Another great story ending from a December finalist

Illustration by Joe Cross. Copyright 2021.

I’m sharing the finalist stories from the December Contest. Here’s my favorite ending among the finalists by Jeremy Wilson.

You may recall that Jeremy was the April Contest winner. As one of my 2021 Champions, he could not win the contest again in 2021. But this is definitely an award-winning story ending with breath-taking moments and as many twists and turns as the switchbacks of the . . .

Mountains of Clouds

BY JEREMY WILSON AND MATTHEW CROSS

Wearing my bright red coat, I scout the trail ahead of the Faustus clan.

They’ve spent six months in a hidden orbit elsewhere in the system, waiting on a clear-weather window for a landing on Y-12, the only designation for our secret planet. Three days ago, we got word of the landing site and I raced over the mountain ranges to meet them. Those were happy days, running in the sunlight over tricky terrain, the harsh wind rustling my fur. On days like this, I don’t miss being human at all.

Photo by Benjamin Voros.

They were late, of course, but it was a solid landing. The weather on Y-12 is querulous. Anything other than a crash is considered a success. Decades ago, the City itself crash landed here before burrowing itself deep into its hidden valley. The damage set back the Deliverable by at least six months. Secrecy has its price.

Even two days after the landing, the weather continues to hold. A rare, cheery, yellow sun begins to rise over the nearest peaks. I turn to return to the camp to wake Dr. Faustus, Dr. Faustus, and their three children. They brought five hovers with built-in skis and each hover tows a hover-lifted trailer. Landings are so rare that every new recruit to the City must not only bring their own gear but also whatever crucial supplies are most needed in the City. Every micron of space in the hovers is carefully scrutinized by committee before a landing.

But Dr. Faustus is the real prize. She and her wife, a respected experimental physicist in her own right, have defected from the Republic. Rumor in the City goes that after the carefully planned defection, their ship came directly to Y-12, only diverting course now and then to shake any possible pursuing Republic spacecraft. A calculated risk. And an indication of how urgently the Deliverable is needed in the war with the Republic.

As I turn, a cold wind blows down from the highest peaks. It ruffles the fur on my back and my hackles rise. The cold does not create this reaction. My thick fur is made to handle the worst of Y-12’s winter storms. No, it’s a scent carried on the wind that my fox body reacts to. An oily, metallic smell.

Nothing on Y-12 smells like that. Nothing outside the City anyways, and the City is still two days’ travel away. The City is the only human habitation on the planet. A planet hidden inside a nebula treacherous to cross. A nebula guarded by a fleet of Polity stealth ships. So there is no way a human, or any human smell, made its way to the wilds of Y-12 by accident.

A rare, cheery, yellow sun begins to rise over the nearest peaks. Photo by Luke Richards.

I have to assume a Republic Special Forces team has somehow followed the Drs. Faustus to Y-12 and landed during the same clear-weather window. The RSF always work in teams of three. If I’m lucky, at least one of them has been injured or killed in the landing. As no enemy ships were detected by the City or our secret guardians in space, it’s likely the RSF attempted to brave the upper atmosphere in individual landing suits instead of a ship. It’s just the sort of foolhardy mission the RSF are famed for.

But if even one team member survived the landing, the Republic had pulled off an impressive feat. So far, their only mistake had been their failure to account for me and the smells they gave off. But that’s not surprising. No one off planet even knows about Dr. Amdo Basnet’s arctic fox project.

The good news is that they haven’t found us yet. If the RSF knew where we were, we’d all be dead already. Another frison sweeps through my hackles. The Faustuses were safely sleeping in camp when I left, but that was a couple hours ago. I have to get back!

Careful, I warn myself. Play it smart.

I scamper into the underbrush and shake myself from head to tail. As I shake, the bright red and white hairs shift, turning into mottled greens and browns to match my surroundings in the lowland evergreen forest.

I carefully and quietly tread a circuitous route under the cover of the trees back to the camp. I wake only Dr. Faustus. I don’t have time for a lot of questions. Speaking through the amulet around my neck, I tell her the RSF have followed her to Y-12. To her credit, she only nods tightly, but I see tears in the corners of her eyes glimmer in the early morning light.

She and her wife each have a basic blaster for the trek through the wilderness, but they stand no chance against even a single RSF. I tell her that her only hope of surviving–and saving her family–is to hide. I’m the scout. It’s my job to dispatch the RSF team or reach the City and send help. Under the dark-green shadows of the trees, I see dark despair shade her eyes. Good, at least she knows what we face. Perhaps she’ll follow my directions to the letter.

Abandoning their gear, the Faustus family follows me into the forest carrying only an inflatable snow shelter and cold tack for two days. Encased beneath a mound of shaded snow, they’ll need to wait until help returns. My amulet has no beacon or tracker to make me untraceable. The shelter has an emergency beacon, but that will alert the RSF. Everything depends on me.

