did not use his Whisperzend.

Kyla noticed.

Julian entered his credentials manually, then opened the Data and Information Office archive interface.

“Why are you typing?”

“I want to see the record directly.”

His fingers moved across the projected keys.

Kyla pulled a chair beside him.

“Do you remember the day of the record you found?”

“2338.061,” Kyla said.

Julian searched for the communication date.

> Query communication data where Created at = 2338.061.

The result appeared almost immediately.

“Here it is,” Julian said as he tried to access the entry.

The log entry information filled the display.

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log retrieval.

Integrity check: Validated. Mission archive.

Access status: Sealed. Created at: 2338.061.0635.

Julian studied the information.

“Can you open it?” Kyla said.

Julian nodded.

“A sealed record only needs authorization. If we get authorization, the seal can be lifted. It seems to be classified as restricted.”

“What does that mean?” Kyla said.

“It only needs authorization from a Council member, the Captain, or the First Officer.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Julian did not answer immediately.

“This record is different.”

“How?”

He turned slightly toward her.

“We may not be able to read the message.”

“Why not?”

“Because this record predates the biometric encryption system. Authorization won’t decrypt it. It needs a separate key.”

“Who has the key?”

Julian returned to the keyboard and searched for additional metadata.

“No key reference. No decryption information. Nothing accessible from this level.”

“So someone went through a lot of trouble to hide this message,” Kyla said.

“No, not really. Sealing a record requires an extra step, so that part was deliberate. It can look suspicious, but encryption shouldn’t be.”

Kyla looked at him.

“Why not?”

“Because we use encryption every day.”

Kyla frowned.

“Medical records. Private messages. Log entries. Your diary.”

“My diary is encrypted?”

Julian glanced back at the sealed communication.

“Encryption can protect the Captain’s orders. It can protect the Council.”

He paused.

“But it also protects your entries from unauthorized access.”

Kyla looked at him.

“I never really thought about it.”

“Most people don’t.”

Julian rested his hands on the edge of the desk.

“Encryption doesn’t care who you are. It’s an equalizer. Powerful or powerless. Captain or child. If you have the key, you can read the information. If you don’t, you can’t.”

Kyla considered that.

“So the same technology that protects people from authority can help authority hide something from everyone else.”

“Exactly.”

“That seems dangerous.”

“It can be,” Julian said.

“Then why use it?”

Julian smiled faintly.

“Because the alternative is worse.”

Kyla looked back toward the record.

“I should talk to Sheila about this.”

Julian looked at her.

“She’s on the Council, so she should be able to authorize access. Or I could ask Director Prescott, if you want.”

“If there was something in this message from Earth that someone wanted hidden, Sheila should know before we present a proposal to reconnect,” Kyla said.

Julian did not answer immediately.

Then he closed the archive interface.

“Yes, I think you should talk to her first.”

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I talked to Sheila this morning.

I told her about the three messages Helios received after Ra was canceled, but only two were quoted in Henry Solariam’s story.

She remembered the story.

Then I showed her the sealed record.

At first, she did not seem as concerned as I expected.

She said records had been sealed before. Council deliberations, investigations, medical information, security reports.

A seal meant someone had decided access should be restricted. It did not necessarily mean they were trying to hide something forever.

Then I told her what Julian found.

The record predates the biometric encryption system, so we would still need a separate key to decrypt it.

That changed her expression.

She asked me if Julian could find the key.

I told her he had searched the metadata and found nothing. No key reference. No decryption information.

Sheila was quiet for a while.

Then she asked the question I had been trying to answer since I found out about this.

Why would someone seal a communication from Earth and then leave no accessible way to open it?

She asked if Director Prescott knew about it.

For a moment, I thought she was going to tell me that Julian should have reported it immediately. Instead, she looked at the record again and asked me who else knew.

Julian and me.

That was it.

She told me to keep it that way for now.

I did not like hearing that.

I told her keeping information from other people feels wrong.

She said there is a difference between hiding information and taking enough time to understand what you have found before making it public.

I suppose she is right.

She also reminded me that we are preparing to introduce a proposal to restore deep-space communication.

That is the part that worries me the most.

We argued during the election that restoring communication could help Helios.

I still believe that.

But now there is a message from Earth that someone aboard Helios decided to hide.

Maybe it has nothing to do with the Disconnect.

Maybe it is just an old restricted communication that became inaccessible as the systems changed.

Maybe somewhere along the way, someone forgot to document how to open it.

I keep repeating those possibilities to myself. I keep thinking that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this.

Before I left, Sheila asked me one more question.

“How did Henry Solariam know there were three messages?”

I did not understand what she meant at first.

Then I did.

So either Mr. Solariam knew the message existed without knowing what it said…

or he knew what was inside.

I have spent most of the day thinking about that.

“Logminter, save this to my diary.”

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log archival.

Integrity check: Validated. Data saved by authorized user.

Authorized user: Anwar Cloutier Soria, Kyla. Created at: 2788.026.2009.

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Go to Chapter 19 »

« Go to Chapter 16

The Civic Arc conference room was small. A rectangular table occupied most of the space. One wall held a display panel. Another one had a small window facing the corridor.

A half-finished pot of dandelion coffee was at the center of the table, surrounded by notes.

Sheila stood beside the display. The Forge Arc projection was already up on the panel. The same descending line from the Council session showing the decline in Whisperzends.

“Sixteen?” Sheila asked.

Kyla looked up from the table.

“Sixteen years old instead of twelve will make it work.”

Sheila crossed her arms.

“I know sixteen would be better, but waiting four more years may be too much to ask. They will be ready to start the cadet program without any experience using a Whisperzend.”

“You’re right. Fourteen is a good compromise, but we have to reduce the age to return the devices to seventy-four,” Kyla said.

Sheila reduced the upper end of the age distribution.

Kyla studied the numbers.

“It helps, but if we want a lasting solution, we need to set it even lower. Like sixty-four years old.”

“That will be political suicide,” Sheila said. “It will not have enough votes.”

She looked back at the projection.

“Seventy-four is easier to defend.”

“It is,” Kyla said. “But it only postpones the shortage.”

Sheila did not answer.

Kyla adjusted the model again.

“At sixty-four, the projection stays within the available inventory.”

“For how long?” Sheila asked.

“Long enough to get us through the current shortage projection.”

Sheila pulled out a chair and sat across from Kyla.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Kyla looked at the projections again.

“When I was twelve, getting my Whisperzend felt like freedom.”

Sheila nodded.

“You could whisper someone from anywhere. Talk to Logminter while walking. Record something the moment you thought of it.”

Kyla looked back at the age distribution.

“Starting at fourteen is the right call.”

“Yes, let’s do fourteen,” Sheila said. “But returning the device while still actively working would probably feel like losing a lot.”

“We could add an exemption when continuous access is required by an active operational role,” Kyla said.

Sheila thought for a moment.

“Yes, let’s add that exemption.”

Kyla entered the sentence.

The draft filled the display.

Sheila read the proposal from beginning to end.

“I think this is it,” she said. “We’re not asking the sacrifice to belong to one group.”

Kyla looked at the two numbers.

14 and 64.

“Fifty years,” she said. “My parents will have to use a terminal soon, and Alex would have to wait two more years, but I think this is defensible.”

“Yes, it is defensible,” Sheila said. “And it offers a better option than having access based on what a person can afford.”

She sat back.

“I still don’t like sixty-four.”

“Neither do I.”

Kyla looked for the exemption and read it again.

“How many people are still in an assigned role at sixty-four?”

Sheila did not answer immediately.

“Probably more than we want.”

“Then this clause will break our numbers,” Kyla said.

Sheila looked at the projection for a long moment.

“I know.”

“Then why are we keeping it?”

“Because without it we lose the vote.” Sheila’s voice did not change. “And because the principle survives. Once the age is in the statute, the exemption can be narrowed later. It cannot be narrowed if it never passes.”

Kyla thought about the eight years, and about how many Council sessions would fit inside them.

She saved the draft.

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I went into the Council chamber thinking about how Sheila would respond to any objection about the proposal.

The Forge Arc projections were already displayed when we arrived. I sat beside Sheila, reviewing my notes one last time.

Across the chamber, Adrian Vale spoke quietly with Liam, who was seated in the Navigation Arc assistant chair. The Captain had not arrived yet.

Director Prescott sat farther down the table.

The President called the session to order.

“Today we will review several proposals regarding future Whisperzend allocation,” she said. “Council Member Vale will present first.”

His proposal was simple. Easy to explain.

Every citizen would continue receiving a Whisperzend at twelve, but continued personal assignment would require a monthly ledger charge after the citizen reached twenty.

His presentation was better than I expected.

He did not argue that people should pay for their Whisperzends. He argued that having a device assigned at twelve was not a right; it was a privilege. A privilege that Helios could no longer afford.

He said that under a ledger-credit model, the people who used their devices most would keep them, and the people who barely used them would find that they preferred to keep their credits. Simple.

The President opened the floor for questions.

Sheila raised her hand.

“And people with fewer ledger credits will make that decision more often.”

Adrian looked toward her.

“Probably, yes.”

Sheila continued.

“That is exactly the problem.”

“No,” Adrian said. “That is the way the mechanism works. It is simple economics.”

He continued.

“Ledger credits already exist to manage limited resources. People make decisions every day about how to use them.”

“A Whisperzend is not a pastry,” Sheila said. “It is how people record their lives.”

Adrian nodded.

“Recording a life does not require permanent possession of a Whisperzend. People who return their Whisperzend would still have access to Logminter, Computer services, messaging, and public terminals.”

The room became quiet for a moment.

“We will review the next proposal.” The President turned toward Sheila.

“Council Member Adeyemi.”

Sheila stood.

The display changed.

14 and 64.

“Our proposal begins from a different principle,” she said. “Every citizen should have the same guaranteed period of personal access.”

She explained the model.

Whisperzend assignment would begin at fourteen instead of twelve.

Guaranteed personal assignment would end at sixty-four.

After that, the device would return to Forge Arc inventory for inspection and reassignment.

The President opened the floor.

Adrian raised his hand.

“Why sixty-four?”

“Because the projections show that the inventory remains sustainable under that model,” Sheila said.

“The Council member representing the elders will not have a Whisperzend,” Adrian said. “We could have people working in the Navigation Arc without a Whisperzend. It could jeopardize basic functions aboard Helios.”

The room became very quiet.

Sheila glanced toward me.

“An exemption would apply when continuous personal access is required by an active operational role.”

Adrian nodded.

“Then the inventory does not remain sustainable under the model you are proposing.”

Sheila did not answer immediately.

“The exemption is necessary,” she said.

“I agree.”

The chamber was very quiet after that.

Then Director Prescott asked to be heard.

The President recognized him.

“I think both proposals are solving different parts of the same problem.”

Adrian looked toward him.

Sheila did too.

Director Prescott stood.

“Council Member Adeyemi’s proposal establishes a guaranteed period of equal personal access. Council Member Vale’s proposal creates flexibility after that guarantee.”

He walked toward the display.

“Why are we treating those as competing systems?”

No one answered.

Director Prescott changed the projection.

The age bar appeared again.

He moved the starting point to fourteen.

“Personal assignment begins at fourteen.”

Then he moved the second marker to sixty-four.

“Guaranteed personal assignment continues until sixty-four.”

Then he said the thing that ended the argument.

He said mandatory surrender was unnecessary. That if the Council raised eligibility to fourteen and, after some later age, replaced guaranteed assignment with a monthly charge, the projected gap would be resolved.

Sheila asked what the later age would be.

Director Prescott did not answer directly. Instead, he asked the computer system to calculate. The answer that came back was a range: fifty-six to fifty-eight years.

Instead of arguing, he selected the middle. A Whisperzend device would be guaranteed at no charge from fourteen until fifty-seven. No exceptions needed.

The President looked around the chamber.

“Any objections?”

No one answered.

“Council Member Vale?”

Adrian was still studying the projection.

“I can support it.”

She turned toward Sheila.

Sheila paused for a brief moment.

I knew that pause. She was deciding whether the next sentence would help or hurt the people.

“Yes,” Sheila said. “I can support it.”

“Then the combined language will be entered as an amendment,” the President said.

The vote passed.

During the election, four votes had felt like the difference between two futures.

Today, I stopped thinking about who had won.

Adrian did not get the system he proposed.

Neither did Sheila.

I had spent two weeks trying to help Sheila find a better answer.

Maybe that had been the wrong way to think about it.

There was no better answer waiting for us.

There were only different costs.

Alex would wait until fourteen.

My parents might someday decide whether keeping their Whisperzends was worth the ledger credits.

Someone else might return theirs when they turned fifty-seven, or maybe they would keep paying for it and return it when they turned sixty-four.

Someone in an operational role might keep one even longer.

No one got exactly what they wanted.

Maybe this is what governing looks like, finding something enough people could live with.

“Logminter, save this to my diary.”

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log archival.

Integrity check: Validated. Data saved by authorized user.

Authorized user: Anwar Cloutier Soria, Kyla. Created at: 2787.347.2153.

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Go to Chapter 18 »

« Go to Chapter 15

The Council planning session had already been underway for more than an hour when the Council President moved to the next item on the agenda.

All Arc directors were present, along with the sitting Council members, the Captain, and the First Officer.

Kyla sat beside Council Member Adeyemi, reviewing the notes in front of her. Since becoming Sheila’s assistant after the election, Kyla had taken on more of the research and preparation behind each Council session.

Adrian Vale sat several places away, reviewing something in his own notes with the patience of a man who had already read it twice.

Liam had been transferred to the Navigation Arc after being recommended by Adrian. He was sitting next to the Captain, serving as his assistant.

The President looked down at her agenda.

“The next item concerns a report submitted by the Forge Arc last month regarding non-manufacturable components.”

The chamber panels changed.

A diagram of a Whisperzend appeared, separated into layers. Kyla recognized the curved pads and the thin arms that extended toward the temples. The next image showed what was inside.

“The Forge Arc has identified several systems that depend on components we can repair and refurbish but cannot manufacture aboard Helios,” the President continued. “The immediate concern brought to the Council involves Whisperzends.”

She looked toward the Forge Arc director.

“Director.”

The director stood.

“Most of the physical components used in a Whisperzend can be manufactured aboard Helios,” he said. “The housing, contacts, wiring, and several other components can be replaced as needed.”

Several parts of the diagram turned gray.

A small section of the circuitry remained highlighted.

“These cannot.”

Kyla leaned forward slightly.

“The circuitry contains components that require manufacturing processes Helios does not possess. Every functional board aboard the ship ultimately comes from the inventory launched from Earth, or from another device that has been recovered and refurbished.”

The diagram disappeared.

Numbers replaced it.

The director paused.

“The problem is that our recovery rate has been declining.”

A projection appeared across the center panel. Kyla followed the line as it moved gradually downward.

“Based on current failure rates and the number of children approaching eligibility, we estimate that within eight years we will no longer have enough serviceable Whisperzends to maintain the current allocation policy.”

Kyla looked toward Sheila.

Sheila was staring at the projection.

The President asked, “To be clear, what happens in eight years?”

“We cannot predict the exact day yet,” the director replied. “But under current projections, there will come a point when the number of serviceable devices available for reassignment is lower than the number required.”

“For replacements?” the Captain asked.

“For replacements and new allocations.”

The director changed the display again.

“Under current policy, every citizen receives a personal Whisperzend at age twelve.”

The director paused.

“The concern is that approximately eight years from now, we may not be able to provide one to every child reaching that age.”

The room became quieter.

The President thanked the director, and he returned to his seat.

“The purpose of this discussion is to determine what options the Council should evaluate before the projected shortage occurs,” said the President.

The Captain leaned toward his microphone. “I’m more concerned about the circuitry used in devices and equipment that provide life support and other vital functions. Do we have projections for those?”

The Forge Arc director answered. “The initial inventory of non-manufacturable components was calculated to last well beyond arrival. The problem with the Whisperzend devices is that their failure rate appears to have been underestimated. We have also lost several devices due to accidents, the most recent approximately a year ago.”

Adrian leaned toward his microphone.

“Perhaps we should start by reconsidering the allocation model.”

The President looked toward him.

“Go ahead, Council Member Vale.”

“Whisperzends are assigned at age twelve and, in practice, remain assigned for life,” Adrian said. “Perhaps we should incentivize people to return them earlier.”

“What are you suggesting?” the President asked.

“An allocation system using ledger credits.”

There was a brief silence.

Adrian continued.

“We already use ledger credits to manage access to limited resources. Cabin allocations are one example. Whisperzends could operate under a similar model.”

“You want people to pay for their Whisperzend?” Sheila asked.

“I want people to make a choice about whether they need one.”

Adrian folded his hands on the table.

“People who want continuous personal access would pay a monthly charge. The amount could be adjusted according to inventory and demand.”

Sheila shook her head.

“Whisperzends are how people communicate. Students use them for school. We use them to access the Computer and Logminter. People record their lives with them.”

“And none of those things requires a Whisperzend,” Adrian replied.

Sheila stopped.

Adrian continued.

“Logminter can be accessed from shared devices. So can Computer services. Messages can be sent from terminals. Children already do those things before they receive their first Whisperzend.”

