We leave the hotel in mid-afternoon, and walk for several blocks in a summer rain

interrupted by sunbreaks, the steam rising from the street like the ghosts of literary figures who inhabited this Paris neighborhood. Claire, feigning she’s a Parisian, has brought an umbrella, but I don’t mind the rain. Rain in Paris is ubiquitous and comforting, like kisses on both cheeks.

Claire’s in the mood to talk, as she often is after our trysts, still insecure about our relationship, and hoping to hold it together with the glue of words. Everything around us has a soft edge, as if we are in an old black and white cinéma vérité style dream. We’ve had this same encounter many times; I know what she is about to say. For some reason she never seems to grasp the déjà vu of the moment. Why am I so aware? Surely I’m not alone in my knowledge of this simulated world. Our brains need exercise or we shut down. But that’s not news to you because you’re in your own simulation, maybe just a few feet away from me. I’m surprised most inmates here don’t know that. I’m sure my jailers know that I know, and my awareness makes me a flight risk. But where am I going to go? I’m in lockdown on the moon.

I relax and enjoy today’s redundant simulation. We soon arrive at Les Deux Magots, because it is closer than Café de Flore. It’s always closer. We sit in the same chairs beneath the same green and white table umbrella. The gloomy sky is surrendering to summer in La Ville-Lumiere, the city of lights. I’m eager to discuss my new novel with Claire, which is mostly finished in my head. I never seem to finish it. I’m always excited to tell someone, anyone, about it. I think I need an unbiased reader and an editor, in that order. I know I can’t ask Claire because she’s incapable of offering an unbiased opinion, because we’re lovers. L’amour and business don’t mix like water and absinthe. I can be a good listener when I need to be, like now, because Claire is in a mood to talk. She is never in a mood to listen. I assume she is a real woman in this facility. Our jailers like the inmates to have a social life; it’s easier than using made up human beings from a cloud database. I once asked Claire if she knew we’re prisoners in lockdown on the moon, and she thought I was joking. I haven’t brought it up again. It isn’t like I have a plan to escape this place. Neither of us has a way to break out of our tubes. We might not be able to walk, even if we found a way. I hate to think what I look like now because I’ve been here for years. There’s no way to measure time. They imprisoned me when I was thirty-five. Maybe you wonder why. Okay, I killed somebody. Not just anybody; I killed my literary agent. That sleaze-ball had robbed me blind for years; he stole millions from me. I could have retired in Tahiti if not for that bum. He really deserved to die; I have no regrets. I shot him in the forehead with a hollow point bullet. It made a mess on the wall behind his chair and his big oak desk. So I’m a murderer. I could be a sixty-five-year-old man for all I know. The way I know all this is because of a power outage that happened at least a year ago. For maybe five seconds I was able to see out of my tube. It wasn’t entirely dark because a row of blue lights runs along the top of the wall. There were big white block letters on the wall that read: LUNAR LOCKDOWN SECTION 41. I was lying on my back; I could only turn my head a small distance. I saw hundreds of tubes in rows by my tube, in a vast, windowless vault.

Our waiter, Grégoire, is flirtatious with Claire as he always is. It’s because she’s beautiful. There’s a tradition amongst French waiters to be charming and arrogant. He remembers us from the previous day, so I’ll bet he’s a simulation, not an inmate. Claire orders Le Petit Dejeuner JP Sartre and I order the Hemingway version, because I’m in the mood for an omelet. I’m always in the mood for an omelet. Nothing ever changes in this dream. Our orders come with fresh squeezed juice, yogurt, or fruit salads. Claire and I speak in soft tones about our grandiose literary dreams as people stream by on the sidewalk. Claire says she missed her calling to be a director. She thinks she can write a screenplay and tells me the plot. It’s not an original idea; it’s always the same hackneyed idea about an actress who gets revenge on a casting director who bedded her and didn’t come through with a part. But I don’t tell her that. I smile and pretend she’s blown me away with her originality. Our brunch conversation is a continuation of our pillow talk. She paints bucolic word pictures of her summers in Menton, on the Côte d’Azur, conflated together with sumptuous efflorescence. Probably she is from a small town in the Midwest and has never been to France. I have only been to Paris once if my memory hasn’t been tampered with. I suppose it was alright. I remember being in the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont and feeding pigeons on the Champs-Élysées. I think that’s where they caught me because I remember hearing a whirring noise and being caught in a beam and lifted into the craft. There was a mock trial in a windowless room. The interrogator was an A.I. with a voice like a French whore. I was declared guilty in fifteen minutes. Apparently they found my DNA on the murder weapon. Sure, I killed my agent; he deserved to die. I suppose you wonder why I was in Paris, well that’s an easy one; I didn’t want to be in New York City and I know enough French to get around Paris. Now I’m in these ridiculous loops. Claire was pulled from my memory of a woman I dated years ago. She can’t even order from the menu, but she is all about the French haute couture fashion. We’re two Francophiles living a fantasy; kindred spirits who made mistakes in the real world. The cacophony of the conversations around us is a white noise while the argent sun glints through the moribund gray skies overshadowing the Left Bank of Paris. Claire’s hand is soft, her nails immaculate and blood red. If I want them to be lavender all I have to do is think it and it’s done.

Our fingers slide together easily across the white linen tablecloth. She presses the tips of her nails against the back of my hand as if to say she wants me to kiss her, so I comply because that’s what we always do. I am lost in her misty gray blue eyes, accepting that I will never meet her in real life. I do wonder what she did to get shipped here. Did she kill someone, or was she a drug addict who tried to rob a bank? I ask her but she says she has no idea what I mean. Maybe the plot of her screenplay is what happened. The hour passes quickly; we scarcely touch the brioche rolls we’d intended to spread with a pastiche of jam and butter. It’s our breakfast, though it’s after four in the afternoon. We’re night people, just waking up for our nocturnal fantasy.

Then we are in her red sportscar driving outside Paris because she says she’s in the mood for a wine tasting. I’m surprised because this is the first time we’ve done this. I didn’t know Claire owned a sportscar. We were at the table and then we were in the car, and she’s driving. I had begun to think we’d never do anything new. There’s something odd about Claire’s face; it shifts as if she’s a hologram, and I know our date is about to end. Then everything fades to black.

I wake drenched in sweat. I’m no longer in Paris with Claire. I’m in my Lockdown Tube, the room swimming around me, my eyes stinging with a light held by someone. What are they doing to me now? Have they figured out I know what’s going on? I blink my eyes and see a technician in a blue body suit checking the connections on my body. He is speaking to a man sitting on a small aircar. The man on the aircar says I’m awake. He tells the man standing to my left who is adjusting the levels on the tube’s panel to unholster his stun gun just in case I move.

Where is Claire? Maybe she’s in my row. How many of us are there? Why do they keep us alive? The man beside the tube is checking a screen on a device and he’s not watching me. I could knock him out if I got hold of the stun club on his belt. Yes, if I can just lift my hand. But my hand won’t cooperate, and the man finishes and shuts the tube. It slides shut with a hissing sound. He gets on his aircar and moves to the next tube. It’s quiet again; the drug has taken over. Just for an hour I’d like to feel the ground beneath my feet. I’d sprint down the long passageway, find a spacesuit, and stow aboard a shuttle headed for Earth. I’d crawl if I can’t run. The monitors tipped them off that I was too conscious. Why don’t they just kill us all? What’s the point of keeping us alive all these years? Show a little mercy! I’ll kill all you bastards. I’ll laugh all the way back to Houston and steal an aircar to my uncle’s house and hide out until I’m my old self.

Maybe I’ve only been here a couple of years. Maybe I’m only forty-two. I want to look at the top of my hand to see if there are age spots. I might be sixty-five years old, but I don’t feel that old. I’ll bust out of this tube and find Claire and escape. But the drug is pulling me down into the darkness, into the simulated world.

Then I’m in Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, dressed in a black tuxedo. It’s a beautiful summer day; people are walking their dogs. I follow a path that loops back toward the Rosa Bonheur Café and hear someone’s shrill whistle. I look up and it’s Claire, lying seductively on the thick limb of a spruce, dressed in a light blue sequin dress. I ask her in French how she got up in the tree in that dress, and she laughs and replies in French that it’s none of my business. I laugh and marvel that’s she’s become so fluent. She whistles again and calls in French to a handsome, dark-haired young man reclining on a blanket with his friends, like a painting by Seurat, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. He’s with a swarthy young man and a sultry woman; they’re drinking wine. I assume they’re Romanian Gypsies. What is she asking him? Ah, oui, she wants him to bring her a cigarette. I frame her with my cellphone’s camera, and she smiles and brushes her hair back with her fingertips. I glance to see if her boyfriend is coming to beat me up, but he’s ignoring her. I ask her if she’d like to get a drink and she says okay. She gets down much too easily for Claire because she was never that athletic. She comes walking up to me, her dress sparkling in the afternoon sun, her hips swaying. She is barefoot, carrying her high heels. I like this new version of Claire, a young woman with confidence and raw sexuality. I offer her a cigarette and smoothly take a lighter from my pocket and light it for her. She blows the smoke up and winks. She wants to know if I’m an American. Sure, I’ll play this game. Oui, I say, je suis américain. She offers a sultry smile, takes a long drag on the cigarette, and flicks it onto the grass. She blows smoke in my eyes and drapes her arms around my neck. My hands find the small of her back and pull her closer. Her smoky lips slide easily on mine but there’s too much smoke and I can’t breathe. I am coughing, and the vision of being in the park fades to black and I am in the tube and it’s full of smoke. Something has gone wrong. I can move my arms and I thrash against the glass of the domed lid. I kick against the lid and it opens with a hiss. I roll over the side of the tube and land on all fours. An alarm is going off; red lights flash near the ceiling. The adrenalin clears the haze from my head. Are they coming for me? I stand, and stagger down the row of tubes. Where is Claire? We’ve got to escape! From somewhere at the far end I hear an aircar coming. They’ll kill me if they find me. I press myself up against a steel beam and wait for the aircar. It pulls to a stop by my tube and I throw myself at the driver. He hits his head on the concrete floor and the aircar bobs up and down. I feel weak and dizzy but I take his stun club and get aboard the aircar. Then I realize I’m wearing a prisoner’s overalls, so I get off the aircar, strip the guard of his uniform, and put mine on him. He’s about my size; he doesn’t wake; maybe I’ve killed him. I put him in the tube and shut the lid. Then I’m driving the aircar down the long, dimly lit hall, past thousands of tubes, the cool wind clearing my head. I don’t know where I’m going; there’s no time to search for Claire. Two guards stand at an exit station, but they don’t try to stop me and I’m in a long, brightly lit tunnel. I’m home free!

But something is wrong. The hall is getting darker. Then the aircar is gone and I am in the tube again. A guard and a technician are talking about a malfunction. They are switching out a part and I can’t move. I can barely open my eyes. They finish and the lid closes with a hiss. I didn’t escape; it was all in my head. I close my eyes and I feel the drug lulling me to sleep. I’m back in Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. I am running, shouting for Claire. Then I hear her whistling. Yes, there she is, coming towards me across the grass in her sequin dress, her full breasts jiggling as she jogs. We embrace and I tell her I almost escaped. She laughs and says I have a wild imagination. We hold hands as we walk to the Rosa Bonheur Café. Everyone there seems familiar to me. The ceiling in the main room has a square inset area with fifteen unusual hanging lights in globes of bright green, blue, red, and orange. The back wall has appliques of newspaper and magazine clippings, and a large plastic head of a white unicorn. The adjacent wall has a painting of sky and ocean. An island in the composition appears and disappears. It seems to want to change back and forth as it too is infected with the Impressionistic mood that has again overtaken my day. I am glad to be with Claire. I can’t lose her. We sit at a round table and Grégoire shows up with two glasses of merlot. I laugh and ask him how he got this job and he shrugs and says je ne sais pas and leaves us. I lean across the table and tell Claire, je t’aime, and she kisses me. I glance around the room and say this is different than our usual routine and she laughs and says she doesn’t know what I mean. I tell her it doesn’t matter. Je ne comprends pas. I don’t understand any of it; it only matters that we have each other. Claire is in the mood to talk about her idea for a novel or a screenplay. It’s a new idea and it’s not half bad. The A.I. is getting smarter. They’re always one step ahead of my imagination. But to hell with our lockdown on the moon. So I smile and listen to Claire and drink the mellow merlot. Afterwards we’ll go to the hotel and make love like we always do. Maybe it will even be a new hotel. There’s no need to worry about the details. We’re glad to be lovers in Paris. There’s always tomorrow, and we’ll always have Paris.

END.

Originally published in the August 2026 issue of Utopia Science Fiction Magazine.

Denis Mortenson graduated from the University of California at Santa Barbara, and worked as a Creative Director at advertising agencies, and as an illustrator. His fiction has been published online and in anthologies. Umberto’s Music, an excerpt from his magic realism novel, The Invisible Island, won the Kay Snow Fiction Award. The adaptation of his surreal romance novel, 21 Days in Paris, was the finalist-nominee in the Paris Film Festival.

Sesha steals a cut daisy from a vase sitting beside the fireplace. Devon glares at her over the rim of his reading glasses, then checks to see if the desk clerk has noticed her theft. He hasn’t. She winks and smiles.

Behind her, snow gathers at the windows’ corners, softening the room’s light. The smells of breakfast eggs and French roast coffee waft from the hotel’s café. Outside, a shovel scrapes ice from the sidewalk. Devon crosses the lobby to kiss her goodbye, a peck on the cheek.

“The taxi’s waiting,” he says. “I have to go.”

She touches his sleeve to hold him an instant longer before handing him the flower.

This is a memory trapped between mirrors, an image infinitely reflected back onto itself. It’s a specific moment in time, a winter morning in Denver, and it’s the last time Devon sees Sesha.

Falling snow, a smile, a kiss, a summer flower out of time — these are all he has left of her. He was able to collect and save them only because, on that morning, he wasn’t bound by the first law governing infinity travel: The distance between two people is infinite.

The thing nearly everyone takes for granted is that the effects of infinity are insignificant in the primary event we call reality; the fabric of the universe holds tight in the here and now. But as one travels through infinity, through the endless iterations of a moment, the warp and weave of spacetime begin to fray.

When traveling through infinity, Zeno’s paradox is an important but sad concept to comprehend. Devon stands across the lobby from Sesha. He walks towards her, but before he can reach her, he must first travel half the distance between them. From there, he must travel half the remaining distance. Half that again and again and again. Proceeding in this manner, Devon will always have half a distance to travel and he can never reach Sesha. He remains frozen at the edge of her smile, just beyond her touch. But on that morning, living the primary event, he moved close enough to take the flower from her hand.

Devon left the flower on the seat of the taxi when he arrived at the university. The mathematics department was across the quad and the grounds hadn’t yet been cleared of snow. Clouds of breath huffed into the chill morning air as he trudged through the fresh powder. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears, strong and steady like a metronome measuring the time and distance increasing between him and Sesha.

She was to meet her old college roommate that morning, coffee and breakfast in the art district where her friend now worked. She would spend the rest of the morning shopping until she and Devon could meet for lunch after his meeting with colleagues. Later that afternoon, they would fly home together. Of course, she would never make their lunch or the flight. And she would miss the rest of the years they had planned together.

He would remain locked in the tragedy: Sesha smiles and hands him the daisy. Their paths diverge. He moves across a snowy quad away from her. She moves to a corner where a stranger, an unexpected snag in the fabric of spacetime, confronts her for money. They both panic, and the warp and weave begin to pull apart. A knife. A struggle. Sesha dies on the way to the hospital. The snow falls. I’m going to be late, he says. A daisy plucked from a vase, and Devon is left holding a rushed and careless goodbye.

That moment altered the vector of his life and drove him to find a way back to her. Spurred on (and sometimes shunned) by colleagues in his own university’s mathematics department, Devon worked through the equations that would help him understand the nature of infinity and its applications within string theory. After a second Ph.D. in quantum mechanics, he focused his work on the second law governing infinity travel: With infinite attempts, anything is possible.