I head towards the mountain range again. If I can make it unseen to the top peaks, I can approach the first RSF, the one I smelled, from a direction that gives no clue of the direction of the City or the Faustus family. I bound from rock to rock and criss-cross cold mountain streams several times, making my back trail impossible to follow, even for a wolf or an arctic fox. The sun disappears as I make my climb through the cloud cover. My human mind, the overlaid copy of the mind once belonging to Dr. Amdo Basnet, begins to formulate a plan. 

I bound from rock to rock and crisscross cold mountain streams. Photo by Steve Carter.

Military strategy is difficult. Like all foxes in the project, my mind is a scan of Dr. Basnet’s brain overlaid onto that of a native arctic fox pup. There’s not a lot of extra room in a fox’s gray matter, so I only have Amdo’s core memories and personality, just enough to make me entirely loyal to the Polity and the Deliverable, and knowledge of human speech. I have survival training, a basic skill for all guides, but no tactical training. Scouts rely on orders, personal experience in the wilds and instinct. Planning does not come naturally.

Like Amdo, I retreat into logic. I have no weapons. I assess the tools I do have. I have the collar and amulet, which allows me to speak. I have my color-shifting fur. I have speed and guile. And I have superior knowledge of the terrain.

Perhaps I can distract them until the normal weather of Y-12 reasserts itself. I hit the first patch of snow on the mountainside. Without thinking, I shake myself and my coat shifts to white. Not long after, I catch a break. I wander across the footprints of the first RSF!

Republic Special Forces are like wolves. In the first few moments of contact, the important thing is to move quickly, draw attention, and count on their predatory nature to drive them to follow. But unlike wolves, the RSF can attack unseen from a long distance. And though they travel as a pack, they spread wide to encircle their foe. They won’t risk propellant weapons because the sound would give away their position. So the greatest danger is a long-distance laser pulse. Silent. Deadly.

I follow his trail along the ridgeline and spy him easily. He has set up a sniper post behind a spill of rocks. He wears the charging pack for his laser rifle on his back, ready to move as soon as he fires a shot. When firing at full range, it takes several mins to recharge. 

I slowly climb over the ridgeline to approach him from the back. Down the far side of the range is a river of clouds that give the Mountains of Clouds their name. The clouds are hiding the steep drop off on this side of the mountain. That gives me an idea.

A layer of clouds floats between mountain peaks on the left and the right.
Down the far side of the range is a river of clouds that give the Mountains of Clouds their name. Photo by Samuel Ferrara.

“Hey,” I call. What do I say next? I did not think this through. Before I can think of anything else to say, the RSF leaps silently and cleanly over the ridge. He lands and spots me immediately. He has the rifle in one hand and a long, black knife in the other.

The look on his face says he did not expect to see a fox. In a flash, he scans the expanse of spotless white snow, and seeing no other enemy, raises his rifle. I allow my deepest fox instincts to take control. In the flick of an eyelash, I bound down the mountainside.

In front of me, I see a puff of steam from vaporized snow and hear the peculiar whooshing sound that frozen water makes when a long tunnel of it instantly boils to gas and emerges from a pinpoint hole. He took his first shot. That leaves the knife and maybe a sidearm blaster. Blasters are notoriously clumsy shots, but up close one can vaporize my entire body.

I disappear into the cloud bank. He follows but stops when he’s completely surrounded by mist. He speaks softly, probably on a comm to his teammates. If he waits until reinforcements arrive, I’ll lose my advantage. 

I give him a little incentive. With a swish of my tail, it turns red. I wave it like a red flag and run right along the nearly invisible clifftop. The RSF leaps. And falls.

Falling through the fog, he spins and fires a blaster from his hip. The green blast expands rapidly into a cone, wiping away the swirls of fog in its path. But the shot is wild and I merely flinch. The RSF does not scream and I do not hear the impact. It’s kloms down, so that’s no surprise. The wind rises and the whirling vapor closes the hole left by the blaster.

One down. Two to go.

Knowing the RSF team has my coordinates, I bound back to the mountaintop and head down the valley side of the mountain range to the most dangerous area I know. It’s well known for crevasses and avalanches. When I can, I stick to cloud cover, which neutralizes their long-range weapons. I reach the hazardous area undetected.

 When I meet the next RSF, we are both shocked. I’m headed down the mountain on the crusty snow as he heads up. We lock eyes and I freeze. An odd smile crosses his face and he scans the pristine, white mountainside for other threats. He does not raise his weapon. That’s when I realize they still have not learned the secret of Dr. Basnet’s foxes. He thinks I’m part of the natural wildlife. And, I am, sort of.

The wind shifts and the river of clouds below moves more swiftly. I scamper up the layers of crusty snow and cracked ice. To my fur-covered paws, the footing feels secure, but I know the innocent-looking layer of snow hides unknown dangers with every step. I have no particular plan in mind except to outlast the RSF on this treacherous terrain. I’m betting my life that I know this terrain better than a trained RSF. Betting my natural instincts against his lifetime of rigorous training. But I’m also betting on something else more basic: Gravity.

