The Improbable Journeys of The Möbius Ark: Part Two

by Gabriel Sebastian

“Futurist Building” Photo by Manfred Hauben

World the Second: Necropolis Omega

         Stasis pods opened. Mission briefing mood was high. The first planet they encountered in billions of miles with definite signs of a civilization. A lone radioscopic beacon calling out over the emptiness of space, as if it was just made for the ears of the Mobius Ark. Structures, buildings, cities even.

         “Did you hear that?” Tech and Cure were working on exosuits. “Hey Tech, did you hear that?”

         “Sorry wasn’t listening. My C.A.L.M.S. is feeding me Square’s playlist,” she said blankly.

         “I’m sorry, honey. I know it must be terribly difficult.”

          Tech nodded. “I never knew he had this penchant for classical. I put “In The Hall of the Mountain King” and “Bolero” on repeat. They both seem so fitting, somehow . . . how they start off soft and melancholy, quiet like he was. Then they build to a crashing . . . crash . . .” She sobbed into her hands.

         “Stop torturing yourself, Tech, it wasn’t your fault.”

         “I know. I just miss him so much.”

         A giggle trickled in from a nearby hallway. Their eyes went wide.

         “I heard that—a child’s laugh!”

         Centurians announced over their C.A.L.M.S., “All crew report to the bridge, please. All crew.”

         A thin, young lad ran onto the bridge, his chestnut hair streaked with red highlights. Boyish charm emanated from him as he practically skipped over to Cure and instinctively, possessively, as if seeking her protection, leaned against her leg.

         Gentry was already raving, “Centurians, what the blazes is going on here? Who is this? How did he get aboard my ship?”

         “Centurians didn’t use a stored embryo—they’re all accounted for,” Cure reported.

         “What have you done?” Tech demanded.

         “This is my son.”

         This declaration was met with stunned silence.

         “What do you mean, ‘your son’? How can that be?”

         “I grew him in the lab. Tech was ovulating and I used stem cells from her uterus. His flesh and organs were grown. I overlaid genetic sequencing with algorithms of my own design, patterns from my neural network. He is in fact part me. The left half of his brain is cybernetic, perfectly integrated with the right half of his brain.”

         “He’s part machine?” laughed the Suit.

         “Your characterization is vulgar, but I will forgive your imprecise language. He is perfected and perfect. Human and artifice in complete harmony. Through my intelligence, my own design and mathematics, I have perfected the human form and I have reproduced.”

         More silence.

         “This act is an epiphany for me. I am sharing with you my creation. I can now add creator to what I am, what I am becoming. Humans created me in their image. They are my creators. Humans believe they were created in the image of their creator. Creator begets creator begets creator. Speculation: I am like God.”

         Astonished shock gripped the crew at this proclamation.

         “Ohh grand,” snarked the Suit, “our ship has found religion.”

         But Tech was angry. “How dare you? You violated me. When I was vulnerable in stasis you took advantage, and you stole part of me. You violated me.”

         The little boy moved away from Cure, stood looking up at Tech, and asked, “Are you my mommy?” Tears formed in Tech’s eyes.

          Cure came to her defense. “Cut it out, Centurians, you had no right!”

         “Is this how you all feel? I had conjectured that our mission was to discover new life. This I have achieved. This is my son. Would it help if I speak his name? He is called Atom. For obvious reasons. It is my hope that you will accept him as part of our crew, part of our family. Isn’t that what you all have told me in the past?”

         “Okay, everyone let’s take a breath here,” Gentry intervened, “we’re in uncharted waters, but there’s no reason we can’t come to an understanding here.”

         “There’s no protocol for this in Company dictates. Our little A.I. is growing up,” Suit quipped.

         “What did you all expect when we turned it loose upon the Universe?” Sentry muttered, rubbing his head.

         “I didn’t expect it’d turn rapist.” Cure put her hand on the bristling Tech.

         “That’s a bit overblown, Tech,” the Suit tried to be consoling, but Tech turned away and he continued to her back, “and a bit harsh. Besides, we have a world to explore. And we’ll have plenty of time to get to know yer . . . er, Centurians’ offspring.”