The infinite monkey theorem describes countless monkeys pecking away on countless keyboards in a limitless stream of time; eventually, one primate will perfectly copy Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet. Tap-tap-tap — yesterday is but today’s memory, and tomorrow is today’s dream.

The mechanism he uses for infinity travel is a sensory deprivation tank with spore-infused air. He had found a forgotten paper on the psychoactive properties of an ancient spore unearthed at the Mesopotamian ruin Eridu. He understood that the mind, the seat of intent, would provide the gateway into infinity travel. A mind bathed in these particular spores is able to utilize quantum vibrations to access hyper-dimensionality and revisit, again and again, a single moment in time.

Think of it like this, fingers lightly grasp a single pearl on a necklace. As the necklace pulls through the hand, the fingers bump along one pearl at a time, bead after bead, through an infinite string of pearls. That’s the normal movement through time. If instead those fingers grip and release the same pearl over and over through an infinite number of grips, that’s infinity travel. Here’s the problem and the reason time travel alone can’t work: each individual moment has an infinite range of possibilities. Revisiting a particular moment will not guarantee an identical experience. In fact, it’s more likely that one won’t have the same experience twice, but the second law, explained by the infinite monkey theorem, tells Devon that with infinite attempts he can reproduce a lost text and find his wife standing in the hotel lobby just as before.

The first time Devon entered the chamber and traveled through infinity, returning to that moment in the hotel’s lobby, he searched for Sesha. Passing through infinite iterations, he failed to find her. But when he returned to his own instance of reality, he found a single daisy floating in the tank beside him. Had he come close to her? Encouraged, he refined the process.

Now Devon enters the tank, inhales the spores, and gazes into the dark unknown. Just like that, he’s back inside the hotel lobby in Denver. Snow falls behind the window. Flames crackle in the fireplace. And something else — the shadow of every instance looming behind a veil of infinite dimensionality, but none contain Sesha.

Think of Hilbert’s paradox: there are infinite rooms in this hotel and an infinite number of guests to occupy them. Hilbert asks the question, what would happen in such a hotel if one more guest showed up? Could he find a room for the night, find shelter from the storm? Hilbert solves the problem by asking each guest in the infinite hotel to move up a room, n + 1. The guest in the first room moves to the second; the guest in the second room moves to the third, and so on into infinity. In this way, the new guest can move into the first room, now open and waiting.

On a beam of light, Devon passes through the infinite lobbies of that Denver hotel, each filled with moments that do not contain Sesha. That’s when he discovers the third law governing infinity travel: There’s always room for one more.

Devon shifts each moment: n+1. This moment moves to the next, and the moment after that moves one ahead, and so on and so forth. In this fashion, he makes room for the here and now. The first moment opens, and Sesha steps inside.

She stands near the fireplace, daisy in hand, smiling in the morning light that angles through windows laced with snow, and the light softens her smile, and the snow drifts past the glass like falling ash, and the fire sputters while infinite rooms expand like an accordion within the infinite distance between them. Devon closes half the distance and half again. Sesha smiles and offers the daisy. He reaches out to take it. Love only requires that he refuse to let go, that he refuse to check out of the infinite hotel. “I want to stay here with you,” he says.

Sesha smiles, and Devon falls into her arms. Outside the snow drifts onto the earth and a shovel scrapes ice from the sidewalk. Devon falls into her arms. The room smells of morning eggs and brewed coffee. Devon falls into her arms. If a flower can be brought back, perhaps something can be left behind. The snow falls around them, and Devon falls into her arms, and this time, he chooses to stay.

END

Originally published in the June 2026 issue of Utopia Science Fiction Magazine.

Sam W. Pisciotta is a writer and visual artist. Find his short fiction in Cosmic Horror Monthly, Lightspeed, Asimov’s, Nightmare, PodCastle, and other publications. He is a graduate of the Odyssey writing program (2023) and a member of Clarion’s 2026 Novel Writing Workshop. He has an M.A. in Literary Studies from the University of Colorado. Powered on morning coffee and late-night tea, Sam splits his time between Colorado and New York. Connect at www.silo34.comand @silo34 on Instagram, and @swpisciotta on Bluesky Social.

I was finishing my closing shift at the bar when the Blue Horse galloped in and broke New Arizona for me forever.

The night had only just become Saturday a few hours earlier, and the thin sky of the planet left barely enough hazy, dusty light to see by. Passers through were rare and the ground was brittle, so I was not the only person who felt the vibration in the ground as it approached. Being a nosy people, several of us stepped out onto the main street to see if we could tell what size of a creature could be making all that noise.

What we saw was a thing made of thunder and muscle. Dark and all iridescent like gasoline, or a bubble made of night. It ran on four legs and was so fast I would not have gotten a good look at it had it not been cut off by the center of town. Finding its momentum arrested by Monument Cul-de-sac, the creature searched wildly for a way that moved both out and forward. This is when some ladies started screaming, calling back into their houses for their husbands to come deal with whatever it was that was happening. I admit I was also taken aback, and my shoulders were pressed to the outer wall of the bar.

I hadn’t seen a horse since I was a little girl. A wave of wealthy immigrants had brought a whole ship’s worth of ’em. They intended to start a ranch in the area, attracted by the settlement’s conservative philosophy, but the planet’s atmosphere had been too thin for the animals’ big wild lungs, and each had died horribly. After that, the biggest animal around here was us humans. But I had seen a horse, and not one of them had been blue.

Somehow, here, not twenty feet in front of me, there it was.

Tenser Adams came running out in his night shirt with his too-big gun I’d always laughed at, but now I found myself scared of him holding it. His wife was hollering “Just shoot the damn thing,” which was just like her to kill something first and then probably not ask questions later. He aimed at it.

“No!” I yelled across the street at them, without thinking. Tenser swung to look at me, gun and aim swinging with it. I kept hollering, “What the hell are you doing?” That’d cost me later, for cussing.

Then, too quick for anyone to say another word, the horse, huge and frustrated, bucked and kicked its earthquake legs right into the water pump before darting back the way it came, leaving behind a pressurized spring, gushing into the indigo night.

#

The sun rose and the sky was turquoise and teal. It had been a few days since we’d patched up the water pump. The horse hadn’t come back into town, but a couple shepherds had said they were still seeing it run around in the valley on the edge of the mesa rocks, like it was looking for something.

The horse was all anybody could talk about, obviously. I wasn’t surprised about that. But I was surprised that the colour of the thing wasn’t a bigger topic of conversation. No, they mostly cared about something else.

“That thing didn’t have a bridle.” Tenser was saying to a group of men in the bar. His friends were pretty stupid though, so he had to connect a few more dots for ’em. “No brand, no signs of a saddle, nothing.”

I was doing busy work, waiting around for someone to order the next round. I chimed in, “Who cares. The thing was blue!”

“She’s got a point Tense. How do we know it was even real? How would it even get here?”

Then another in his little posse said, “I think it’s a ghost. Or a demon or something.”

But of course, this made Tenser look stupid, so he looked at me all ugly eyed and said “Ain’t women in New Arizona s’posed to be known for being well behaved?” Which reminded all his friends I wasn’t ‘s’posed’ to be having any ideas at all, and they all looked at me waiting for some sort of comeback that’d get me in trouble. Wasn’t worth it. I shrugged and looked away, and they did too.

In truth I was wondering the same thing Tenser was, though I’d never admit it to him. Only horses I’d ever seen were kept in a particular way. Whoever owned it must be pretty careless, or else too unskilled for something that size.

I roamed back into my imagination, and I imagined myself in a fine cowboy hat. In my mind I saw me and the horse, running through and across the wide-open land like in the movies they’d show at the theater. I’d be Laurence of Arabia or John Wayne, except I’d be beautiful. How beautiful I’d look on a horse like that. Every man in the world would fall right in love with me, but I’d be the wanderer, and I’d never stay ’cause adventure would always be calling me. I’d sleep out in the desert at night all by myself and walk into strange saloons and get into ray gun fights and never even be afraid if I had a horse like that.

“Hey girly!” One of Tenser’s friends broke into my vision, spitting while he talked, slobbering all over my daydream. “Get us another round.”

I made a decision then. I’d never handled a horse before, much less broken one, but that wasn’t going to stop me.

#

That night after locking up, I took some rope, some unprocessed sugar beets which I hoped the horse would like, and my one pair of pants. I didn’t know what I was doing, but that wasn’t going to stop me.

Out at the mesa I wandered through alleyways of rock. Mostly all I could hear was the wind whistling and my own legs. But after a while I got thinking about when that horse came into town, and I remembered how I could feel it before I could see it. So, I went out to the edge of the plateaus and found somewhere with a lot of open ground. I planted my feet wide, and I closed my eyes to try to just feel the planet turning. It was a small little thing out in space, and sometimes you really could feel it, like how you can feel when the generator is running in the basement, or the really big fridge in the bar.

Then I felt it, like a new rhythm over the drone, and when I opened my eyes there was the horse, calm and shockingly near. I couldn’t believe it was working, and my hand trembled coming out of my pocket with the sugar beets, my other hand at the side involuntarily shaking the rope.

Without me coaxing it at all, it knew. Like it wanted me as bad as I wanted it. With every step it took forward I felt my future getting closer, like it was riding on its back. My new life was in front of me, delicate and perfect as glass.

That glass shattered with a flash of orange light and the sound of an old gun. The Blue Horse tensed and ran so fast there was nothing I could have done. “Wait!” I yelled, but it didn’t make a difference.

I looked over my shoulder, and saw Tenser Adams sauntering away, gun over his shoulder like a happy bindle. Nothing in the world I could do about it. I just resolved I’d have to try again, as many times as it took.

#

Except that when the stranger came to town the next day, we knew who the horse belonged to without needing to ask.

By the time he walked into the bar, he had a small group of about ten people who somehow thought they were being subtle, all following behind him a few paces back. I was alone restocking liquor bottles, and crouched behind the bar I could see the window better than the door. I noticed the crowd first; all those people I knew loitering just outside. But then the door whined open, and I just about dropped the bottle and fell over when I saw him.

His getup was all tightly crocheted with thin strips of denim, so it was almost like yarn, head to toe. Every inch seemed embroidered and bedazzled in reflective images of cacti and desert flowers in pinks and oranges and greens and aquamarines. Even his face was covered in a balaclava of the stuff done up in beads all catching the light. And of course, it was all topped off with a dark blue, wide brimmed hat.

From behind the bar, I would have said this was the tallest man I’d ever seen, so I was even more surprised to find that when I stood, shaky and stammering, he was barely taller than me.

“C-can I help you sir?” I was shaking. I didn’t know why, he was just funny looking.

His voice was calm as a breeze on a hot day, but more normal sounding than I’d expected. “I’m looking for my friend, Neptune. Have you seen a horse come through here?”

I was about to say yes in fact I have, but something else in me, selfish ambition, pounced on the honest impulse. I shook my head.

“No sir I ain’t. S-sorry ‘bout that.” I was holding the liquor bottle to my chest like a shield.

He gave a slight nod pensively, then looked over his shoulder to the window to see town-folk leap into fake busy work. Then back at me.

“Well, I’ll be around looking for a few days so I would appreciate you letting me know if you do.”

I shivered even more at that. “Will you be needing a room then, sir?”

“No. But thank you.” He sounded pleasantly surprised that I asked. He turned to leave but then, “By the way, I’m new in town. What is sir, if you could explain.”

“What now?”

“What, or who, is sir?”

“I uh… Well, it’s just a way of being polite.”

“Ah, good to know. Thank you, sir.” Then he left.

Jealousy consumed me like it never had before. I knew it was his horse, I knew that, but in my heart, it felt like mine. I wanted this horse like the universe itself had created it for me. I wanted this horse the way your body wants to be scratched when it itches, or vomit when its sick, or breathe when it can’t breathe but wants to keep living. I was more myself when I was with this horse, and it wanted to be mine. The feeling only got worse as the day went on. It got worse further when Tenser came in after dinner.

“Only woman in town who couldn’t catch a man thought she could catch a horse!” His face was red laughing. “The horse must be a stallion, ’cause it want her neither.”

“Like you fared much better!” I had venom in my voice, but for once he didn’t care. Turns out my desires turned up nothing.

“I was out there stopping you from thieving! Can’t take a man’s property like that. I would never. Some of us know how to be decent.” Then he turned back to his friends. “She was tryna break a horse with some sugar beets and a rope!” and they all laughed, drunk and slobbering all the while. “Everyone knows you break a horse with a whip.”

I didn’t have a whip. But I had a baseball bat.

#

Out on the night, I waited for the horse, the bat slung over my back with an old guitar strap. I didn’t even think I’d get the creature anymore, but I wasn’t gonna lie down and let my old future come back and get me. I had to try anything I could. The whole time I was looking over my shoulder, watching for the stranger, that alien-looking desperado who might come and stop me from claiming what he felt was his. But the thought came to me that if he tried to stop me, I could use the bat to break more than just the horse. I had never known such hot feeling. I was radiating heat all over like a tender red infection, and the fever wouldn’t break. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be a humiliated spinster anymore, something to laugh at and be the subject of cautionary tales. I would be the cowboy. I would be free. I would do anything I had to.

The horse was almost exactly where I’d seen it the night before, but it wasn’t waiting for me. It was trotting, looking for him. Of course it was. Even my dreams had given up on me. But I wasn’t giving up on me.

“Hey!” I called to it. It stopped, then looked at me with black opal eyes. But seeing I wasn’t who it was looking for, it began walking again. Watching it walk away stung me all over. I couldn’t take it any longer and I charged. I caught up before it saw me, and I vaulted myself onto its back with an adrenaline strength I didn’t know I had. Not that it mattered, because the next moment the horse bucked me off like I weighed nothing. I landed right in front of it on my side, and it ran over top of me, so I thought I’d die. But I didn’t. My blood pumped so fast I couldn’t even feel the pain of landing on the ground, and I grabbed my bat into my hands. My thoughts weren’t on breaking the horse anymore but punishing it. If it didn’t want me, I didn’t want it to exist.

I scrambled to my feet, lifted the bat and started running after it, screaming with all the pain, years and years’ worth bottled up in me. But the horse stopped running, and with an intelligence I didn’t think it had, it knocked into me so the bat fell out of my hands and I fell to the ground with it. I saw the bottom of its hoofs and in my last seconds alive, I found myself remembering that the word nightmare came from the idea that the horse of night herself came to deliver bad and tormenting dreams. What a horrible dream I’d been living. What a mistake I’d made. My last thought was that I probably deserved this.

But then the horse landed, not on my head, but to the left of me. The sturdy, unbreakable bat shattered, impossibly. All I could do was blink at it.

The horse shook itself, as if done with the whole mess, and ran off. When my eyes moved to follow it, I saw a campfire. I swear it hadn’t been there before.

The camp pit burned white, like a little fallen star against the cobalt night. On one side of the light stood the blue horse, tame and patient. On the other side was the stranger, stood in the white rolling glow. I knew I had no choice but to face him, face what I’d done. The moment was unreal and smooth as cold fire. This was my judgment, I knew. I could not escape it, so I walked forward to meet it.

When I got to him, I felt my heart in every part of my body. I fell to my knees and put my forehead to the dust below and I waited in silence.

When he spoke, he surprised me again. “Are you hurt?” I looked up, confused. He saw my expression and went on, “You’ve fallen. Are you hurt?”

I shook my head, and he outstretched his hand for me to take, which I did. I didn’t know what to say. We looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, until I stopped shaking.

“I remember you; you own the bar in town.”

“Oh, I don’t own it. I just work there.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, then he said, “That’s very kind of you to do.” Which I didn’t understand at all. He went on, gesturing to a woven blanket on the ground. “It’s a long trip back to town. You’re welcome to stay here tonight if you’d like.”

