Méandre soared over a vast, deserted, wooded meadow stretching into infinity. The season was mild, the sun radiant, the woods shimmering with autumnal hues. He felt he could effortlessly propel himself beyond the clouds, but preferred to wander just above the tops of the towering pines, searching for prey.

  His feathering glided through the air in silence, undetectable, his hollow bones and powerful muscles playing with the winds like winds does with sand. His head swayed from side to side, on the lookout. His keen eyes spotted movement before his reasoning could even analyze it. His wings retracted, and his body dove sharply.

  His sharp talons pierced through a fine, smooth coat, lifting the struggling prey in vain. His sharpened beak struck three times into the flesh until stillness prevailed. With a beat of his wings, he soared back into the skies.

  His task accomplished, the idea of returning germinated within him. But a foreign will prevented him, drawing him towards steep gorges, rocky mountains, up to a snow-capped summit.

  A feminine silhouette awaited him there, her face veiled by her flowing hair. He recognized the fire that draped her, and laid his prey at her feet.

  Heather looked at the offering, then smiled. Méandre then gazed upon his own carcass that he had just hunted, pale and washed out skin, chiseled muscles, black and empty eyes.

  Méandre woke up screaming, leaving Heather stunned. He scanned the cabin filled with sand, snow, and pine needles.

  "It's getting more and more worrying," Heather immediately noted. "We need to cancel everything."

  "No," Méandre replied without hesitation, taking a moment to regain his composure. "Something real is happening to me... a deep sense that I still can't grasp."

  Heather took his face in her hands. "I warned you - the truth holds both darkness and light, and everything in between; it's not the lucid dream you've experienced."

  "I understand, Hexy," Méandre whispered, his cheeks tight. Slowly, he removed the young woman's hands. "But that's not how I feel. I'm being called... an idea already within me, but one I can't extract or observe as you've taught me."

  Heather lay down beside him in the sand. "If the vortex is causing such effects... as long as you can't stabilize them... how do you plan to continue in this state?"

  "I'll pull myself together, I just need to stay awake until we reach the scientists' landing place."

  "And after?" asked Heather.

  "After?"

  "Once our freedom is assured and we're on our own... what will happen if you can't control yourself?"

  Méandre hesitated but declared, "I'll manage, I know it. I was able to break free from the eternal dreams on Daedalus; I won't falter so close to the goal."

  Heather gazed at the young man's face, reading determination in his ethereal gaze, secretly nurturing the hope that it would be enough to achieve their goal.

  "Well then, if you believe, so do I," said Heather. "As they say where you come from, reality is born from the desire to become."

  Méandre smiled at the mention. "We live it more than we say it, that's what makes emancipation from the dream difficult. Unless you have the right key." He looked at Heather tenderly.

  The young woman felt emotion rise within her, releasing it in a determined sigh. "Our time is approaching - we must prepare."

  "In that case..." Méandre took a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he reopened them, the room was pristine, the furniture reappeared.

  "Here," said Heather, handing him an object.

  "What's this?" asked Méandre.

  "A Boon shield, it will protect you from material alterations," she replied.

  "Why? I can reconstruct myself..." started Méandre.

  "Don't rely too much on your powers," Heather interrupted. "If the vortex is already affecting you... Imagine on site. It's better to preserve your energy."

  "I suppose it can't hurt," said Méandre, attaching the device to his belt, dubiously. "And now?"

  "Now, we become prisoners again," affirmed Heather, heading towards the exit.

  The hypersleep chambers were located at the heart of the flagship. This sphere, about 50 meters in diameter - a reduced surface considering its capacity of over 10,000 pods - required energy equivalent to double the rest of the ship.

  From below, the core resembled a large organic silo. Rows and rows of pod shelves stretched upwards like a skyscraper, interspersed with tiny elevator platforms providing access.

  At the center, what could be mistaken for a moving impressionist canvas from afar turned out to be a colorful mixture of blood, urine, and other secretions flowing from the few thousand still active pods.

  Heather and Méandre made their way towards the active ones. As the platform ascended towards the spherical summit, they could observe the faces of damned souls from all walks of life - rejects and scoundrels heavily sentenced - passing by in the pods.

  "Have they even been informed of their sentence?" asked Méandre, seeing them asleep, barely hours before the fatal deadline.

  Heather had little doubt about the fate that awaited them in the Zone. "What difference would it make?"

  "Why not just kill them? Being barely conscious and thrown onto an unreal planet is a crueler sentence than death," Méandre lamented.