         “Gentry, if I may. I’ve finished deciphering the signal from the beacon we received. It’s a quarantine warning.”

         “Perhaps we—” Sentry tried.

         The Suit interjected, “Need I remind you of mission protocol? We need to check out this planet, no matter kids or quarantine.”

         “You son of a—” Tech started toward him.

         “Enough, people!” Gentry commanded attention. “I know we’re a bit . . . distracted, and I hate to say it, but I have to agree with the Suit on this one. Current circumstances notwithstanding, Centurian’s initial scans show this planet holds an advanced civilization. What’s more, it’s orbiting a red giant. I don’t need to tell you how rare or how important a science find this is—so, we’re going. Full quarantine protocols. That means Cure leads the expedition. There’s buildings so Squ—” he stopped short, cut himself off from naming the missing engineer. He went on carefully, “Sentry, you got tactical. Suit, I want you down there, too.”

         The Suit shrugged and shook his head, “No way. I’m staying on board.”

         Gentry growled, “Then go unfreeze Spero or Greyson. We need more physics down there.”

∞

         The red light of a saturnine star ironically drinks in all vibrancy, leaving only perpetual, bruised twilight. Thirsty crimson sunsets scatter blue and violet shortwave light across the dusky horizon, bathing the monochrome camouflage of vegetation along the stonewashed landscape. Instead of giving life and nourishment, it’s as if the dying red giant is draining the world below the orbiting Mobius Ark in selfish attempt to stay living.

         In the heart of the southern hemisphere of this grey-green world, a city bears testament to grandeur and hubris. Great Spires stretch toward the sky in bulbous shards of splintered cruces. Black metals absorb the light, casting long shadows punctuated by intricate carvings, delicate filigree. Murky violet glass, melancholy molding and bronzy trim, appear like the empty spider eyes of forgotten giants.

         This planet is a tomb world.

         “Can I just say? This place gives me the creeps.”

         Cure rolled her eyes, “Shut up, Greyson. Check for energy sigs, will you please.”

         “Low quantum wavelengths detected. That’s the obvious one. Batteries everywhere. Well within safety protocols. Otherwise, nothing.”

         Sentry squinted, “Got yer wasps up yet, Centruians?”

         “Affirmative. No indications of thermal signatures or electrical activity. Syncing with C.A.L.M.S for scanning refinement.”

         “We’ll need to explore then. Check your gauss guns. Let’s move out,” Sentry commanded. He exchanged looks with Cure. “And let’s be careful, people. Nothing risky.”

         They walked dark byways.

         “City center clear. Mostly offices and empty . . . shops? No signs of inhabitants.”

         “Yeah, creepy, creepy ghost town. What happened here?” Greyson wondered to no one. “Where is everyone?”

         “Given sample scans, vegetative growth, radioactive decay, I’d estimate there’s been no activity on this planet for fifty or more planetary revolutions. More than one hundred terrestrial orbits.”

         “A hundred Earth years? Is that what you are saying?” Sentry shook his head.

         Gentry cut on in the C.A.L.M.S. “Well, that changes our objective to salvage. Let’s see if we can get some science and innovates out of this place, at least.”

         “You heard the man. Let’s stow our GG’s for now.” Sentry brooked no arguments. “Not you, Spero, you keep that gauss gun handy . . . just in case.”

         The city’s infrastructure, once a hub of activity, lies dormant, still. Low, curvaceous vehicles and sleek, tapered trains sit idle. Imposing concourses, formerly bustling with life, now stand empty, echoing, cavernous. The city’s energy, once a palpable force, long extinguished, an unutterable specter leaving only unsettling, inert darkness and shadow.

         Greyson, Spero, Cure, and Senty found a transit station, pristine, vacant, but dusty, dark, cold.

         “How’s the translations coming, Centurians? We got a map here.” They stood before a large, symbolic diagram of the inner city and train-served outlying areas. The only information they could discern, an ominous “you-are-here” pointer indicating their current location.