We both sat. I adjusted my hair that had sweat-stuck to my face and neck and stretched out my aching shoulders. He leaned back against a stone and took his hat off. Then his jacket. Then his mask. If I hadn’t been sitting, I would have fallen over.

“You’re a woman!”

She looked at me, confused. “I’m a what?”

“A woman! You’re like me!” This didn’t seem to clarify anything.

“What’s a woman?”

“You know, someone who can make babies? The one who does the washing up and the cooking? Wears dresses? You know, not a man.”

I got louder as I went on, and the stranger leaned further away as my volume went up.

“Oh. I don’t do any of those things.” Then, because I must have looked so upset she added, “But thank you for teaching me the word. I have friends who do some of those things and I will ask them about it.”

“No, you don’t get it! You grow up and you start bleeding every month and you get breasts and if you’re beautiful and well behaved you get married and men treat you better and… and if you don’t want to do that you work for men, or you fight men all the time, or you move away, or… You know!” I was up on my knees, begging her to understand what I was talking about.

There were several labored breaths from me before she got the bravery to ask, “What exactly is men?”

That question took the wind out of me. I sat back down and looked at my hands. “Do you really not know?”

She didn’t say anything back, but I knew that if I looked, she would be shaking her head, no. I took a shaky breath. “So, everyone looks like you where you’re from?”

She laughed, a real full laugh. “Of course not. What are you talking about?”

“Like does everyone have…” I gestured vaguely to my own body.

“No. No, all sorts.”

“So, what are you exactly? What do you call the different sorts?”

They leaned back into themselves, relaxing again. “We don’t call people sorts. I am just Wildflower.”

“Wildflower?”

“That’s my name.”

“Oh.”

I looked up at the sky and imagined not calling it blue. I squeezed my hands into fists and imagined not calling them fists. Would it still be blue? Would they still be fists? The sky, my hands, woman, person.

“What’s your name?” They asked, like they had been waiting for me to say.

“Stella. It’s Stella.”

“Glad to meet you, Stella.”

And at hearing my name I melted. My anger and my jealousy were all worn out, the last of the fever finally broke. I had one more thing to say.

“I’m so sorry.” It wasn’t enough, but it was a start.

Wildflower looked puzzled. “Why are you apologizing to me?”

“I tried to steal your horse. I shouldn’t have; it was… I’m sorry.”

“Neptune isn’t my horse.” They were almost offended at the concept. I blinked hard, unsure I heard them right. “I told you when I said I was lookin’ for my friend. Neptune is my friend. We travel together. No one owns Neptune, that’s silly.”

No one owns Neptune.

No one. Owns. Neptune. It cracked my heart so wide, water flooded my eyes, like the water that rushed from the pipe on the first night I saw the Blue Horse. Oh, stars how I cried. Big fat tears, of joy and pain. No one owns Neptune.

I turned to them, this impossible bit of thunder in blue, and I wept in remorse. “You’re so beautiful. And I’m so, so sorry.” And I let my face fall into my hands.

The brittle ground vibrated with Neptune’s movement, and I felt their powerful nose nudge me with careful gentleness, so that my hands moved from my own face to theirs. My tears looked like crystals on Neptune’s night-rainbow hair, and despite the shame I still felt, the tears glistened with gratitude.

With my cheek pressed to their mane, I found myself speaking my thoughts out loud.

“I don’t think I can ever go back.”

And I didn’t.

END

Originally published in the March 2026 issue of Utopia Science Fiction Magazine.

Mackenzie Robin (they/them) is a writer and filmmaker born and raised on the Coast Salish Territories of Western Canada, where they still live. Their works center queer and feminist points of view as explored through the fantastical frameworks of science fiction, horror, and fantasy. Mackenzie’s screenplays (short and feature-length) have been finalists at the New York Independent Film Festival, Los Angeles International Sci-Fi Film Festival, and GenreBlast Film Festival. Mackenzie’s poetry and prose have been published in Camosun College’s Literary Journal ‘Beside the Point’, Sledgehammer Lit, and Re-Side Lit. When not writing, Mackenzie can be found planning very strange parties, obsessing over their cat who is probably a gargoyle in disguise, re-reading Octavia Bulter’s novels, or chasing the plot in odd places. If you’d like to see more of Mackenzie’s work, you can find it at www.mackenzierobin.format.com

We welcome solicited and unsolicited submissions for fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and art. Please read and follow our submission guidelines carefully. Incorrectly submitted material may not be read or replied to. Works submitted for themes after the dates listed will not be read or replied to.

We are especially in need of science and non-fiction articles for our Science Corner. Articles can be on any subject in any style, but must be accessible to a non-academic audience.

Our cozy issue is scheduled for June 2026.

Fiction Guidelines

We’re looking for enthralling stories set in a future we want to believe in, one we would fight to make a reality.

• Captivating world-building

• Character-rich, diverse settings

• Well-written engaging plots that steer away from common tropes

• Tension, conflict that leaps out of the page and grabs us

• A good ending.

• Hard science fiction, stories based in explained, well researched science

​We’re open to:

• Inventive narrative structures, unusual, but readable writing styles

• Non hard science fiction as long as it includes incredible world-building or captivating characters

• Longer stories for serialization

​​LENGTH:100-4,000 words is preferred. For longer works, please query with the first ten pages.​​ PAY: We pay 8¢/word for fiction.​​

Non-Fiction Guidelines

We’re Looking for:

• Articles on new discoveries

• Articles on new or developing technologies

• Science fact sheets or trivia articles

• Teach us how to calculate Schwarzschild Radius, tell us about Hubble’s Constant or quantum chemistry

• Teach us about strange creatures from Thor’s Hero Shrew to Detnocaccus radtoduraus

PAY: $30 for a non-fiction piece upon publication

FAQs without the Questions

• Stories may be submitted for any future theme anytime, but we won’t review a story until a few months prior to the issue it’s been submitted to is due to be published. (You can submit a story for June 2026 in October 2025, but we won’t read it till March or April 2026, so replies will be delayed)

• We buy First North American Serial Rights and First Electronic Rights with two-year archival rights.

• Simultaneous submissions are fine. Please tell us immediately if your story is accepted elsewhere.

• If a story is rejected. Do not resubmit it unless it has gone through such drastic editing that it no longer resembles the first submission in any way, shape, or form.

• Multiple submissions are not accepted. Please send only one submission at a time.

• If your piece has been accepted, please wait one month from the date of acceptance to submit again. If your piece has been rejected, please wait one week from the date of the last rejection before resubmitting.

• We will not accept translated or reprinted old stories. No exceptions. We do not accept fan fiction (even incredibly well-written fan fiction).

• We can help advertise your newest book or project. Go to the Advertise page under Support for more information. We will work with you to make sure your advertisement is precisely how you want it. It’s a great way to reach a targeted audience.

• We do not accept AI generated artwork, poems, or stories - those found submitting these types of manuscripts to us will be rejected immediately without feedback. Give us your own original work!

• If you do not see a theme listed on the submission page we are no longer accepting for that theme and your submission may be rejected without being read

To submit, send fiction, poetry, non-fiction and artwork via utopiasciencefiction.com

We are particularly interested to see utopias under pressure: societies that are trying, sometimes desperately, to become something better, and the fractures, compromises, and moral costs that emerge along the way.

March 2026: Weird Science Fiction

A call for strange, out-of-the-box stories and poems that play with unusual scientific concepts, speculative twists, and boundary-pushing ideas, all grounded in hopeful, imaginative futures. Note: While we do have preference for stories that engage with science, feel free to interpret “science” however you like here.

June 2026: Cozy Stories

This theme centers on marvellous, cozy utopias; slice-of-life tales in settings that radiate comfort, community, and warmth, showcasing small moments of connection and wonder in positive futures.

August 2026: No Theme (Anything Goes)

For this issue, the door is open to all welcoming, forward-looking science fiction; writing that merely fits our optimistic ethos.

December 2026: TBC

Let us know on Bluesky or Instagram what theme you would like to see end the year.

Across all issues, Utopia seeks fiction, poetry, nonfiction science articles, and art that embodies our editorial focus: engaging narratives set in futures we might genuinely want to live in, balanced with tension, well-developed characters, and thoughtful world-building. They expressly avoid dystopian tropes, aim for hope without naïveté, and support both hard science and speculative creativity that inspires readers.

See our website for submission details:

https://www.utopiasciencefiction.com/submit

“I confess to the whole thing,” said Montrose. “I’ll tell you how I broke into the Skyvault, who my accomplices were, and every last detail along the way. When I finish, you will let me walk out that door without a single charge, and I give it a fifty-fifty chance that you’ll thank me as I leave.”

Inspector Graves eyed Montrose. His bushy eyebrows and gray, scruffy mustache did not twitch a single hair. Finally, he said, “That outcome seems highly unlikely, Mr. Montrose.”

“I sincerely agree.”

Graves pushed a battered recorder across the stainless steel table. The device’s tiny solar battery shone in the harsh LED lights of the interrogation room. “Before we start, please state your name for the record.”

Montrose cleared his throat. Now that it was time to speak, he found the acid of nervousness building in the back of his dry throat. He pasted it over with a shiny layer of confidence and hoped the good inspector didn’t notice. “Montgomery Albert Montrose, Aeronaut of the Fifth Battalion, third son of the famous inventor Yari Montrose, and chief financial officer of the Montrose House Charity Foundation, which has provided housing for thousands of veterans and their families.”

“That will do,” said Graves. “Also in the room is your lawyer…”

“Tovin Pendagast,” said the tall, narrow-faced man sitting next to Montrose, handing his card to Graves. He let out a long sigh. “I will be representing Mr. Montrose in today’s proceedings.”

“You specialize in maritime law,” said Graves, inspecting the card.

“It does indeed say that.”

“Very well,” said Graves. “And I am Inspector Orin Graves of the North Mississippi Judiciary Committee.” He was a big man. Not fat, but his frame formed the kind of bones a person could never imagine breaking. He dominated his side of the table, a stark contrast to the tall, thin Pendagast and the diminutive Montrose. “Let’s proceed, then. Everything you say from this point forward is on record. First, can you tell me who these accomplices were?”

A smile touched the corners of Montrose’s lips. “Like I said, Inspector. I plan to tell you everything.”

#

We didn’t see Vincent Jefferson’s Skyvault much where I grew up. Sure, we’d see other zeppelins from time to time. Big metal ones flew over on their way up or down the Mississippi trade routes. The Skyvault was special, though. Everyone knew it never landed, which alone made it interesting to me. Once a year on the sixth of May it would break from its regular loop around the Twin Cities and travel the winding path of the big river until it reached the point where Iowa’s big agriculture industry turns the water from a crystal-clear tumble of diamonds into the murky green of algae and petroleum.

Every year it passed directly over my parents’ farm atop the bluffs. As the river’s health improved, we’d watch as the Skyvault strayed farther and farther from its home. Nobody paid it much attention but me. As I watched from the squalor of a struggling soybean farm atop a Minnesota bluff, where the only lake was the man-made pond my great great grandfather had put in, I swore that one day I’d crack that beast open and see what Jefferson hid in its belly.

Here I am, thirty years old and I’ve achieved my dream.

I don’t know what they told folks like you up in the cities about what’s inside the Skyvault. In rural Minnesota, where the thing is a shining metal cloud almost too high to see, there were rumors that it held all the secrets collected by Jefferson’s enormous surveillance empire. Some said he kept his fortune up there in digital currency to be retrieved when he saw fit to beam it down to the ground. Some said it was actual bars of gold up there. Whatever it was, everyone agreed that it was a tragedy when the man died so young, since it meant they might never find out. The Skyvault took on the status of myths and legends. It was the unattainable.

I never believed any of the rumors. To me, the Skyvault itself was the treasure. Can you imagine? To be able to live high in the sky, never to return to Earth. Free from the dull monotony of daily chores. The Skyvault was something different from that soybean sea of sameness. It was exciting.

For years nobody touched the Skyvault. They said her defenses were perfect. Laser arrays took down anything larger than an eagle. Armored undercarriage like nothing developed since. Inside, was said to be the strongest vault ever made, sealed with dozens of insurmountable locks. Exaggeration, of course, but the legend stands.

All I knew was that it had never landed. Ever.

Rumors said it would explode with the force of a thousand suns if it dropped too low. That’s how jealous old Jefferson was. That’s why nobody ever bothered to try to shoot it down. Can you imagine that destruction in the middle of the Minneapolis suburbs? It’s been up there fifty years — long enough for a dozen legends to form around it, and every single one of them asks the same question. What secret does the Skyvault hold?

#

Inspector Graves pushed a button and stopped recording. “Mr. Montrose, we’re not looking for a legend. We want the details of your crimes.”

“I’m establishing motive.”

“We don’t need you to establish motive. All we need is actions.”

Montrose glanced at his lawyer.

“You don’t need to skip anything,” said Pendagast, glancing at a pocketwatch. “In fact, I do believe it is important to be as complete as possible.”

Graves drummed his huge fingers on the metal table. “There’s an army of lawyers and judges who will need to listen to this story of yours. Let’s keep it short enough so nobody claims we’re wasting their time.” He pressed record.

#

Barty Melons did the modifications to my flight suit. I guess you could call him my accomplice. He didn’t know what I was going to use it for at first but he knew that it was stolen from the Aeronaut Corps centered over on the crosstown.

An Aeronaut’s flight suit is more than just a protective barrier between the Aeronaut and the elements. Propulsion, aerodynamics, and stealth. All in one suit. Melons augmented my suit with radar-absorbing material that sucked light like the blackest night. He gave the wings that extended from the suit’s arms an interlaced feather design to better shape my profile. All this while keeping me as small as possible.

Bigger than an eagle? Yes. Big enough to draw the Skyvault’s dangerous attention? Maybe.

I launched as the first rays of morning touched the top of the old IDS tower. I needed height, so the top of the tower was an obvious launching place. The wind caught my wings, the sun flashed across the solar panels, and I flew. It was terrifying, going so high. Always has been, and I don’t care what other Aeronauts might tell you. The air gets thin. The sun burns.

Thoughts of Icarus rattled through my oxygen-deprived brain, but I couldn’t fly straight to the Skyvault. Not under boosted power. I knew my only chance was to glide in, and that meant flying higher than the zeppelin.

Finally, I was high enough. The Twin Cities shone below me, glistening with a million solar panels and thrumming with a million wind collectors. It is difficult to comprehend the grandeur of the Engineering Corps’ work from below. From above it is a glittering jewel that stretches from horizon to horizon.

Above it all was the Skyvault. I cut power and glided.

#

Montrose licked his dry lips and gestured at the recorder. With a sigh, Graves pressed stop.

“Coffee?” asked Montrose. “It’s just that this is a lot of talking.”

“We could use a short break,” said Pendagast.

“Five minutes,” said Graves. He left the room.

“I think it’s going well,” said Montrose once he was alone with his lawyer.

Pendagast checked his messages on a battered screen. “They’ll have sent someone to track Melons already.”

“Old Barty can handle himself.”

“It would have been better to leave names till the end.”

“I’m improvising.” He wasn’t. His fingers still ached from the cold of that flight three days ago, and the numbness sunk straight through to his brain. “At least I haven’t given them the other name, have I?”

“Indeed.”

“Things will get real interesting once that one’s out.”

Pendagast pressed his lips together so tight they went white.

“They’re probably still listening, aren’t they?”

“They did tell you that everything you say is on record, and nobody bothered to rescind it.”

When Inspector Graves returned, he held a box of pink pastries and three cups of coffee, which he offered to the Aeronaut and his lawyer. “One of the boys brought breakfast.”

It was the worst coffee Montrose had ever had the misfortune to experience. Burned, black sludge scoured his tastebuds, leaving them ruined for the follow-up of the stale pastry.

It was heaven.

“Shall we?” grumbled the inspector.

Montrose gestured for him to proceed, and Graves pressed record.

#

Many civilians would guess that the side or the bottom of the gondola would be the best place to pierce the zeppelin’s exterior. After all, that’s where the door is, should the airship dock at a tower. It makes sense that that would be the best way in. My experience in the Aeronaut Corp taught me different.