I’m not light as a bird, but I don’t weigh much. This muscle-bound RSF is loaded down with a backpack full of gear and laser batteries. As long as I can keep him on this precarious shelf of ice–and avoid getting shot–I think I can last longer. But in the wilderness, there’s always an element of chance thrown in to keep things interesting.

The cloud river below ripples and parts, revealing the dark, evergreen trees in the valley. I’m losing my cover from the third RSF hiding in the valley. I need to speed things up.

“Follow me,” I call softly. A visor hides his eyes, but I can see his relaxed stance tighten. He realizes I’m more than I first appear.

The RSF snaps his rifle to his shoulder and I scamper further upwards. I sneak a look back, but he has lowered the rifle. Either the wisps of fog between us or my zig-zag pattern must make the shot look risky. He whips a blaster from his hip and fires a shot. The blast melts a large section of snow between us, but I’m out of blaster range by that time. Chunks of ice and melted snow begin to slide down the mountain towards the RSF. From the corner of my eye, I also see trickles of powdered snow dusting down from above me. The force of that blast unsettled the entire mountainside.

I turn and head neither up nor down the mountain but sideways, towards more secure footing. The RSF does the same. The wedge of ice, slush and water rushing down on him widens. It’s hardly an avalanche, but it places him in more immediate peril than me. I can focus on getting to safer ground, but I keep him in my peripheral vision as I scamper across now-looser footing.

The RSF is heading along a path parallel to my own. A river of ice melt swirls around his knees. He leaps and comes down hard. No! No, he disappears completely beneath the white torrent. And then the mountainside is still again.

There’s only one reason for the tall RSF to have disappeared like that. A crevasse. Sometimes you can defy Mother Nature, but you can’t beat gravity.

Two down. One to go.


With the second RSF safely entombed, I continue across the snowpack until the snow thins and I reach the boulder field. The sound of the snowslide must have alerted the last RSF, so I quickly duck underneath the nearest outcrop and stop to plan my next move.

The unexpected stench of decay catches my nose. I slink from shadow to shadow, following the smell. Rounding a corner, I come face to face with the third RSF. I panic and try to shake my coat to gray to match the surrounding stone, but it’s too late. The RSF is staring straight at me.

I shut my eyes and brace for pain. My heart hammers in my chest. The world stops. I breathe once . . . then again . . . . An eternity passes.

Confused, I dare to look. The RSF is still staring at me but hasn’t moved. With disbelief I realize the third RSF is dead. Something must have gone wrong during entry, and he landed on the jagged rocks and died. I nearly faint with relief.

I wind my way down the rest of the mountain to the river and then follow it towards the forest. With the RSF dispatched, I head directly back to the shelter to collect Dr. Faustus and her family. We must get to the City.

A twig snaps and pain lances through my back leg. I yelp and tumble end over end. Disoriented, I lay staring up at the darkening sky. In my peripheral, a shadow emerges from behind a tree.

A fourth RSF! The Republic must be desperate.

The RSF steps forward and removes her knife. I struggle to get to my feet, my back leg unusable. The RSF grabs me by the tail.

“What sort of abomination are you? It seems the Polity has been busy.” She sneers and lifts me into the air. Pain shoots through my tail and my fox brain takes over. I snap at the RSF and swipe with my claws. The RSF laughs and punches my soft underbelly, wrenching the breath from my lungs. In desperation, I go limp and feign being unconscious. The RSF lifts me up higher so we’re face to face and leans in to deliver some final reproach.

I lash out, trying to clamp my jaws around her neck. She squeals in surprise, dropping her knife to the ground. The cowl of her armor saves her and she’s able to pry my jaws apart. I fall to the ground and land on the knife. Pain sears my shoulder and warmth begins pooling beneath me. The RSF retrieves her knife and stands over me. My vision darkens as she raises the knife, her eyes full of hate.

A green flash blinds us both and the upper half of the RSF disappears into ash. Behind her, Dr. Faustus stands with her blaster raised, hands shaking. I can feel the last rays of sun, but I can no longer see them. The wind ruffles through my fur as the world fades.


I hope you enjoyed this piece of flash fiction that Jeremy Wilson and I wrote together. He’s one of my favorite collaboration writers.

If you enjoyed Jeremy Wilson’s prize-winning ending, please make sure and share some kind comments below.

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

P.S. If you enjoy Jeremy’s writing style and story-telling ability, you’ll definitely want to read these other story endings he wrote for previous contests and one he wrote as a collaboration with other Champions:

Here are the prizes for the March Contest

For March, I’m presenting a host of prizes for the winner:

  • $50 cash (in the form of an Amazon gift certificate)
  • Trophy–A crocheted rocket.
    • The rocket pictured above is the trophy.
    • From nose cone to the yellow flames, it stretches just over 5 inches.
  • A Twitter banner pronouncing you the winner of the March Contest. (Use it on Twitter or wherever you like.)
  • Listing in the Circle of Champions on this website, including your social media contacts and website link, if you’d like to share them.
  • Lots and lots and lots of promotion on Twitter. (I go a little crazy.)
  • Other opportunities to mix and mingle with my other Champions and join them in special projects. (Check out a recent special project exclusive to my Circle of Champions.)

