1.
The domes of New Calgary hummed like dying insects. Elias Voss knelt in the hydroponic fields, his gloves crusted with the chalky residue of synthetic fertilizers, and tried not to think of Lyra's hands. Small hands, always stained with soil from the rooftop garden she'd nursed into defiance. "Look, Dad - the tomatoes are blushing!" she'd say, as if the world beyond the dome's smogged plexiglass still cared about color.
Now, the tomatoes were gray. Just like the sky. Just like her lungs when he'd closed the med-pod lid for the last time.
A shadow fell across the wilted greens. Commander Mara Rykov stood over him, her posture sharp enough to cut the stale air. She wore an obsolete NASA jacket, its insignia frayed, and a scar split her brow like a fault line.
"You're Elias Voss." Not a question. "The man who proved wormholes could be art."
He yanked a dead vine from its tray. "The man who got the math wrong."
"Your equations weren't wrong." She tossed a holodisk into the dirt. It flickered to life, projecting a grainy feed: the Odyssey II, humanity's last deep-space probe, adrift near Saturn. Its hull shimmered with an unnatural iridescence. "They were ahead of schedule."
2.
Elias's farmhouse was a museum of abandoned science. Dusty telescopes pointed at a sky no one could see. Lyra's drawings - stick-figure planets, a smiling sun - still clung to the fridge. Mara didn't sit. Didn't blink.
"The Odyssey II sent a signal," she said. "One word: Eventide. Same as your old theories about quantum gardens."
He stiffened. "Coincidence."
"Then explain this." She slapped a photo on the table: the Odyssey II's crew, circa 2117. Mara stood among them, younger but already carved from stone. "I was there. We found something? a structure. Not alien. Human. But older than Earth."
Elias's laugh was bitter. "You expect me to believe - "
"I expect you to look." She triggered another holo. A girl slept in a stasis pod, her face lit by bioluminescent cables. Brown curls. A freckle just below her left eye.
Lyra's freckle.
The room tilted. Elias gripped the table. "What is this?"
"A clone. Grown from DNA found on the Odyssey II. She's your equations made flesh, Voss. A message from whatever's out there." Mara leaned in. "And she's dying. Just like the first Lyra."
3.
The launch site throbbed with the arrhythmic pulse of a world on life support. The Pale Horse loomed - a jagged spire of salvaged tech and desperation, its Hawking drives glowing faintly blue. Engineers scrambled, sealing hull cracks with polymer foam.
Elias stared at the clone through the pod's glass. Her chest rose and fell in time with the machines. Not her, he told himself. A trick. A mirror held up to grief.
Mara handed him a flight suit. "We're the last ones who still speak the language of stars. You want redemption? Here it is."
"Redemption's a fairy tale," he said, but he took the suit.
As the countdown echoed through the bunker, Elias slipped Lyra's tattered copy of The Secret Garden into the pod's storage compartment. The book fell open to her scribble: "Gardens need ghosts to grow."
4.
The wormhole was not a hole.
It was a storm. A howling gyre of light that peeled back the ship's plating like skin. Elias gripped the controls as the Pale Horse shuddered, its alloys screaming. Mara barked coordinates, her voice fraying.
"Time dilation spiking!" she shouted. "Twenty years per minute!"
Elias's hands bled into the instruments. Not enough. The ship was coming apart, pixels of the cockpit dissolving into static. Then -
- a beach.
An alien shore, sulfur-yellow waves lapping at black sand. An old man, bent and bearded, planted a sapling into the dunes. He turned.
Elias's face. Elias's eyes.
"You have to let her go," the specter rasped. "Or the Garden dies."
The vision shattered. Mara hauled Elias back from the abyss as the Pale Horse breached the wormhole's throat.
Saturn filled the viewport, its rings razor-sharp. Below them hung Eventide - a planet wrapped in auroras, its continents swirling with geometric forests.
"Welcome," Mara said, her voice raw, "to the beginning of the end."
5.
The clone's pod hissed as the Pale Horse's systems stabilized. Elias pressed a hand to the glass.
"Why her?" he whispered.
Mara checked her sidearm. "Because entropy hates a miracle. And whatever's down there?" She nodded at the glowing world. "It's been waiting for a gardener."
Outside, the stars blinked cold and infinite. Elias thought of Lyra's last breath, of the way her fingers had curled around his, as if she could anchor him to the Earth.
I'll bring you flowers, he'd promised.
Loud ones.
Next Chapter Teaser:
In Chapter 2: The Ghosts of Eventide, the crew discovers a forest where trees grow in perfect Fibonacci spirals - and encounter their own ghosts. Meanwhile, the clone begins to wake, whispering secrets only Lyra could know?