Sheila turned toward Director Prescott.

“Director, how many log entries are recorded aboard Helios in a year?”

Prescott did not need to retrieve it.

“Roughly six hundred thousand.”

“And what fraction are recorded through a Whisperzend?”

Director Prescott paused to check the Data and Information Office records.

“Approximately eighty-two percent.”

“Then this is not a question about convenience,” Sheila said. “A system that depends on charging ledger credits will reduce the number of records from people who earn fewer credits. It will not reduce them evenly across the population.”

“I think that’s enough,” the President said.

The chamber became quiet.

“We have an engineering problem and one possible response to it. We do not yet have a proposal.”

She looked first toward Adrian and then toward Sheila.

“I don’t intend to have the Council debate a policy that hasn’t been written.”

She glanced around the chamber.

“If Council Member Vale wishes to develop a model based on ledger credits, submit it for review.”

Adrian nodded.

The President turned toward Sheila.

“And if anyone believes there is a better way to extend the Whisperzend inventory, prepare an alternative.”

Sheila nodded slowly.

“I will.”

“Good.”

The President returned to the agenda.

“Formal proposals will be reviewed two weeks from today. The Forge Arc will provide the projections necessary to evaluate them.”

The panels changed again, and the Whisperzend disappeared.

The President moved to the next item.

Kyla tried to follow.

Instead, she kept thinking about the line on the projection.

Eight years.

Her hand had moved to her stomach.

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The Plaza was busy in the way it always was after the working shifts ended. Children ran along the edge of the shallow basin while the blue light pulsed underneath them in slow waves.

Kyla and Julian sat on one of the benches near the basin.

The kiosk had watermelon ice pops. Julian had bought two, handing one to Kyla before she could ask.

“Eight years,” Kyla said quietly.

Julian glanced at her. “You’re still thinking about the meeting.”

“Of course I am. Do you remember getting yours?”

“Barely.”

“I do. I counted the days.”

Julian smiled. “That sounds like you.”

Kyla nudged him with her shoulder.

“It felt like freedom. I could whisper anyone whenever I wanted. I could talk to Logminter without having to find a terminal.”

She looked down at what remained of her ice pop.

“Alex may not get one.”

“Yes, he will,” Julian said. “He’ll be okay.”

Kyla watched two children race across the bridge.

“I don’t like Adrian’s idea.”

“I figured,” Julian said.

Kyla continued.

“The argument is that price makes people choose, but it doesn’t. It chooses for them, and it always chooses the same people.”

Julian took another bite of his ice pop.

“So what would you do?”

“I don’t know,” Kyla admitted.

The two children disappeared into one of the corridors.

“Maybe we’re giving them out too early.”

“At twelve?” Julian asked.

“Maybe thirteen. Fourteen. I don’t know.” Kyla shrugged. “Children already use terminals before they get one.”

“And maybe people shouldn’t keep them for the rest of their lives.”

Julian turned toward her.

“You mean give them back?”

“At some point.”

“That would affect our parents,” Julian said.

“I know.”

“And eventually us,” he added.

Kyla looked at him.

“I know that too. But it would be more equitable.”

Julian was quiet for a moment.

Kyla glanced toward the corridor where the children had disappeared.

“Sheila wants to bring an alternative proposal to the Council, so we have two weeks to come up with something better.”

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The waiting area outside the Vital Arc medical offices was almost empty.

A wall display cycled through reminders about nutrition and exercise. Across from them, a couple sat shoulder to shoulder without speaking, their hands intertwined. An older man waited farther down the row, occasionally glancing toward the examination rooms before returning to a Whisperzend conversation.

Kyla sat beside Julian, her right leg bouncing restlessly against the floor.

“Are you nervous?” Julian asked.

Kyla looked at him.

“Aren’t you?”

“I always get nervous when I come to the Vital Arc,” he admitted. “Then I remember this is where you madly fell in love with me.”

Kyla laughed.

“You mean where you fell in love with me.”

Julian nodded thoughtfully.

“That too.”

She rolled her eyes, still smiling.

Julian reached for her hand.

“Everything’s going to be okay.”

Kyla rested her free hand gently on her belly.

“I know,” she said. “I’m not nervous… just anxious.”

She looked toward the examination rooms.

“Today we find out if we’re having a boy or a girl.”

Julian leaned over and kissed her forehead.

The door slid open.

“Kyla Anwar.”

A nurse stood in the doorway, smiling.

“You can come in now. The doctor is ready for you.”

As Kyla stood, the nurse leaned closer and lowered her voice.

“I should warn you,” she whispered with a grin. “Your mother has been waiting for you all morning.”

She glanced toward the examination room.

“I think she’s even more excited than you are.”

Kyla and Julian followed the nurse down a short corridor lined with examination rooms.

The nurse stopped at the last door and tapped the panel beside it.

“You can go in.”

Lina was already waiting.

She looked up from the display in front of her.

“There you are,” she said with a smile.

“Good morning, Mom,” Kyla replied.

“Good morning, Mrs. Soria… sorry, Dr. Soria,” Julian added.

“You know you can call me Lina,” she said as she guided Kyla toward the examination table.

“How have you been feeling?”

“A little more tired than usual,” Kyla admitted.

Lina picked up the handheld scanner.

“Today’s examination is routine. We’ll verify growth, check the heartbeat, and make sure everything is progressing normally.”

She spread a small amount of gel across Kyla’s abdomen.

“It may feel a little cold.”

She placed the scanner against her belly.

The screen filled with gray and black. Lina moved the scanner in small quarter turns, her attention fixed on the display.

Kyla searched the image for something recognizable but saw only shapes and movement.

“There we are,” Lina said softly.

A rapid rhythmic sound filled the room.

Julian took Kyla’s hand as their baby’s heartbeat became the only sound they could hear.

Lina took several measurements, saving each one before adjusting the angle again.

A small smile appeared.

“Everything looks good so far.”

The display flickered, then went dark.

The room fell silent.

Lina frowned.

“Nothing to worry about,” she said. “This old machine needs a restart every now and then.”

She switched it off and back on.

After a few seconds, the display came back to life.

Lina picked up the scanner again.

“Let’s see if our little patient is willing to cooperate.”

She moved the scanner slowly across Kyla’s abdomen.

Then she stopped.

A smile spread across her face.

“I’ll have a grandson.”

Julian looked briefly pleased with himself.

“I knew it!”

Kyla smiled, looking at the display.

“A boy,” she repeated softly.

Lina wiped the scanner clean and returned it to its cradle.

She entered a few final notes into the medical record before looking back at Kyla.

“Everything is progressing normally.”

She tapped the display again.

“I’m prescribing a nutritional supplement for the next twelve weeks.”

Her eyes moved from the screen to her daughter.

“And you still look too thin.”

Kyla sighed.

“I’m eating.”

Julian raised his hand as though testifying before the Council.

“I can confirm that. Mostly pancakes.”

“With butter,” Kyla added.

“And berry spread,” Julian finished.

Lina reviewed the schedule one last time.

“I’d like to see you again in two weeks. If anything changes before then, you call me immediately.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Kyla replied.

Her mother almost smiled.

“Good.”

As they reached the door, Lina spoke again.

“One more thing.”

Kyla turned.

“Have you thought about the name?”

Kyla looked at Julian.

Julian looked at the floor.

“Not yet,” Kyla admitted.

“You have time.” Lina straightened a tray that did not need straightening. “But not as much as you think.”

She smiled.

“And tell your father,” Lina said. “He has been trying not to call me every fifteen minutes.”

“I will.”

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The cabin was quiet. Julian had cleared the table after dinner and turned off the main lights, leaving the room lit only by the soft glow of the desk display.

Kyla sat sideways in her chair, studying the list on the screen.

“How many names are left?” Julian asked.

“I’ve narrowed it down to three.”

“That sounds like progress.”

“It is.”

She stared at the list a moment longer.

“But I keep coming back to Alex.”

“It suits him,” Julian said.

“It’s a good name,” Kyla said. “Easy to say. Easy to remember.”

Julian tilted his head.

“That’s not why you like it.”

Kyla looked away from the display.

“No.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I think… it would be nice to commemorate Darius too.”

Julian sat on the edge of the bed.

“You should ask Layna,” he said.

“I know.”

He folded his hands together.

“I’m not saying she’ll object.”

“I know what you mean.”

Kyla traced the edge of her Whisperzend with her thumb.

“It was one of the last things he said.”

She swallowed.

“It was in the family log. It was in the Council chamber. We all heard him choose a name for a child he would never meet.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Kyla nodded.

“You’re right.”

She took a slow breath.

“I’ll call her.”

She touched her Whisperzend.

“Computer, call Layna. Open speaker.”

The tone sounded twice.

Then Layna’s voice filled the cabin, warm and immediately familiar.

“Kyla?”

“Hi.”

“Hold on.”

They heard a chair scrape across the floor and the muffled sound of someone being gently redirected.

“Alyka,” Layna laughed, “sit down properly.”

A brief pause.

“I have you on speaker, so whatever you’re about to say, you have an audience of one and a half.”

“We had the twenty-week examination,” Kyla said.

“And?”

“It’s a boy.”

There was a sound on the other end that Kyla could not identify at first.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Layna said, her voice breaking. “That’s wonderful, Kyla.”

“Thank you,” Kyla replied, her own voice breaking.

“How was the examination?”

“Good, but the doctor was impossible,” Kyla said. “She spent several minutes looking at the baby and then looked at me and said I was too thin.”

Layna laughed.

“That sounds like your mother.”

In the background, Alyka said something too quietly for them to understand.

“Alyka, say congratulations to Kyla.”

A small voice came through the speaker.

“Congrat’lations.”

“Thank you, Alyka,” Kyla said.

They heard a pleased little laugh.

“We’ve been going through names,” Kyla continued.

Layna did not answer immediately.

“I wanted to ask you about Alex.”

The silence lasted long enough that Kyla checked to make sure the call had not dropped.

“Say that again,” Layna said.

“We’d like to name him Alex. But not without asking you.”

A chair moved on the other end. Then a door opened and closed, and the sounds behind Layna became quieter.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to talk about this in front of her. She repeats everything now.”

“I understand.”

Layna took a breath.

“Do you know what Darius said the night we found out I was pregnant?”

Kyla waited.

“He said, ‘If it’s a boy, Alex. After Grandpa.’”

Her voice dropped.

“I told him we had months before we needed to decide.”

Layna was quiet for a moment.

“He told me he already had.”

Kyla looked toward Julian.

“He would have been so happy about this,” Layna continued. “About your baby. About both of you becoming parents.”

“I know.”

“And he would have complained that you stole his name.”

Kyla laughed through the tears gathering in her eyes.

“That sounds like him.”

“It does.”

They were quiet together for a moment.

“How is Alyka?” Kyla asked.

“She’s good. Loud. Curious. She asks questions from the moment she wakes up until the moment she falls asleep.”

“She sounds like someone I know,” Julian said.

“I heard that,” Kyla replied.

Layna laughed.

“She’s starting to ask about her father.”

Kyla’s smile faded.

“What do you tell her?”

“The truth. What she can understand.”

Layna paused.

A soft noise came through the wall behind Layna, followed by Alyka calling for her.

“Sometimes I worry that all she’ll have of him are my memories,” Layna said.

Kyla looked at the list of names on the display.

“She’ll have more than that. She’ll have my memories too. And Taro’s. She’ll have all our stories.”

“I guess,” Layna said. “But someone has to keep telling them until she’s old enough to carry them herself.”

Another muffled thump came from the other room.

Layna sighed.

“I should go. I think she broke something.”

“Go,” Kyla said, smiling. “Good night.”

“Good night, Kyla.”

“Good night, Layna.”

The tone sounded once, and the cabin was quiet again.

Julian remained on the edge of the bed.

“Alex,” he said finally.

“Alex,” Kyla repeated.

“It already feels like his name.”

Julian stood, kissed the top of her head, and went to get her a glass of water without being asked. She had cried, and neither of them was going to mention it.

“Logminter,” Kyla whispered.

> Ready to record entry.

“We’ve chosen Alex as the given name for our son.”

> Given name recorded: Alex.

Kyla looked toward Julian as he returned. “Help us determine his commemorative name.”

> Reviewing current commemorative lineage distribution.

Evaluating living bearers, historical continuity, and projected lineage preservation.

A brief pause followed.

> Recommended commemorative name: Soria.

Kyla stared at the screen.

“Why Soria?”

> Of the four last names that we could choose from, Soria is the least represented among the living population aboard Helios.

Commemorative naming was established to preserve names at risk of disappearing across generations. Long before Helios, humans used names to carry memories from one generation to the next.

Julian stood beside her.

“So he’ll carry your mother’s family forward.”

“Show us the full name,” Kyla said.

The words appeared on the screen:

> Alex Soria Darrow Anwar

Kyla read it silently.

Julian read it aloud.

“Alex Soria Darrow Anwar.”

Kyla placed her hand over her belly.

“Welcome to Helios, Alex.”

Outside their cabin, the ship continued its silent journey toward Ross 128.

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The moderator waited for the applause to end.

Kyla stood with the other campaign volunteers near the side of the Plaza stage. The volunteers had been given a narrow section behind the first rows.

The moderator looked down at the display in front of her.

“We have reached the end of the debate,” she said. “Each candidate will have two minutes for a closing statement. The order was set before the debate. Mr. Rook, you first.”

“Tomorrow,” Liam said, “Helios decides between two futures.”

He let that sit.

“In one future, we continue moving forward. We use every tool available to us. We complete the mission our ancestors began more than five hundred years ago.”

He looked across the audience.

“They left Earth knowing they would never reach Ross 128. They built Helios for generations they would never meet. They trusted us to finish what they started.”

A few people applauded, but Liam continued over them.

“In the other future, we allow fear to decide what tools we can use. We place new restrictions on technology when we should be asking how it can help us survive.”

His voice remained calm.

“Nearly a thousand years ago, there were people who opposed the machines changing their world. History remembers them as Luddites. They destroyed technology because they feared progress and believed they could preserve the past by standing against the future.”

Liam looked toward Sheila.

“Today, no one is destroying machines. The methods have changed. Now people call for restrictions. They ask us to weaken the systems that protect us because those systems make them uncomfortable.”

A few people near the front nodded.

“Fear did not carry us more than ten light-years from Earth. Fear has never carried anyone forward.” He let his hands open. “The mission needs courage. Tomorrow, choose the future that finishes the journey.”

The applause came fast and full. Liam did not look pleased with himself, which was the thing about him Kyla had never been able to dislike as much as she wanted to. He meant every word. He always did.

The moderator raised a hand until the Plaza quieted again.

“Miss Adeyemi. Two minutes.”

She waited longer than Liam had. She waited until the Plaza went completely quiet.

“Time passes. Generations come and go. But we continue repeating the same false accusation.”

She shook her head once.

“We are not opposed to technology. We are not opposed to progress. We are not opposed to arrival. And caution is not fear.”

She rested one hand against the edge of the lectern.

“The Luddites did not question technological progress. They questioned who controlled it, who reaped its benefits, and who was forced to bear its risks.”

She looked across the crowd.

“That is still the question.”

A few people began to applaud, but Sheila continued.

“Logminter was created to preserve our memories and our knowledge. It was not created to decide which orders to follow or which lives to risk.”

She looked toward Liam.

“Mr. Rook says we must use every technology available to increase our chances of arrival.”

She paused.

“I agree.”

The Plaza became still.

“If we are serious about improving our chances, we should restore deep-space communication.”

A murmur moved through the audience.

“Earth may have centuries of additional observations of Ross 128. Information about its planets, its stellar activity, and the conditions we may encounter when we arrive.”

Sheila’s voice became firmer.

“And Surya may already have accomplished what Helios is preparing to do. They may know what worked, what failed, and what they would do differently.”

“That knowledge could save lives. It could help us complete the mission.”

She looked toward Liam again.

“Yet Mr. Rook opposes restoring communication.”

The murmur grew louder.

“This campaign is not a choice between progress and fear. It is a choice between two ideas of progress.”

Her eyes moved from one end of the Plaza to the other.

“One gives more authority to a system that was never designed to exercise it.”

The warning light beside the moderator began to pulse.

“The other asks humanity for help.”

The timer sounded.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then the applause began.

The moderator thanked both candidates and reminded everyone that voting would begin the following morning. Her words disappeared beneath the noise as people left their seats and moved toward the campaign areas.

Sheila stepped down from the stage.

Two volunteers reached her first. One embraced her. The other began talking about the reaction from the undecided section. Her Whisperzend pulsed repeatedly as messages arrived.

When Sheila saw Kyla, she moved through the group toward her.

“You did it,” Kyla said.

Sheila shook her head. “We did.”

“You were the one on the stage,” Kyla replied.

Sheila smiled. “You gave me the argument.”

Kyla looked toward Liam’s side of the Plaza. He was surrounded by supporters, answering questions as though the debate had not ended.

“It was only a suggestion,” she said.

“No.” Sheila lowered her voice. “It gave us a way through their argument.”

