[Mission Log – Cmdr Elias Reeve]
I’ve been in the jump corridor for a week. It was nothing like anyone suggested. No obvious exits. No windows into stars. Only the sensation of forward drift — constant pressure on the body, as if I’ve been falling for days without ever striking ground.
I was told to expect “transitional markers.” Bright flares. The occasional glimpse of curvature between normal space and folded. Nothing. Just static readings and a hum in the deckplates that crawls into my bones.
I can only hope — pray, really — that the expected time for exit will be accurate.
What I know about FTL… about these experimental JumpGates they’ve used to fire a handful of us across the galaxy… isn’t much. I’m a pilot, not a theorist. They pulled me out of the Academy, dropped me in a simulator, and then promised I’d make history. Truth is, I might only end up as a footnote.
They warned us about possible outcomes. Collapse. Disintegration. A “gentle fade.” One of the bullet points just said, plainly: death.
They wrapped it in probability language to soften the blow. “Statistically manageable risk.” “Optimized survival curve.” But it always led to the same end note. Yeah, sure. Whatever that means.
Chance of return? 0.0305%.
Song of Stones - Chapter 1
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“Listen, children. Listen, travellers. Listen, all who sit by the fire. For what I tell you is not mine alone — it is the story of stones, of beasts, of bonds, and of us, The People. If my tongue falters, the stones will remind me. If I speak too proud, the beast at my side will nudge me — ‘Get it right now!’ So let us begin…
In the first dawn, our great ancestor awoke, shaped by earth and sky. He wandered long, hunting, gathering, never starving, for the world provided. One day, a man was there — or perhaps he was not. He was seen, yet unseen, guiding without command. He pointed to stones, day after day, and said only: “Pick one, choose one, take one.”
At last the ancestor lifted a stone that called to him. The man smiled: “This gift is all things you shall receive. Pass it to the child who comes after you, or it shall be lost. This is your home’s stone. Wherever you keep it, I shall be with you.”
When the ancestor turned back, the man was gone. And so began the first hearthstone.
Thresholds: Earth's Edge 2232 (Chapter 2)
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Chapter Two – Echoes Before the Storm
The educational module glowed soft orange in Leo’s side room, dim enough not to strain his eyes, bright enough to keep him from dozing off. He was hunched over a holo-notepad, scribbling equations that danced in three-dimensional overlays—orbital physics today, load balancing for modular tethers.
He yawned and scratched behind his ear absently. A red warning banner pulsed in the corner:
"Assignment overdue: Applied Trajectory Optimization – Tier 3."
Leo muttered, “I’m optimizing... just slowly.”
From across the home, the central newscast rotated in idle loop—low volume but clear:
“...temperatures across Continent Sprawl Nine have destabilized water vapor cycles. Acidic rain fronts will likely delay dome transfers for the next twelve hours. Ecological reports continue to suggest coral-analog systems in Sector D are collapsing...”
The sound shifted—more voices, louder now. Marcus and Elara emerged from their quarters, dressed for a new day, still stretching the night from their limbs.
Elara rubbed her temples. “Didn’t they say those reefs had five more years?”
“They said the same about our northern barrier.” Marcus tapped the panel, switching to a different feed.
“Protesters gathered outside Lift Command Node 3A early this morning, demanding equitable storage allotments. Organizers have stated that reductions are based on weight restrictions—critics argue the real issue is corruption. Several organizers have confirmed ties to legacy wealth structures, prompting accusations of elitism and resource hoarding...”
Marcus sighed and set a cup into the auto-boiler. “It’s the same dozen families pulling the same strings. What’s new?”
Thresholds: Earth's Edge 2232 (Chapter 1)
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Chapter One – T-minus 14
The wind outside their modular home wasn’t wind—not really. It was the subtle groan of Earth’s poisoned atmosphere dragging against the reinforced polymer walls of Unit Two, tugging like invisible fingers on a failing world. The airlock hissed once, then sealed.
Marcus Durnan stepped through the threshold first, exhaling as the filtered interior recycled his exosuit’s stifled breath. His daughter followed, tugging the strap of a bulky rations crate and muttering, “They were out of protein base again.”
“I know, hon. We’ll rotate in synth-starch this week.” He peeled off his suit hood, revealing sweat-damp thinning hair and tired brown eyes. “Still managed to scrounge enough to stretch through departure.”
Isla dropped the crate onto the magnetic pad with a grunt. “Barely. And that barter rep was a GRA flagger. I saw the badge.”
Marcus grimaced. “Of course it was.”
Down the hall, a familiar hum of low-volume educational content echoed from Unit Four—Leo’s school module. Marcus peeked around the corner and saw his ten-year-old son frowning at a holo-display, stylus twitching in midair as he worked out orbital physics problems. That was promising.
Across the living corridor, Elara Vost sat cross-legged in Unit One’s fabrication nook, a half-built drone component laid out on a dissection mat. Her dark curls were tied back in a loose band, her focus razor-sharp. She was etching precision marks into a stabilizer arm with a laser tool, her movements fluid—quiet and practiced. There was something almost sacred in how she moved when she worked.
Isla leaned in the doorway behind her, watching. “Back to your mystery builds?”
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