Why not get started now?

Win a $50 cash prize if you write the best finish to my story

This is a finish-my-story contest where all you have to do is write the ending in 500 words or less.

Illustration by Joe Cross. Copyright 2021.

March Contest: All submissions are due by midnight March 15, 2022.

Planetkiller

It starts out as a single point of light. Like a star that wasn’t there, and then suddenly it is.

“You see it?” Jame asks.

“Yeah, I see it.”

Jame and I grew up side by side. He was born in a hospital in the City. Don’t ask which city. It’s the only one on this barely inhabited planet on the far, far edge of Polity space. But I was born at Home. Show Ma something once and she learns it forever. So once she saw how the doctors and nurses handled Jame’s birth, she said she could handle the second one herself.

Da says I take after Ma in that way. Stubborn, independent, fast learner. I guess that’s mostly true. Just like Jame seems to take after Da. But I don’t think I’ll ever be as capable and as confident as Ma. Nothing shakes her.

The point of light grows instantly brighter and then splits into two points of light and then three. Jame and I both curse under our breath at the same time. “Vacc!” It’s an old spacer curse we picked up from Ma. She grew up on a Polity academy ship and knows all the spacer ways.

Jame and I watch through our HUDs as the two dimmer lights separate from the larger one and drop off in arcs to the horizon. They dim and disappear. Those are not our worry.

The remaining point of light grows brighter. My HUD dims that part of the view screen slightly to prevent me from being blinded. Now that the object is close enough, the HUD can calculate its speed, and the numbers are stunning.

While I’ve been watching the light through my HUD, Jame has been reading the more detailed numbers on his arm band. It displays the extensive data collected by the Home system’s sensors, which alerted the family to the invasion in the first place.

“Home just picked up the three we saw, but there might be more, out of range further around the planet,” Jame says. His breath is harsh. “But three Planetkillers is enough to . . . ,” he pauses, thinking deeply, as he always does. He shakes his head. “Well, it’s enough, anyway. One for the City, one for the Factory and one for the Mines.”

I admire Jame. He’s a thinker, like Da, not a soldier. But his voice doesn’t shake until he says “the Mines.” I watch the white point of light bloom through my HUD. It’s headed straight towards us. Towards the Mines, which Ma and Da left us to protect.

Jame exhales slowly through his nose, his warm breath fogging the cool evening air, and I realize his body has grown rigid next to mine. He has settled his mind on something. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it and the splinter of cold fear on the back of my neck suddenly blooms like a web of crystals down by back. I’m afraid Jame is about to do something brave.

Ma has told me time again that men don’t usually have the strengths of women. But they are tools; useful tools, if you know how to handle them. Good men are loyal, and, if you let them, sometimes they’ll throw their lives away to save yours. “Don’t let them do that, Els, not unless it’s absolutely necessary. Too often a man will sacrifice himself before it’s necessary.”

White brilliance creates a halo along the highest heights of the Blades. Illustrated by Joe Cross.

I snatch Jame’s hand and I will my voice to be steady.

“Ma and Da told us both to guard the Mines. Both of us,” I say. “We stick together. You and me. Like always.”

Jame nods and his body relaxes just a bit. It will have to do for now.

“It will be heading for the Pass. Come on,” he says.

We both push off the ground with our hands and we’re instantly in standing position a foot above the ground. We slowly drop to our feet. Our planet is a small one and gravity is weak here. That’s why the firs can grow so many metes tall, Da says. And why we can bound over the house with a single leap. 

Ma says our planet is small, dark and cold. But it doesn’t seem dark or cold to me. It just seems normal. And beautiful.

We drop 30 metes from the ridgetop to our hover. It doesn’t look like much. Just a skeleton of tubes with a bulb at the back for two seats. But in our low gravity, it can tow a wagon of ore near big as Home. I take the controls and Jame straddles the seat behind me. Everyone knows I’m the family’s best driver.

Staying out of view of sight and sensor of the Planetkiller, I whip around the sides of ridges until we reach the Pass. The Blades rise in darkness high into the sky. The Blades, the tallest mountain range on this continent, separate the City and the Factory on one side and the Mines on the other. We live on the side of the Mines. We’re the only humans on this side of the Blades. With all the machines to perform the labor, the Mines only need a couple of overseers. Pa manages the complex processes and schedules, the stuff Ma finds boring. Ma gets her hands dirty fixing broken machines and leading the charge when there’s a cave in.

There’s only a few families to manage the Factory as well. The Factory is the most valuable asset on the planet. Most valuable to the Polity, anyways. Because the Factory builds munitions for the war against the Republic.