“They’ve spent the entire campaign saying we’re afraid of technology,” Sheila continued. “That we’re against progress. Against arrival.”

She glanced back toward the stage.

“Now they have to explain why restoring communication does not count as progress.”

One of the volunteers approached and whispered that Sheila was needed. Sheila nodded, then looked back at Kyla.

“Thank you.”

Before Kyla could answer, Sheila moved away.

A memory returned without warning: Darius sitting at a Mirador table when they were teenagers, arguing that Earth could still guide them. That Surya might know something they did not. She had walked away from him.

At the time, she had believed the Disconnect did not matter.

It had taken many years to understand what he had been trying to say.

Julian approached and touched her arm.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” She looked toward the stage. “I was thinking about the Disconnect.”

She watched Sheila disappear into the waiting crowd.

“Maybe this time, we could end it.”

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Sheila’s campaign volunteers had gathered in one of the Civic Arc meeting rooms to wait for the results.

The room was louder than Kyla expected. People whispered predictions, watched the public feed, and pretended not to count the minutes.

Sheila stood near the front with her arms folded. Kyla and Julian stood beside her, watching the display panel in silence.

Kyla's Whisperzend pulsed with an incoming call from her mother.

“Mom,” she answered.

“Congratulations,” Lina said.

Kyla looked toward the results display.

“They haven’t announced anything yet. It should be any minute, but I think it’s going to be very close.”

“I’m not talking about the election,” Lina said. “The Natality Board approved your request.”

Kyla stopped breathing for a moment.

Julian looked at her.

“We were approved?” she whispered.

“Yes, your request was approved,” Lina said. “You can start trying when you’re ready.”

The careful flatness she used with patients gave way to something else.

“You’re going to be a mother, Kyla.”

Kyla turned toward Julian. His expression changed slowly, the way it did when he needed time to understand what was happening.

“We’re going to have a child,” she said.

Julian pulled her into his arms.

The people nearest them turned. A few smiled without knowing why.

“What happened?” Sheila asked.

Kyla looked at her, still holding Julian’s hand.

“The Natality Board approved us.”

Sheila held Kyla tightly.

“That’s good news,” she said.

Kyla looked toward the public feed.

“Now we have to win.”

The volume from the display rose.

Everyone turned.

“The Election Office is prepared to announce the result for the under-forty Council seat.”

The room went silent.

“Of one hundred sixty-eight valid votes cast: Sheila Adeyemi, eighty-six. Liam Rook, eighty-two.”

A pause followed, as though the feed needed to check its own arithmetic.

“Sheila Adeyemi is elected to the under-forty Council seat with fifty-one point two percent of the vote.”

No one reacted at first. Then the room exploded.

Sheila covered her mouth with one hand. People surrounded her, cheering and calling her name.

Kyla did not move with them.

Only four votes.

She could probably name them. She had likely spoken to some of them.

Julian’s arm came around her.

Two victories within the same hour.

A family they had permission to begin. A future they had helped choose.

The public feed continued.

“The Election Office is also prepared to announce the result for the other elected Council seat.”

The room quieted again.

“First Officer Adrian Vale has been elected.”

The celebration did not stop, but it changed.

Adrian Vale was a staunch Destinarian and one of Liam’s closest allies. Sheila had won, but the election had left the future of Helios more divided than anyone in the room wanted to admit.

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Kyla and Julian arrived at the Mirador early. By nine, there would be no tables left on the terrace facing the panels, and they wanted a good one for Sunday breakfast.

They chose a table near the center. Ahead of them, the panels showed a cleaned exterior view from the Central Axis cameras. A black field scattered with steady points of light. Somewhere among them was Ross 128, brighter now than when Kyla was a child.

Julian pulled out her chair without making a ceremony of it. She sat, and he took the chair beside her, facing the entrance.

“You picked the best seat,” Kyla said.

“I picked the chair that lets me see your parents arrive.”

“That is the best seat,” she replied.

Julian smiled faintly. “Then yes.”

Her parents came in at ten past nine. Lina stopped at three tables on the way because she had delivered half the terrace. Emil followed behind her, letting Lina make her usual rounds.

“Good morning, Mrs. Soria,” Julian said.

He stood and pulled out Lina’s chair.

“Good morning, Mr. Cloutier.”

“Good morning,” Emil said.

“You look thinner,” Lina said.

“I’m the same,” Kyla replied.

“You’re thin.” Lina sat, satisfied, and began rearranging the table.

The server came with a basket. Bread, pastries, and the little dishes.

“Butter today,” he said.

He set the white goat butter down like it was a favor.

Dandelion coffee. Berry juice. Pumpkin jam. The usual.

Emil looked over the table. “Are the scrambled eggs coming?”

“They are,” the server said.

“Good.”

Emil poured the coffee for everyone without being asked and without looking at what he was doing.

“So,” he said as he placed the pot at the center of the table. “The protests against Logminter operating the SD units are getting louder.”

Julian set down his cup.

“Logminter is not operating the SD units,” he said. “That’s what people keep saying, but it is not technically accurate.”

Emil looked at him. “I know. A bounded instance. No access to private logs. No independent authority.”

He reached for the butter.

“But it still refused a command. It acted. That’s what worries many people.”

Julian did not answer quickly enough.

Lina noticed. Kyla did too.

“The instance probably resolved a conflict between instructions,” Julian said.

Emil spread butter over a piece of bread. “That’s what a refusal becomes when our office writes the report, but many people outside the Data Office don’t see it that way.”

Julian accepted that with a small nod.

Kyla looked down at her plate.

“The Data Integrity Unit reviewed the implemented boundaries,” Julian said. “Several times. The safeguards are real. They’re not decorative.”

“I know they’re real,” Emil said. “I helped audit some of the early boundary models before you were assigned to Prescott’s office.”

“I know.”

“Then you know why people are concerned.”

Julian looked toward the panels, where the stars held steady above the terrace.

“Yes,” he said.

Lina poured berry juice into Kyla’s cup, though Kyla had not asked for any.

“People don't trust jargon,” Lina said. “Doctors learn that early. The more technical your explanation, the more people think you're hiding something.”

“We're not hiding this,” Julian said.

“No,” Emil’s Whisperzend pulsed. “We’re explaining it badly, and there are people on both sides already using it to push their own agendas.”

“Some people want to restrict the instances. Others want to give them more authority.”

Kyla whispered. “Sheila is running a good campaign.”

All three of them looked at her.

She felt her face grow warm, but she continued.

“I believe caution makes sense. Maybe we shouldn't expand something we still don't fully understand.”

Lina stirred her coffee. “I agree with that.”

Kyla looked at her mother.

“She approached me.”

Emil stopped cutting his bread.

Julian lowered his eyes to the table.

Lina did not move at all.

“She asked me to help with her campaign,” Kyla continued.

“For the under-forty Council seat?” Emil asked.

“Yes.”

“Against Liam Rook,” Lina said.

Kyla nodded.

Emil leaned back. “That will not be a quiet race.”

“No,” Julian said. “It already isn’t.”

Lina looked across the terrace, where more families were having their own conversations. “Liam is difficult to beat. People trust simple sentences when they are afraid.”

“The mission is the priority,” Emil said.

Kyla looked at him.

“That’s his whole campaign,” Emil continued. “And it’s a strong one, especially now that we are so close to arrival.”

“Sheila’s is strong too,” Kyla said.

“Logminter records. Humans decide,” Julian said.

Emil nodded. “Also strong.”

“Strong sentences are not the same as true ones,” Lina said. “Both sides are speaking with confidence. That doesn’t mean either has the whole truth.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

A group of younger citizens passed the terrace entrance carrying polished canes wrapped in dark grip cloth.

Emil followed them with his eyes.

“I thought the ringvolley match was after breakfast,” he said.

“It is,” Julian said. “But there is a cane-fighting exhibition first.”

Lina looked up. “Cane fighting?”

“Apparently,” Kyla said.

Lina shook her head. “I cannot believe we are resurrecting that.”

“It’s historical,” Julian said.

“So were many bad ideas.”

“It is controlled,” Julian said. “They use padded tips.”

Lina gave him a look. “I don’t think that makes any mother feel better.”

“Another thing being pushed by Destinarians,” Kyla said.

Emil looked toward the entrance again. “Maybe Liam is right about one thing. The next generation is going to be tougher than we were.”

“Or more violent,” Lina said.

She watched the group disappear, then turned back to her daughter.

“Has the medical team scheduled the review?”

Kyla looked at Julian.

Julian reached for his cup, then stopped.

“Next week,” Kyla said.

Lina’s expression changed as if she had been waiting to ask since the moment she arrived.

“If there are no medical objections, it goes to the Natality Board for approval,” Lina said.

Emil smiled. “And then, eventually, we become grandparents.”

Before Kyla could answer, applause rose near the entrance.

The young citizens with the canes had formed two lines. Liam Rook walked between them, greeting people as he entered the terrace. Nia followed two steps behind, greeting the people Liam passed.

“Campaigning at breakfast,” Lina said.

“He never wastes an audience,” Emil replied.

Liam stopped at two tables before reaching theirs.

“Mrs. Soria. Mr. Cloutier.” He nodded to Julian. “Kyla.”

“Liam,” Kyla said.

“Good morning,” Nia said as she approached their table.

“I heard Sheila asked you to join her campaign,” Liam said.

Kyla smiled. “News travels quickly.”

Liam smiled too, but Kyla could not tell whether the smile was meant for her or for the people watching them.

“I hope you listen to both of us before you answer her,” he said.

“I intend to,” Kyla said.

Someone called Liam’s name from the exhibition area.

He excused himself and continued across the terrace, stopping wherever enough people had gathered to watch him stop. Nia remained for a moment.

“You should do it,” she told Kyla quietly.

“Help Sheila?”

Nia glanced toward her husband.

“Make the race worth winning.”

Then she followed him.

Emil lifted his coffee.

“There it is,” he whispered.

“What?” Kyla asked.

“The whole campaign.”

Across the terrace, Liam accepted one of the polished canes and raised it above his head.

The applause began before he said a word.

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“Logminter,” Kyla whispered.

> Ready to record entry.

“I’ve been thinking about yesterday’s debate.”

> Would you like to replay the Public Logs?

“Replay the final question,” Kyla said.

A pause followed. Then the moderator’s voice came through her Whisperzend.

> As Helios approaches arrival, should Logminter’s authority be restricted, maintained, or expanded?

The recording shifted to Liam.

> Logminter was created to preserve information. If the mission fails, the information is irrelevant, so the most important part is completing the mission.

Our generation has been entrusted with this unique moment. An opportunity for humanity to expand, to arrive and colonize Ross 128. An opportunity to transcend. That is worth defending at all costs. Those are the memories worth preserving.

Applause followed. Loud and immediate.

The moderator turned to Sheila.

> Miss Adeyemi, same question.

Then Sheila’s voice.

> Restricted. Logminter was created to preserve information, not to make decisions. The mission must remain under human authority.

Mr. Rook didn’t answer the question. Instead, he suggested there is some disagreement about the importance of a successful arrival. There isn’t. We all support the mission. But the mission is human.

Logminter is a tool. It holds our memories, and we trust it because it does not act on them. The moment that trust is broken, we lose the tool. Our memories could be used against us.

More applause. Less at first, then growing.

The recording stopped.

Logminter continued.

> What would you like to explore next?

Kyla remained quiet for a moment.

“I’m not sure we’re going to win,” she said. “We don’t have a good answer to ‘the mission comes first’ argument.”

> Please clarify.

“What will increase our chances of a successful arrival?”

> Assuming current mission constraints remain unchanged, two actions would provide the greatest expected increase in mission success:

- Obtain additional information about the Ross 128 system before arrival.

- Obtain operational experience from a previous interstellar mission.

Kyla frowned.

“We can’t do either of those.”

> Under present conditions, that assessment is correct.

Kyla stared at the ceiling.

A thought arrived so quietly she almost missed it.

“Unless…”

She sat upright.

“Surya.”

She waited a second before continuing. “If Helios reestablished communication, we could ask Surya.”

“Earth could also send us any new discoveries about Ross 128.”

She smiled.

“Darius would be so happy if we ended the Disconnect… It could save this campaign.”

“Logminter, save this to my diary.”

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log archival.

Integrity check: Validated. Data saved by authorized user.

Authorized user: Anwar Cloutier Soria, Kyla. Created at: 2787.142.2348.

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It has been 153 days since we lost Darius.

More than once, I have picked up my Whisperzend to call him.

Every time I pass their cabin, every time I see Layna, it is impossible not to remember him.

Her body keeps changing. Their child keeps growing. When I see her walking through the corridors, I think about how Darius should be there beside her.

He should be making jokes about being a father. He should be wondering whether the baby will have his eyes or hers. He should be here.

Instead, Layna will have to tell their child about him. Alyka will have to learn about her father through recordings and log entries.

Tomorrow we will celebrate Generation Day. Everyone will be remembering someone.

We will celebrate the previous generations. It is a day to remember our foreparents. A day to remember the people who carried Helios before we were born. The people who repaired systems before we knew their names. The people who raised children who raised children who eventually raised us.

People usually cry because they remember their grandfather or grandmother. Sometimes they remember someone they never met, someone whose name they know from a log entry or a family record. They remember stories repeated so often that they become part of the family.

I always thought remembrance belonged to people who were far away in time.

But Darius is not far away.

Tomorrow, when everyone says, “I will look for you,” I will think about my friend.

That promise was just part of a ceremony. Something we were supposed to say.

Now I think I know what it means. It is not only about finding someone in the future. It is about remembering them today. Refusing to let them go, refusing to let them disappear from our lives.

The ship remembers people through log entries and ceremonies. But that is not enough. A record can tell you when someone was born and when they died. It cannot tell you what it felt like when they laughed with you. When they cried with you.

I remember that.

I remember him.

“Logminter, save this to my diary.”

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log archival.

Integrity check: Validated. Data saved by authorized user.

Authorized user: Anwar Cloutier Soria, Kyla. Created at: 2786.246.2209.

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###

The Plaza was full before the ceremony began.

People stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the open space of the ship’s central chamber. Families gathered together in small clusters. Older residents held the hands of children who looked restless and uncertain, not yet old enough to understand the ceremony.

All eyes were turned toward the platform.

Across the back of the platform, panels projected the names of Helios’s dead as they moved slowly through the light.

Some belonged to the launch generation. Some belonged to people who had died before Kyla’s grandparents were born. Others were recent enough that people still stopped when they passed them.

The Captain finished his remarks and stepped away from the center of the platform.

For a moment, the Plaza remained silent.

Then the Council President moved forward.

“Thank you, Captain,” she said. “And thank you to every family gathered here today. Generation Day belongs to all of Helios. We honor the lives that made our own possible.”

She turned toward the man waiting beside the platform.

“Chaplain.”

The chaplain stepped forward.

“We are here today because none of us arrived alone,” the chaplain said. “We live because others repaired what failed, preserved what could be lost, taught what they knew, and carried Helios forward when they could not know who would inherit it.”

The crowd listened in silence.

“We remember the previous generations. We remember the people who departed before us. We remember that every life aboard this ship becomes part of the life that follows.”

Kyla stood between Julian and Taro.

Julian’s hands were folded in front of him. Taro had both hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the projected names.

Across the Plaza, Kyla saw Layna standing beside her family.

One hand rested against the curve of her stomach.

For a moment, Kyla could not look away.

Darius’s child was there. Growing quietly inside the person he had loved. A life that would arrive on Helios and learn his name through recordings and stories told by people who wished he had stayed.

A low tone sounded through the Plaza.

Then the chaplain spoke the first line of the promise.

“I will look for you.”

The Plaza answered.

“I will look for you.”

Kyla heard her own voice among the others, but it did not feel like it belonged to her.

“I will honor you,” the chaplain said.

“I will honor you,” the crowd replied.

Kyla closed her eyes.

For one moment, she did not see the Plaza. She saw Darius playing ringvolley, moving across the court with the confidence he always had before the game became serious. She saw him laughing at something Taro had said. She saw him before an EVA operation, trying to act calm when everyone knew he was nervous.

“I will not forget you,” the chaplain said.

“I will not forget you,” the crowd answered.

Kyla’s throat tightened.

The words had always been large. The Theogenian promise had belonged to the dead of Helios, to the people who had carried the ship through centuries.

Now it belonged to one person.

Darius.

She opened her eyes before the tears could fall. The names continued moving across the panels, patient and indifferent. Beside her, Taro lowered his head. They both knew Darius’s name was there.

When the ceremony ended, people remained in the Plaza for a while. Some embraced. Some spoke quietly. Others drifted toward the side corridors, carrying flowers and small memorial lights they planned to leave in the remembrance alcoves.

Kyla, Julian, and Taro moved toward the edge of the crowd.

For several minutes, none of them spoke.

Then Taro said, “I resigned from EVA yesterday.”

Kyla turned toward him. “You resigned?”

He nodded.

Julian looked at him carefully. “Are you sure?”

“I am,” Taro said. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

Kyla watched him. He looked tired, but not uncertain.

“I applied to the spiritual chaplaincy program,” he said.

Julian blinked. “The chaplaincy?”