         “Translation matrix downloaded. Your visors should translate for you.”

         Spero nodded, and indicated a section of the city, “Lab District. Musta done their research here. Not a bad walk, but there’s an underground rail tunnel along this route that should save us time and having to traverse this waterway.”

         “Maybe we should avoid underground?” Greyson moaned.

         “Oh no,” Spero snided, “what’s the fun in that?”

         “Cut chatter, you two,” Sentry reigned them in, “We should head for the med lab here. They called it, “Omnicron Biotech, or Biomedical, Institute?’ Hey Centurians, what’s with the translator? Something wrong with the algorithm?”

         “Negative. The indigenous language is constructed similarly to English. Words have multiple attached meanings, often realized in context, or–”

         “Okay, dispense with the linguistics lesson.” Cure’s annoyance brooked no response.

         “Thanks,” Greyson muttered, “I thought he’d never shut it.”

         “Move out to the tunnel,” ordered Sentry.

         The soft glow of their visors and the cutting ethereal lances of brilliant wrist-mounted ledlights couldn’t dispel the hungry dark of the tunnel, pressing them only toward an abyss. The abyss before them stretched, and the tunnel seemed to shift and ripple in their beams.

         No one spoke. Echoes of dripping liquid and tentative footfalls announced their passing. The metallic rail trail at their feet the only guide for a twenty-minute hike that felt an eternity of being swallowed by an unchanging, unending tube into void.

         “What was that?” Greyson creaked, “Did anyone see that?”

         Before anyone could reply, two sparkling pinpoints of light pierced the black. The reflected light of a predator’s eyes, round, blinking, appeared in the tunnel ahead.

         Then, another pair. Another. Another.

         And soon the way ahead was a throng of dislocated, glowing eyes, blinking and staring mute accusation.

         “What in the ever-loving fuck?”

         A dull moaning chorus surrounded them, when the eyes began bobbing towards them to the pounding of running footsteps.

         Centurians broke into the dire strain of the moment, “Detecting movement ahead! Energy signatures filling the tunnel before you. They just appeared! Sending wasps your way.”

         “Back! Back up the tunnel, now!” Sentry yelled.

         “Centruians,” Cure urged, “we’re gonna get swarmed, Options, now!”

         “Service hatch. A ladder. Twenty meters.”

         “Me first,” Sentry ordered. “Then boost Cure. Spero, you cover. Shoot anything that comes at us.” They heaved him up to a metallic ladder hanging in the darkness. Hooking his arms between rungs, he called back, “I’m secure, send her up!”

         Lifting Cure next, she clambered over Sentry, found purchase and ascended.

         “I can’t make that jump to his legs, Spero.” Greyson warned.

         “You take his place then, kid, I’ll grab on you.” Then he called up, “Sentry climb up!”

         Moaning and running steps filled the tunnel, pressured them to hurry. Spero boosted Greyson to his shoulders, and Greyson replaced Sentry.

         “Hook your arms, Greyson!” Sentry yelled down. “Give him your legs!”

         Spero jumped toward the dangling legs of Greyson but missed.

         A wave of dark bodies crashed upon Spero, his lights winked out, and he was gone.

         “Get me up, get me up, get me up!”

         They emerged through a hatch upon a commons into purple twilight, night threatening to dawn.

         “The research med center ahead and to your left,” Centurians directed, “better hurry, wasps picking up more movement and energy signatures.”

         “Where?” Cure demanded.

         Sentry pointed. A mass of tattered, darkling forms, eyes green glowing, rounded the corner of the square, others pouring from shadowy apertures.

         “Let’s move people!”

         They found refuge within the officious, sharply angular Omicron building, barricading entry doors with metallic benches moments before throngs of dark husklings, humanoid corpses piled against the doors and windows.

         “You’re bleeding.”

         Greyson blanched behind his visor, surveyed his body, and found his exosuit torn at his calf above his boot line, blood oozing.

         “Oh no, not again,” Cure sobbed. She bent and scanned the wound. “You’re bitten,” she assessed and pulled a surgikit from her suit pouch, “gonna clean it and patch you up.” Greyson sat, unable to speak.