  Heather saw an opportunity in his question to test his reasoning. "Think. You've understood that they're going to die, so what's the point of this process?"

  "Cruelty?" Méandre attempted. "You've explained the principle to me, but I'm not sure I see the point."

  "Cruelty in death is a relic of the Old Times; the Universal Administration is an orderly state, it only kills out of necessity, coldly, and without second thoughts," Heather corrected.

  "Profit, then... There must be something to gain from it."

  "Possible. But look closer, examine the evidence," Heather guided him.

  "The vortex...!" Méandre realized. "Their essence will be trapped there!"

  "Bingo. A fate worse than death, forgotten forever, removed from creation."

  "So... The Universal Administration must think the mission is doomed to fail, that the vortex can't be closed," Méandre deduced.

  "You've listened well," Heather commended him. "That's possible, yes, it's also likely they don't care... Both outcomes would suit them."

  "And us, in all this, aren't we at risk of failing as well?"

  "As long as we remain cautious and don't attach ourselves to their objectives, we should be fine. I don't see signs of sabotage in the making."

  The elevator stopped in front of a circular row surrounding the room, and they crossed about ten aisles before reaching two pods extinguished among the occupied ones.

  Facing the imposing dormant machines, Méandre asked apprehensively, "How much time before the drop?"

  Heather knew he wouldn't like the answer. "Fifty hours," she said.

  "Half a day?!" Méandre spat under his breath.

  "I couldn't do better; there are many sentenced to social exclusion, and the loading starts early," Heather defended herself.

  "And what if they notice that our pods aren't functioning?" Méandre raised.

  "I saw the hangars... (She pointed to one of the four three-meter holes in the core wall.) These tunnels lead directly to the shuttles on the tracks. The pods will be transferred there."

  "So no verification," Méandre understood.

  "We're counting on that," said Heather. "Otherwise, your powers will have to get us out of there. You won't fall asleep?"

  "After my dreams... no chance," Méandre replied thoughtfully.

  They entered the pods.

  Wandering through the maintenance tunnels of the ship - serpentine passageways connecting the rings - Landon Pike was still mulling over the Admiral's nocturnal arrival: her bold stride when she had entered, the feigned detachment in her demeanor, and her eyes simmering with a thousand sparks, as if nothing were too tough for her. The sensations from his imagination sent shivers down his spine.

  "Captain Pike," she had said, "ensure the stability of the constants for the prisoners and STIGL shuttles, please. The measuring devices must be ready, no data should be missing regarding the effects of this vortex planet. Everything must be documented."

  "I'm delusional," Pike thought. Dolores had come back during his sleep. And she hadn't said please, nor captain. "Get up, you slacker, and do your job for a change!" she had snapped. Yet her personal visit... he pondered, was there not a hint of esteem?

  Certainly, his mind deceived him, but Pike felt incapable of unraveling why. Disobeying had never been his strong suit, which was why he hadn't protested. Yet, something gnawed at him.

  Pike arrived at the core of the ship through a hidden hatch and began searching for the control room. "An old ship," he had been told, "one of the first capable of carrying so many passengers. Compromises were made on the onboard technology." He thought of this as he found no trace of a central computer where he expected it, each pod being individualized.

  With determination, Pike realized that the task would take him the remainder of the night. Whistling cheerfully, he traversed the rows dimly lit by the bluish light emanating from the pods, a sign of their operation.

  From walkways to elevator platforms, he observed each of the 5,000 still active pods. The repetitiveness of the activity allowed his mind to wander, but he couldn't bring himself to it - with each pod, Pike could only think of the resemblance between these humans, spacers, and rare psychics with other convoys he had led.

  Memories resurfaced from a transport of colonists years ago. Friends to be, departing without ever seeing each other upon arrival. Pike shook his head to refocus.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Over the dark hours, a suspicion gnawed at him. The pods were intertwined - High-ranking corrupt officials near war butchers, hitmen next to sex offenders. No classification, no logic, Pike thought. Yet it's the work of an algorithm, but following what purpose...

  He brushed aside these thoughts, his attention returning to his duties, but when he had traversed half of the rows, he found himself out of breath and took a break.

  Leaning against a security grate, he watched the colorful fluid swirling up and down, reminding him of a plasma lamp. He remembered the cold and methodical words of the Admiral after asking if shields were needed for the prisoners: "Prepare ten for testing. The rest will serve as witnesses." Pike shivered again.

  A reminder flashed on his contact lens: "013 800 002 024/12/10; Spatium; 28h." Pike sprang to his feet. The hour was approaching, better hurry. He quickly finished his inspection, strolling between the pods. Towards the last rows, he spotted two darkened diodes.

