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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.”

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Go to Chapter 5 »

Through Kyla’s diary and her interactions with Logminter, the ship’s archival intelligence, the story explores memory, isolation, destiny, and humanity’s place in a silent universe shaped by the philosophy of Theogenics.

Chapter 1: The Incident

Chapter 2: Possibilities

Chapter 3: The Plaza

Chapter 4: Staleness

Chapter 5: Ringvolley

Chapter 6: Wisdom

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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 faint percussion from the stage matched the pulse of the ship, the hum beneath their feet, the heartbeat of Helios itself.

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. Wisps of vapor rose beneath it, lit from below by amber lamps. The sound of a faint wind swept through hidden speakers.

“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. Their faces tilted toward the light, caught between wonder and belief.

The brass rocket disappeared into the dark above the gauze. The red-cloaked Inventor lowered his head. The light shifted from gold to orange, like the end of a fire.

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, washing the workshop in cool tones. The second Inventor, dressed in silver, stepped forward. She worked methodically, adjusting the tools and testing every joint before she moved. The rhythm slowed.

“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. The hum of the ship matched the final tone of the play’s music, a sound both mechanical and alive.

“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 the sound cracked. The rocket froze halfway to the ceiling, trembling in midair.

“The third seed was too heavy 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, why did Ra never depart?”

> 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.”

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 4 »

« Go to Chapter 1

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.

Go to Chapter 3 »

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 per package. If you were a lucky recipient, your name was added to another lottery held on Helios. For us, transmission 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 operation 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’m an earthling. People expected someone like me to support returning to Earth. We did not. Unexpectedly, it was only those born on Helios who wanted to turn back.

It started as small protests. Then strikes. Until 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. As originally designed, 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.

The Director oversaw the Data Integrity Unit, the only other armed group aboard Helios. She dispatched them as intermediaries, hoping to de-escalate the situation.

Both would regret their decisions.

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.

From the other side, a counterprotest advanced, voices rising in support of the mission. “We go forward. It is our destiny!”

The Data Integrity officers were stationed between the two groups.

The whole thing was transmitted to the Council chamber.

This was 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. We have everything we need on Helios.”

“I don’t know, maybe they were scared,” Darius said.

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.

“Let’s hurry up. Taro and Nia are probably waiting for us.” They quickened their pace to join them.

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 2 »