Taro gave a small nod. “They accepted me.”

Kyla tried to imagine him there, sitting with people after a loss, speaking to families, helping prepare remembrance ceremonies. It seemed far from EVA. But it also seemed connected in a way she had not expected.

“Why?” she asked.

Taro looked at her.

“I think this is my calling,” he said.

The answer was so simple that Kyla did not know what to say.

Taro looked at Julian. “Have they finished the investigation?”

Julian exhaled through his nose. “It’s still inconclusive.”

Taro looked at him. “What does that mean?”

“SD-3 and SD-5 were lost, so there are gaps in the operation record,” Julian said. “The data we have does not show an anomaly.”

“But something happened,” Taro said.

“Yes,” Julian replied. “Something happened. We just cannot prove what caused it.”

“And SD-4?” Taro asked.

Julian hesitated before answering.

“SD-4’s Logminter instance is functioning as expected,” he said. “Its boundaries held. Its records show no action outside its authorized role and no anomaly in the way it operated.”

Taro looked away.

“So that’s it?” he asked. “We lost the SD unit that saved me, the same unit that could have saved my best friend, and the ship gets a report saying we do not know why?”

Julian lowered his voice.

“We got the truth we can prove,” Julian said. “The investigation found no anomaly. That does not mean the questions are gone.”

“Will Logminter continue operating in the SD units?” Taro asked.

“For now,” Julian replied.

Taro looked back toward the projected names.

“Perhaps one of them will save someone else someday,” he said. “Someone’s friend. Someone’s family.”

For a moment, Kyla thought about Sheila’s words during the gathering outside the Council chamber.

Today, it saved someone. Tomorrow, what will it decide to do? What will it decide to risk?

Then she said, “I hope so… I hope we don’t regret it.”

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Flight Ops: EVA rigger team, confirm positions.

Liam: Tether secure. SD-4 is holding inspection position.

Taro: Tether secure. SD-3 is on repair support. SD-5 has the tension collar.

Flight Ops: Confirm repair equipment.

Taro: Replacement braid secure. Tool kit secure. Tension collar secure in SD-5 cradle.

Liam: Inspection array secure. I have visual on the paired cable.

Flight Ops: Mr. Rook, confirm structural condition.

Liam: No visible fracture along the first seven hundred meters. Load distribution is stable here.

Flight Ops: Continue inspection.

Liam: Copy.

Flight Ops: Mr. Ishida, begin removal of the damaged section on my mark. SD-3 will hold the replacement braid. SD-5 will maintain collar position.

Taro: Copy.

Flight Ops: Mark.

Taro: Releasing outer clamp.

> Outer clamp release logged.

Taro: Clamp is clear. Moving to the inner assembly.

Liam: Taro, take your time with the inner one. That section may be under more tension than the model predicted.

Taro: I know.

Liam: I’m only saying it because you sound like you’re in a hurry.

Taro: I’m not in a hurry.

Flight Ops: Proceed, Mr. Ishida.

Taro: Inner clamp is moving.

> Electrical discharge detected.

Taro: SD-5 took a hit.

Flight Ops: Confirm.

Taro: It is not responding. It lost control.

Liam: I have visual from here. SD-5 is drifting off the cable plane.

Flight Ops: Telemetry confirms partial power loss. SD-5 propulsion is inactive. Rotation is increasing.

Taro: The collar is loose.

Flight Ops: Confirm visual.

Taro: The cradle released. The collar is clear of SD-5.

Liam: Do not move toward it yet.

Taro: It is drifting toward the recovery limit.

Flight Ops: Collar velocity confirmed. Estimated exit from recovery arc in one hundred and forty seconds.

Taro: SD-3, tow SD-5 clear of the cable.

Flight Ops: Command authorized.

Taro: Copy.

Liam: Hold the repair position until SD-5 is secure.

Taro: I’m holding.

Flight Ops: SD-3 is in transit.

Taro: The collar is picking up rotation.

Liam: I can see that.

Taro: It’s not going to stay in the arc.

Flight Ops: SD-3 has attached to SD-5. Tow connection secure.

Taro: Flight Ops, request limited detachment for collar recovery.

Liam: Negative.

Taro: I can reach it.

Liam: You are tethered beside a damaged cable carrying live load. SD-3 has one unit under tow. You’re not leaving the line.

Taro: We cannot complete the repair without the collar.

Liam: I know.

Taro: Then you know what happens when it clears the arc.

Liam: I’m three minutes away with SD-4. I can get there.

Taro: Three minutes is too long.

Liam: Then we lose the collar. We’re not losing a rigger on my watch.

Taro: Flight Ops, request limited detachment for collar recovery.

Flight Ops: Stand by.

Taro: It’s moving faster now.

Liam: Taro, do not unclip.

First Officer: Flight Ops, recovery numbers.

Flight Ops: Mr. Ishida can intercept within sixty seconds. Mr. Rook cannot reach the collar before it exits the recovery arc. SD-3 is unable to reach the collar while towing SD-5.

First Officer: Return probability for Mr. Ishida.

Flight Ops: Eighty-four percent with a clean intercept and return. Sixty-eight percent if he misses the collar and requires direct recovery.

First Officer: Mr. Ishida, you are authorized for limited detachment. Ninety seconds maximum. Recover the collar and return to your tether. SD-3 remains assigned to SD-5.

Taro: Understood.

Liam: First Officer, I object.

First Officer: Objection noted.

Liam: Taro, listen to me. You catch that collar, you don’t chase it farther. You miss it, you come back.

Taro: Copy.

> Tether release logged.

Taro: I’m clear.

Flight Ops: Mr. Ishida is moving toward the collar.

Liam: SD-3, maintain tow on SD-5.

SD-3: Command received.

Taro: I’m closing.

Flight Ops: Collar rotation is increasing. Mr. Ishida, your intercept window is narrowing.

Taro: I see it.

Liam: Keep your body in line. Do not overcorrect.

Taro: I have it.

Flight Ops: Confirm contact.

Taro: Not yet.

Liam: Taro, you’re too far from your tether. Begin return now.

Taro: I can get it.

Liam: Return now.

Taro: Almost.

Flight Ops: Mr. Ishida, your vector is carrying you beneath the damaged cable.

Taro: I know.

Flight Ops: SD-5 tow line has been released.

Liam: Say again.

Flight Ops: SD-3 released its tow connection.

Liam: SD-3, resecure SD-5. Do not pursue the collar.

SD-3: Command received.

Flight Ops: SD-3 has changed vector.

Liam: Return to SD-5.

Flight Ops: No course correction detected.

Taro: It’s coming toward me.

Liam: SD-3, stand down. That is a direct order.

SD-3: Command received.

Flight Ops: SD-3 continues acceleration.

Liam: Flight Ops, send SD-4 to retrieve SD-5.

Flight Ops: Negative. SD-5 is outside SD-4’s safe transit field.

Liam: It’s drifting. SD-4 can reach it.

Flight Ops: Probability of intercept is low and falling. Do not send SD-4.

Liam: We’re losing two units.

Flight Ops: We may lose three if SD-4 enters that field.

Taro: The collar is moving away from me.

Liam: Taro, return to your tether. Now.

Taro: Copy. Collar pursuit aborted.

Flight Ops: SD-3 has reached the collar.

Taro: It has it.

Flight Ops: SD-3 is carrying the collar. Velocity exceeds recovery threshold.

Liam: It cannot brake at that speed.

Flight Ops: Confirmed.

Liam: SD-3, release the collar and reverse.

SD-3: Command received.

Flight Ops: No release detected.

Taro: It’s still coming.

Liam: Taro, move clear. Move clear now.

Taro: I’m trying.

Flight Ops: SD-3 is altering vector.

Liam: It’s going to cross the damaged cable.

Flight Ops: Negative. Vector adjustment is taking it beneath the cable plane.

Taro: It’s too fast.

Liam: Taro, get your arms in. Do not reach until it clears you.

Taro: I see it.

Flight Ops: SD-3 has released the collar.

Taro: I have it.

Flight Ops: Confirm secure.

Taro: Secure.

Liam: Begin return.

Taro: Copy.

Flight Ops: SD-3 is continuing aft.

Liam: SD-3, reverse thrust. Return to the cable.

SD-3: Command received. No return trajectory possible.

Flight Ops: Not enough margin to arrest before the outer recovery limit.

Taro: SD-3 is gone. It’s moving away from us.

Flight Ops: Mr. Ishida, confirm tether lock.

Taro: Tether lock confirmed. Approaching repair site with collar.

Flight Ops: Mr. Ishida is returning to the repair site on a stable vector.

Liam: Confirm loss of SD-5.

Flight Ops: Confirmed. SD-5 has passed beyond the recovery range.

Taro: Liam.

Liam: I’m heading to your position.

Taro: Copy.

Flight Ops: Mr. Ishida, wait for SD-4 and Mr. Rook.

Taro: Copy. I see SD-4 approaching.

Flight Ops: Provide a status update after SD-4 reaches your position.

Taro: Status update. SD-4 is now carrying the collar.

Flight Ops: SD-4, position the tension collar.

SD-4: Command received. Tension collar is now in position.

Flight Ops: Mr. Ishida, begin installation.

Taro: Installing.

> Tension collar seated.

Flight Ops: Confirm alignment.

Taro: Alignment good.

Liam: Paired cable remains stable. No secondary fracture. You can proceed.

Flight Ops: Begin load transfer on my mark.

Flight Ops: Mark.

Taro: Load transfer started.

Flight Ops: Reading.

Liam: It’s holding.

Taro: Collar is holding.

Flight Ops: Magnetic sail anchor configuration stable.

Liam: Good work, Taro.

Taro: You too.

Flight Ops: Magsail deployment complete.

> Mission log playback complete.

The silence in the Council chamber lasted only a moment.

Then everyone started talking at once.

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After the recording playback ended, the Council President introduced a motion to seal the final records of the SD units involved.

The remaining Logminter instances would be suspended until the Data Integrity Unit, the Regulation Bureau, and Flight Ops could explain what had happened.

No one in the chamber seemed completely satisfied by that, but the motion was approved.

Kyla waited for Julian while the directors gathered their belongings and spoke in low voices. Across the room, Liam stood with the First Officer and two EVA officers. Taro was near the operations bench.

He had not moved since the recording ended.

Julian touched Kyla’s arm lightly.

“Come on,” he said.

They started toward the exit, then Kyla stopped.

“Taro.”

He looked up.

“You okay?” she asked.

Taro gave a small shake of his head.

“Not really,” he said. “I’m still processing what happened.”

Julian stood beside her without speaking.

Taro looked toward the chamber panels. They were dark again.

“SD-3 saved me,” he said.

“It caught the collar,” Taro continued. “It brought it to me. It changed course so it would not hit me.”

“I know,” Kyla said quietly.

“But it didn’t follow Liam’s command.”

Julian looked toward Taro.

“It did receive the command. That will be part of the investigation,” he said.

The three of them stood in the emptying chamber. Behind them, someone called for a sealed-copy verification. Someone else answered that the mission record had already been transferred.

Taro looked down at his hands.

“I keep thinking about Darius,” Taro said. “I wonder what would have happened if SD-3 had disobeyed the command and tried to save him.”

Kyla looked toward the floor.

Julian did not look away.

“SD-3 was part of both missions,” he said. “We’ll make sure all its records are fully reviewed.”

Taro nodded slowly.

“I think something saved me.”

Kyla looked up.

Julian remained very still.

“I know what the report will say,” Taro continued. “It will say the unit calculated a better outcome, or that it found a conflict in the command structure, or a condition that was not in the models.”

“That may be the conclusion,” Julian said.

Taro looked back at the dark panels. “But something had to begin before that moment. The ship. The people who built it. Logminter. Darius dying. All of it.”

“Maybe something was set in motion so long ago that we cannot see where it started.”

Julian said nothing.

Kyla said, “You mean Origin?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I was not supposed to die out there,” Taro said.

Kyla wanted to tell him that Darius was not supposed to die either.

But she did not say it.

Taro looked at her.

“…or maybe I just need to believe that,” he said.

Kyla nodded.

“I understand.”

He gave her a tired smile.

Taro looked once more toward Julian.

“Whatever the investigation finds,” he said, “SD-3 came for me.”

Then he walked away.

Kyla and Julian left the Council chamber together.

A group had gathered outside the doors.

At first, Kyla thought they were waiting to hear what the Council had decided. Then she saw the signs held above the crowd.

“Logminter records. It does not decide.”

“No agency without consent.”

Sheila Adeyemi stood near the center of the group. Kyla recognized her at once. She had admired Sheila since they were children, but after Sheila won the anniversary assignment, that admiration had become almost reverence.

“They told us the instances were bounded,” Sheila said. “They told us they would advise the drones, not act for them.”

A few voices rose at once.

“It saved a rigger,” someone said.

Sheila nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “It did. But it also ignored a direct command. It decided which risk to take. It decided what to do. That is not advice.”

The crowd grew quieter.

Kyla felt Julian stop beside her.

Sheila continued.

“Today, it saved someone. Tomorrow, what will it decide to do? What will it decide to risk?”

No one answered her.

Kyla looked at Julian.

“They’re talking about the SD units,” she said quietly.

Julian watched Sheila for a moment.

They stood at the edge of the crowd while Sheila raised her voice again.

“Logminter holds our memories because it does not act on them,” she said. “That is why we trust it. We cannot let them use an apparently successful outcome to erase that boundary.”

As they continued away from the Council chamber, Kyla looked past the crowd toward the side corridor.

Julian spoke quietly.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.”

Kyla looked at him.

“We have to find out if this was an error. Or if something else happened,” he said.

“And if it was not?” Kyla asked.

Julian did not answer at once.

“Then we may be dealing with Presence.”

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There should have been time to mourn Darius. There wasn’t. The harsh realities of space did not give it to us.

Completing the magsail deployment was now the ship’s highest priority. The future of Helios and everyone aboard depended on it.

When I was a kid, we were told that we were the generation that would arrive at Ross 128.

Back then, I imagined descending through beautiful skies onto a new world, just like in the old fiction stories, but space is harsher than fiction.

Now I know that if everything goes well, Helios should enter a stable orbit around Ross 128 in the year 2837. I will be almost eighty by then.

If we are lucky, maybe my children, or my grandchildren, will be the first to set foot on a new world.

Ross 128 b is believed to be more massive than Earth, but after more than five centuries of travel, we still know little about the planet that has shaped every decision made aboard Helios.

We do not know if it has oceans. We do not know if it has moons.

We crossed more than ten light-years for possibilities. I hope we learn more the closer we get.

“Sweetie, I need your opinion on something. Do you have a few minutes?” Julian asked.

He was pacing back and forth near the entrance to the cabin.

Kyla had been so absorbed in her diary entry that she had not heard him approach.

“Sure,” she said.

Then she whispered, “Logminter, save this to my diary.”

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log archival.

Integrity check: Validated. Data saved by authorized user.

Authorized user: Anwar Cloutier Soria, Kyla. Created at: 2786.105.2209.

###

“The Data and Information Office has been working on a software upgrade for the Space Drone units,” Julian said as he approached the desk.

Kyla frowned. “What kind of upgrade?”

“They want to give the SD units a restricted instance of Logminter.”

Kyla looked up. “Wouldn’t that give an archival system autonomy?”

Julian shook his head. “No, not really. The proposal is limited to Logminter providing feedback to the SD computer systems. No agency. No regulatory violation.”

“But it would set a precedent,” Kyla said. “It would be the first autonomous units operating with Logminter.”

“That’s what worries me,” Julian admitted. “But it still wouldn’t have direct control. Think of it as another point of view. Like the voice in your head.”

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.

“Do you think it would have saved Darius?” Kyla finally asked.

Julian looked down at the desk.

“It is hard to know,” he said quietly. “Probably not. But the investigation concluded that exterior missions are going to become more complex as arrival approaches. Engineering believes additional cognitive support could reduce the risks.”

“People aren’t going to like this,” Kyla said.

“No,” Julian said. “Some people think we’re getting too close to violating the regulatory accord. Others think we should have done this decades ago.”

“And what do you think?”

Julian remained silent for a moment.

“I think we’re asking people to work outside the ship and risk their lives,” he answered. “If we can make those missions safer, we should.”

“When does the Council hear the proposal?”

“Tomorrow,” Julian said. “Right after the briefing on the magsail.”

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The Council chamber had not changed since the last session, but the silence was different.

Ten days ago, they had gathered to hear how Darius died. Today, they had gathered to decide what to do about it.

Kyla took the seat beside Council Member Silva. Julian sat next to Director Prescott. Taro was there too, on the operations side.

The President opened the session without ceremony.

“This is a planning session,” she said. “We will hear the operational requirements for the next deployment, and a proposal attached to it. We will vote on the proposal before we adjourn.”

She looked toward command.

“First Officer.”

The First Officer rose. On the chamber panels, the mission summary appeared. Launch. Cruise. The long band of deceleration that had not yet begun.

“The magnetic sail is deployed, but one of its anchor cables was damaged,” the First Officer said. “To reach a stable configuration before deceleration, we require another exterior deployment to repair it. We have scheduled it in two weeks.”