  When Heather heard footsteps on the metal, her heart skipped a beat. Immediately, she released her mind and her breath, searching for Méandre's presence in her psyche. She shouted, "Get us out of here! Alter reality..." but the young ethereal did not respond.

  The sounds on the gangway stopped nearby, and she heard, "Strange. This one is still asleep, but the pod is off..." A whirring engine started: "Out of sight, out of mind," said the muffled voice of the man.

  The footsteps moved to Heather's pod, and she saw Captain Pike, surprised, through the glass. She signaled for him to open, and he complied. Docile, she thought. "Thank goodness you're here, I was so scared," Heather said as the door opened. "This scoundrel tried to trap me, but I managed to lock myself in the pod."

  "Excuse me? What scoundrel are you talking about?" Pike replied.

  "Come help me out, I'll explain. My God, I was so scared, you know..."

  Pike seemed embarrassed. "Right away, M'am, please excuse me."

  "It's nothing," assured Heather, seizing the outstretched hand. Upon contact, Pike's eyes widened, and she said distinctly, "Your inspection is complete. Everything is in order. Resume your activities."

  Pike wore a silly smile. His lips pursed, and he walked away as if nothing had happened, whistling. Heather looked at her sticky hands, stained with a viscous, silvery liquid. Though repulsive, this psychic poison was a formidable weapon.

  Méandre's pod jolted with regular tremors. Inside, his drawn face was covered in a mix of brown-red, his skin pale and bloodless like a mummy's. Hopefully, he'll wake up, thought Heather, activating the stasis halt system, but an alert notified her of the impossibility of her request. Suddenly, clicks filled the sphere. Four by four, the pods started moving, pulled by chains like fairground wagons. Heather leaped into hers just in time for the machinery to carry her away.

  Meanwhile, Landon Pike was making his way to the hangars to oversee the transfer of the prisoners. An urgency seemed to animate his steps, as if they knew something he didn't. It was the first time he felt them move with such eagerness for the task, which surprised Pike. Upon arriving at the spaceport, the scene was unprecedented. Everywhere, soldiers and technicians bustled about, laden with equipment for shuttles and armored vehicles. In the organized chaos, Pike spotted Boos Wright and his Cyor in conversation, observing the tunnels from which rows upon rows of self-integrating hypersleep pods emerged onto the shuttles.

  "This ship may be outdated, but its loading system is ingenious," remarked Wright as he approached.

  "Evacuation used to be done solely by shuttle. It was before the arrival of the Spaciens, obviously," replied the Cyor.

  Wright seemed pleasantly surprised. "Sometimes I forget your age, my friend." He noticed Pike behind them. "Captain Pike, I was wondering when you would honor us with your presence. The Admiral has been grumbling about your lateness since the maneuvers began," said Wright.

  Pike appeared embarrassed, but Wright adeptly changed the subject. "Imagine being in stasis indefinitely," he said, watching the shuttle ballet. "The world passing you by..."

  "Questions of time are foreign to me, as are those of society," retorted the Cyor with a laugh.

  Wright turned to Pike. "And you, Captain?"

  Pike hesitated, surprised to be asked for his opinion. "I think I would like that," he admitted finally. "Controlling space-time while being a prisoner of a moment is strange."

  Wright seemed pleased. "A response imbued with wisdom, Captain. Being a Spacien brings its share of questions."

  "Undoubtedly," Pike agreed, although he had never really thought about such matters. A reminder flashed: "013 800 002 024/12/10; Spatium; 39h."

  "Please excuse me, my men are waiting for me to begin the first drops," said Pike. "Of course, Captain. We will stay here to observe the departure," replied Wright.

  Lying in her pod, Heather felt the chains gently pulling her along, meter by meter, to the rhythm of each new shuttle filled. Suddenly, the regular pace of the machine gave way to the stirrings of organic life, and a strange brightness replaced the darkness of the tunnel.

  Her pod straightened up, and two guards stepped forward to guide her row. Heather inwardly prayed that none would check on hers. But the guards seemed engrossed in their conversation, oblivious. What she caught chilled her blood.

  "They're still not awake?" asked the first guard.

  "We sedated the fluid, so they'll hold until they reach the atmosphere," replied his colleague.

  Smoothly, her row of twelve pods integrated into the back of a shuttle like bullets in a gun.

  "Why not keep them sedated all the way?" the first guard insisted.

  Before the hatch closed, Heather heard the response: "De Marina wants them conscious upon impact with the vortex."