The domes of New Calgary hummed like dying insects. Elias Voss knelt in the hydroponic fields, his gloves crusted with the chalky residue of synthetic fertilizers, and tried not to think of Lyra's hands. Small hands, always stained with soil from the rooftop garden she'd nursed into defiance. "Look, Dad - the tomatoes are blushing!" she'd say, as if the world beyond the dome's smogged plexiglass still cared about color.
Now, the tomatoes were gray. Just like the sky. Just like her lungs when he'd closed the med-pod lid for the last time.
A shadow fell across the wilted greens. Commander Mara Rykov stood over him, her posture sharp enough to cut the stale air. She wore an obsolete NASA jacket, its insignia frayed, and a scar split her brow like a fault line.
"You're Elias Voss." Not a question. "The man who proved wormholes could be art."
He yanked a dead vine from its tray. "The man who got the math wrong."
"Your equations weren't wrong." She tossed a holodisk into the dirt. It flickered to life, projecting a grainy feed: the Odyssey II, humanity's last deep-space probe, adrift near Saturn. Its hull shimmered with an unnatural iridescence. "They were ahead of schedule."
2.
Elias's farmhouse was a museum of abandoned science. Dusty telescopes pointed at a sky no one could see. Lyra's drawings - stick-figure planets, a smiling sun - still clung to the fridge. Mara didn't sit. Didn't blink.
"The Odyssey II sent a signal," she said. "One word: Eventide. Same as your old theories about quantum gardens."
He stiffened. "Coincidence."
"Then explain this." She slapped a photo on the table: the Odyssey II's crew, circa 2117. Mara stood among them, younger but already carved from stone. "I was there. We found something? a structure. Not alien. Human. But older than Earth."
Elias's laugh was bitter. "You expect me to believe - "
"I expect you to look." She triggered another holo. A girl slept in a stasis pod, her face lit by bioluminescent cables. Brown curls. A freckle just below her left eye.
Lyra's freckle.
The room tilted. Elias gripped the table. "What is this?"
"A clone. Grown from DNA found on the Odyssey II. She's your equations made flesh, Voss. A message from whatever's out there." Mara leaned in. "And she's dying. Just like the first Lyra."
3.
The launch site throbbed with the arrhythmic pulse of a world on life support. The Pale Horse loomed - a jagged spire of salvaged tech and desperation, its Hawking drives glowing faintly blue. Engineers scrambled, sealing hull cracks with polymer foam.
Elias stared at the clone through the pod's glass. Her chest rose and fell in time with the machines. Not her, he told himself. A trick. A mirror held up to grief.
Mara handed him a flight suit. "We're the last ones who still speak the language of stars. You want redemption? Here it is."
"Redemption's a fairy tale," he said, but he took the suit.
As the countdown echoed through the bunker, Elias slipped Lyra's tattered copy of The Secret Garden into the pod's storage compartment. The book fell open to her scribble: "Gardens need ghosts to grow."
4.
The wormhole was not a hole.
It was a storm. A howling gyre of light that peeled back the ship's plating like skin. Elias gripped the controls as the Pale Horse shuddered, its alloys screaming. Mara barked coordinates, her voice fraying.
"Time dilation spiking!" she shouted. "Twenty years per minute!"
Elias's hands bled into the instruments. Not enough. The ship was coming apart, pixels of the cockpit dissolving into static. Then -
- a beach.
An alien shore, sulfur-yellow waves lapping at black sand. An old man, bent and bearded, planted a sapling into the dunes. He turned.
Elias's face. Elias's eyes.
"You have to let her go," the specter rasped. "Or the Garden dies."
The vision shattered. Mara hauled Elias back from the abyss as the Pale Horse breached the wormhole's throat.
Saturn filled the viewport, its rings razor-sharp. Below them hung Eventide - a planet wrapped in auroras, its continents swirling with geometric forests.
"Welcome," Mara said, her voice raw, "to the beginning of the end."
5.
The clone's pod hissed as the Pale Horse's systems stabilized. Elias pressed a hand to the glass.
"Why her?" he whispered.
Mara checked her sidearm. "Because entropy hates a miracle. And whatever's down there?" She nodded at the glowing world. "It's been waiting for a gardener."
Outside, the stars blinked cold and infinite. Elias thought of Lyra's last breath, of the way her fingers had curled around his, as if she could anchor him to the Earth.
I'll bring you flowers, he'd promised.
Loud ones.
Next Chapter Teaser:
In Chapter 2: The Ghosts of Eventide, the crew discovers a forest where trees grow in perfect Fibonacci spirals - and encounter their own ghosts. Meanwhile, the clone begins to wake, whispering secrets only Lyra could know?
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