The room was silent.

“The operation will use three Space Drone units and two EVA riggers. SD-3, SD-4, and SD-5. The riggers are Taro Ishida and Liam Rook.”

Kyla looked at Taro.

He did not look back. He kept his eyes on the table.

Ten days after the cable took Darius off the ship, Taro had asked to go back outside.

Liam Rook sat farther down the operations side. Kyla knew him. Everyone her age did. He was the curfew monitor who sent the unwelcome notices, an outspoken Destinarian, ambitious and courageous.

Of course he had volunteered.

He listened to the First Officer with a small nod, the way a man confirms a thing he has already decided is reasonable.

“There is one condition attached to this operation,” the First Officer said. “It is not mine to present.”

The officer sat. Kyla noticed the small thing. The First Officer had made the call on Darius’s mission. The call not to send the second unit. And now the First Officer had handed the next part to someone else.

The President turned to the data side.

“Director Prescott.”

Director Prescott got to his feet and faced the chamber.

“The Data and Information Office, with the EVA Division, proposes a software upgrade to the Space Drone fleet,” he said. “A restricted instance of Logminter, installed in each unit before the next deployment.”

The panels changed. Specifications now, where the voyage map had been.

“The instance is bounded,” Prescott said. “It records. It learns the task. It provides feedback to the unit’s onboard systems. It does not take control of the unit.”

He paused.

“Exterior work will grow more complex as we approach arrival. The investigation into the recent loss concluded as much. This proposal is one answer to that. It is not the only possible answer, but it is the one before you today.”

He sat.

“The floor is open,” the President said. “Before the vote.”

Council Member Silva did not wait long.

“We all know why the archival systems are not given agency. They are built on trust. Logminter holds our most private thoughts. Our diaries. Our last words,” she said.

“We let it hold those things because it only records. It does not act on what it knows. That is the entire reason a person can trust it with a life. The moment it begins to act, we have changed what it is. And we have changed it for everyone who ever whispered something into it.”

The chamber was very still.

Kyla watched her, and she was proud. This was the woman she had chosen to work beside. Two years at her side, and this was why. Silva had said the thing the room needed someone to say, and she had said it better than anyone else could have.

“I want the Regulation Bureau on the record,” Silva said. “Is this within the statutes, or is it not?”

The President nodded toward the Bureau bench.

The Bureau representative spoke carefully, the way people from the Bureau always did, as though every sentence might be read back to him later.

“As drafted, the proposal remains within the statutes,” he said. “Logminter advises. The onboard system acts, and a human authorizes. No agency is transferred. The regulatory boundary is not crossed.”

He let that settle. Then he added the rest.

“But the software is outside the Bureau’s control. I would ask the Council to hear the Data Integrity Unit before it votes. They are the ones who answer for what Logminter can do and for protecting our privacy.”

Julian had been assigned to present the Data Integrity Unit’s assessment. Heads turned toward him.

He stood. Kyla watched him search for the words, but she already knew them. She had heard him say them before, when it was only the two of them in their cabin.

“I have spent the night on the integrity question,” Julian said. “I will not pretend I have settled it. The representative is right that this changes what Logminter is.”

He looked across the chamber, not at Kyla, but at the empty middle of it.

“But I keep coming back to the same thing. We are asking people to go outside the ship and risk their lives for all of us. If there is a tool that could help bring them back safely, I don’t know how I stand here and argue against it on principle.”

He sat down.

No one spoke for a moment.

“We will vote,” the President said.

The first director voted against the proposal.

The second vote came.

“No,” said the director representing the elders.

The President voted in favor. Director Prescott voted in favor.

Four votes cast. Two against. Two for the proposal.

Then it came to Council Member Silva.

Kyla was watching her face, so she saw the pause. A breath held a beat too long. Silva’s hands were folded on the table, and she looked at them instead of at the President.

“Abstain,” she said.

The word landed flat in the quiet room.

Kyla did not know how she would have voted herself. She turned it over and found no clean answer in either direction.

That was not the thing.

The thing was that Silva had made the whole case and then declined to be counted behind it.

Kyla said nothing. She had no standing to say anything. She was an assistant in a room of principals, and her face was the only vote she had.

To Kyla, an abstention was not a position. It was a place to stand where no one could find you later.

Her pride in Silva became disappointment, and she did not hide it.

“Two in favor,” the President said. “Two against. One abstention.” She looked toward the command chair. “Under protocol, a tie falls to the Captain.”

Kyla had almost forgotten the Captain was there. The Captain had not spoken the entire session.

The Captain did not stand.

“In favor,” the Captain said.

That was all.

The panels held the specifications, glowing, unchanged. The proposal had passed.

Before the next deployment, the Space Drones would carry an instance of Logminter. Its limits had been carefully defined. No one yet knew whether reality would respect them.

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I do not remember most of the walk to the Council chamber.

I remember Julian beside me. Neither of us had said much since we left the cabin. He walked with his hands folded behind his back, the way he does when he is thinking about something.

I remember the corridor lights reflecting off the polished floor. I remember people stepping aside for us, not because we were important, but because everyone knew where we were going.

Julian was going because of the Data and Information Office. He had been assigned as an assistant to Director Prescott, who oversaw the ship’s public logs, secure archives, and the Data Integrity Unit. The record we were about to hear was public, but public did not mean unprotected.

Nothing on Helios really belonged to one person. Not the air. Not the water. Not even the memories.

I was there because of the Civic Arc. I had been working as Council Member Silva’s assistant for the past two years.

The area outside the Council chamber was very quiet. Not the quiet of an empty space. The quiet of people who had decided not to speak.

Two attendants stood at the chamber doors.

Taro was waiting for us in one of the rooms beside the chamber entrance.

“He should be in room C-3,” Julian said as we entered the hallway connecting the waiting rooms.

Civic Arc staff walked along the hallway, their Whisperzends flashing. Everyone was busy but somber.

When I saw Taro, I hugged him.

He froze at first. Then his arms came around me, tight and sudden, like he had been holding himself together and had run out of strength.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He did not answer.

“Have you seen Layna?” I asked.

“This morning.” His voice was careful. “She’s with her family.”

I wanted to ask if she was all right. What I meant was something else, something I did not have the words for yet. I also wanted to ask about her pregnancy, but I let the question sit where it was.

“It happened so fast,” Taro said before I could ask anything else. “I couldn’t reach him. There was nothing I could do.”

Then he lowered his voice.

“They had another unit,” he said. “They could have sent it. They said they couldn’t risk it. That the recovery window was gone.”

He looked at the floor, but I could see the tears gathering in his eyes.

“He was still out there, Kyla. He was still with us.”

An attendant stepped into the room and called our names.

We followed him into the Council chamber.

The chamber was arranged so that no one sat above anyone else. The President of the Council occupied the speaker’s chair. The Captain and First Officer sat together. The Director of the Horizon Arc was there because the EVA Division fell under his authority. He looked like a person waiting for the session to confirm what he already knew.

The Director of the Data and Information Office sat with Julian beside him.

Council Member Silva was seated to the President’s left. I took the place beside her. Taro sat across from us.

The President did not perform any sorrow.

That was the right choice.

“This session is exploratory,” she said. “Its purpose is to establish an initial factual record of the extravehicular operation conducted for magnetic sail deployment, and of the death of the crew member assigned to it. A formal investigation has already been opened.”

She paused for questions. No one spoke.

She continued, “This session does not replace the investigation. We are here to retrieve and review the relevant mission record in the presence of command, operations, data integrity, and civic personnel.”

She looked toward the Director of the Data and Information Office.

Director Prescott adjusted the microphone in front of him.

“Logminter, retrieve the mission record,” he said.

The panels throughout the chamber began displaying text.

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log retrieval.

Integrity check: Validated. Public mission archive.

Access status: Authorized. Created at: 2786.093.1035.

I had heard recordings before. Drills, ceremonies, the Captain’s annual address. I had never been afraid of one.

I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead. Taro had gone very still. He had been there when it happened, and now he would have to hear it happen again.

I thought about how I could not remember the walk from the cabin. Logminter would remember every second of what we were about to hear. It would carry Darius more faithfully than any of us could.

Then Logminter’s voice, one I had heard hundreds of times before, broke the silence of the Council chamber. It emerged from every speaker at once.

> Mission type: Extravehicular operation.

Mission objective: Magnetic sail deployment and anchor stabilization for deceleration phase.

Location: Exterior stern assembly.

Starting playback.

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Darius: Confirming tether lock.

Taro: Confirmed this side.

Darius: Confirming tool kit.

Taro: Confirmed.

Darius: Confirming that EVA gloves remain a personal insult to the human hand.

Flight Ops: Noted, Mr. Quinn. For the record.

Darius: For the record.

Flight Ops: Begin deployment sequence. Cables one through four on my mark.

Flight Ops: Mark.

Taro: One away. Two away. Alignment good on my side.

Darius: Three away. Holding on four.

Darius: Four is not releasing. Jam at the anchor ring.

Flight Ops: Confirm visual.

Darius: Confirmed. The coupling hasn’t cleared. I can see where it’s caught.

Flight Ops: Stand by for support unit. SD-2 is yours.

Darius: Copy. Moving in with SD-2. Taro, stay on your alignment. I have this.

Taro: I’m tethered on the far side. Repositioning. Give me a minute.

Darius: We don’t have a minute. Hold your station.

Darius: SD-2, take the load above the coupling. I’ll clear the catch.

Darius: Almost. It’s going to go all at once when it goes.

Flight Ops: Mr. Quinn, back your margin off the line before it releases.

Darius: Backing off.

Darius: It’s releasing.

> Cable four release event logged.

Darius: Going hard. SD-2 is in the path.

> Impact event detected.

Flight Ops: Mr. Quinn. The cable hit the unit.

Darius: SD-2 is tumbling. It’s coming back toward me.

> Crew suit telemetry irregular.

Darius: I’m clear of the cable. The unit caught my mount.

Taro: Say again.

Darius: The unit took my tether mount. The coupling’s gone. I’m off the ship.

Flight Ops: Confirm tether status.

Darius: Tether’s gone, not loose, gone. I’m drifting aft.

Taro: Flight Ops, launch SD-3. Send another unit, now.

Flight Ops: Stand by.

Taro: He’s off the ship and moving. Launch SD-3, now.

First Officer: Flight Ops, hold launch. Give me the recovery numbers.

Flight Ops: Drift vector is aft, away from the stern. Separation is increasing. SD-2 is lost. Probability of intercept and capture with SD-3 is low and falling.

First Officer: One unit is already tumbling through the deployment field. I’m not sending a second across four live cables with the intercept probability this low.

Taro: He’s right there. A low probability is still a probability.

First Officer: A second collision could compromise the sail. Mr. Ishida, hold your position and your tether.

Taro: He is right there.

Darius: Taro, it’s all right. We can’t risk the mission for one person.

Taro: I’m going there. I won’t let you go.

Darius: Don’t unclip. Do not unclip, that’s an order.

Darius: Logminter, begin family log.

Layna. I love you.

If it’s a boy, Alex. After Grandpa.

If it’s a girl, Alyka.

I love you all.

Tell my father I checked the tether twice.

I will look for you.

Logminter, end entry.

Darius: Computer, disconnect.

> Audio transmission ended.

The chamber went quiet.

> Mission log playback complete.

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Kyla sat at her desk, exhausted. Her eyes were red.

“Logminter,” she said. “Retrieve the log entry when Darius and I came up with ‘goatshit.’”

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log retrieval after 16 years.

Integrity check: Validated. Data accessed by authorized user.

Authorized user: Anwar Cloutier Soria, Kyla. Created at: 2770.194.2046.

> Today we went on a field trip to the Work Ring. The instructor divided the class into groups of six students. Each group would take turns visiting different parts of the Work Ring.

Darius, Taro, and I were in the same group. Nia was assigned to a different one with Sheila Adeyemi.

Sheila was younger than the rest of us, but no one treated her that way. She had been advanced after finishing two academic tracks early. She had this confidence that was difficult to explain, like she understood things before the rest of us even asked the question.

I wanted to be in her group, but the instructor had already made the selections.

Our first stop was the hydroponic channels. Long rows of vegetables stretched beneath white grow lights. The channels moved slowly, carrying water below the roots. Instructor Quan explained that almost every fresh vegetable aboard Helios passed through systems like these at some point.

Taro asked how they kept one sick plant from infecting the others through the shared water.

Instructor Quan looked impressed. “Constant monitoring,” she said. “Isolation protocols, microbial balancing, and redundancy. Agriculture aboard Helios is not only farming. It is survival engineering.”

After that, we visited the algae bioreactors.

I thought it would smell horrible, but the smell was just different, like wet metal and plants together. Huge translucent columns stretched upward through multiple levels, filled with dense green fluid while bubbles rose constantly through the tanks.

Instructor Quan explained that algae helped produce oxygen, nutritional supplements, industrial compounds, and emergency food reserves.

Darius stared at the tanks for a while and said, “So technically our lives depend on these micro things.”

Instructor Quan smiled. “Life on Helios depends on humble organisms. They are part of everything from your gut bacteria to the yeast we use to make bread.”

The next section was the Livestock Sector.

The temperature changed immediately. The air was warmer and carried a different smell.

We first visited the poultry layers.

Instructor Quan explained the difference between juvenile hens, active layers, and breeders. I tried to pay attention, but honestly the most memorable thing was the roosters.

One of them suddenly jumped onto a railing near the barrier and stared directly at us.

Its leg spurs looked like knives.

Taro stepped backward.

Darius laughed. “Imagine getting attacked by a chicken and then asking Logminter to record the entry.”

“Roosters can be aggressive,” Instructor Quan said calmly. “Especially around unfamiliar groups.”

After poultry, we visited the Helios Canine Program.

That was everyone’s favorite section.

The dogs were small and fluffy. Most of them looked similar, with soft coats, round dark eyes, and calm expressions. One of them immediately walked toward the observation area and pressed itself against the transparent divider while wagging its tail.

Taro smiled so hard it looked painful.

Instructor Quan explained that the Helionese descended from Earth dogs related to the Bichon Frise and Havanese breeds. Over generations, they had been adapted for life aboard Helios.

“Why are there so few?” I asked.

“Population management,” she replied. “Dogs are part of the ship’s social and psychological infrastructure. Breeding is carefully regulated.”

We asked how families could adopt one.

Instructor Quan explained that the waiting list was extremely long. Most people aboard Helios interacted with Helionese dogs at some point, but relatively few families were assigned permanent companionship placement.

Finally, we reached the goat section.

The goats aboard Helios descended from Nigerian Dwarf goats. Instructor Quan explained that they had been selected because of their manageable size, adaptability, and efficient milk production.

Some of them walked calmly through the enclosure, while others climbed onto little platforms that looked like a playground.

“Goats were among the first domesticated livestock animals,” Instructor Quan explained. “Probably around ten or eleven thousand years ago.”

Taro raised his hand.

“What was the first domesticated animal?”

“Dogs,” she replied. “At least fifteen thousand years ago, though some genetic evidence suggests divergence from wolves may have occurred between twenty and forty thousand years ago.”

“That’s a tragedy,” Darius said.

Instructor Quan looked at him curiously. “Domestication?”

“No,” he replied. “That we have to learn all of this again.”

Taro laughed, but Instructor Quan remained calm.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, all of this was already learned by people before,” Darius said. “Now we have to learn it again, and then the next group, and the next. Isn’t that a tragedy?”

“It may feel that way, but it’s not a waste of time,” she said. “Relearning is what keeps knowledge alive. Every generation tests and reshapes the knowledge it inherits.”

Darius and Taro exchanged a glance, quietly absorbing the thought.

“To keep knowledge alive, we built archives, schools, libraries, and systems like Logminter. But knowledge only survives when someone learns it and chooses to carry it forward.”

I stopped paying attention after that because I stepped backward into something soft.

Very soft.

I looked down.

“Shit!”

Darius immediately pointed at the ground.

“You mean goatshit.”

Everyone burst out laughing.

Instructor Quan tried not to laugh.

I wanted to disappear.

Taro’s face changed. He asked one of the Terra Arc workers for something to clean it, while Darius helped me scrape my shoe against the edge of the walkway.

I was still embarrassed, but somehow it did not feel terrible anymore.

> I think that was the moment I realized we would stay friends forever…

Kyla stopped reading and started to cry. She could not help herself. The crying became louder.

From the bed, Julian’s voice broke the silence.

“You need your sleep,” he said softly. “You have been reading log entries all night. It is four in the morning. Come on, come to bed.”

She broke down completely.

“I cannot believe he’s gone.”

Julian stood and crossed the cabin. He held her while she cried against his chest.

“Tomorrow will be a tough day,” he said quietly. “Let’s try to get some rest.”

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A beep interrupted the silence of the morning.

“Computer, cancel alarm,” Julian said.

He turned over and closed his eyes for what felt like only a few minutes. Then he woke suddenly, realizing he had overslept.

“Kyla, we’re late. Computer, check my schedule for today.”

“Today is Wednesday. Year twenty-seven eighty-six. Day ninety-six. Zero eight forty-two hours.”