  The central table in the eagle's nest, from where Admiral De Marina observed the dance of preparations for the full-scale test, was the only furniture in this round room, with chairs surrounding it.

  So it was only natural that Landon Pike hurriedly made his way around to report to his superior. "My Admiral," he said, standing at attention. Dolores De Marina's piercing gaze remained fixed, alert for any misstep. "My inspection is complete," Pike added, as if it needed stating.

  A sharp eye turned towards him, the body remaining still. Captain Pike took off his cap, fidgeting with it like a child caught misbehaving. De Marina's ever-present subtle smirk twisted into a satisfied grin. "Very well. Nothing to report?"

  Pike twirled his cap nervously. "There was something, but it's probably nothing," he said, swallowing hard.

  He understood from her look that she demanded the full story. He recalled a detail that had caught his curiosity during his rounds. "The pods... It's strange... Their classification seems random, the names, places of residence or detention, even the crimes are oddly regular..."

  The once furious eye became suddenly thoughtful. "What are you insinuating, Pike?" the Admiral asked calmly.

  "I'm not insinuating anything, I'm observing irregularities... that remind me of memories," Pike confessed.

  "What kind of memories? It could mean a lot coming from you," De Marina remarked, leaving him unsure how to take it.

  "The ghost ships," he finally said as if the name had just come back to him.

  "Are you thinking of... another purge?" she asked, lowering her voice at the idea.

  "This idea has been haunting me since my rounds," admitted Pike. "A cluster of names and crimes, unchecked, embarked in hypersleep on unmanned ships with infinite autonomy – on a trajectory that no matter could deviate. Simply removed from the cycle of Incarnation..."

  "On universal decision," De Marina added.

  "Does that change much?" Pike questioned.

  "Legality changes everything, truth be told," she continued, "and ghost ships can be found, their passengers reintegrated into the cycle of Incarnation. Only the severity of the punishment can be discussed."

  "Perhaps I have a bone to pick with the principle, being myself involved," Pike admitted. "But innocents risk being condemned forever, unlike the perversities we thought we were transporting."

  "I concede that," De Marina admitted harshly. "But it bothered you less before. The principle remains the same, even if the ideas differ."

  Pike locked his squinted eyes into De Marina's wide, penetrating ones. "Perhaps I have been morally persuaded, but rationally, I fear I cannot give the order to fire."

  "Good, I wasn't counting on you for that," she replied, turning away.

  Admiral De Marina ordered the maneuvers to begin immediately.

  Lloyd Lawton knew something was wrong when Captain Pike came running. "Mr. Wright!" he shouted.

  Boos Wright emerged from the ship he was exploring, losing his tiny beret on a protruding piece. "Oh, bother!" he muttered, pulling out an identical one from his pocket. Only then did he seem to notice the breathless Spacian. "Captain Pike," he greeted warmly. "I was just telling Lawton how advanced these shuttles are..." He paused, scrutinizing Pike up and down. "But you seem eager to speak, so please, go ahead."

  "Mr. Wright, I fear what we are doing is madness. I'm afraid we are sacrificing innocents," Pike said.

  "Innocents according to whom?" Wright asked. Seeing Pike's uncertain expression, he insisted, "I'm asking you - according to whom?"

  "According to... my intuition," Pike admitted.

  "A powerful source of information indeed," Wright replied, undisturbed. Folding his hands, he continued, "How can I assist you?"

  Pike pondered for a moment, as if he hadn't considered it before. "The Admiral cares little for my intuition... And you said if I had a concern, I could come to you. Here I am."

  "A wise decision, my friend," Wright remarked. "And what if I told you the problem is already solved..."

  "Well, I would be impressed and curious," Pike conceded.

  "You see," Wright began in a storyteller's voice, "the Universal Administration offered me the opportunity of eternity: a one-way journey – or so it seems. Freed from my person, the Compass is free to operate the neurons as it pleases... Without my consciousness, it can diminish the possibilities of reason. Imagine thousands like me removed from the cycle of Incarnation, the damage to the Atman, the unknown consequences on Brahma..." He paused for dramatic effect.

  "Here you are talking about the prisoners," Pike noted.

  "Exactly," agreed Wright. "You are sharp."

  "Then you must have a plan to get them out of there," Pike hoped.

  "No need, they have all been equipped by me," Wright said, pointing to a Boon shield at his belt.

  Suddenly, alarms blared on the spaceport. Admiral De Marina appeared in solid image. "Commencing emission phase. All shuttles are released."

  A series of heavy clunks echoed throughout the outer ring. One by one, hangar after hangar, each of the 500 shuttles was freed.