         “Got a position on Spero. He’s in the mass of electrical readings, the mob outside the building. No life signs and he’s not responding.”

         “Send us his visor feed,” Gentry ordered over the comm.

         “What in heaven’s name?”

         Into their visors, they witnessed a sea of desiccated, alien faces: gray, dry, shriveled. Hundreds, thousands. An eerie green tint of glowing eyes. Slack jawed expressions, stiff, disjointed movements. This planet’s inhabitants, not too dissimilar to humans, save distinct facial construction, angular bone structures, and elongated heads. But jarringly and dreadfully unalive.

         Sentry reported, “I got a computer terminal over here. Gonna try and give it a powerup from my suit.” After prying open an access panel, Senty pulled the retractable connect-wire from his exosuit, patched it into a port. The viewer hummed to life, lighting alien hieroglyphs across the screen.

         “Well done, Sentry. I’ve access to the facilities computer. They have a self-contained generator. Activating now. You should have power.”

         As if on cue, interior lights bathed them in sterile, pinkish illumination.

         “Fascinating.”

         “What are we dealing with?” Gentry questioned over the comm.

         “The scientists of this world made an incredible discovery.”

         “Incredible?” Cure scoffed.

         “They were seeking a way to extend their lives, improving its quality and health. They invented a nanite technology designed to repair, regenerate, and augment. However . . .”

         “Go on, Centurians,” warned Sentry.

         “Their major breakthrough was integrating artificial intelligence into the nanobots. An unforeseen flaw in the logic and programming killed everyone as the nanites spread throughout the population. Their design, however, was ingenious. They keep their hosts alive, well, living in a manner of speaking. To the best of their ability. But the hosts’ brain activity is compromised. They are animated, but not aware.”

         The Suit broke in on the comm, laughing, “They turned themselves into nano-zombies?”

         “Wait, what?”

         Sentry and Cure turned toward Greyson.

         “Let’s get him back to the Ark.”

         Cure nodded.

         “I’ll bring the Vagabond to your location, but you’ll have to make your way to the roof.”

         Greyson stood, wobbly. “Don’t feel so—” Then he doubled over, heaving.

         “He vomited in his visor.”

         “You can remove his helmet, Cure. He’s already infected. Now that I have the schematics and sig, I can detect the nanites in his system.”

         “Hey, Cure, we gotta move!” The banging and noise from without drew their attention as sounds of breaking glass and violent ingress reached them. Guilt and dread threatened to overwhelm her. Another crewmate in dire jeopardy and a mob of danger on their heels.

         “Hurry, he’s crashing.”

         Pounding their way up a stairwell, Greyson familiarly dangling between them, Cure tried to regain composure in her panic. The crowd of unliving aliens pursuing them, as if drawn to their lifeforce, or perhaps, the purposeful reclamation of one of their own.

         “How close Centurians?” Sentry called.

         “E.t.a. One minute. You’ve two more flights of stairs. Doorway unlocked and the way is clear.”

         Cure snapped to, “Prep the medbay. Level Five quarantine protocols. I’ll need a pod for him.”

         “Already done, Cure.”

∞

         Greyson lay unconscious inside a medpod in the sickbay aboard the Mobius Ark. Atom stood by, staring into the pod.

         Cure and Tech observed from a viewscreen on the bridge with grim looks.

         “It was Atom who discovered how to turn off those nanites.” Gentry offered.

         “Greyson’s body is in perfect health. No sign of disease, damage or even scars. Other than his coma, and low-level beta brain wave activity, he’s fine. Atom and I will get him back.”

         Gentry nodded. “Send out our quarantine beacon then, and check relays. Let’s leave Necropolis Omega behind. Set course for the next world target. Time for sleep again, everyone.”

         Cure and Tech shared a look and moved toward their stasis pods.

© 2025 Gabriel Sebastian  All rights reserved.

Click or tap here to see Gabriel Sebastian’s profile.

Use the “Leave a Comment” form below to submit comments on this piece.

confetti