The numbers glowed softly on the nightstand:

2786.096.0842

“You have a call at ten thirty with the Regulation Bureau Director and a medical appointment at thirteen hundred hours.”

The cabin remained dim except for the pale light of the nightstand display.

“Please postpone both,” Julian said. “We have to go to the Council chamber.”

“I need a cold shower and a cup of black tea or something stronger,” Kyla said.

“Go ahead. Get ready, and I’ll take care of breakfast. I’ll make your favorite toasted bread with butter. I think we still have some.”

Julian went to the kitchen and started making breakfast. The aroma of dandelion coffee and toasted bread slowly filled the cabin.

He called from the kitchen, “Sweetie, you’ll have both coffee and black tea.”

“Thank you,” Kyla said. “Do me a favor. Taro wanted to talk before the Council session. Can you ask him if we can meet at nine forty-five?”

“I’m on it.” Julian’s Whisperzend light pulsed green as the call connected.

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After the Incident, Helios wanted to heal quickly.

The Council was restructured, and two additional seats were added. One member would now be elected by citizens old enough to vote but younger than forty years old, ensuring representation for the younger generations aboard Helios. The other would be chosen by majority vote among the seven Arc directors, one vote per Arc.

The Seven Arcs were created to turn the different departments and offices into custodians of the ship. All the changes brought by the Helios Reform Accords were meant to restore stability and prevent violent conflict. But if that was true, why the Disconnect?

Why were we so afraid that we dismantled the deep-space communication system?

Earth could still provide guidance, as could Surya. We have no previous experience deploying the magsail or inserting a spaceship like Helios into orbit. There are many things that will be new to all of us. We need all the help we can get.

Even those who defend the mission above all else should realize that arrival is approaching.

Communication should be restored.

“What do you think so far?” Darius asked.

Taro leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, the ideas are good,” he replied, “but it feels a little too dry.”

Darius frowned. “Not everything has to read like a story. This is an essay.”

“That’s fair,” Taro said, “but people still need to feel something when they read it.”

After a brief pause, he added, “I like that you mentioned the magsail, but there’s nothing to worry about. We’re going to be the heroes. We’ll get it deployed.”

Layna looked at him. “What do you mean by we? Are you thinking about working outside the ship?”

Taro nodded. “Darius and I want to join the EVA Division after we finish the cadet program.”

Layna shook her head. “That’s a very dangerous job. Why would you want to do that?”

“Kyla, you’ve been quiet all day. What do you think?” Darius said.

Kyla frowned. “I don’t know why we care so much about Earth and the Disconnect. We’re never going back, so why bother?”

Darius stared at her. “You sound like a Destinarian. Earth built this ship. They can still provide guidance.”

“Guidance?” Kyla replied. “Have you not been paying attention? They canceled the mission and stopped caring about us. Why should we care about them?”

Kyla stood and walked away from the table.

Like most Saturday afternoons, the Mirador was full. Some tables were crowded with people playing board games. Others were alive with conversation while the soft projection panels showed images from the observation deck.

“What just happened?” Darius asked.

“I don’t know,” Layna said. “She’s been moody since she finished the anniversary assignment.”

Taro shrugged. “Maybe she’s just sad because of the remembrance ceremony. I always feel down for about a week after Generation Day.”

Layna lowered her voice. “I’m not sure, but I’m worried about her.”

Kyla did not turn around. “I can still hear you… there’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine. I just need a walk.”

A soft tone sounded through the Whisperzend.

“Computer, disconnect from the group whisper.”

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When I woke up, Layna was already making breakfast. The smell of toasted bread and eggs was enough to give me that extra push to get out of bed. She is a good roommate and a really good friend. I think I don’t tell her enough how much I appreciate things like this.

When I mentioned to her that I had canceled Sunday breakfast with my parents, she quickly offered to make breakfast and keep me company.

We always have the freshest produce and eggs since her mother works at the hydroponic channels and her father works at the poultry layer farm.

Breakfast was delicious, and we talked about many things. She asked me about Darius several times, so I think there is some chemistry there.

She told me that she would like to work in the algae bioreactors or the fungi stacks after we finish training in the Seven Arcs. She is a true Terra Arc girl.

I told her that I will probably end up working at the Civic Arc to provide assistance to the Council. Who knows? Maybe one day I could be a member of the Council and make a difference here.

After breakfast, we decided to take the long way to the Plaza, so we went to the Mirador first. It was quieter than usual. I guess most people were at the Plaza watching the game already.

We stopped at the Mirador to view the projections from the observation deck. Layna pointed to a tiny light and said that it was Ross 128. We wondered if we would change its name.

I realized that we would probably be naming many things. That made me happy.

We arrived at the ringvolley game late. Darius, Nia, and Taro were having an excellent game. Julian’s team was visibly frustrated. They had just lost the first set.

The second set started with Liam scoring the first point. Darius quickly turned it around with a 2-point shot through the ring that caught Julian’s team off guard.

The game continued back and forth, with the score staying close. Liam received a serve. The ball went to one side of the court, and Julian just flew to try to save it.

The sound when he hit the floor was different, like when you hit the hollow railing at the entrance of the Plaza. Time stopped. Everyone went quiet.

Julian stood up and said, “I’m okay,” holding his left arm with his right hand. My mother quickly ran to the court. I’m not sure why, but I ran too.

As soon as I got close, I was able to see it. His left arm bent like rubber.

“Goatshit,” I muttered. My mother was too busy to even notice that I had just cursed.

Blood spread across the court floor. My mother quickly asked for a towel and carefully guided Julian to the floor. I almost fainted when I saw something coming out of his arm.

Julian’s mother and sister also ran to the court, their faces pale with shock.

Julian was taken to the infirmary. My mother’s diagnosis after reviewing the X-rays: an open fracture of the distal radius with dorsal displacement.

Surgery was needed. I stayed in the waiting room with Julian’s mother and sister.

His father arrived just before the surgery began, still wearing his Forge Arc maintenance uniform.

It felt like time slowed down. They were the longest two hours of my life.

When my mother came out to tell us everything was okay, they were able to go inside.

After they came out, I asked if it was okay for me to go and see him. I didn’t want to leave before knowing that he was okay.

To my surprise, Julian asked me what I meant when I said “goatshit.” I told him it was a long story.

I guess tomorrow I’ll go visit and tell him about the time when Darius and I came up with the word. We were 12 and we went to…

“Good night, Kyla,” Layna said.

“Logminter, pause entry,” Kyla whispered, then replied, “Good night, Layna.”

“Talk to you tomorrow,” Layna said.

“See you tomorrow,” Kyla replied.

Then she whispered, “Logminter, save this to my diary.”

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log archival.

Integrity check: Validated. Data saved by authorized user.

Authorized user: Anwar Cloutier Soria, Kyla. Created at: 2772.250.2342.

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Instructor Mendez was finishing the history lesson. Last week, he had started with the Age of Exploration. Today, it was the Protestant Reformation. He was good at condensing entire centuries into a few lines of text.

A soft beep signaled the end of class. “Before you go,” Instructor Mendez said, raising his voice enough to catch the attention of the room, “remember your history test is next week. It will cover everything from the Age of Exploration through the Peace of Westphalia in 1648.”

Students began filing out of the room, their Whisperzend devices already lighting up with queries about the test. Only Kyla and Julian remained at their desks.

“How can I help you?” Instructor Mendez asked.

“Go ahead, Kyla,” Julian said.

Kyla stayed seated. “I think my question is a little long. You go first, Julian.”

“Okay, I’ll be quick. Is it okay to go over the 1,500-word limit?”

Instructor Mendez nodded. “Mr. Darrow, the limit is there for a reason. A few words over will not matter, but anything more than that will cost you points.”

Julian added, “I’m writing about Destiny and hope. I want to follow Helios from its departure to what arrival might look like. Can I use chapters?”

Instructor Mendez answered, “Yes. Any format is acceptable; just stay within the limit.”

“Thank you. See you tomorrow,” Julian said. “Bye, Kyla.”

Kyla waited until he left the classroom. “I’m struggling with the ending of my assignment, and I need your advice.”

Instructor Mendez folded his hands on the desk. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I find endings difficult,” she admitted. “Is it better to have a story with a happy ending, or not necessarily?”

“Miss Anwar, I’ll share something I heard a long time ago: a story with a happy ending is an unfinished story, but one that ends sadly has finished too soon.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The beauty is in the story,” he said. “Don’t worry about the beginning or the ending. Just tell your story.”

Kyla walked through the corridor, replaying the conversation. Self-doubt weighed on her. Was Julian’s piece about Destiny better? Yet Instructor Mendez’s words kept echoing in her thoughts: “Just tell your story.”

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It was a day like any other in 2272, two years after they had arrived at the enclave. Alyka was playing the cello while Sarah played her violin. Music class had become one of their refuges.

The loudspeakers came on, interrupting their duet. A clear, neutral voice instructed everyone to gather at noon in the briefing hall. Everyone knew what the announcement meant. The names of the final voyagers would be revealed.

Sarah began to cry. Alyka tried to console her. “Don’t be scared. My Nana always says that when life gives you lemons, we make lemonade. Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

At noon, the announcement began. Names echoed through the speakers as they appeared on the tall display panels across the front wall.

“Sullivan family… Quan family… Alina Acosta…”

Some celebrated, others cried as their future changed in an instant. Alyka and Sarah stood close together, hearts pounding with every name that appeared and was not theirs.

“Paul and Laura Cloutier… Henry Solariam… Giordano family…”

When the list ended, Sarah and her family had been chosen for Helios. Alyka and her family had not. It became a day of sadness and happiness woven together in a way neither girl would ever forget.

Selected families, couples, and single individuals were transported to Cape Verde for their scheduled launches.

Alyka never forgot the moment Sarah left. It was one of those hazy days with calima in the sky, the sand from the Sahara hanging over the compound like a veil. The buses arrived, and Sarah’s family boarded. When it was her turn to step on, she looked back and waved.

This time, Alyka did not forget.

“I will look for you.”

Sarah replied, her voice lost to the noise around them, but her lips unmistakable.

“I will look for you.”

That day was their first goodbye.

Real-time communication was not allowed, so they stayed in touch through emails. Sarah wrote about how the two rings rotated to provide gravity, but they could experience zero-g at Helios’s Central Axis. She described the Plaza and mentioned how they could view Earth from the observation deck.

She said the view was breathtaking, the oceans so blue and wide they seemed endless. At night, the cities glowed like distant stars. She tried to find them from orbit, searching for the pattern of lights along the west coast of Africa.

Alyka wrote about her trip to El Teide on the nearby island of Tenerife, where she saw the famous sea of clouds. She went on a trekking route near the old Juan Évora museum, where rugged lava fields framed the trail. Her father took them on a stargazing tour, where the Milky Way was visible to the naked eye. She looked for Ross 128, but it was too faint to be seen without a telescope.

A few months later, her father was transferred to the command center on La Palma. Alyka visited him there and saw Helios through their telescopes.

About a year passed, and the day of departure arrived. People across Earth watched from every screen they could find. Alyka went to her room and played her cello, hoping Sarah would be playing her violin wherever she was. That day was their long goodbye.

Alyka opened her window and continued playing, each note a reminder of their friendship. Then she remembered Nana’s saying, but this time she understood it differently.

When life gives you Silence, we make music.

###

Kyla read the final paragraph again, staring at the last line for a few seconds.

“Logminter,” she whispered.

> Ready to record entry.

“I have read this multiple times already… and there is something I can’t shake.” She took a long breath and added, “Whose family was the lucky one, Alyka’s or Sarah’s?”

> Would you like to explore the lives of families that boarded Helios versus the ones that stayed on Earth?

“That’s not what I meant. What I’m trying to say is that after all this research, I finally understand how much we gave up. No sun, no clouds, no endless sea. I have never smelled the air before it rains. I have never seen a forest, and I will never see one,” Kyla said, unsettled by her own thoughts.

Her eyes began to water. “Our families left all that behind to travel to a tiny star in a ship that is slowly dying… where each generation has less than the previous one.”

Logminter’s output appeared on the screen.

> There is no data from Earth after communication was lost, but it can be assumed that life continued uninterrupted after the Disconnect. Earth’s resources would far exceed those available in a spacecraft like Helios.

“Yes, exactly. It feels like we may have gotten the worst end of everything. So… who really won?”

> You saved a log entry that may help you answer this question: “a story with a happy ending is an unfinished story, but one that ends sadly has finished too soon. The beauty is in the story.”

Kyla replied, not entirely sure why she felt so upset. “I don’t understand. I’m not talking about a story anymore. I’m talking about real life… my life.”

She did not expect an answer, yet a new response appeared on the screen.

> Based on previous patterns, it is likely you will record thousands of log entries about your life.

Kyla sat back, staring at the monitor. She wanted to reply, but it was unnecessary.

“Logminter, save this to my diary.”

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log archival.

Integrity check: Validated. Data saved by authorized user.

Authorized user: Anwar Cloutier Soria, Kyla. Created at: 2772.241.2128.

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« Go to Chapter 4

The Mirador sat on the opposite side of Ring A from the Plaza. Tall projection panels lined the far wall, fed by cameras mounted near the observation deck on the Central Axis. One of them always pointed toward Ross 128.

Kyla stepped through the entrance and paused for a moment, looking across the dining zones that made up the Mirador.

Closest to the displays was the terrace area. Tables were set facing the projection panels. A small stage stood near the center.

Farther inside was the formal dining section. The tables there were spaced more widely, with white cloth and elegant decor. That was where most official events and celebrations were held.

A violin note cut across the room. A cellist adjusted his instrument beside the stage. The duo was getting ready as families had already claimed tables beneath the projected stars for Sunday breakfast.

Kyla scanned the terrace. Her parents were already there.

Her father raised a hand when he saw her. Her mother smiled as Kyla approached the table.

“Hi, have you ordered already?” Kyla said as she pulled out a chair.

“Yes, we ordered a basket of pastries, bread, and jelly,” her father replied.

Her mother added, “We got juice and coffee too.”

“Perfect.”

For a moment, they exchanged the usual pleasantries. Then Kyla leaned slightly toward her father.

“The other day I was talking to Darius and Nia,” she said. “We were discussing the new assignment for the anniversary competition.”

Her father straightened his napkin. “How is that going?”

Kyla smiled. “It’s good. I’m doing a lot of research about life before departure, but I wanted to ask you something.”

“About Earth?”

“No, it’s about something Darius said: that everything we create on the ship is used to train Logminter.”

“That’s correct,” her father said. “We use all the content to train Logminter and the other systems aboard Helios, from service bots to the onboard assistants.”

At that moment, a server approached the table carrying a tray. The smell of fresh bread and pastries reached them first.

He placed a basket at the center, followed by small dishes.

“Today we have butter,” the server said. The white goat butter was not available all the time.

He followed with a pot of dandelion coffee and a pitcher of berry juice.

“Pumpkin jam,” the server added as he placed a small dish beside the basket.

Her mother reached for the coffee. “Thank you.”

Kyla tore a piece of bread and spread a thin layer of butter. It melted almost immediately.

A woman approached the table.

“Lina,” she said warmly.

Kyla’s mother stood halfway to greet her. “Good morning, Pattie.”

The two of them exchanged a few words. Her mother was one of the doctors, and on a ship of seven hundred people, she knew everyone.

Kyla leaned toward her father, her Whisperzend light pulsing, and asked, “So why don’t we use synthetic content? These systems can generate text, music, images. All of it.”

Her mother turned. “Kyla, it’s rude to whisper in company.”

“Sorry.”

Pattie smiled. “Don’t mind me. I was just passing through.” She touched Lina on the shoulder and moved on.

Her father waited a moment, then answered. “Synthetic content is not bad, but if you only train on what the system already produced, the output starts to narrow. We don't want staleness. It needs novelty. It needs a fourteen-year-old writing an assignment and asking questions.”

“Yeah, I get that. We don’t want repetition. But if staleness is the problem, shouldn’t we be able to program novelty?”

Lina added, “Your father works with systems. I work with life. People are built differently. We’re built from the bottom up: genes, instincts, desires, and fears. We cry, we laugh, we hope, we grieve. We are living stories.”

Kyla paused to think about this for a moment.

“Yes, I think I understand. We have skin in the game.”

“Exactly.” Her mother set down her cup. “Speaking of games, are we still going to the ringvolley match?”

“It’s at eleven thirty, right?” her father said. “If we finish here by eleven, we’ll have time.”

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They walked the curve of Ring A, leaving the sound of the Mirador behind.

Early that morning, the Plaza had been converted for the match.

The court occupied the open ground beside the main stage, its boundary lines projected in white. The net stretched across the center, and the rings above the poles remained dark.

Kyla and her parents found seats close enough to hear the players. The crowd filled quickly. Sunday matches always did.

On the far side, Julian stood near the net. Beside him were Liam Rook and two other players.

Darius and Nia played for the opposite team. Taro watched from the bench after being substituted in the second set.

It was a close match. Julian’s team had taken the first set. Darius’s team took the second.