Do you know that we ran operations over the Mediterranean against France during the wars? Their zeppelin manufacturing was top notch in those days, and we needed to learn the best ways to take them down. Of course, back then we could approach with our own airships. It was a different time.

Many of the French airships were modeled after observations of the Skyvault. Armored gondolas with little or no seams. Thick glass — well worth it despite the added weight. The best way into a French zeppelin was invariably through the top.

The top of the Skyvault’s float was an enormous sheet of solar panels. You see, electricity is the key to the Airvault’s perseverance. With electricity, it can collect water from the air. It can split that water and harvest its hydrogen. It can run its lasers and navigation. It can keep its computing arrays fully powered forever, so long as it has sunlight.

I landed between two of the zeppelin’s fibrous solar panels. Next to me was one of the laser batteries, ready to focus its beams on any approaching threat. There I was, dressed in black and gray, feathered like a particularly large eagle. Jefferson loved birds, you see. It was my first gamble, and it paid off.

Some might say that I could have sunk the airship right there, but they would be fools. The Skyvault’s exterior was a tough shell, but the actual ballonets sat further inside the structure. Even if I had brought explosives, my ability to damage the zeppelin enough to sink it was questionable.

Plus, sinking it would deprive me of my goal. I wanted to know what was inside.

A small razor-sharp knife allowed me to make a slit in the steel-like material. I had to work quickly, because the substance healed itself as soon as I started to cut. Already, the narrow line pressed together and adhered, closing the gap. Cut edges oozed tacky glue.

In I went, hooking my rope to the surface so that I could lower myself through the zeppelin’s outer envelope. The air inside was cold and dry on my exposed skin. Prickling electricity made my hairs stand on end, and even through my mask, I could smell the stale ozone lingering in old air. Was this the same air that Jefferson breathed before he set his Skyvault up above the clouds?

#

“What’s the point of this speculation?” growled Graves, pushing the stop button once again. “Nobody cares who breathed the air inside the balloon.”

“Envelope,” corrected Montrose. “Inside the outer shell of the envelope, there were six ballonets, which are like balloons, except that they’re likely bigger than any balloons you’ve ever seen. This isn’t a carnival contraption, sir. This is the greatest zeppelin made by man.”

“That’s up for debate.” Graves settled back into his chair. When Montrose started to speak, the inspector stopped him with a sharp cut of an open hand. “Now is not the time for that debate, Mr. Montrose. We want to hear what you saw in there, what you stole, and, if I’m not mistaken, you still owe us a list of accomplices.”

“One more, actually.”

“Then let’s hear it.”

Montrose flashed his toothiest smile. “I would hate to spoil the story by rushing, Inspector.”

“Just stick to the facts,” said Graves. He pushed record.

#

Greed is a terrible thing, but for a long stretch of human history, greed was the heart of innovation. Greed drove profit. Profit drove invention.

It was greed that drove Vincent Jefferson to the skies. As a preposterously wealthy man in the last days of rampant capitalism, Jefferson knew that his wealth made everything he owned a target. His competitors in the top echelons of society weren’t after more wealth. They were after his wealth. They wanted to dig their claws into the very thing that he kept at the core of his identity.

There is a certain flavor of greed where money no longer sates the terrible thirst. No longer is gold the balm, but raw power itself. For Vincent Jefferson, raw power came in the form of secrets. The darker the better.

You see, people drunk with greed and power always have hidden agendas. It is not possible to be a billionaire and a good person. The way to exert power over the powerful is to know their secrets.

And keep them safe.

Or, in the case of the Skyvault, keep them in a safe.

#

Inspector Graves pounded the table. “What did I just tell you?”

“It was a preamble,” said Montrose. “I need to do it every time I’m interrupted in order to regain my momentum.”

“Cut the preamble.”

#

It wasn’t a surprise that the Skyvault’s gondola was pressurized with breathable air. After all, oxygen is a waste product in the process used to keep the zeppelin afloat. It would be trivial to route some of that into the cabin to keep a rather pleasant environment. I tore the uncomfortable mask from my face, certain that the old Skyvault would keep me breathing.

What did surprise me was the cabin’s décor. The space was made for not only comfort but style. Shining gold trim ran along mahogany surfaces. An elegant and reasonably stocked bar dominated one corner, and in the adjacent, a sunken recess was filled with pillows. In yet another corner — I do not like to think about what I saw there. Give me a moment, and I will describe it. It’s not important, but it’s something you must know. Not yet, though.

In the center of the open space, stood a single computer console, arranged as if it were the centerpiece of a shrine. From the raised seat in front of the center console, all three hundred and sixty degrees of gorgeous, horizon was visible through crystal clear windows.

I poured myself a drink from the bar and sat in that central seat. There were a few ingredients available, but plenty of bottles of exquisitely aged whiskey. There was even ice, which was no longer properly cubed but chipped off nicely with a moderate amount of violence. No, don’t bother stopping the recording. I won’t linger on the subtle smoky flavors of the whiskey, even though it may have been the most life-changing beverage I have consumed.

If I can be accused of anything, it is stealing that view so selfishly for myself. I greedily took in that stunning sunset. The towers of Minneapolis. The forested neighborhoods of Saint Paul. The Mississippi and the Minnesota joining like a flow of rubies under a red-orange sky. The capitol building sat like a pillar of gold among the black of the solar collectors. I sat there, Captain of the Skyvault, and it was my right to take that moment to soak it in.

When the sun had fully set, I set to work.

For fifty years the Skyvault has circled the Twin Cities. For fifty years it has been a reminder that no matter how much we innovate, no matter how much we improve, there will always be that which is unobtainable. Out of reach. The Skyvault taunted us in the night sky, and at that moment, whiskey in hand, I knew that I had obtained my dream. I needed nothing more.

But the console was right there, and in it, all of the madman’s secrets.

Madman, you ask? Yes, I call Jefferson a madman.

The man was paranoid, of course. Nobody builds something so grand as the Skyvault without some form of mental instability. He took the skies because he could not imagine safety upon land.

Even within an airship separate from the walking world, Jefferson couldn’t imagine being safe. I had foolishly wagered that the systems would be unlocked aboard the ship, but they were not. The console sat asking for a passcode that I could not possibly have known. I plugged a universal connector into the old computer and hoped that our backup plan would get me past this one last tribute to Jefferson’s paranoia.

As that ran, I turned to the other tribute to Jefferson’s madness. Opposite the luxurious pillow pit rested the woman. She lay in state along one wall under the dome of a glass coffin. Her features were serene, as if she’d slept an hour aboard the zeppelin, but I assure you she was quite dead. It was as if her skin were porcelain and her hair were gold. A plaque gave her name: Genevieve Jefferson.

She was his first wife. I do not know if she was murdered or somehow preserved after a natural death. It doesn’t matter to me. Such secrets have no value when all their keepers are dead.

#

“Hold on Montrose,” said Graves, pushing stop. “You’re telling me there’s a body up there?”

“I’m not here to lie to you, Inspector.”

“It’s just a little hard to believe,” said Graves. He looked at Montrose’s lawyer and lines of annoyance creased his brow. “Are you busy, Mr. Pendagast?”

Pendagast looked up from his screen. “I’m sorry, sir. There have been some developments on another issue.”

“I believe Mr. Montrose is paying you for your time.”

“Yes, of course.”

Montrose leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh. He had been in the tiny room long enough to lose track of time entirely, and he had to sip cold coffee to keep his mouth from running dry. “Tovin is representing me just fine, thank you.”

Graves shrugged. “It’s unprofessional.”

Pendagast said, “We can postpone the rest of this interview if you like, but I believe my client has an interest in the real estate issue that has just now officially closed.”

Graves frowned. “Real estate won’t do him much good from a prison.”

“Family business,” said Montrose. “It’s all resolved then?”

“It is,” said Pendagast.

“Ah, that’s a relief.” A tension Montrose wasn’t aware of released in his shoulders, and the room seemed a little bit brighter. “I’m ready to finish my confession.”

Graves’s mustache twitched, but he did not immediately respond. Montrose wondered if the old inspector knew already that he wasn’t going to be keeping the thief in custody.

Finally, Graves said, “You still owe me one more name.”

“Have you picked up Melons yet?” Montrose asked.

“Finish your story, and it better include that name,” said Graves. He pressed record.

#

The program didn’t work, of course. I’m no hacker and especially not an expert in fifty-year-old custom data vaults like the one aboard the Skyvault. My universal connector had some standard routines that were meant to test all the known exploits from the period, but Jefferson’s digital vault was well made. It didn’t crack and therefore I took nothing when I left the vault.

Melons could have done it were he there. He made the connector for me, but he had warned me that he wasn’t going to be able to do anything without having his hands on the system. I suppose I should have believed him.

Not that I would have wanted to steal all that information anyway. Sure, there’s value in secrets, but there’s peril, too. Can you imagine the danger I would be in if I knew the darkest lies of all the most powerful people in the nation? These people cling to power however they can, even in a society that values egalitarianism like we do.

No, don’t stop the recording. I’ll stick to the facts.

The fact was that I didn’t have access to anything valuable aboard the Skyvault. I didn’t have any way to take control of the airship, and even if I managed to bring it down, I’d cause more damage than I was willing to risk.

I mean, even if the zeppelin wasn’t rigged with a bomb as the rumors said, it is a massive thing full of quite a lot of hydrogen. When Jefferson first set it free, its route took it over the fields outside the city, but the city has since expanded. There would be people at risk no matter where it fell along its normal loop. Not only would this treasure of engineering be lost, but it would endanger innocent citizens.

Yes, I see that you understand where I am going with this, but let me speak it in my own words. A water landing was the safest option, but the obvious choices were out. Should we miss the Mississippi or the Minnesota, the thriving communities on either bank would be damaged.

There was one option. One lake the zeppelin passes over on its route where we could safely land the vessel.

It is the reservoir my great great grandfather made on the farm where I grew up.

No, no. Don’t stop the recording. I have more to say.

I took nothing from the Skyvault, Inspector, and I brought with me no means to bring it down. I didn’t need to. All the makings of its destruction were available aboard the vessel. Oxygen. Hydrogen. What more can a man ask for?

#

“No, Tovin, we do not need another break.” Montrose said, stopping the lawyer’s hand before it could be raised in protest. “I am fully aware that this next part might be particularly incriminating. Is everything in place?”

“Yes,” said Pendagast.

“Good. I will continue.”

#

I left my parents long ago. Farm life wasn’t for me. When they passed, the land went to the remnants of a large agricultural operation. But you know how these things have gone. Without unfair laws propping up these mega-corporations, farming has returned to family ventures. Small, local farming has taken over, and my family’s land was never particularly valuable.

It took longer to buy it than expected. Hence, Tovin’s distraction. Tovin, are you sure it’s gone through? Excellent.

Twenty minutes ago, the Skyvault drifted toward my land. Thirty minutes ago, Mr. Pendagast here completed the final paperwork to make me the owner of that land. Ten minutes ago, the first sparks flared in the Skyvault’s electrically unstable envelope. With an imperfect mix of hydrogen and oxygen, it wasn’t enough to detonate the entire airship, but it was enough to violently encourage a rapid descent. The security measures kicked in — I hoped that the zeppelin would follow standard splashdown procedures — and the envelope separated from the gondola over water.

The only water available.

Yes, for the record, my final accomplice is Mr. Tovin Pendagast. After all, if a person expects to succeed at a heist, his first choice of partners ought to be a very good lawyer, don’t you think?

The Skyvault has landed in the lake my family built, and now the separated gondola floats there, somewhat damaged, I’m sure, but still intact. That lake is mine, and by rights of salvage the Skyvault belongs to me. I have committed no crimes.

Thank you for listening to my confession.

#

The muscles on the backs of the inspector’s hands twitched as if he might crush the stainless steel table. He checked his messages on his tablet, scrolling through one after another, each deepening the red tone of his infuriated flesh. “You can’t be serious. You’ve stolen the entire Skyvault.”

“And soon you’ll see news of the secrets aboard being broadcast to the network.” Montrose grinned. “With my permission, Melons is working on it as we speak.”

Graves gripped the edge of the steel table so hard Montrose worried it might bend. “You stole the Skyvault,” he repeated.

“No, Inspector,” said Pendagast. “Mr. Montrose captained the Skyvault. He has been entirely truthful with you, and it is clear to me that he stole nothing.”

“He boarded it. He took control. He crashed it where his man could steal its contents. This is stealing, Mr. Pendagast. Your client is under arrest.”

A hint of a smile crossed Pendagast’s narrow features. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Graves. You might recall that my specialty is maritime law, and by the laws that govern our borders, a zeppelin is a ship.”

“A zeppelin’s considered an aircraft.”

“Not when it launches from an international shipping port. And, since a ship is beholden to the laws of the port from which it left until it reaches another country’s territory, the Skyvault is bound by the laws of the Duluth Zeppelin Foundry. This brings it under the International Airship Code, which states that, ‘the sole occupant of any vessel is by default deemed its captain.’”

“He broke in.”

“My client was never refused permission to board.”

“He intentionally crashed it. He endangered people.”

“Quite the opposite. He, in fact, worked very hard to cause the vessel to land where it would risk no one. Once he was captain, nothing he did aboard the ship could be considered illegal.”

Graves’ nostrils flared. “You can’t be serious.”

Montrose opened his mouth to speak, but Pendagast stopped him. The lawyer steepled his fingers. “We have a good thing going in our society, Mr. Graves. There is virtually no homelessness. Poverty is all but eliminated. Hunger is a thing of the past. Some would call this a paradise. Others a utopia.” He drew a long, slow breath. “But there will always be those who wish to raise themselves above the rest. These men and women value wealth and power over all else, and they would put our world in jeopardy to gain one more rung on the ladder. This is what Mr. Montrose fought when he boarded that vessel. This corruption has always existed and it always will, but corruption requires darkness to thrive, and my client, today, has shed light upon the worst of it.

“Jefferson’s vault of secrets might be old, but much of it will affect those still active today. Politicians will lose their jobs. Accountants will find their hidden books revealed. Monopolists and entrepreneurs will find their underhanded techniques will not stand up in the light of day. Today they will be seen as the thugs and villains that they really are. Your job is to catch thieves, Inspector, and because of my client, you will find plenty of thieves to catch.”

Graves clenched his fists. He shook. Montrose wondered what battle he was fighting inside.

“Mr. Graves,” said Montrose, “Vincent Jefferson never divorced his first wife.”

The inspector fixed the thief with a gaze colder than the winter sky.

“She disappeared. Mysteriously.” Montrose leaned forward. “I do believe the Skyvault held Mr. Jefferson’s secrets as well as those belonging to his peers. The vault had no means to transmit. Only to receive.”

“He kept all that information where nobody could get it,” said Pendagast. “It was a mutual destruction pact of sorts.”

Graves said to Montrose, “You stole the flight suit.”

“I will make sure it is returned,” said the thief.

The Inspector turned to Pendagast. “The salvage rights?”

“Ironclad, I’m afraid.”

Graves turned back to Montrose, his lips tight under the bristles of his mustache. It was impossible to know which of the partners infuriated the Inspector the most. “You may go,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” said Montrose.

As Montgomery Albert Montrose, Aeronaut of the Fifth Battalion, third son of the famous inventor Yari Montrose, chief financial officer of the Montrose House Charity Foundation, and final captain of the illustrious Skyvault left the interview room, he heard Inspector Graves utter one final thing almost too quiet to hear.

“Thank you.”

END

Originally published in the August 2024 issue of Utopia Science Fiction Magazine. Republished in the December 2025 Special Art issue.

Anthony W. Eichenlaub’s short stories range from sci-fi nursing home escape heists to tales of that odd shopkeeper you meet in the middle of an abandoned cemetery. His novels are pulse-pounding Minnesota technothrillers and sci-fi noirs full of sinners and saints. In his spare time, he enjoys landscaping, woodworking, and long walks with his lazy dog.

https://www.utopiasciencefiction.com/

Utopia Science Fiction Magazine is in it’s weird era! Submit your weird fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and art for consideration before 01/01/2026.