We all knew this day might come. That the Republic might find our secret home. We’ve trained for every kind of attack imaginable, even Planetkillers. But, really, they were the last things we thought the Republic would send, not when they could simply bombard us from space. But nobody thought the Republic would attack the Mines, either. After all, what’s so valuable about a hole in the ground?

With Ma and Da gone to protect the Factory, it’s up to Jame and me to protect the Mines.

When we reach the base of the Blades, we hunker down beneath the shelter of the black rock edifice and wait. The sheer cliffs above us conceal half the evening sky in blackness.

The sonic boom of the Planetkiller’s shell traveling through the atmosphere finally assaults our ears. Then white brilliance creates a halo along the highest heights of the Blades. Finally, the egg that contains the Planetkiller strikes the ground, plowing a crater into the earth. A Planetkiller’s landing is its first strike. But this one’s attack is wasted on hectares and hectares of lonely mountains.

A Planetkiller’s landing is its first strike. Illustration by Joe Cross.

All of this I see in my mind’s eye because the Blades separate us from the point of impact. But we do feel the impact in the ground. It shakes the very Blades themselves, ever so slightly, and black chips of skree slither down the face of the Blades.

“It’s safe now,” Jame says.

Leaving the hover, we leap our way up the face of the Blades. Although we are a hundred metes above the ground, most of the Blades still climbs the sky above us. We rope ourselves together, and I lead the climb around to a low ledge that juts out over the Pass. Here we will make our stand.

The egg’s impact has thrown up a cloud of dirt that obscures the far horizon. It also interferes with Home’s sensors and Jame curses as he tries to check the status of the City and the Factory.

“I’m sure Ma and Da are fine,” he says finally. Neither of us believe it. The other two Planetkillers probably slammed directly into the City and the Factory, if the Republic could get readings of their locations. The only hope we have that our parents survived the initial attack is if they did not make it to the Factory before impact.

“We’re on our own,” he says, not looking at me but watching the horizon through his HUD. I nod, also staring at the horizon, waiting for the Planetkiller to emerge.

Finally, it’s head appears over a distant ridge. It’s basically a giant robot—if you can call a machine bigger than a city a robot—controlled by a whole team of human pilots and technicians. Even kloms and kloms away, I can feel its every footstep through my feet. The shoulders appear as it grows closer. It steps over ridges and clambers awkwardly but resolutely over mountains. The cloud of smoke and dirt from the crash hides the sun in the western sky, causing night to fall early.

Jame assembles the rocket launcher he carried in his backpack. I unload the two shells from my pack. As the Planetkiller marches closer, it’s footsteps begin to actually shake the ground, even up here on the stable rock of the Blades. My hands shake as I pass the first shell to Jame, but we move slowly and methodically. We do not make any mistakes.

From a kneeling position, Jame takes aim, using data inputs linked between the missile launcher and his HUD. He holds his breath and waits for the shake of the last footstep to subside. Then he launches the rocket.

The shoulders appear as it grows closer. Illustration by Joe Cross.

As soon as it is launched, I know something is wrong. Perhaps it’s a stray wind blowing through the Pass, but the rocket begins a tight spiral that grows as it races towards the giant mech. Just as the rocket is about to reach the Planetkiller, it lifts a giant arm and a hail of dark shapes fly out to intercept the rocket. Even so, we must have caught them by surprise because the blast that occurs when Jame’s rocket meets the small cloud of defensive rockets pushes the mech backwards. For a moment, I think it’s going to fall, and a cheer rises in my throat. But the pilots inside manage to compensate and the Planetkiller catches itself on a back foot. It rises. And when the smoke of our attack clears, I can see no damage at all.

We load the second rocket, but I know Jame and I are thinking the same thing. We are going to fail. We may survive, but we are not going to stop this goliath. We’re just children playing at war. Maybe that’s why we make another mistake. We do not move. We stay in position. And the mech pilots make our position. They fire just one rocket. As it races towards us, I feel the gesture from the robot’s lifted hand is almost casual. Then Jame and I leap upwards.

When the blast comes, it throws us higher. It feels like someone punching my legs up into my chest. But I manage to grab a thin ledge above me as the blast subsides. I look down and see Jame hanging limply from the rope that links us. We’ve always been able to carry each other easily, so it’s no problem to pull him up to me.

He’s unconscious but still breathing. Lying on the ledge, I lash him to me. Then I leap up the face of the Blades, moving towards the back side of the mountain again. I find a small crevice where he will be safe from robot or beast. From my pack, I pull out a medical stabilizer. Crying silently, I attach it to his chest and place the rubber mask over his face. It will monitor his condition and, if necessary, help him breathe or restart his heart.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I whisper. “I love you.”

Before the Planetkiller can make it to the Pass, I’ve made it to the hover. With the rocket launcher strapped to my back, I flash through the Pass at top speed. I settle myself in the undergrowth beneath the trembling firs, every step of the Planetkiller jarring my whole body. I let it step over me and enter the Pass. I rise from hiding, sighting through my HUD, looking for any point of weakness.

The knees, I think, recalling my self defense classes.

