Kyla's Diary - Chapter 3: The Plaza
“They built these ships not to escape, but to remember who they were and to give the universe a chance to remember them too.”
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.