We welcome solicited and unsolicited submissions for fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and art. Please read and follow our submission guidelines carefully. Incorrectly submitted material may not be read or replied to. Works submitted for themes after the dates listed will not be read or replied to.

We are especially in need of science and non-fiction articles for our Science Corner. Articles can be on any subject in any style, but must be accessible to a non-academic audience.

Our weird issue is scheduled for March 2026.

Fiction Guidelines

We’re looking for enthralling stories set in a future we want to believe in, one we would fight to make a reality.

​

We want:

• Captivating world-building

• Character-rich, diverse settings

• Well-written engaging plots that steer away from common tropes

• Tension, conflict that leaps out of the page and grabs us

• A good ending.

• Hard science fiction, stories based in explained, well researched science

​

We’re open to:

• Inventive narrative structures, unusual, but readable writing styles

• Non hard science fiction as long as it includes incredible world-building or captivating characters

• Longer stories for serialization

​​

LENGTH:

100-4,000 words is preferred. For longer works, please query with the first ten pages.

​​

PAY:

We pay 8¢/word for fiction.

​

​Submissions must be in PDF or docx form and in proper manuscript format (our system can’t process .rtf files!). Please allow 16 weeks for a response. If you have not received a response by then, feel free to contact us with the word “Query” in the subject line.

​Poetry Guidelines

We publish science-fiction poetry. There’s no style or content we’re looking for in particular, though we prefer more lyrical and evocative poetry.

​

Please submit up to five short poems OR one long poem.

LENGTH:

A short poem is one page or less in size 12 Garamond font with 1.5 spacing.

​

If the total length of two (or more) poems does not exceed one-page they will be counted as a single poem.

​

PAY: $30 for each accepted poem

​

Non-Fiction Guidelines

We’re Looking for:

• Articles on new discoveries

• Articles on new or developing technologies

• Science fact sheets or trivia articles

• Teach us how to calculate Schwarzschild Radius, tell us about Hubble’s Constant or quantum chemistry

• Teach us about strange creatures from Thor’s Hero Shrew to Detnocaccus radtoduraus

PAY: $30 for a non-fiction piece upon publication

FAQs without the Questions

• Stories may be submitted for any future theme anytime, but we won’t review a story until a few months prior to the issue it’s been submitted to is due to be published. (You can submit a story for June 2026 in October 2025, but we won’t read it till March or April 2026, so replies will be delayed)

• We buy First North American Serial Rights and First Electronic Rights with two-year archival rights.

​​

• Simultaneous submissions are fine. Please tell us immediately if your story is accepted elsewhere.

​​

• If a story is rejected. Do not resubmit it unless it has gone through such drastic editing that it no longer resembles the first submission in any way, shape, or form.

​​

• Multiple submissions are not accepted. Please send only one submission at a time.

​

• If your piece has been accepted, please wait one month from the date of acceptance to submit again. If your piece has been rejected, please wait one week from the date of the last rejection before resubmitting.

​​

• We will not accept translated or reprinted old stories. No exceptions. We do not accept fan fiction (even incredibly well-written fan fiction).

​​​

• We can help advertise your newest book or project. Go to the Advertise page under Support for more information. We will work with you to make sure your advertisement is precisely how you want it. It’s a great way to reach a targeted audience.

• We do not accept AI generated artwork, poems, or stories - those found submitting these types of manuscripts to us will be rejected immediately without feedback. Give us your own original work!

• If you do not see a theme listed on the submission page we are no longer accepting for that theme and your submission may be rejected without being read

To submit, send fiction, poetry, non-fiction and artwork via utopiasciencefiction.com

This is also our art special edition so we’re on the lookout for some fantastic new art.

We welcome solicited and unsolicited submissions for fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and art. Please read and follow our submission guidelines carefully. Incorrectly submitted material may not be read or replied to. Works submitted for themes after the dates listed will not be read or replied to.

We are especially in need of science and non-fiction articles for our Science Corner. Articles can be on any subject in any style, but must be accessible to a non-academic audience.

Our next issue release is December 1st.

Fiction Guidelines

​

We’re looking for enthralling stories set in a future we want to believe in, one we would fight to make a reality.

​​

We want:

• Captivating world-building

• Character-rich, diverse settings

• Well-written engaging plots that steer away from common tropes

• Tension, conflict that leaps out of the page and grabs us

• A good ending.

• Hard science fiction, stories based in explained, well researched science

​

We’re open to:

• Inventive narrative structures, unusual, but readable writing styles

• Non hard science fiction as long as it includes incredible world-building or captivating characters

• Longer stories for serialization

​​

LENGTH:

100-4,000 words is preferred. For longer works, please query with the first ten pages.

​​

PAY:

We pay 8¢/word for fiction.

​

​Submissions must be in PDF or docx form and in proper manuscript format (our system can’t process .rtf files!). Please allow 16 weeks for a response. If you have not received a response by then, feel free to contact us with the word “Query” in the subject line.

​

​

Poetry Guidelines

We publish science-fiction poetry. There’s no style or content we’re looking for in particular, though we prefer more lyrical and evocative poetry.

​

Please submit up to five short poems OR one long poem.

LENGTH:

A short poem is one page or less in size 12 Garamond font with 1.5 spacing.

​

If the total length of two (or more) poems does not exceed one-page they will be counted as a single poem.

​

PAY:

$30 for each accepted poem

​

Non-Fiction Guidelines

We’re Looking for:

• Articles on new discoveries

• Articles on new or developing technologies

• Science fact sheets or trivia articles

• Teach us how to calculate Schwarzschild Radius, tell us about Hubble’s Constant or quantum chemistry

• Teach us about strange creatures from Thor’s Hero Shrew to Detnocaccus radtoduraus

LENGTH:
6,000 words or less

PAY:
$30 for a non-fiction piece upon publication

​

​

Artwork Guidelines
We’re looking for artwork in any medium, in any format (jpeg is preferred).

We seek reproduction rights for limited one time use as internal artwork. For this use we pay $35 per accepted piece.

We accept pre-existing pieces. Please submit a sample of up to five works that fit the science-fiction/fantasy theme in some way. Please give up to 3 months for a response to any art submissions sent.

We also plan to have an exposé of artists and their work this December (2024). If we do not accept your work for publication as internal art, you are still invited to submit work for the exposé issue. We charge nothing, and the expose may be used as a free portfolio for you to display and advertise your work. We will conduct a 3 to 5 question interview and give you the chance to talk about your work, your inspiration, and share links to any professional website or store that you have and let people know how best to support you. If you’re expressly interested in submitting work for the exposé, please mention this when you submit.

What we’re looking for:

• Sci-fi art of any kind (realism is a plus, but surreal works too). We are likely to pass on photography, but will consider it.

PAY:
$35 per accepted piece.

​

FAQs without the Questions

• Stories may be submitted for any future theme anytime, but we won’t review a story until a few months prior to the issue it’s been submitted to is due to be published. (You can submit a story for June 2026 in October 2025, but we won’t read it till March or April 2026, so replies will be delayed)
  

• We buy First North American Serial Rights and First Electronic Rights with two-year archival rights.

​​

• Simultaneous submissions are fine. Please tell us immediately if your story is accepted elsewhere.

​​

• If a story is rejected. Do not resubmit it unless it has gone through such drastic editing that it no longer resembles the first submission in any way, shape, or form.

​​

• Multiple submissions are not accepted. Please send only one submission at a time.

​

• If your piece has been accepted, please wait one month from the date of acceptance to submit again. If your piece has been rejected, please wait one week from the date of the last rejection before resubmitting.

​​

• We will not accept translated or reprinted old stories. No exceptions. We do not accept fan fiction (even incredibly well-written fan fiction).

​​​

• We can help advertise your newest book or project. Go to the Advertise page under Support for more information. We will work with you to make sure your advertisement is precisely how you want it. It’s a great way to reach a targeted audience.
  

• We do not accept AI generated artwork, poems, or stories - those found submitting these types of manuscripts to us will be rejected immediately without feedback. Give us your own original work!
  

• If you do not see a theme listed on the submission page we are no longer accepting for that theme and your submission may be rejected without being read

To submit, send fiction, poetry, non-fiction and artwork via utopiasciencefiction.com

Grief’s name is Sylvester and he follows me around the room howling. He showed up the week after you died and he won’t leave me alone. Sometimes he pees on things I like (my old leather grimoire, my collection of topaz crystals, the blanket that smelled like you, your stack of letters, tied with a blue ribbon), things you liked (the ratty wizard’s hat you loved so much, your tattered robes, the potted witchwort, your degree from Majicorum University, covered in coffee stains). He just gives me a sideways look out of his giant eyes and pisses great streams that puddle and crystallize.

He howls all night long and the neighbors complain.

He follows me around town, a black shadow behind my back and my neighbors avoid me.

I hate Sylvester, but the wizard says until we become friends, I’m stuck. That’s how grief works.

I’m going to kill Sylvester.

***

I backed him into a corner one night, after he’d eaten half of your potted witchwort.

I couldn’t keep the knife steady. Sylvester snarled, whined, head held low, and his saucer eyes glared at me with a look I knew only too well.

Sylvester ate my courage and slinked into his corner clutching your sweater. After a final hiss, he settled.

I knew I wasn’t getting the sweater back.

***

I tried the incantations from a second-hand shop that’d smelled of onions and garlic. I went to the sacred woods, crafted the circle of sanctified salt, set the directional wards, said all the mystical words.

The ritual completed, I waited for Sylvester to fade.

Instead, he grew until the circle couldn’t confine him, and with a bang, the shield exploded. The woods started to sob. The maples cried syrup streaks, the pines resin, and oak leaves of sorrow pattered on my hair. I’d made a swamp of desolation and I fled. Sylvester followed, chasing me, a black shadow always at my back, screaming.

***

My old college roommate Sally said I had to feed Sylvester, let the thing eat the memories, digest them.

So I gave Sylvester my most cherished.

It wasn’t the perfect day, when you said you loved me and I floated all the way home. Sally had to pull me down outside the dorm room where I’d been drifting in the ivy, high as a cloud.

It wasn’t our wedding day, which had been full of rain. “The clouds are crying,” you told me, “because I’ve got you and they don’t,” which I thought was overwrought. We’d both burst out laughing.

It wasn’t even the first time we met, in the back of the theater, two stagehands busily spelling the furniture for set changes, whose hands had happened to touch, mid-incantation. We’d caused a blackout and the furniture never did recover, but giggled so hard it stopped the production cold.

“Shit,” you’d said, pulling me toward you. “We should go.” And we went to the coffee shop and discussed magic and mysteries until the sky turned pink.

I gave him your death. It had choked me. Surely it would strangle the snarly demon.

The spell had gone wrong, which was my fault. I’d blinked when I shouldn’t, waved right when I should have gestured left.

“Oops,” was the last thing you’d said, before you faded, me trying to clutch a cloud, to hold you tight, to prevent the crack in the world you slipped through.

Sylvester’s eyes grew even larger until they were all I could see. His body enlarged, his three legs lengthened, his fangs dripped saliva. I shrank away, clutching your wand, the last thing I had left of you unpeed upon.

He grew and grew and kept on growing until he filled our bedroom with sulfur, and then…

He peed on your wand, splashing me, drenching me, drowning me.

“Damn you, Sylvester,” I yelled. I threw the dying witchwort at him, the pot shattering. I smacked him with your wand as hard as I could, causing him to shriek. He cowered away.

I hit him again and again, each time he howled.

He screamed pain.

I stopped.

I couldn’t kill Sylvester.

I collapsed to the floor, drenched. Nothing could kill Sylvester. Nothing would bring you back.

I pulled your robe, damp and pee-ridden, to me and buried my face in the fabric, trying to catch one last smell of your honey-smoked aftershave. My tears mingled with Sylvester’s pee.

Sylvester sat down beside me. We wailed together, until the snot and tears and piss soaked us both and Sylvester crawled into my lap.

***

Months later, he still hasn’t faded; he’s as vibrant as ever and follows me around. People still stare, but I’m used to it. Maybe one day Sylvester will fade back into the night that spawned him, but I don’t think so. I think we’re going to be together a very long time.

I gave him a proper litterbox. He still pees on things, but not as much, and not on the new witchwort plant.

I made him his own bed, next to mine, so I’m not alone at night anymore.

THE END

Originally published in the August 2025 issue of Utopia Science Fiction Magazine.

Calie Voorhis is a short story author, poet, and playwright with over fifty pieces published or performed, including in Anywhere but Earth, Tales of Lost Atlantis, If This Goes On, Utopia, and Strange Horizons, among others. She’s a lifelong fan of the fantastical, an Odyssey Workshop Alumna, and holds an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. You can visit her at the world’s fourth worst writer’s website:

http://www.calievoorhis.com

.

Cass’ fingers flexed against the urge to tug away the fabric binding her eyes. Out of all possible agitations, blindness topped the list. She even slept with her pilot’s lenses in; they kept her from running into a wall en route to the toilet. Still, Jax asked so little of her. She could afford to humor her now.

So she reached out. Her fingertips grazed the cool, rigid keratin of Jax’s claw. She followed its curve to clasp a scaly wrist. Jax tugged her down the ramp’s incline. Night-cooled air raised the hair on the back of Cass’ neck. The shuttle doors hissed shut behind them, quieting the crew’s clamor.

“Now, breathe deeply.” Silence and sightlessness accentuated the translator’s distortion. Cass tried to ignore the electronic garble overlaying Jax’s voice. She tipped her head back and sucked in a breath. After months of slurping up the shuttle’s stale air, the sharpness twisted her stomach. Acrid in the nostrils, but sweet where it brushed the back of the throat. It reminded her of petrichor back on Earth.

“Can you smell the difference?” Jax’s whisper coasted along her throat, coaxing a shiver from her.

“I smell…” Cass drew an exaggerated breath. “That you haven’t brushed your teeth today.”

Jax barked out a laugh. “Brat. In a quarter of an Earth year, the team has improved the air and water quality by 80 percent. This will… How do the humans say it? ‘Drag your underwear away.’”

Cass snorted. “‘Knock your socks off.’”

“That’s what I said.”

“Translator glitch. Just show me whatever it is.”

“Fine, fine.”

The arrhythmic clang of taloned feet circled behind Cass. Claws settled around her shoulders. The tips rested just below her throat, cushioned by her flight suit’s padding. Following the pressure, Cass shuffled downward. Her nose wrinkled as the ramp gave way to squelching terrain underfoot. It clung to her boots and released them with sickly pops.

“Is this whole planet’s surface made of dog shit?” Cass breathed deeply to extinguish the impatience sparking in her chest. After a short distance, the soil latched around her heel and refused to let go. She groaned, straining at the knee to pull her leg free. “This.” Tug. “Is why.” Tug. “I stay.” Tug. “On the ship!”

Her boot lurched and she vaulted headfirst. Jax’s claws dug in to steady her, dragging a pained hiss from between her teeth. She regretted letting the sound slip past when the other’s voice pitched high with alarm. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

After a beat of silence, Jax offered, “Want me to carry you?”

Warmth flooded Cass’ face. “Don’t be an idiot. If the crew saw, I’d be laughed out of the mess for all time.” Her tongue curled at the bitter edge creeping into her tone. With some effort, she lightened it. “Let’s go. I want to see what you have to show me.”

Cass trudged on, keeping her footfalls light. As they walked farther from the shuttle, the gentle slosh of the lake caressed her ears. When they finally stopped, she heaved a sigh and reached for the blindfold.

A playful growl stalled her hand. “Not yet. Hold out your arms.”

Cass reached until her fingers brushed a hard surface. Her hand curled around a metal cylinder. A ladder? Realization piled stones in her stomach. Jax had led her to one of the planet’s few standing buildings: an abandoned ore refinery. Halfway demolished, the eyesore doubled as a death trap.