The rocket flies true and strikes the back of the giant machine’s knee. Planetkillers are heavily armored, but I know right away I hit something vital. The gout of orange flame from the rocket’s explosion is overwhelmed by a cloud of white smoke or steam rising from the machine’s leg. The knee bends outwards with a pop and the giant lurches to the side. It’s head strikes the mountain wall.

I don’t make the same mistake twice. I don’t watch and wait. I leap.

It must be adrenaline because I swear I’m bounding as high as Da. The Planetkiller’s pilots have their hands full trying to restore control, but they may have already lost. It seems to be falling in slow motion with the most horrendous screeches. The awkward angles of its limbs and the close walls of the Pass form the perfect angles for me to land and leap further up the monster and plant charges from my backpack. Then I leap free and detonate them all.

As the Planetkiller marches closer, it’s footsteps begin to actually shake the ground. Illustration by Joe Cross.

Several puffs of white smoke rise up from its legs. The explosions seem small compared to the bulk of the thing. I’m not sure they’ll make a difference. But with great satisfaction, I watch as the behemoth falls forward and bashes its head against the floor of the Pass.

I just killed a Planetkiller!

All by myself, I killed a Planetkiller!

Wasting no time, I leap forward and climb the body. It’s easy now that it’s mostly prone. I find the hatch for the humans on the back of the machine, not on the head as I’d always imagined. I place charges all around the hatch and then leap high to a small ledge on the wall of the pass. I point my blaster at the opening and detonate the charges.

The smoke clears. I can’t believe my eyes. I don’t know exactly what I expected to see, but I never expected to see this.


I can’t wait to see what you write!

Submit your story ending

Please post your story endings below. And if you just want to leave a comment, that would be great, too!

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

P.S. If you have any trouble pasting your story ending below, just email it to matthewcrosswrites@gmail.com by the deadline and you will be entered. MC 🚀✨

Frasier Armitage reviews the first episode of Dex Legacy: “The Bomb”

Review by FRASIER ARMITAGE

An outstanding pilot episode, exploding with imagination and potential. 

“The Bomb” is the first installment in Emily Inkpen’s Dex Legacy audio drama series, set on the planet SP714. It introduces us to the key players in the Dex Legacy and the event which will irrevocably change this world, namely, the testing of a new weapon that’s epic in every sense of the word. 

SPOILER ALERT: This review contains spoilers about the first episode of The Dex Legacy. Because the first episode is an introduction, we don’t think the “spoilers” ruin anything for listeners. But if you want to listen “spoiler free,” just jump to “The Bomb” and have a listen.

Writer Emily Inkpen

The first thing that struck me about “The Bomb” is just how deep this world goes. The planet that’s on display here isn’t just for show. There’s a richness and substance to this universe which is more than just Sci-Fi gloss. It feels lived in. It feels real. 

As the opening synth track fades, we’re introduced to Nathaniel Dex, who is debating the ethics of munitions manufacture with his henchman, Tristan Krail. The dialogue is rich and filled with intrigue, hinting at a wider world while never straying too far from the familiar. We’re rooted instantly, without any hint of clunky exposition, and the interaction between the characters is fluid and progresses at a smooth pace. There’s enough space to allow room for us to indulge in lines like: “There are more dangers to the human race than pure death and destruction, Tristan. When Devek designed them, he redesigned us, and there is nothing more dangerous to flawed people than the idea of flawless evolution.

The actors capture the characters right from the first line, drawing us in with skill and verve as the actors breathe life into their characters. 

A change of pace soon throws us into battle with the principal characters in the Dex Legacy: Varian, Isra, and Ren Dex. These three teens are the adopted children of Nathaniel Dex and also happen to be genetically enhanced super-soldiers, deadlier than most armies. We’re treated to some fantastic action, and there’s a genuine sense of threat that comes with the battle that ensues. 

A wonderful balance is struck between Varian, Isra, and Ren. Each character is different in their own right, and the dynamic between them possesses a peculiar magic. There’s banter, camaraderie, bickering, and rivalry, making it easy to tap into their relationships without feeling like we’re eavesdropping. It’s natural, homely, and beautifully juxtaposes the fact that these characters are three killing machines. 

The bomb itself feels like a worthy climax, and the audio effects do a great job of making it feel huge. It’s fitting that we see the explosion through the children’s eyes. They are weapons, just like the bomb, and making them the ones who witness the devastation wrought by the developments of science is a stroke of genius. 

Finally, as the synths carry us back to Dex Industries, the characters keep on coming. We’re treated to a final confrontation between the scientist behind the bomb (Osa, who delivers a stellar performance) and the man who engineered “the children” (Devek). This interchange provides the perfect ending, tying together the strands so deftly woven through the episode, so that there’s no shying away from the conflict that’s at the heart of this episode: accountability. 

Osa: I was told to create the most scientifically advanced weapon the world has ever seen. I did not sell it and I did not detonate it. When Varian, Isra and Ren go into battle and kill a multitude, do you feel responsible?