The third set was different from the start. The energy shifted. Both teams were quieter, more focused. The rallies stretched longer. The ball crossed the net again and again before a point was decided. The crowd settled into a tense rhythm of silence and sudden noise.

The match tightened.

17–17.

One team pulled ahead. Then the other answered.

18–18.

A high ball drifted toward one pole.

Julian adjusted and sent it through the ring.

A sharp tone sounded.

The ring lights turned blue on Julian’s side and yellow on the other, marking the start of the no-hands phase.

The pace changed instantly. The ball moved through chest, foot, and head in quick succession. Nia pushed it deep. Julian absorbed the return, controlled and precise. Liam rose and drove a header down.

Darius returned the ball quickly.

Liam moved under it.

He could have controlled it and passed it.

Instead, he angled the ball toward the ring.

It passed through.

The ring lights turned green on his side and red on the other. A longer tone accompanied the lights.

Then the whistle.

The Plaza erupted.

Liam exhaled, a brief smile breaking through. His teammates rushed toward him.

“That’s it,” Kyla’s father said. “Three points.”

Kyla said nothing. She watched Darius walk back to his team. He put his arm around Nia’s shoulder and said something quietly to her. Nia stood up straight and nodded once.

“Good match,” her father said.

Her mother stood and gathered her things. “Nia played well.”

“She did. But that other boy, the tall one,” her father said.

“Liam,” Kyla said.

“He’s something else.”

Kyla’s mother said, “Isn’t he the one who sent your curfew violation notice?”

“Yes,” Kyla said. “He’s one of the curfew monitors.”

Layna waved as she walked toward them. “Hi, Mr. Cloutier. Hi, Mrs. Soria. What a game! Darius played well. Too bad they lost.”

“Yeah,” Kyla said. “I guess we’re canceling the celebration at the Mirador this afternoon.”

Layna laughed and said, “It’s the best of three games, so we can still win.”

Around them, families gathered their things and began to leave. The projected boundary lines flickered once and vanished. The court became open ground again.

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Go to Chapter 6 »

« Go to Chapter 3

“Hi, Mom… Yes, we returned before curfew,” Kyla said, her Whisperzend status light glowing green.

“Yeah, I’m walking to the gym now. Tell Dad I said hi. See you tomorrow for breakfast.”

The corridor widened near the Hydration Lounge next to the gym. Soft conversation and the click of dispensers refilling bottles carried through the archway.

She noticed Darius and Nia leaning against the counter near a hydration tap.

“Hey,” Kyla said. “Hydrating after the workout?”

Nia smiled. “Hi. You look a little tired.”

“Just a little,” Kyla said with a hint of irony. “I’ve been working all week on the anniversary assignment.”

“Are you finished?” Darius asked.

“Not really, but I’m getting there.”

“Do you want to share?” Nia asked.

“Well, I’m naming it The Long Goodbye.”

Darius leaned forward. “Good title. What is it about?”

“It’s about a girl before departure. When it’s ready, I’ll share it with both of you to get your feedback.”

“I’m also writing about the time before departure. It’s about how life in the launch corridors mirrored life on Helios,” Nia said.

“Interesting!” Kyla nodded. “Mine is more about separation.”

Darius added, “I’m writing about the Disconnect.”

Kyla raised her eyebrows. “You’re obsessed with that.”

“I think it’s fascinating,” Darius replied. “I’ve been researching deep-space communication. The signal delays and the engineering behind it are complicated. But for me, the real mystery is why we haven’t heard from Earth. Where are the faster ships? Five centuries and nothing!”

He paused, then added, half joking, “Don’t get me started.”

They moved to a nearby table, watching people cross the Plaza below.

“You know what else is fascinating?” Darius said. “All we do on this ship is create log entries.”

Nia shook her head. “That’s not all we do.”

“I think it is,” Darius countered. “Besides keeping the ship working, everything is essays, stories, art, music… puppet shows. Even ringvolley matches get narrated and archived as log entries.”

“Yeah, but there is a reason for this,” Nia replied. “I forgot what they call it…”

“Right,” Darius said, snapping his fingers. “Staleness… information staleness.”

Kyla nodded. “My father should know about this. I’ll ask him.”

“You should also ask him why we don’t just use synthetic content,” Darius said.

Kyla replied, “I guess real content is better.”

“I don’t know about that. When you grow up knowing everything gets logged, being real gets harder,” Darius said.

For a moment, the three of them sat quietly with the thought.

Kyla stood, breaking the moment. “I need to work out.”

Darius spoke up as she stepped away. “So, did Layna finish moving in with you?”

Kyla smirked. “Someone seems interested.”

Darius blushed, his face turning red enough to match his hair. “I can’t ask questions now?”

He took a sip from his bottle. “By the way, say hello to your friend Julian. He has been inside training for tomorrow’s ringvolley match.”

“Don’t let him win tomorrow. I’ll be there to cheer for you guys,” said Kyla as she walked to the gym.

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Alyka had never seen a place like this. El Hierro looked nothing like New York. No tall buildings, no concrete jungle, only green slopes rolling toward volcanic cliffs and black sand beaches.

The arrival terminal was chaos. Lines snaked through the open-air pavilion, families showing their bracelets while Seeder Project staff verified them with their scanners.

Alyka stood with her parents, watching the organized confusion. A family finished their verification process, and the last girl in line, thin, pale, and with light-brown hair, turned as though unsure where to stand.

Alyka offered a small wave. “Hi, I’m Alyka.”

“Hello, I’m Sarah,” the girl said softly.

Alyka smiled. “This is very different from New York, right?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah admitted. “This is my first time outside Dublin.”

Both families were cleared to board the bus, and the two girls ended up in the same row. Sarah turned toward the window, her expression softening. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

Alyka nodded. “Yes, it is.”

That was the beginning of their friendship.

Life at the enclave settled into something almost normal: school in the mornings, birthday parties in the recreation center, and occasional trips outside the compound.

But normal only went so far. The enclave housed 364 people, and everyone knew the number that mattered. Only 175 would be selected to board Helios. The rest would stay.

Millions had applied to the Seeder Project. Fewer than two thousand were chosen for the four enclaves. Getting here had already required passing through numerous filters, but this was the final cut, and everyone felt it.

Competition and teamwork in equal measure, the higher-ups said, the same balance they would need aboard a generation ship. Someone had to figure out how to select a crew for a journey that would last centuries.

The tension was always there. Who was excelling? Who was struggling? Whose family might not make the cut?

Alyka tried not to think about it. Sarah tried harder.

Sarah’s parents worked at the command center on the nearby island of La Palma, traveling every week and leaving her behind. Most weeks, she stayed with Alyka’s family.

Her father worked on the development of the deep-space communication systems. Her mother was an astronomer focused on exoplanet surveys and stellar mapping, often bringing home stories about distant stars and survey data.

Alyka’s parents worked at the enclave. Her mother had a PhD in history and helped design the education curriculum.

Her father worked with computer systems, helping develop an early version of Logminter and the systems that would travel with the ship.

At dinner he often spoke about the systems they were building and the need to preserve memory. Alyka and Sarah would ask questions. Alyka’s mother added historical context, explaining how humans had always used external memory, from oral traditions and libraries to computers and artificial intelligence.

Those evenings felt almost like a regular family dinner should have, except the conversation always circled back to the same question nobody wanted to think about: Would they all make it onto Helios together?

Kyla stopped reading. “I don’t know how to work out all the details,” she said out loud, her voice tight with frustration. “I want this story to be as accurate as possible, but keep it alive.”

After a long breath, she added, “Logminter, should I explain Silence and the other Possibilities?”

> If the goal is clarity and narrative momentum, you should not add definitions or additional philosophical explanation. You have sufficient information to complete your story.

From the kitchenette, Layna said, “You sound frustrated. I’m making a chamomile infusion with a blend from the gardens. I’ll make one for you.”

Kyla looked over her shoulder. “Thanks.”

Layna set a cup on the counter and added a pinch of something from a small container. “I love this smell,” she said. “There’s a little raw beet in here. I read that beets have something that smells like the air on Earth before it rains. I’m not sure if it’s true, but I try to imagine rain when I drink it.”

Kyla paused, thinking about it, then said, “That’s nice.” She considered the idea a moment longer, then added, “Tomorrow, we can continue decorating the cabin.”

Layna smiled. “It’s starting to feel like home.”

Kyla exhaled, feeling her tension ease a little. “Yes, it does.”

Thanks for reading Kyla’s Diary, a novel from the Theogenic Universe. New chapters will be published weekly. Subscribe to continue the journey aboard Helios.

Go to Chapter 5 »

In the year 2772, Kyla lives aboard Helios, a generation ship carrying seven hundred people toward Ross 128. Earth has been silent for more than four centuries.

A school assignment sends Kyla into the ship’s history and Theogenics, the philosophy that launched humanity toward the stars. But the deeper she looks, the more the story she inherited begins to fracture.

Some questions were never meant to survive the journey.

A philosophical hard science fiction story about memory, isolation, destiny, and humanity’s search for meaning in a silent universe.

Part I: The Story They Inherited

Chapter 1: The Incident

Chapter 2: Possibilities

Chapter 3: The Plaza

Chapter 4: Staleness

Chapter 5: Ringvolley

Chapter 6: Wisdom

Chapter 7: Broken

Part II: Writing Their Own Story

Chapter 8: Goatshit

Chapter 9: Outside

Chapter 10: Magsail

Chapter 11: Heroes

Chapter 12: Remembrance

Chapter 13: Elections

Chapter 14: Good News

Part III: Connecting

Chapter 15: Names

Chapter 16: Scarcity

Chapter 17: Proposal

Chapter 18: Sealed

Chapter 19: We Cry

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« Go to Chapter 2

The Plaza was already alive. The corridor led onto a bridge. A shallow basin stretched to both sides beneath it. Soft illumination pulsed in slow waves of blue, creating the illusion of rippling water without using a single drop. Beyond it, benches lined the edge.

Above, narrow translucent panels set into the high ceilings revealed the stars, faint through the radiation filters.

For a moment, Kyla paused to look up. The stars appeared motionless even though Helios moved among them at two percent of the speed of light.

Darius waved from the edge of the crowd. Beside him stood Nia and Taro, clustered near a kiosk releasing the warm scent of baked pastry.

“You’re late,” Nia said.

“I had to finish something,” Kyla replied.

Taro smirked. “Instructor Mendez’s assignment. Right?”

“Something like that,” Kyla said, then added, “Where’s Layna?”

“I already called her,” Nia answered, tapping her Whisperzend. “I told her we’re next to the pastry kiosk.”

“There she is,” Kyla said as Layna approached them. Her Whisperzend was blinking red.

“What are you doing? This is so embarrassing,” Nia said, half laughing, half exasperated.

“Recording this moment,” Layna replied with a bright smile.

The small red glow on her device drew a few glances from nearby students. Recording lights were a social boundary aboard Helios. They were tolerated in open spaces, but it was still polite to keep them brief.

Each Whisperzend displayed a small status light on its pads, indicating how it was being used.

“Just make it quick, before everyone thinks we’re doing a documentary,” Darius said.

Everyone laughed, except Layna, who only managed a faint smile. Being the youngest of the group, she had been using her Whisperzend for less than two years, since you had to be twelve to get one.

“I’m starving,” Darius said. “Anyone want a pastry?”

Taro shook his head. “I’m out of ledger credits.”

“No worries. I’ll get you this time,” said Darius.

“How much for the pastries?”

The vendor looked up with a friendly smile, her brown apron marked with the Terra Arc emblem. “One ledger for pumpkin, one and a half for berries.”

Everyone aboard Helios earned ledger credits for their work, even students.

Darius opened a group whisper so everyone could hear. “Berries or pumpkin?”

“Berries,” said Layna and Kyla. The others chose pumpkin.

“Six ledgers,” the vendor said as she wrapped the pastries in hemp paper.

“Thanks,” Darius said, sending the payment.

“Enjoy,” she replied, sliding the last one across the counter.

Taro pointed toward the stage at the end of the Plaza. “They’re starting.”

They slipped into the crowd and found seats near the front. From there, Kyla could see the thin panels and the faint shapes moving behind them.

The overhead lights dimmed until only the puppet stage remained illuminated.

Next to the stage, a sign read, “The Seeders of the Stars.” In smaller letters: “A shadow and silhouette puppet show.”

The pastries were half-finished by the time the musicians ended their prelude. Silence spread outward like a tide.

The narrator spoke softly, not as a historian but as someone remembering a story told many times before.

“They say Earth was already tired when the dream began. The air was thin, the seas restless, and the cities drowning in their own noise. But a few still looked up and refused to let the stars go. They built in workshops lit by screen glow, their hands shaking but steady.”

“The Inventors were the dreamers who built the first Seeders. They had no guarantee of being successful,” the voice continued, “only the knowledge that if they failed, silence would last forever. So they built three ships. Not to escape, but to plant something living in the dark.”

The crowd grew quiet. Even the children who usually murmured during the shows were still.

The narrator’s voice continued, softer now, almost conversational.

“They built three seeds of everything they loved and feared to lose.”

The narration paused, and a young child, maybe seven or eight years old, walked across the stage with a sign that read, “Scene 2: Surya.”

The stage glowed with a deep gold light. The red-cloaked Inventor pulled a lever; a miniature rocket of brass and cloth tilted upright.

“The first seed was called Surya,” said the narrator. “It carried the memory of courage, born from a world that still believed in beginnings.”

The little rocket lifted, slow at first, then smoothly upward, its red glow reflecting in the eyes of children near the front row.

Kyla whispered, “Logminter, tell me about Surya.”

> Seeder 1 departed Earth orbit in 2208. With a crew of 245 individuals and a velocity of approximately 0.009c, S-1 Surya’s destination was Alpha Centauri.

The narrator had paused, and a new child walked to the stage, carrying a sign that read, “Scene 3: Helios.”

Blue light rose from the stage floor. The second Inventor, dressed in silver, stepped forward. She worked methodically, adjusting the tools and testing every joint before she moved.

“The second seed was called Helios,” the voice said. “They built it not for speed, but for endurance. To carry more than a generation could remember.”

The shadow of the silver ship appeared, longer and more graceful. As it ascended, projected constellations turned slowly around it, like a wheel of light.

“They filled it with songs, with books, with the stories of their days. And with it they sent a question, not to gods but to themselves: Could meaning survive distance?”

The silver glow rose higher until it reached the ceiling panels, where the projection merged with the faint shimmer of real stars beyond the glass.

“Scene 4: Ra,” read the next sign.

The blue faded. A third Inventor, wearing gold, stepped into the half-light. His motions were faster, his tools heavier. Sparks flew briefly from his workbench, an illusion of effort and strain.

“The third seed was called Ra.”

The narrator paused before continuing. “It was meant to be bigger than all the rest. To carry not only life, but the means to establish a new home wherever it arrived.”

The golden rocket took shape, wide and beautiful. When the Inventor pulled the final cord, the strings snapped. For a moment the ship rose, but it froze halfway to the ceiling, trembling in midair.

“The third seed was too big for its own dream,” the voice said.

The music slowed to a single deep note, fading into silence. The golden Inventor stepped back, his head bowed.

The children near the front just watched the broken ship, waiting for it to move again.

Kyla whispered, “Logminter, remind me why Ra was canceled.”

> Seeder 3 was the largest vessel in the project. With a planned crew of approximately 2,000 individuals, construction proved far more difficult than anticipated. In 2336, S-3 Ra was cancelled due to high costs, delays, and mass protests.

The last sign crossed the stage: “Scene 5: The Memory of Seeds.”

Then the stage darkened completely. A faint glow appeared on the gauze, three tiny points of light: red, silver, and gold. They drifted upward through a field of stars, each leaving a long trail that curved gently toward the others.

“They built these ships not to escape, but to remember who they were and to give the universe a chance to remember them too.”

He paused, letting the words settle. Then his voice returned, quieter, “One stayed home. The other two still carry us through the dark, looking beyond the Silence, reaching for our Destiny.”

For a moment there was no sound. Then applause began, spreading in waves. The puppets bowed, and the crew emerged from behind the gauze.

The crowd began to disperse, voices rising again. Layna leaned toward Kyla. “The puppet show is a nice way to tell this story.”

Kyla nodded.

Taro was pensive. Then he said aloud, “You know, the ending isn’t true anymore. According to my math, Surya probably arrived a few years ago.”

Darius added, “It’s a shame we lost communication. It would be so good to be able to talk to them.”

For a moment, no one replied. Talking about the Disconnect always carried a quiet weight. The Incident of 2338 was a reminder that even a place built for harmony had its shadows.

The group walked in silence, the air still faintly sweet from the pastry kiosk. Layna skipped a few steps ahead, tracing her fingers along the wall’s brushed surface.

Nia quickened her pace to catch up to Layna. “Next week you turn fourteen,” she said, her voice brighter, as if to shake the mood. “That means you’ll finally get your own cabin.”

Layna replied, “Half my own. Kyla already has the other half.”

Kyla said, “At least you’re not sharing it with a rocket. Imagine having to sleep next to someone who snores louder than a propulsion engine.”

Taro laughed. “Hey, I don’t snore that loud.”