Cass groaned. “It was a mistake to make you my beneficiary.”

“Trust me.”

She’d displayed quite enough trust already. Only Jax could get her stumbling around with a tourniquet bandage around her eyes.

Cass heaved herself up, only to strike her head against the ladder cage. Teeth-rattling pain reverberated down her skull.

“You okay?”

She grunted, trapping curses behind a locked jaw. She regretted losing her temper with Jax exactly 100 percent of the time it happened. Better to play along now and scream into her pillow later. As muscle memory better gauged the ladder rungs, she gained traction. Below, Jax’s claws strummed with musical clinks.

A stitch burned through Cass’ side. Coughs wracked her shoulders and she latched onto the ladder until it passed. She dragged in a breath to sputter, “You’re sure the air is safe to breathe here?”

“It was safe enough when the place was ripe with chemicals. I reckon it’s not any worse now.” Jax’s laughter sounded in throaty rasps. “Maybe if you left the shuttle once in a while, you’d be in better shape.”

Cass kicked off a sludge-caked boot. She grinned as it landed with a smack.

“Watch it!” Nasally indignation dampened Jax’s hiss. “You’ll have fun walking back to the shuttle if we can’t find that shoe.”

“I’ll just make Krill pick us up.” Cass scrambled up onto the refinery’s roof, one hand clutching her side. “Which begs the question, couldn’t we have flown up here?”

“I wanted some privacy.”

“To ‘drag my underwear away,’ right?” Cass straightened to her feet and stilled under a wave of vertigo. She had no fear of heights, but a misstep here could reacquaint her far too quickly with the ground. Anticipation twisted the lingering knot in her stomach tighter. She shivered as Jax’s smooth, curved claw parted the ringlets of her hair. It slid under the blindfold and tugged it free. Two bleary shapes illuminated the sky. Cass blinked the moons into focus — one halved and violet, the other a white crescent. As her gaze sharpened, her pilot’s lenses identified the celestials in tiny holographic letters. She tapped her temple twice to dismiss them. Her eyes drifted down to meet Jax’s, two vertical-slit pupils against irises of magma. The dual moons’ light brought out the faintest hint of blue in her scales. The color disappeared at her neckline, overtaken by her uniform’s black mesh.

Cass traced the crest that divided Jax’s hallow cheeks and framed her jaw. “Not to be a spoilsport, but I saw the moons while we were in orbit.”

Jax’s teeth flashed in a serrated smile. “Turn around.”

Cass spun toward the roof’s edge. Expecting to see only stars, her jaw dropped as a multicolored halo shrouded her lenses. She rubbed her eyes and squinted against the glare. Distorted glows emanated from the lake below, like sunlit gemstones beyond a swirling fog.

She shuffled forward until her elbows touched the railing. Upon staring long enough, she discerned distinct shapes backlighting the water. Some undulated like eels, lengthy and slender. Others took the shape of bulky masses, devouring swarms of tiny flitting flames between their jaws. Collectively, the lifeforms cast a luminous glow that rivaled the most beautiful auroras Cass had seen light up the skies of alien planets.

“What is this?”

“This” — Jax swept a hand across the valley — “is why the refineries were kicked out. Cosmic Tours managed to secure preservation status for the site. Not out of goodwill, of course. Now that they’ve cleaned the place up, you’re looking at the galaxy’s newest luxury tourist attraction.”

“It’s incredible. Let’s take a boat out!”

Hesitation reverberated in Jax’s throat. “It’s not our equipment. We might get in trouble. Besides, I don’t think your pilot’s license doubles for boats.”

“Don’t be such a lily-livered lizard.” Cass stepped toward the ladder, but the motion sent her pitching forward. The lake’s glow smeared into a prismatic blur. She collapsed and her knees struck perforated metal plating. Painful vibrations shot straight up to her skull. She doubled over, clawing at her stomach. Her insides seared as if they’d been dropped into an oil-greased frying pan.

“Cass! What’s wrong?”

She drew breath, but the words devolved into a coughing fit. She lifted a hand to her mouth, only to fleck her fingers with blood. Jax’s holosplay illuminated, bathing her vision in blurry blue light. Over the thrumming in her ears, Cass heard the other bellow, “Jax to shuttle, we need emergency pickup at the refinery’s roof!”

Jax scooped an arm under her legs and around her back, hoisting her up. Dismay flooded Cass at the thought of the crew seeing her hauled about like a sack of potatoes. She drew a rattling breath to protest but couldn’t express the sentiment before blacking out.

When Cass woke, tendrils of bioluminescent color still painted the back of her eyelids. With every blink, they dissolved to expose the shuttle’s gray ceiling panels. Ventilation hummed, pumping in recycled air mixed with bronchi-singeing chemicals. An aggravating thirst soured her mouth. The raw edges of her throat stuck together as she swallowed.

She tried to stretch out the crick in her spine, but her feet already lay pressed up against the wall. Barely two meters wide, their dedicated medical facility was little more than a repurposed storage closet. Her head lulled to the side. Jax sat crammed into the corner, leaning forward to accommodate the agitated flicks of her tail. One claw scrolled through the holosplay projected from her armlet, too fast for her to be truly reading.

Cass sat up, rustling the IV tube that pinched her wrist. The soft sound sent Jax scrambling to her feet. Her tail knocked over her chair. She lunged with such haste, the entire cot jostled. Clicks and clacks of the Ciriac’s teeth overlaid a throaty rumble.

Unease churned Cass’ stomach. Being stripped of her translator was the only thing worse than taking her lenses out. One hand bolted from her medical gown, fumbling along the tray table until she found her earpiece and fitted it. Her shoulders slackened as Jax’s words took shape. “How are you feeling?”

“Could use a milkshake,” she rasped. “That can be your first priority as my personal cabin girl. You’re due for a demotion. Your one job as the environmental officer is making sure the planet doesn’t murder the crew.”

Jax’s tail swished, nearly striking Cass in the face. “It wasn’t anything on the planet. Gandas mended a perforation in your stomach. He thinks you drank jaleek instead of coffee.”

“No, no, no.” A shake of Cass’ head rattled her brain like gelatin. She recalled the shuttle’s two brewing machines to her mind’s eye. “It’s humans and Faizurin to the left, Ciriacs and Voilnan to the right.”

She winced as Jax snapped her teeth in a rare gesture of impatience. “We upgraded the kitchenette! There’s no difference between the machines now. You use the lever to switch the chamber. There was a message sent to everyone’s inbox and a note taped to the wall. At the very least, you must have noticed it tasted different.”

Cass wrinkled her nose. “I thought it was cinnamon flavored.” There was no way something biologically incompatible could taste that good. Surely, they were covering up a poisoning attempt. She ought to remind the crew that refusing overtime pay was a corporate policy and not a personal one.

Still baring her teeth, Jax hissed, “Promise me you’ll check your messages more often.”

“I promise. Right after I sort through the three hundred already there.”

Jax tipped her head back, throat flaps flaring in exasperation. With a flick of the wrist, she ignited her holosplay and twisted the comm dial. “Gandas. Better get down to med bay quick. Captain’s awake and getting fussy.”

Cass let loose an indignant snort. “Forget cabin girl. You’re well on your way to bathroom attendant.”

In the manner of a parent ignoring a child’s tantrum, Jax continued, “The Cosmic Tours team has packed up. We’re ready to go, whenever you are.”

Shame. Cass would have liked to see that lake one more time. “Mind doing the final departure check?”

The request instilled an immediate calm in Jax. “Of course. Try to take it easy.” She brushed her claw against Cass’ cheek, before striding out into the hall.

Cass fumbled for her armlet on the nearby tray. The holosplay flared to life, tinging her sheets blue. “Hey, Krill. How are we doing for time?”

An exaggerated yawn preceded her copilot’s drawl, “The Cosmic Tours team logged their completion this morning. If we leave now, we’ll only be a few hours behind schedule.”

“Once you get the okay from Jax, we’ll wrap it up here and set course for Earth.”

“You got it, Captain. Want me to send you up a coffee?”

“Shut the hell up.” Cass severed the comm, cutting off a burst of laughter. She reached thoughtlessly for her clothes and bit back a curse as the IV tubing snagged on the cot’s edge. As she reached to rip the damn thing out, the door slid open. She ducked back under the sheets and faked a yawn.

Gandas’ gelatinous form squeezed through the doorway. Beneath his translucent mesoglea, organs rearranged themselves to accommodate his contracting girth. Once through, he rebounded into his spherical shape and rolled to her bedside. The two flat, black plates of his eyes slid from left to right as he scrutinized her. His body quivered with reverberations reconstructed through Cass’ translator: “Feeling better, Captain?”

“Much. Mind unshackling me?”

A limb jutted from Gandas’ form to fill the glove in the wall dispenser. The fashioned hand wiggled its five nitrile-sheathed fingers, before disconnecting her from the IV and spreading regen gel on her wrist.

Cass tossed aside the medical gown and hopped into her flight suit one leg at a time. “Hey, that jaleek tasted really good. If I wanted to cut it with my regular coffee — ?”

“I advise against it, Captain. Even five grams per two hundred and forty milliliters can cause minor stomach ulcers.” Gandas’ humming leveled out into a monotone, a sure sign of disapproval. “The perforation has healed, although the administered medication may cause upset in your digestion. You are not authorized to pilot the ship or operate machinery until you’ve had at least six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Please ensure your diet for the next two days is bland and species appropriate.”

“Thanks, Gandas.” Cass dipped her head to glance under the cot. “Hey, where’s my other…?” She swallowed when she remembered kicking off her left boot. There would be no stalling departure to retrieve it; that wasn’t a conversation her bruised ego could suffer at present.

Passing through the corridor barefoot, Cass shoved the remaining boot into a trash chute. She crossed to her quarters, a cramped niche five paces across in which her bunk and desk could not pull out simultaneously. Slumping down into the creaky swivel chair, she rested her feet on the desk corner uncluttered by paint tubes and jars of cloudy water.

Her eyes wandered over the wall, plastered from ceiling to floor with landscapes of their travels: violet dusks over desert plateaus, skies with five moons, colorful vegetation her Earth-born mind hadn’t conceived of until seeing. Though she’d grown up practicing digital art, the old methods better captured the surreal experience of those fleeting memories. In all the months they’d shuttled teams and supplies to Dasiak’s lakeside cleanup, she hadn’t the slightest idea there was anything worth painting under all that muck. She shuddered at the thought of being the pilot who took her job for granted.

As long as she was on medical restriction, she may as well put the time to good use.

Cass cracked her knuckles and leaned forward to sort her acrylics. She hit the button on her desk that erected the easel and reached for a canvas. Her mind disassociated from her eyes as she primed it, recalling the view from the refinery roof. She’d nearly finished the backdrop of the sky when the door opened.

Jax’s talons clicked across the floor. A chocolate protein shake slid into Cass’ periphery.

“Thanks.” She spared a hand to take a sip. The runny, bitter taste wrinkled her nose. It left much to be desired compared to a milkshake. She smacked her lips and set it aside. “I was thinking, now that Dasiak’s been cleaned up, Cosmic Tours will want to start construction on the hotel. Maybe if we jump on it, we can pick the job up. If we’re lucky, we can score some vacation vouchers. What do you reckon?”

Silence.

Cass glanced over her shoulder. Jax hovered, eyes cast on the painting. She swatted the Ciriac’s drooping tail. “I was just kidding earlier, you know. You’re not demoted.”

Jax’s throat flaps fluttered as she sucked in a breath. Her talons strummed the floor, a telltale sign of anxiety. “We’re close enough to Earth to pick up the news. Doesn’t look so good.”

Cass waved her holosplay to life. She scrolled past the job board, inbox, inventory logs, and advertisements. Pinned at the very end was the news feed. As she spent only a few weeks out of the year on Earth, it wasn’t worth keeping up with. Topping the list was the headline, ‘Tensions Between humans and Ciriacs in Galactic Senate Trickle Down to Workforce.’

Cass snorted. Conflict between their species was nothing new. They clashed on every issue from colonization to the wallpaper of the Senate bathrooms. She scanned the article with a twisted mouth. Her eyes crossed the word “visa” and she did a double take.

The Ciriac government’s inaction regarding these displays of terrorism has provoked the Department of Earth Security to issue an indefinite hold on issuing and renewing Ciriac work visas.

A lump knotted in Cass’ throat. With the last of her breath, she uttered, “How long until yours expires?”

“Two months.”

Jax would lose her clearance to work on a Trans-Galactic shuttle.

Cass’ gut sucked her heart down like a swamp. Their living might be a modest one, but it was the culmination of everything they’d worked for: schooling, loans, applications, climbing the ranks one rung at a time. This very year, they’d finally gained enough seniority to be stationed together. To have it all threatened by the squabbling of petty politicians set her blood ablaze.

“I should’ve renewed it sooner.” Regret graveled Jax’s voice. “Such a simple thing, I can’t believe — ”

“Hey, hey.” Cass stood to level their gazes and cupped the other’s jaw. “It’ll get sorted, one way or another. Maybe we can get you an exemption. I’ve got a connection or two.”

Jax’s talons reflexively scraped against the floor. The metallic screech wrung a flinch from both of them. “Cass, don’t. Not for me.”

“If not for you, then who? I won’t rest until this is taken care of. Trust me.” She batted again at the Ciriac’s wilting tail.

Jax caught her wrist in the curve of her claw and growled, “Knock that off.”

Cass grinned. “Do me a favor. When we reach Earth, don’t leave the hangar. Don’t draw any attention. And keep your eye on the job board, would you? I don’t want any flights back to Dasiak passing us up.”

Cass huffed out a stream of curses as she struggled into the confines of her one formal dress. The silver metallic fabric mocked her with every shimmer as she wiggled into it. Her only spare shoes were a pair of boots she hadn’t gotten around to chucking out yet. The left flapped open like gaping jaws with every step. Having gone just as long without makeup as she had new shoes, she settled for smearing red paint mixed with regen gel on her lips. For a purse, she pilfered a medical satchel and ripped the first aid logo off it. Handbags were superfluous in upper-class Earth cities, where a swipe of your armlet could buy anything from a penthouse to a restroom tampon. But she’d need one today, so she filled it with whatever reasonable items she could gather: her lens case, a chocolate bar, and expired migraine medication.

Humiliation aside, the day’s mission required this uniform. She waited until the crew had dispersed before heading toward the shuttle ramp. The door slid open to reveal the metal walls of a Trans-Galactic hangar, a far sight uglier than the typical planetscape. The muffled clamor evolved into an ear-piercing cacophony: machinery shrieking, engines igniting, and voices bellowing to be heard over it all. Cass’ stiff stride and flapping shoe sole earned laughter and mocking wolf-whistles as she walked down the aisle. She scowled, fixing her gaze on the sunlight shining through the hangar’s mouth.

“Oi, Cassie!”

The shout was too near to pretend she hadn’t heard. Her eyes reflexively twitched to where Captain Arjini ducked out from under her freighter’s hull in a pair of grime-covered overalls. She spun a multi-tool in her hand, blowing back strands of hair from her temple to look Cass up and down. A smirk slithered across her lips.

“You look uncomfortable, babe. Why don’t you come up to my cabin and we’ll tear that thing off you?”

“Better not.” Cass flung an arm toward Arjini’s ship. “If we rattle that piece of junk too hard, it’ll fall apart.”

Fury carved the woman’s face into a sneer. “Just as well. You’ve probably got warts from that frog you keep in your bed.”

In the span of a heartbeat, Cass cleared the distance with a clenched fist. As she wound her arm back, the ghost of Jax’s claw dug into her shoulder. Her body tensed to a halt. She couldn’t afford to spend the day in a cell, waiting to be bailed out for clocking a pilot.

Multi-tool raised between them, Arjini stared with alarm-widened eyes.