Each character deals with issues of accountability in one form or another, whether it’s the wisdom of building an army for hire, the killing of insurgents, the loss of soldiers, or the invention of a country-ending bomb. The episode succeeds in raising questions without dishing out easy answers. And perhaps the most powerful moment in the entire 20-minute runtime is the closing line, delivered with such emotion that it nails the landing, bringing poignancy to the speculation. 

Overall, this episode made for an expertly paced, edifying listen, abounding in depth. There’s a lot to relish. Put simply: It’s the bomb. 


The Dex Legacy is a full-cast audio drama, written by science fiction author Emily Inkpen and produced by Alt Stories.

1500 years after ancestors from Earth colonized planet SP714, the human population has grown. Countries have divided, risen, fallen and out of the ashes, Dex Island is about to take center stage. Nathaniel Dex, president of Dex Industries and megalomaniacal weapons manufacturer, works with his colleagues to run his company and steer world politics. The destructive power of the products created by Dex Industries is terrifying, but nothing is more dangerous than his three adopted children, newly unleashed upon the world.

The governor interrupts Cordelia’s song of madness

Song of Thieves

by Frasier Armitage

Cordelia’s chains rattled against the prison wall, the only music she’d heard in years. Memories of old shanties came to her in quiet hours between the rising of the moons, and she whistled them when she closed her eyes. But the curl of the ocean’s waves cresting on the shore was no more than a forgotten dream.

How many cycles had she spent inside this cell? And for what? A single moment of foolishness. Her best cycles gone, never to be recovered, and no one to mourn for them. She clanged her chains against the stone that held her irons and played a dirge that only she could hear.

“Inmate,” a voice echoed through the dark. “Why do you make such a racket?”

Cordelia stopped clattering her chains, and sang towards the voice, combing her fingers through wiry strands of black, matted hair.

There once was a maiden put to sea,

Of gentle face and soul was she,
‘Til the day that she became a thief,
And the jailer threw away the key.

She stopped, and raised her hands to her mouth, her fingers dancing as she blew.

“What are you doing?” the voice asked.

“Playing the tune on my piccolo,” Cordelia replied, her head swaying in the silence.

“Well, I hope it’s a short tune. We have important matters to discuss.”

Cordelia straightened. If this wasn’t a guard, then who? No visitor had ever bothered to trudge the dungeons of the brig for her sake.

How many cycles had she spent inside this cell? Photo by Mike Hindle.

She peered through the dark. But the figure to whom the voice belonged remained an outline, a silhouette without features.

“Forgive me, sir,” Cordelia said. “But I receive so little company. Won’t you come in and sit down?” She gestured to the middle of the cell.

The figure didn’t so much as flinch, choosing to remain in shadow. “I heard a story about you.”

“Is that so?” she asked.

“That you were caught stealing a pendant from the wife of a Newlondon Guild member.”

Cordelia scowled, her cheeks reddening as the blue of her eyes turned to ice. “Is that such a crime to deserve banishment? Is it fair? Me. Banished. For what? I warned her that she had no right to that pendant. It belonged to another. And when I hatched a plot to return it to its rightful owner, I was the one punished. If you came to see a thief, you’ll be disappointed. Better for you to make an appointment with the Guild. All you see here is a self-righteous fool.” She stomped across her cell, hands on hips.

“You have no love for Newlondon’s Guild?”

“And I told them so. It’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Locked up like an animal all these years in a Haller cell.”

The figure shifted, and a shaft of light exposed the fringe of their cape. “It’s a shame you’re not a thief. I was rather hoping I might find one in these parts.” They turned to leave, and footsteps faded into the distance.

“Wait!” Cordelia cried. “Sir, I beg you. Don’t go. Let me steal a word with you.”

“Ah, so you would steal from me after all?”

“If you wish it, sir. You have a very fine cape. A Whitehall garment. And I detect the aroma of influence in the scent you wear.” Cordelia squinted, yearning to snatch a glimpse of the man. “Why would a man of influence visit a lowly woman such as me?”

The figure crept closer. “I see that nothing in this darkness is hidden from you. Not so mad as you would have me believe, are you?”

Cordelia brushed frayed ends of hair behind her ear. “It passes the time, to play the fool.”

“Then let us stop speaking foolishly. For there is already so little time. Do you know of the Polity?”

“Only from old fishermen’s tales.”

“Then you do not know that they are here? On the Globe as we speak?”

Cordelia shook her head violently, as though someone had tossed her overboard. “I get it. You’re here to mock the mad girl who dared speak her mind. Very well. I beseech you, sir, tell me your best stories. I shall believe them all.”

“It’s true.” From his palm, an image glowed. A ship bigger than any hovercraft Cordelia had ever seen illuminated from the orb he carried.

The hologram danced over Cordelia’s eyes. “Is that real?”

“It rests on sand no more than a klom beyond that wall.” The figure zoomed in to the hull, where a dozen smaller vessels attached to the larger craft. He let the image linger on the small, one-person flier, and then extinguished the projection.