  In her hypersleep cell, Heather was desperately trying to establish a mental link with Méandre, but to no avail. Her pod trembled as it was released, breaking her concentration. When she opened her eyes again, she barely had time to glimpse the vast flagship, its arrangement of multiple rings blending eerily with ancient descriptions of angels in Popular Fiction.

  But everything quickly faded in space, where the lights hardly mattered. Already, a new approach was needed - that of the Zone. And it was unlike anything Heather knew.

  Yet the vortex planet corresponded perfectly to what she had wished for: a fluid and cloudy terrestrial, with wide oceans bordering compact continents, dressed in a dusty robe. A new home, Heather hoped, if the vortex didn't ruin everything.

  The psychic maelstrom - persistent testimonies of the passage of an immensely powerful ethereal being - tore through this haven of peace, crossing it like a scar slashing a cheek, giving birth to unanswered questions.

  From the planet emerged an infinity of possibilities ; a quantum randomness of suspended eventualities in a state of perpetual uncertainty ; which seemed to both tear it apart and hold it together.

  Heather prayed for Wright's shield to work. In the distance, the fury of the vortex raged, distorting her view of the nearby shuttles. Powerless, she saw the dust reform and a small moon appear very close to the front lines. Their shuttles jolted and then went out, erased from existence.

  At the same time, an alert flashed on the flagship: "Gravitational anomalies detected." The solid image shuttles oscillated, shaken by invisible currents. One of them imploded, pulverized. Its cargo of pods disappeared into the void.

  In the spaceport, Pike twisted his cap so hard that the metal visor would never regain its original shape. "You said everything was settled!" he squeaked at Wright, who silently counted each new disappearance. "Patience," the latter replied through clenched jaws.

  From the control room, De Marina was constantly being updated on the conditions of the unfortunate passengers by a cohort of experts. The glimpsed results did nothing to ease the tension on her stern face. "Hurry up," she called out as she received yet another batch of data just as unstimulating as the previous ones. "Your devices are outdated, the vortex is hitting them head-on, and nothing is showing up in these readings."

  The young woman bringing her the results humbly lowered her eyes but dared to reply. "Admiral, as long as they are asleep... reality needs to be observed in order to be altered."

  De Marina cast a severe glance at the impertinent woman's identification tag. "Dr. Singearth," she read out in a dry voice. "When is the awakening scheduled?"

  "It shouldn't be much longer," Singearth replied calmly.

  A brief spasm twitched De Marina's nostril in response to the brazen negligence. "Didn't I order you to stop your impertinence?"

  "Thank you for remembering," Singearth noted cheerfully.

  "Make sure you don't forget again," De Marina said to the overwhelmed brains before her. "Get everything sorted out before they wake up, or you'll be the next guinea pigs!" she shouted to the bustling assembly.

  Panic seized Heather - she had to escape, wake up Méandre. But the pod kept her paralyzed. Through the glass, she weakly tapped her numb hands.

  Another shuttle deviated from its course, colliding with ghostly distortions and tearing in half, spewing cargo and crew into the gravitational shredder.

  Heather's pulse raced. She would be next if Méandre didn't act. Focusing her faltering will, she tackled the internal system of the pod. She needed to find a manual ejection.

  Grabbing anything within reach, she found the control panel of the pod, along with an option labeled "emergency decompression," which she activated. The circuit of the pod was interrupted, and it opened in a deluge, drenching her in freezing fluid. Coughing and shivering, Heather emerged, her limbs heavy as lead.

  She reached Méandre's pod. Through the glass, he floated peacefully, oblivious to the approaching danger. With a desperate cry, she forced the flush valve with her inert fingers. The hyperfluid gurgled as air rushed in - would he wake up in time?

  Heather waited for the glass to open, anxiously watching for signs of anomalies in their craft's hull. And the more she worried, the heavier time felt. The slowness of the pod's machinery became absurd, like a musical loop stretching into infinity. Horror seized her, faced with the apparent futility with which the vortex seemed imbued. Human horror controls its psyche, Heather thought.

  The horror persisted outside the ship. Like salt on the wound, shuttles entered the exosphere. Some collapsed in on themselves as if an invisible hand had rolled them up. Others hurtled at unreal speeds, transforming into meteors.

  Heather felt her body weigh heavily against the ship's ceiling, suspended above an unconscious Méandre. Struggling with all their might against the repulsiveness, her legs shook violently. Finally, Méandre's eyes snapped open abruptly, just as the dilapidated hull groaned its final complaints.