Cass blew out a breath between her teeth and lowered her arm. “Ciriacs,” she uttered, “are cold-blooded, but they aren’t amphibious. A more accurate comparison would be a reptile. Idiot.”

She spun on her heel and strode away, ignoring the shout of, “Hope her paperwork’s in order! Bet they’ll be sweeping the hangar any time now.”

Cass’ heart leapt into her throat. Knowing Arjini, she’d tip Enforcement off just to spite them.

She shunted aside revenge schemes battling for attention in her mind; one nefarious plot at a time. She climbed the catwalk to the transport docking station, bracing her hands on the railing to peer over Dover’s cityscape. Buildings spanned the distance, rising in a contest to eclipse one another. Whenever Cass’ eyes fell to rest on one for long, her lenses would calculate its distance and display the tiny number beside it.

Transports zipped between them in endless dotted lines, their engines orchestrating a drone that hammered her eardrums. There was not a moment’s peace to be had here. Still, it was home. There was some comfort in knowing how to get from place to place, or where to buy a meal that wouldn’t burn a hole in your stomach.

An open-roof transport swerved nearby and lurched to a stop at the dock. The human pilot threw his arm over the seat to squint at her. When she hesitated, he barked, “In or out?”

Waddling over in the confines of her dress, Cass fell back into the empty seat like a scuba diver. At the sound of the engine’s thrum, she scrambled to buckle herself. Air rushed past, jostling her hair as the transport propelled into the sky. Excitement quickened her heart when they merged into a higher altitude lane. The city gave way to the coast of the Delmarva Peninsula. Her eyes swept over the Atlantic’s white-tipped waves. People swarmed the beaches in a sea of multicolored specks. Although dimmed grey by the hazy sky, the ocean here was as clean as water on Earth could be. Pollution barricades protected the coastline, creating a rentable space for tourists and locals alike. She’d coughed up entire paychecks just to spend a few hours there with Jax.

Cass grinned when she saw a pod of pelicans flying along the shore. She cupped a hand over her mouth and called, “Any chance you can get us closer to the ocean?”

“Gotta stay in the lane.”

“Not even if I throw in a good tip?”

The pilot ignored her, keeping his goggle-clad gaze fixed ahead. Cass folded her arms with a scowl. If her job was flying over one of the few beautiful places left on the planet, she wouldn’t be that damn grumpy.

The transport parked alongside a high-rise’s top story. In spite of his crummy attitude, Cass tipped the man; she couldn’t bring herself to stiff another pilot. With a staggering lack of grace, she wrapped a hand along the station railing and heaved herself up.

Nigh invisible, the restaurant’s glass walls offered an unimpeded view of the ocean. Cass had hardly taken three steps onto the docking station when the maître d’ zipped across the dining room toward her. At his approach, the glass partition slid open. She avoided his eyes, one hand fidgeting to fix her scrunched dress. “I’m meeting a couple here?” Her voice inflected oddly, turning the announcement into a question. His words were lost on her, as her ears honed into the sound of high-heels clicking against the floor.

“Cassandra!”

Cass fought to smooth the wince tugging at her face. She looked up to see her mother stride onto the balcony, clad in the sleek contour-hugging fashion of recent years. Jewels draped her neck and decorated her braided updo. The lavishness clashed with her fondest memories of her mother: shrugging off a lab coat, kicking away her work clogs, and breaking out into a smile as their gazes met.

Since Cass had left, that air of comfort was lost between them. Everything was stiff and formal, from the words they shared to the places they met. So it was with their embrace, as they stretched their arms to cover the span between them.

“Hi, Mom. Good to see you.”

“You look beautiful, sweetheart.” Her mother leaned back, a frown creasing her temple. “You could stand to do something with your hair, though. What in the world happened to your shoes? Surely you don’t have a dog up on your little ship?”

Oh, well. It was worth a try.

Preparing to hightail it back to the hangar, Cass glanced over her shoulder to see the transport had vanished. Damn. She plastered on a smile. “I’ve never eaten here. Seems nice.”

“Your father reserved the best table. Come see.”

They followed the maître d’ through the door and across the dining room. Serving drones hovered in the aisles, pausing to let them pass. Cass’ mouth watered as the air grew thick with savory aromas, wafting off dishes bursting with colorful ingredients from around the galaxy. A rumble coursed through her stomach that could likely be heard by the patrons. Most were human, although she saw a handful of aliens that were undoubtedly legislators or ambassadors. Few others bothered hobnobbing in these districts where their presence drew disdainful glares.

Her father stood by a table near the glass wall, his suit sashed in Earth’s blue and green color scheme. From him, Cass had inherited her curly black locks and ungainly height. His moustache twitched with a smile, offset by deep creases in his brow. “Captain Cassandra. Welcome back to Earth.”

Cass coughed in mimicry of a laugh. “Thanks.” Like a ladder thrown against a wall, she tipped back into a wicker chair. Unable to spread or cross her legs, she sat with all the flexibility of a PVC pipe.

Cass shivered as a serving drone’s rotors blew gently against her neck. A synthesized voice announced, “Good day. May I take your order?”

“Two pieces of mucamian-topped cheesecake and a gourmet root beer,” Cass recited without missing a beat.

“Isn’t it a bit early for dessert, dear?” Her mother cocked an eyebrow from behind a glass of wine.

Cass drew breath to counter that it was a bit too early to drink, but managed another dry laugh. “Not for me! I’m coming off a twenty-hour workday.”

“Right away, ma’am.” The drone zipped off, leaving her odd dining choice unchallenged like a good robot.

Cass stared after it with a frown. “The bots used to call me ‘miss.’”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The quiver in her mother’s voice caused Cass to squirm. She draped a napkin over her lap and fidgeted with it under the table.

Desperate to cut into the silence before it dragged on, she gestured to the window. “The pelicans seem to be doing well. What species are you bringing back next?”

Her mother’s crinkling expression smoothed into a smile. “We recently stabilized the herring, anchovy, and cod populations. If coastal expansion goes as planned, we’ll be bringing back the bottlenose dolphin.” She flicked on her holosplay to reveal a picture of a gray, pointy-mouthed creature with beady eyes.

“Aquatic life is so gorgeous. On our last job, we shuttled a research team over to Dasiak and helped — ”

“Dasiak!” Her father snorted. “I was just telling you about it, wasn’t I, Lei? The damn hospitality industry exploiting preservation laws to secure their own interests. And at the expense of ore and energy, no less. It’s practically cannibalism.”

Cass’ eyes settled on the coastline as her father’s rant drifted in one ear and out the other. A drone’s three-pronged arm descended over her shoulder, placing a root beer on a crystal coaster. It tasted like a vending machine soda poured over ice. Probably cost three times more.

Entrées arrived not long after. Her eyes fluttered shut as she tasted her first forkful of cheesecake. Superb. The tang of the violet mucamian beads offset the cake’s richness. If she wasn’t careful, she’d eat both slices in one sitting.

“Cassandra?”

At her mother’s prompt, she tilted her head up. Two pairs of eyes burned expectantly into her. She swallowed and blurted out, “Sorry?”

Her mother gave her father a playful slap on the arm. “You’re boring her. No wonder she never comes to visit. I asked what you and the crew did on Dasiak.”

“Oh, not much. In fact — ” Cass let the words hang in the air as she sipped her drink, “lately the shuttle is losing its appeal. I’ve been everywhere, seen everything. I was thinking about looking into more local work. Maybe something in the Census Bureau or the Galactic Embassy?”

Their faces couldn’t have lit up more if she’d announced she was nominated for a Nobel Prize and using it as a platform to run for office.

“The Embassy is expanding rapidly!” Her father leaned forward, wagging a forkful of salad in midair. “They need enforcement for the new legislation, of course. We can get you a job there as soon as today.”

“Really, Dad?” Cass’ voice quavered as it pitched a tad high. “It was just a thought. Do you think I’d be qualified?”

“An educated, well-traveled woman like you? Of course. Now you could stay in one of those cushy desk jobs, or you could work your way up the Bureau of Galactic Consular Affairs. We need people looking after human interests more than ever.”

“And it would be so nice,” her mother added breathlessly, “to have you close to home again.”

“Well, if you both think it’s a good idea — ”

“It’s settled.” A smirk crossed her father’s lips, provoking an itch under Cass’ skin. “We’ll head over right after lunch.”

“Oh, Simon, can’t I take her shopping first? She needs new shoes. A sharp suit wouldn’t hurt either.”

“Either of you want a bite?” Cass interrupted, holding up a forkful of cake.

Her mother leaned a little closer. “What’s it topped with?”

“Mucamian. The jellied eyeballs of an aquatic alien organism.”

Her mother reeled back so fast, her chair slid across the floor. Her father’s eyes crinkled into slits.

“No? I’ll have to box the second piece then.” Cass smiled around the fork as she popped it into her mouth.

#

Cass loathed shopping. It blended all of the worst things about life on Earth: people, places, and an empty bank account. She much preferred having her tax-deductible flight suits delivered by drone to the hangars. Still, her mother helped her scrounge up a suit and dress flats in a quarter of an hour, most of which was spent waiting for an attendant to find Cass’ “remarkably large” shoe size.

The reminder that Cass could coexist with her mother stirred up a long-disregarded guilt. Her heartstrings knotted at the sight of her mother’s tears as they parted on the luxury mall docking station. It had been a decade since they’d spent this much time together. Projections for the next decade weren’t especially promising.

“I’ll let you know how today goes. Thanks for paying.” With a little wave, Cass slid into the waiting transport. The cityscape swallowed up the coastline as it sped past her glazed eyes. Before long they banked around the Galactic Embassy, an ugly concrete cylinder that stood out amid its sister skyscrapers like a blemish. Cass leaned over the transport’s side. On ground level, people she assumed were protesters gathered in the narrow alleyways. The height rendered them a silent, faceless mass.

A burst of nerves pressed Cass’ spine flush against the seat. “Twenty-first floor, please. Eastward-facing station.”

As they rounded the building and slowed, Cass’ father could be seen standing on the station platform. Her stomach dropped at the sight of his three-man security detail, padded like mattresses under cobalt uniforms. Two stood with firearms at the ready, helmeted heads sweeping in every direction. The third fiddled with a holosplay. As the transport locked into the station, a shimmer in the air betrayed the dismissal of a force field.

Cass’ trembling fingers accidentally tipped the pilot two percent. Over the pounding of her heart, she heard his breathy curse. She grabbed her father’s proffered hand, wincing at the warmth of his palm against her clammy one.

“You look nice.” Deliberateness measured her father’s voice, as if annunciating for the benefit of speech recognition software.

Cass pulled back her lips in what she hoped was a smile.

“Pardon, ma’am,” an officer’s voice intoned from behind a tinted visor. Two of the three stepped forward. One beckoned for her satchel, while the other lifted a scanner. Light burst from it, causing her eyes to screw shut. She blinked away a watery film and stared at the officer prodding gloved fingers through her bag. He even opened the little box of leftover cheesecake.

A bead of sweat slithered down Cass’ neck. “Security sure is tight. Is it safe?”

Her father flicked a dismissive wrist. “There’ve been a few incidents on ground level. Nothing to worry about this high up. Better safe than sorry, of course.”

The officer returned her bag. “Thank you. Please remember there’s no recording of any kind permitted inside the Embassy. Enjoy your visit.”

Blowing out a held breath, Cass strode after her father. He touched his thumb to the door panel and it parted for them. Pungent citrus thickened the air, as if the interior had been cleaned by clouds of lemon disinfectant.

Relief cooled Cass’ blood as the security detail dispersed. Her eyes swept across the room. Among Earth’s government buildings, it was the most depressing. Closed-door offices wrapped around the floor’s perimeter, absorbing the sunlight and leaving the rest to suffer under the glare of fluorescents. Personnel sat in rows at flat, unembellished desks of plastic and metal. They kept eyes and fingers on their holosplays, breaking rhythm only to cough or exchange conversations that quieted as her father walked past. They hailed him with nods and mumbled greetings of “Senator.”

Her father led her from floor-to-floor to shake hands with supervisors, who recited their daily responsibilities like a list of grievances. They skipped the offices of alien consuls, which Cass was grateful for. But on the fortieth floor, the elevator doors opened to reveal a Ciriac vested in an orange and red sash. Cass recognized her from countless broadcasts: the Ciriac ambassador to Earth. On any other day, she would’ve shaken her claw. Unfortunately, on that particular day, Cass stood beside a man elected to the Galactic Senate in a wave of unilateral ideology.

The ambassador stepped into the elevator, tail flicking within millimeters of her father’s nose. His nostrils flared, anger bleeding through his politician’s composure.

Cass closed her eyes and imagined taking this elevator straight to space — a fantasy made all the more believable by the sudden, suffocating lack of oxygen.

“Forty-first floor,” the elevator announced. “Visa and Consular Services for Citizens of Ciriac.”

The ambassador briskly stepped off as the doors opened to a terse hum of conversation. Tension wracked employees’ shoulders as they uttered scripts from between their teeth:

“My apologies, miss.”

“We’re considering no civilian visa renewals at this time, sir.”

“Further inquiries are best directed toward your representative.”

Cass’ jaw stretched into a forced yawn. “Sorry. Anywhere I can get a coffee?”

Her father led her to a kitchenette, nestled into a niche that looked to be outside of the surveillance cameras’ range. Cass shuffled through the brewing machine’s flavors. Breath held, she waited until she heard her father engaging a passerby in conversation. With swift hands, she unlatched the brewing machine and swiped leaves out of a chamber. The sharp, spicy scent of jaleek made her nostrils twitch. She rotated the chambers, dumping the leaves into each one.

Cass snapped the machine shut. She waited for someone to snidely ask what she thought she was doing. Met with silence, she clasped a mug in a shaky hand and filled it with lukewarm water from the sink. A hasty gulp sent half of it down the wrong pipe. She erupted into coughs, burying her mouth into her elbow and sloshing water over her hand. By the time she glanced up through teary eyes, her father was leaning around the corner with a deep frown.

“Alright, Cassandra?”

“Fine. Drank a little too fast.” She stepped out and trailed after him toward the administration offices.

#

After a painstaking hour of rubbing elbows with administrators, Cass dismissed herself to the restroom. Instead, she slipped into the elevator and rode it back the forty-first floor. When the doors opened, she had to edge around a handful of personnel shambling in with hands clutched to their stomachs.

She walked the room’s perimeter, halting at the kitchenette. From her purse, she produced the box of leftover cheesecake. Snagging a fork and knife from the drawer, she leaned against the counter and ate as if she belonged. Her ears perked at the snappish remarks:

“We need some coverage over in Fraud.”

“We’ve got people dropping left and right over here.”

“Who the hell did we hire for that luncheon?”

Between bites, Cass squashed a thimbleful of mucamian under her knife. She leveled the gelatinous substance out until it was a near-transparent sheet. Turning her back to the room, she draped the thin strip in the crook of her hand, between thumb and index finger. She smiled as she admired her handiwork. She’d learned on the planet Pyrocc that security systems used DNA screenings because the mucamian of native species could easily trick biometric devices. All she needed was the thumbprint of a high-ranking official.

Cass crossed to the Deputy Consul General’s office and tapped his door panel. It chimed and slid open. In the past hour, the man’s lethargy had given way to agitation. His beefy frame scrunched over the desk, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. His coat was abandoned over his chair and his loose tie tossed over his shoulder.

“What now?” he barked, leering up at Cass over the holosplay hovering above his desk.

She met the man’s glare with her sweetest smile. “My father heard the floor was understaffed and sent me down to help. Cassandra Sykes. We met earlier.” She crossed the room and extended her hand.

While she couldn’t recall his name, hers struck a bell. He sat up straight and smoothed his face. “My apologies, ma’am. Best not shake your hand. There’s a bug going around. Might just be from the caterer, but you can never be too careful.”

Cass’ mouth twitched as she lowered her arm. She needed that handshake. “Is there any way I can be of help?”