“You do. The whole deck knows it,” said Darius.

They all laughed as they continued walking. A soft chime came through Kyla’s Whisperzend.

“21:30. Curfew reminder.”

“Already?” Kyla muttered. “Guys, we should head back to our cabins before curfew.”

As they walked, the far ring gleamed faintly through the translucent panels, its motion reversed, slow and deliberate.

Where Ring A smelled of basil and pastries, Ring B carried the scent of coolant and soil. The Work Ring, they called it. Together, the two rings turned in balance, a steady rhythm between life and labor.

###

It was raining, and the sea was choppy. The ferry rocked with the waves. It had been a long day for Alyka. The flight from New York to Madrid had already felt endless, and the additional three-hour hop to reach the ferry had drained what little excitement remained. For an eleven-year-old, it felt like she was traveling to the edge of the world, and in a sense, she was.

When the Earth was still thought to be the center of the universe, El Hierro marked the westernmost point of the known world. For centuries, maps began here, along the Meridian of Ferro, before it was replaced by Greenwich. Now it would be her home for the next three years.

Getting seven hundred people into orbit was not simple. Each rocket could only carry about a dozen passengers, so the Seeder Project designated four corridors along the equatorial band as launch sites. El Hierro was part of the Eastern Atlantic Corridor.

Alyka stared at the dark horizon, still heavy with clouds. The call to her grandmother played in her mind. Her parents used the formal Theogenian farewell: “I will look for you.” Those words transformed farewells into hope, a promise to search across time itself, never forgetting.

Alyka had only said, “Bye, Grandma,” treating it like any other goodbye. Sitting on the ferry, she realized her mistake. This was not temporary. She wished she could go back and say it properly.

“Logminter,” Kyla whispered. “Something doesn’t work. It feels too distant. Give me words people used for ‘grandmother’ but showing affection.”

> If you are seeking affectionate or endearing terms used to refer to a grandmother across cultures, here are some examples: Granny, Grammy, Nanny, and Mémé in French. Yeyi, Yaya, Nana and Oma are also used in several languages.

Kyla smiled. “That’s a long list… I think I like Nana.” She paused, then said, “Computer, replace ‘Grandma’ with ‘Nana’ in my draft.”

The monitor flickered. The image turned grainy. Kyla frowned. “Computer, set a reminder to call maintenance. This old display is misbehaving again.”

She stretched, leaning back in her chair with a yawn. “I hope they can fix it soon. Logminter, please save this to my diary. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

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After school, Kyla needed a walk to clear her thoughts. Darius was right; they got a new assignment.

A subtle vibration traveled through the brushed-metal floor as she headed back toward her cabin. Identical doors lined the right wall, each with a softly glowing biometric panel.

Her cabin was simple and functional. A monitor rested on her desk, its surface faintly marbled from years of reconditioning. A projected keyboard hovered above the tabletop. On the screen, a single word appeared.

Logminter

Beneath it, a prompt pulsed gently.

> Ready to record entry.

Kyla leaned forward, fingers above the amber keys, then typed. “Tell me about the year 2273.”

The reply came at once.

> In 2273, several events were recorded in Earth’s history. One mattered most: the second vessel of the Seeder Project departed Earth orbit.

With a cruise velocity of approximately 0.02c and a crew of 702 individuals, S-2 Helios was more ambitious than its predecessor. The destination was Ross 128, farther than any previous mission.

Logminter paused for its predetermined interval, then continued.

> It has been 499 years since then.

Do you wish to review events from the years that followed?

Kyla picked up her Whisperzend, placing it behind her neck. Words appeared without her touching the keys, flowing from her subvocal whispers.

“Fer gave us a writing assignment about the year 2273. It has to connect to the departure, since we’ll be celebrating the 500th anniversary next year.”

> You mean Instructor Fer Mendez, correct?

“Yeah,” she answered, a little annoyed, then whispered the next line. To a casual observer, her whispers might have seemed like telepathy: “Can you help me with this? Instructor Mendez said we’re supposed to explore different topics first.”

> Here are several subjects you could explore for this assignment:

- Describe the key events surrounding the launch of S-2 Helios.

- Reflect on how the philosophy of Theogenics influenced the Seeder Project.

- Compare life on Earth before departure with current life aboard Helios.

She whispered again. “I need something good, something Julian won’t see coming.”

> Predicting what Julian Darrow might select is not possible. Each Logminter maintains a private connection with its assigned user.

“I know, but the winning project will be read at the 500th anniversary ceremony. It gets added to the content library. It’s a big deal!”

She continued, “A good topic won’t be enough. I need something they’ll remember.”

> Would you like to explore other topics?

“No… the options you gave me are fine. The problem is Julian and I always end up competing, and he’s good at these assignments. He’s confident and polished.”

“Last time he won by half a point, and I can still see his condescending smile when they announced his name… I really want to win this time.”

Kyla let out a tense breath. “I can’t concentrate… It’s been a long day.” She paused. “Computer, play my thinking song.”

A song recorded on Earth centuries ago filled the cabin. Kyla sang along quietly, letting the soft percussion and light melody settle her mind.

When the song ended, she looked back at the screen. “Let’s do the one about Theogenics.”

> An ambitious choice. This subject requires careful handling to balance philosophical depth with narrative clarity. Would you like to begin with the definition and historical context?

Kyla nodded. “Okay, let’s start with that.”

> The philosophy of Theogenics emerged in the late 21st century, proposing that the universe, despite being harsh and indifferent, may be the womb of gods.

From matter and energy comes life. From life comes intelligence. From intelligence, the possibility of beings whose technology and mastery appear divine.

These beings are called Theogenics. They are not supernatural, but the outcome of natural processes carried to their extreme.

Kyla cut in. “I could explain it differently. It’s like evolution pushed to its limits… or maybe it’s just very advanced technology…”

“You were right; this will be harder than I thought,” she added with a subtle smile. “Let’s connect Theogenics to the Helios launch.”

> The two are closely linked. Theogenics provided the philosophical foundation for the Seeder Project. One of its core ideas is the concept of the Four Possibilities.

Theogenians recognize there are Four…

A notification tone interrupted the output, and the cursor froze mid-sentence.

“Incoming call from Darius Quinn. Audio only. Accept?” the computer prompted.

Kyla’s lips pressed together. “Yes, open speaker.”

Logminter minimized to a thin bar at the bottom edge, the half-finished sentence still visible.

There was a soft click, then Darius’s voice, close and warm, filled the cabin.

“Tell me you’re not working on Instructor Mendez’s assignment on a Friday night.”

“No, I’m not,” she answered.

“Yes, we both know you are. I noticed the spark in your eyes when he gave us the assignment,” he said.

Kyla glanced at the frozen words on the screen.

“What do you want?”

“To rescue you from talking to Logminter all night. And to go out before they close the Plaza. See you in fifteen minutes?”

“I’m working on something.”

“You’re always working,” he said, his voice carrying a smile.

“And you’re always exaggerating,” she replied.

“Come on. Everyone will be at the Plaza tonight.” His tone shifted. “I don’t want history to remember us as boring.”

Kyla rubbed the edge of her Whisperzend pad with her thumb. “Boring people are not remembered.”

“Come on, you’re fourteen. We’ll have plenty of time to worry about being remembered when we’re older.” He paused, then added, “And anyhow, stories are always about people who do things.”

She stayed quiet, annoyed at being treated like the younger one, but more annoyed that he was right.

“See you in fifteen minutes,” Darius repeated, softer now. “Promise?”

Kyla looked past the monitor.

“Computer, set a timer.”

“Duration?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Acknowledged.” The computer confirmed.

Darius let out a laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It’s a maybe.”

“That’s better than nothing. I’m already walking.” The connection ended, and his voice was gone.

Kyla stayed seated a moment longer. “Logminter, resume,” she whispered.

> Theogenians recognize there are Four Possibilities: Origin, Presence, Destiny, and Silence. Over time, each possibility gave rise to a branch of adherents, interpreting humanity’s place in the universe through its own lens.

Kyla interrupted, “Why do we need to talk about the Four Possibilities?”

> To understand how the Seeder Project was conceived, you must first examine how Destiny rose above the other Possibilities.

“But why would Destiny rise if none of the possibilities are certain?”

> Perhaps because Origin looked backward, a universe seeded by a prior Theogenic. Presence offered no action, only stillness, but Destiny offered direction, the possibility that humanity could become something greater.

Kyla whispered, “How about Silence?”

> The universe defaults to Silence until proven otherwise.

A timer beeped, demanding Kyla’s attention.

“Computer, alarm off.” Kyla turned back to the screen. “I’m going to be late, and we haven’t connected this to 2273 yet. How did we get from Destiny to building a spacecraft?”

> Destiny was the perfect fit for that era, and the movement spread fast. By the late 2130s, it became the Grand Destiny, an echo of the 19th-century Manifest Destiny now scaled to the entire world. This laid the foundation for the Seeder Project.

Logminter paused, then continued.

> What would you like to explore next?

The words glowed on the screen, waiting for her reply. Beyond the walls, the ship hummed, steady and uncaring, like the universe outside.

Kyla leaned back in her chair. “Today you’re not really helping… you’re just giving me information that isn’t useful for the assignment.”

> All your queries received a response, but the primary directive is to record your log entries. So far, you have 8,642 entries recorded. Perhaps you should go to the Plaza and continue this tomorrow.

Kyla exhaled, half amused. “You’re probably right… Save this to my diary. We’ll continue some other time.”

Logminter saved the entry.

LOG ENTRY

Action type: Log archival.

Integrity check: Validated. Data saved by authorized user.

Authorized user: Anwar Cloutier Soria, Kyla. Created at: 2772.220.1912.

She walked toward the door. The interior sensor glowed green, recognizing her presence.

“Computer, set a reminder for 21:30. I have to be back before curfew,” she whispered.

“Acknowledged.” The computer confirmed.

The door sealed behind her. The corridor curved, guiding her steps toward the Plaza.

###

Even as Kyla walked through the corridor, the assignment wouldn’t leave her mind. She moved aside to let a service bot glide past, its sensors flashing blue. Ahead, a group of students headed toward the Plaza. Kyla quickened her pace, the Whisperzend resting silent behind her neck.

“Logminter,” she whispered. The reply reached her, private and clear.

> Ready to record entry.

“I’ve been thinking about what Darius said. He may be right. Stories are about people who do things.”

“What if I write the assignment as diary entries? A teenage girl on Earth in 2273, right before launch. She could be trying to make sense of Theogenics… Do you think fifteen hundred words will be enough?”

> An interesting approach. However, writing about the philosophy of Theogenics with sufficient depth in only 1,500 words may prove challenging.

Kyla smiled. “I’m not you with the big words and the long explanations.”

> A fair assessment. Responses prioritize precision, not brevity. You can complete the assignment within the allocated word count, though you may need to narrow your focus.

“I think I got it,” she whispered. “Alyka… that will be her name. The story will be about how she faces the Four Possibilities. What do you think?”

> It is a sound foundation, but you should try to focus on one aspect of the Four Possibilities.

Kyla looked ahead as if searching for an idea at the end of the corridor.

“You may be right. Alyka’s story should focus on one possibility.”

She smiled, feeling the idea take shape. “Yes. This is it. Her story will be about not giving up, not even to Silence.”

“Computer, send a message to Darius. Let him know I’m on my way.”

Thanks for reading Kyla’s Diary, a novel from the Theogenic Universe. New chapters will be published weekly. Subscribe to continue the journey aboard Helios.

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I was only 22 when we departed. It was extremely difficult to be selected for the Seeder Project, but I had been preparing for the selection process for as long as I could remember. I chose the right classes and learned everything I needed, but the number of applicants was staggering, and the competition brutal.

In the end, it was a combination of doing the right things and a little bit of luck.

I was assigned to the communications unit within the Navigation Arc. Before the reorganization, we just called it the Command Crew.

Back then, we received a daily communication package. You have to understand what that meant to those who left loved ones on Earth. Every day, a new package would arrive with mission-related information, but it also included news and personal messages. It was what everyone really waited for.

After a couple of years, the packages were sent weekly. Then they moved to a monthly schedule.

Receiving personal messages became more difficult because communication took longer and packages were limited in size, so a lottery system was established on Earth.

Only five personal messages were allowed per package. If you were a lucky recipient, your name was added to another lottery held on Helios. For us, sending a reply was costlier, so only two people could respond.

When I turned 50, messages already took about six months to arrive and another six months for our replies to return to Earth. I remember that year clearly because I was one of the lucky ones who received a message. It was from my brother. He used the expensive deep-space channel to let me know that I was getting old. I miss him.

This was the last time I received a message. A couple of years later, personal messages were removed from the packages to keep them small and improve transmission.

Everyone knew it would get worse every year. We had an internal joke in the communications unit: we would be the first job on Helios to become obsolete.

I was 85 when we received the bad news that Ra had been canceled. The Seeder 3 vessel would never depart. After that, we only received three more messages from Earth. From prior packages, we already knew about the social and political changes happening, but we could never have imagined how far they would go.

The last two messages arrived only months apart. It would take two years to get an answer to either one. That kind of waiting takes a toll no one anticipated.

“Evaluate all your options to change your trajectory and immediately map the area for rogue planetary objects.”

We were still debating how to respond when the last message arrived.

“The Seeder Project has been canceled. Central Command will shut down its operations next month.”

How do you recover from something like that? How do you respond?

I have lived most of my life in space. Helios is my home, but I am an Earthling. People expected someone like me to support returning to Earth. We did not. Unexpectedly, the strongest calls to turn back came from those born on Helios.

It started as small protests. Then strikes. Then one day, almost half of the crew did not show up at their posts.

That day, a group started gathering outside the communication room in the Work Ring. A dozen at first. Then it grew until it became a crowd of about 30 people.

The Captain called an emergency meeting with the three members of the Council. Under the original structure, one member was elected among all the people. The second member was the Director of the Data and Information Office. Finally, me, a rotating member representing the elders.

During the meeting, the elected member suggested sending the Regulation Bureau to guard the communications room. Director Sullivan disagreed. She argued that it would escalate the issue even further. I agreed with her.

Captain Acosta sent them anyway. All six were armed with their stun canes and pneumatic pistols.

The weapons were never meant to kill anyone. They were designed to incapacitate, to avoid damaging the ship.

Director Sullivan oversaw the Data Integrity Unit, the other armed group aboard Helios. She dispatched them as intermediaries, hoping to de-escalate the situation.

They were decisions born from opposing philosophies, but both would lead to the same result.

The protesters filled the corridor with calls to turn back, to abandon the mission and return to Earth.

The Regulation Bureau approached from one side, trying to protect the entrance to the communication room.

Another crowd had formed. They carried blue Seeder banners and chanted pro-mission slogans, as if volume alone could hold the ship together.

They advanced from the other side, voices rising.

“We go forward. It is our destiny!”

The Data Integrity officers were stationed between the two groups.

The entire confrontation was transmitted to the Council chamber.

What followed would be remembered as the darkest day in the history of Helios: the Incident, the first time violence overtook reason aboard.

“This is a good place to stop,” said Instructor Mendez. “We still have some time for questions. Anyone?”

The silence in the classroom turned into a commotion. Multiple hands shot up. Kyla almost jumped out of her seat. Nia was already waving.

“Miss Brooks,” he said, pointing at Nia.

“Did we have enough fuel to return to Earth?”

“I’m not an expert in navigation and propulsion,” Instructor Mendez replied, “but I’ll answer as best as I can. A ship like Helios is designed to accelerate and burn almost all its fuel at the beginning of the mission. When we received the message, returning was impossible. Even if fuel had not been an issue, changing course and returning would have taken centuries.”

“The rotating instructor from the Navigation Arc will probably do a better job explaining this.” Instructor Mendez paused. “This month we have the First Officer visiting. This would be an excellent question to ask.”

“Mr. Darrow,” he added, pointing at Julian.

“What’s the name of the story? Can we continue reading it?” he asked.

“Of course. It’s called ‘2338: How We Got Here,’ by Henry Solariam. You can ask your Logminter. It’s part of the content library.”

A beep interrupted, signaling the lunch break.

“After the break, I’ll have a surprise for you,” he said louder as the students prepared to leave for lunch.

Kyla waited for Darius until he finished organizing his desk. She leaned closer, lowering her voice.

“I can’t believe Julian wasted a question on something so trivial… He is a showoff.”

“You love the guy,” Darius replied.

Kyla dismissed the comment. “I didn’t get to ask my question. I don’t understand why anyone would want to go back.”

“I don’t know,” Darius said. “Maybe they were scared.”

“Scared of what?” Kyla said. “We have everything we need on Helios.”

Darius did not answer.

They walked in silence for a moment.

“What do you think the surprise will be?” Kyla asked.

“Knowing Instructor Mendez, it’s probably a project or an assignment, something along those lines,” Darius said.

“Taro and Nia are probably waiting for us,” Kyla said. “Come on, let’s hurry.”

They quickened their pace to join them.

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Thanks for reading Kyla’s Diary, a novel from the Theogenic Universe. New chapters will be published weekly. Subscribe to continue the journey aboard Helios.

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