“I’d appreciate it.” With a wave of his hand, he linked their armlets. “Now you have clearance to answer comms from the queue. I’ll send you a script to follow. Easy as that.”

“Perfect. I’ll just have a seat at one of the empty chairs.” As Cass turned, she kicked a leg against his desk and flopped to the floor. She barked out a nervous laugh, holding a hand against her hip. “Whoops! Clumsy.”

He jumped to his feet, rounding his desk and extending a hand to her. She clasped it tightly, shooting him a dazzling smile. “Thanks so much. I’ll get right to work, sir. Can I get you a coffee?”

#

Cass slumped into one of the empty office seats and wiped the sweat from her temple. Her father had been delighted to learn she was filling in. All she had left to do was bide her time until the jaleek did its work. Her right hand rested motionless on her lap, letting the mucamian strip harden. Anticipation quivered through her fingers as she dialed into the comm link. “Visa and Consular Services for Citizens of Ciriac. How can I — ?”

“I need help,” a woman’s frustrated voice blurted out. “I’m contacting you on behalf of my husband. Three days ago, he was rerouted at an Ontario hangar and forced onto a shuttle to Ciriac. He told me before he left that he sent his visa renewal request months ago, when he was stationed on Paeria. We contacted each relay station from here to there like we were told, and we received assurances that the request reached you in a timely manner.”

“Damn, that sucks,” Cass muttered.

“W-what?”

Cass glanced around to ensure the glassy-eyed employees weren’t looking her way. She cupped a hand over her mouth as she spoke, “If he’s not cleared now, chances are it’s going to stay that way. You’re not going to reach anyone authorized to make exceptions.”

“I don’t understand this. We’ve been married for twelve years and abided by the law. How can you punish us for what extremists have done? It’s not right!”

Cass winced. “No, it’s not. If I were you, I’d consider applying for one of the interplanetary colonization programs. I know it’s a big change, but they’ll take your whole family at the drop of a hat. You can always come back once the whole mess dies down.”

A heavy sigh distorted the comm link. “To uproot our whole lives…”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could do more. Good luck to you.” Cass shifted the holosplay’s dial, picking up the next comm in the queue. “Visa and Consular Services for Citizens of Ciriac.”

Not everyone was as civil as the first caller.

These predicaments, countless in number, stuck to her brain like a Plunarian fungus. Cass pushed it all into her mind’s designated compartment and latched it shut, as she was so practiced at doing. These callers would spit on her if they knew her Earth-born privilege enabled her a shot at helping Jax. In her youth, Cass had rejected just enough of that privilege to sabotage any real chance she had at power.

How was she supposed to know things would get this bad? Now if she tried her hand at advocacy, it’d be disastrous. She’d get a whole fifteen minutes of fame, until her father stripped away her credibility, intercepted her at every turn.

And what could she do then? She was only a shuttle pilot.

She could sit feeling guilty over it, or she could cover for Jax and get the hell out. In the end, it was Earth that rejected them, not the other way around.

Rationalization didn’t make choking down these conversations any easier.

After about a dozen calls, the Deputy Consul General shuffled out of his office with a grimace plastered across his face.

Cass carefully adjusted the rigid mucamian strip so it covered her own thumb. She crossed to his office and pressed it against the door panel. Her stomach lurched as it pinged and the door whirled open. She bolted across the room and collapsed behind the obnoxious executive desk, its polished surface empty apart from a projector bar.

Cass waved to interface her armlet with the system. The projector powered on, casting a holographic keyboard against the desk. Cass pressed her thumb against the scan prompt. After a moment’s pause, the network opened to her.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Cass searched the database for Jax. Her partner’s low-risk profile, usually set for automatic approval, had been flagged and frozen along with every other Ciriac’s. In a database chock full of billions, she doubted anyone would think to manually check an alien with a squeaky-clean record. The streamlined system required only a few button presses to remove the flag and authorize renewal. With any luck, that would let Jax fly under the bureaucratic radar long enough for the dust to settle.

Cass leaned back in the swivel chair with a satisfied smile. Usually, her promises to Jax amounted to cleaning the shower and remembering to set the thermostat high. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Jax’s face when she returned to the ship victorious.

In the midst of her fantasy, the door panel beeped.

Cass flung her arm to dismiss the holosplay and ducked under the desk, banging her head on the edge. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip as she bit back a cry. She tucked herself into a corner of the massive desk, ears tuned to the sound of sluggish footsteps.

Trouser-clad legs slumped into the chair, bringing her eye-level with bureaucratic crotch. Cass stared wide-eyed as the man’s hand clutched his stomach, then reached down to scratch beneath his belt. Exhaling slowly, she cinched her eyes shut. They burst open when an incoming comm chimed from her holosplay. She silenced it, breath caught in her throat. The man shifted, seeming to check his own armlet. He dropped the hand to his stomach as it gave an angry gurgle.

Cass leaned her head back against the desk, grinding her jaw. She was so close. The thought of letting Jax down twisted her heart. It seemed such a small, harmless thing she’d done. Yet if her father figured her out, he’d handpick her jail cell. Years of stifled anger flared in Cass’ chest and licked the back of her throat. Her parents’ voices echoed in her head, stoking the flames.

“How could you lower yourself to this? Bedding one of them is no better than lying with a dog.”

“Sweetheart, you’re beautiful. There’s plenty of women, human women, that would be lucky to have you.”

Cass’ pulse thrummed in her ears. She breathed deeply and thought of better things: the bioluminescent lake, her painting, Jax’s sharp-toothed smile. Minutes later, she heard the man activate his comm link and groan, “Look, I tried to tough it out, but I caught whatever’s going around. I’m out for the day.”

He cut off a string of high-pitched protests. He scooted out a smidge and reached a hand straight for Cass. She dodged and her fingers brushed a leather briefcase. She pushed it forward for the probing hand to clasp.

Face screwed up in a wince, Cass listened until his steps had faded behind the door. She crawled out from underneath the desk, shaking out her numb legs. Shoulders squared and face neutral, she waited a while before striding out of the office and across the room. The employees’ sullen gazes never lingered on her. Cass suppressed a snort of laughter at the thought of how it might have gone if she hadn’t changed her clothes.

Ducking into the elevator, she activated her holosplay to call for a transport. A pending call pinged and she answered it with a wave.

Anxiety wavered in her mother’s voice. “Cassandra? How’s it going?”

“Sorry, Mom. I think I’m going to head on out. I don’t know what I was thinking. This deskwork stuff isn’t really for me.” Swallowing hard, she forced the words past her tightening throat: “I might be in town for a while longer. Maybe Jax and I can meet you guys for dinner?”

Faced with silence, she severed the comm.

#

Jax awaited her in the copilot’s seat, talons thrumming against the floor. Her tail gave a nervous flick as she looked Cass up and down. “I got the notification in my inbox. You either sucked up to someone big time, or you did something illegal.”

Cass fell into the seat beside her. “Both. That’s how much I love you.”

“Cass.” Jax’s throat flaps shuddered. She slumped forward, head bowed. “I don’t know… I can’t… Thank you.”

“I reckon my motives are a little more selfish than you’re letting on.”

“You’d have done the same for anyone on the crew.”

“Sneaking into the Embassy, sure. Having lunch with my parents? Only for you.”

Jax’s tail shot straight up, then wilted. “How did it go?”

Cass shrugged.

Silence thickened the air between them; Jax knew by now to keep needless apologies behind a locked jaw. Instead, she said, “Well, I have some good news. We got the next job to Dasiak on a recommendation from the cleanup crew. We’ll be helping shuttle teams back and forth during construction.”

Excitement seeded the void left by Cass’ anxiety. She lulled her head back to meet Jax’s eyes and smiled. “Great. I’ll get myself a boating license. Maybe we’ll open a charter and build it on a nice little piece of lakeside property.”

“You’re teasing,” Jax scoffed. “You wouldn’t leave this ship for anything.”

“I’d leave for you.” The words slipped out without any thought on Cass’ part. She felt an echo of the shock that dropped Jax’s jaw, yet reexamination found the sentiment genuine. She cleared her throat and uttered, “Say the word and we’ll settle down.”

After a moment’s thought, Jax shook her head. “There’s a lot of lakes out there. I think we should keep looking. Make sure we’ve found the best one.”

“I like the way you think.”

THE END

First published in the August 2024 issue of Utopia Science Fiction Magazine. Final installment in the March 2025.

Ana Wesley hopes to help fill the fantasy and science fiction genres with lesbian heroines embarking on epic adventures. Her joint BA is in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Winchester, England.

One of the most famous examples of love in a utopian science fiction setting is The Dispossessed (1974) by Ursula K. Le Guin. The novel presents two contrasting societies: Anarres, a utopian anarchist world with no government or private property, and Urras, a planet with capitalist and hierarchical structures. The protagonist, Shevek, experiences love not just in a romantic sense but also in the broader context of communal bonds and intellectual passion. His relationship with Takver is one of mutual respect and equality, reflecting the novel’s utopian ideals of partnership rather than domination. Love in The Dispossessed is not limited by economic constraints or traditional power dynamics, allowing for deeper emotional and intellectual connections.

Another example of love in an idealized society is found in Woman on the Edge of Time (1976) by Marge Piercy. The novel contrasts a dystopian present with a utopian future where gender roles, relationships, and family structures have been completely transformed. In this future world, love is fluid, and relationships are based on deep emotional connections rather than rigid societal expectations. Polyamory and communal child-rearing ensure that love is shared freely without jealousy or possessiveness, challenging traditional notions of romance and partnership.

Where scarcity and struggle have been eliminated, love is often depicted as something that can flourish without external pressures. Iain M. Banks' Culture series explores a highly advanced, post-scarcity society where artificial intelligence and limitless resources have allowed humans to focus on self-improvement, exploration, and personal fulfillment. In such a world, love is not bound by financial struggles, societal pressures, or survival needs. Instead, relationships are based purely on personal choice and emotional fulfillment. Characters engage in complex, evolving romantic connections that are free from the constraints of monogamy, jealousy, or social expectations, illustrating how love might evolve in a world without material concerns.

Utopian science fiction also challenges conventional notions of love by exploring relationships beyond traditional human dynamics. In Samuel R. Delany’s Triton (1976), society has advanced to the point where individuals can alter their gender, appearance, and even neurological structures to better align with their emotional needs. Love in such a world is fluid and adaptable, reflecting a future where identity and relationships are entirely self-determined.

We, at Utopia Science Fiction Magazine, love to see an optimistic vision of love, free from the struggles and inequalities that shape relationships in our present world. By imagining societies where love is based on equality, emotional fulfillment, and self-expression, these books challenge readers to rethink traditional ideas about romance and human connection. In these hopeful futures, love becomes a force of true freedom, reflecting humanity’s potential for growth and harmony.

About Us

Utopia Science Fiction Magazine is a science fiction magazine dedicated to publishing optimistic stories that feature hopeful futures we want to live in one day. We at Utopia are firm believers that literature, especially science fiction, influences the way we view the world. When everything we see is dark, post-apocalyptic, dystopian we slowly assimilate that that is what the world is like. Utopia aims to counter this by showing the world a more hopeful place. By publishing optimistic views of the future we can start to envision a better world and what we might do to reach there.

Of course we do so much more than just publish fiction. We publish poems and artwork, science educational articles and trivia as well. We work closely with our artists and authors to edit their works and help them to be the best they can be. In our own way, where and when and how we can, we try to make this world a little bit better of a place through stories and education.

What's Next?

Each year we've been growing and doing more. This year we were able to start offering fiction authors the rate of 8c per word. Maintaining and running this beautiful magazine is expensive. We need to raise funds so we can afford another year publishing quality stories and poems.

Help us to bring more optimistic and hopeful messages into the world. We need your help to do it.

Kickstarter Goals

The goal is to reach $7,000 which will help us to pay for all of Volume VII 2025-2026.

At $7,000 we'll be able to maintain the 8c per word pay rate we offer authors

If we raise $9,000 we'll produce to increase the amount we pay authors, artists, and non-fiction writers,

If we should reach $12,000 we'll run a special themed anthology, increase the rates we can pay all our contributors, and even increase the number of poems, stories, and non-fiction articles we publish each issue.

by James Machell

First Appeared in Utopia Science Fiction Magazine

Yunsun emerged from customs at Seoul Harbour, rocket-lagged after nine months in space. Her husband, Woojin, waited with flowers. The city was contaminated by the breath and sweat of millions; neon lights strobed the roads. She was used to an antiseptic cabin and the dim peacefulness of starry views.

They drove home as rain streaked the car windows and Yunsun didn’t speak, focusing on droplets like they were asteroids. A tank on the back of a passing truck reflected the afternoon showers with a mournful lustre.

One of the hundred tourist rockets glinted in the rear-view mirror, launching from the harbour with a tail of green flame. The sky had turned so red in the space-age that patches of exhaust looked like sprinkles of basil in tomato soup.

“You don’t have to talk about what happened you know?” said her husband. “I just hope that you will stay on Earth from now on.”

Yunsun had neither the urge nor the energy to discuss her terrible journey. She didn’t even care about crushing the bouquet of flowers between her legs while resting her face against her palm with her elbow against the door.

Pictures of plum blossoms, magnolias, rapeseeds, and of course her favourite, sunflowers, had decorated her sleeping quarters. They were reminders of home but now brought her back to space after so many nights staring at them. “I always thought lucum-densa was a terrible business,” he continued, though Yunsun had only sniffled since they met. “There’s no point in risking your life over a job.”

After years of processing numbers as a launch co-ordinator for merchant vessels, she decided to use her knowledge to steer a ship through volatile necks of space and retrieve the most craved substance in the universe. This fuel, so much more powerful than oil, had propelled mankind into light speed.

A few crystals sold for thousands on the international market.

But her captain had known the true value of lucum-densa, having wrestled with so many dying stars that you could still see an inferno in his flashing eyes. He used to stay up with Yunsun in her cabin, when the other astronauts were asleep, talking about how star chasers were like the whalers in Moby Dick. This had been her first voyage and it made her feel better to hear him focus on conquering the stars, rather than the chances of getting swallowed by them.

Sometimes they spoke for so long that he spent the night in her bed.

“Say something!” demanded Woojin, his voice starting to crack. Yunsun still had nothing to discuss and looked up at the skyscrapers, taking little notice of her husband because he seemed so insignificant now. “I waited nine months for you and brought these sunflowers. The least you could do is show a little gratitude!”

The captain used to call her Little Flower.

She found the nickname patronising until their target star blossomed into death with lilac solar flares and a gleaming core that outshone the surrounding galaxy. Everything seemed so pointlessly tiny afterwards.

“I just need some tea,” muttered Yunsun.

“Ok then,” sighed her husband. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I – I didn’t know whether you would ever come home.” Yunsun hadn’t known whether she would get back either, but there didn’t seem to be much point in mentioning it.

Because lucum-densa was unobtainable, once a supernova began condensing into a neutron star, the dazzling crystals had to be extracted at precisely the right moment. The pre-launch forecasters must have misjudged the timing of the blast because the anti-vacuum bay exploded after drawing in the first few particles.

Having lost all forms of communication, as well as the captain and half the crew, it was a perilous journey back home. A two-week expedition turned into nine months of navigating by sight. It had been easy to find the Milky Way but then frustrating to roam through solar systems until they eventually found Earth.

“I’ll be right back,” said Woojin, pulling up beside Gong Cha, where drinkers of bubble tea were as tightly crammed as her crew had been on the observation deck. Yunsun left her sunflowers on the seat, the moment he was out of sight, and hailed a dingy yellow cab. She wished her husband had remembered to bring a mask because the exhaust from cruisers and merchant vessels was suffocating.

“Seoul harbour!” she told the driver.

Her manners disappeared after months of arguing over the whereabouts of the Sun on a patchy map of the universe. Yunsun had looked forward to coming home, but flowers, which used to be fascinating, were minuscule compared to the stars.

“Drop me by a motel. I’m taking the next rocket out of here.”

Subscribe now