“And why would you show this to me?” Cordelia crossed her arms.

“I heard another story about you.”

“Oh, really?”

“That you were the finest pilot in all Newlondon.”

Cordelia’s lips curled. “You’re a well-informed man.”

“I heard that you could pilot anything.”

“Anything that moves,” Cordelia bragged.

“Could you pilot one of those ships? The solo-fliers?” The figure stepped towards the bars of the cell, his body rigid. The air between them sparked with a restless electricity.

Would you rather stay where you are? Photo by R.D. Smith.

Cordelia shrugged. “Like I said. Anything that moves.”

The figure’s shoulders eased, and he reached into his robe. “Then I wish to make a trade with you.”

It had been so long since Cordelia had traded anything but her memories. Blood surged through her veins with more force than the ocean’s waves. “State your terms,” she said.

“You’ll play the thief, and steal a ship. You’ll take it from the surface and fly beyond the sky to dock with the good ship Shakespeare. Once aboard, you’ll find a command console and program a specific series of instructions into it, and unless you hear from me otherwise, you’ll leave before the Shakespeare comes crashing down on our Polity friends.”

Cordelia’s laughter skittered through the cell. And people thought she was mad! “A hover can only reach thirty metes above the surface,” she said. “Even children know as much. But a craft that can sail above the sky? Impossible.”

“And yet, there it is.” The figure lit the projection once more.

Cordelia stared at it, analyzing the design. The closer she surveyed it, the quicker she lost her smile. “I’ve never seen technology like this before.”

“But you can fly it?”

“Over land. Sure. But into the heavens? I haven’t been free of this cell for many cycles. And you ask me to rise above the surface of the Globe?”

“Would you rather stay where you are?”

Cordelia folded her arms, and rubbed her chin. “I know the Shakespeare remains in the sky. You can make it out glowing as a speck in the heavens. Newlondoners use it to guide them when the light fades. But you wish me to actually go there? To cross that distance?”

“A feat no other Glober has ever performed.”

Cordelia shook her head. “And what would you trade for these services?”

The figure slipped his hand from his robe and dangled a key from a chain. “Once your task is complete, you’ll be free.”

The figure dangled a key from a chain. Photo by Ainur Iman.

Cordelia’s eyes locked on the key, transfixed by it. But her instincts prevented her from snatching it. She knew better than to make a deal without knowing all the angles. “Just tell me one thing, sir — what are these commands you wish for me to give the Shakespeare?”

The figure snarled below his breath, his hands clenched into fists. “The Polity have us in their palm. They rule from on high. Another ship lurks above us in the sky. They call it—the Pacifica. I’ve tracked this vessel using sensors on the Shakespeare—

“Wait,” Cordelia interjected. “You can communicate with the Shakespeare?”

The figure straightened the collar of his cape. “There are certain men in Whitehall who hold such power.”

Cordelia nodded. “Then you truly are a man of influence. If you can communicate with the ship, why not give it your instructions from here? Why do you need me?”

“We receive telemetry, meteorological data, topographical charts from the Shakespeare. Things like these. But we cannot broadcast messages. When our ancestors traveled across the heavens and settled here, they landed in transport ships, and left the great engine which had carried them in the sky.”

“The Shakespeare. I know my history.”

“Then you know it is much more than just an engine. It is a city. But a city that the Polity believe is dead. I intend to bring it to life.”

Cordelia’s eyes frosted over once more. “You’re going to turn it into a weapon, aren’t you?”

“There is a city in the sky which belongs to the Polity. They look down on us as insects. Unless they can believe that we are every bit as human as them, they will not hesitate to crush us.”

Cordelia stroked her chin. “So you wish to destroy them first? What of peace?”

“There can be no peace without talk. I don’t intend to use the Shakespeare without reason. I shall try to persuade them in negotiations. But there is no harm in securing a little leverage. Once you reach the Shakespeare, if I succeed in convincing the Polity of our independence, then I shall contact you with the abort codes. Look out for my signal by scanning the rooftop of Whitehall’s tallest tower. But if you do not receive my signal, then we must strike first, or not at all.”

Cordelia considered his words, and raised her arm towards the bars of her cell. “Then I believe we have reached an accord.”

The figure inserted the key into the lock, dispelling the electric charge running through the bars. He twisted the latch and flung the door open. His cape followed behind him as he strode across the cell and shook her arm, before he unfastened her chains.

Cordelia’s eyes widened as the insignia of his cape fluttered in the light. “Why, Governor, I didn’t realise I was in such distinguished company.” She bowed to him.

The Governor of Whitehall put his hands on her arms, straightened her upright, and smiled. “Needless to say, if anyone finds out about our agreement, then you won’t be returning here. There’s a spot outside the city you’ll end up in. Where the Mirrim roam.”

“Governor, you need not threaten me. Once we have reached an accord, there is no question of my loyalty. I may be a thief, but I’m no liar.”

The Governor nodded. “Now, pay attention while I teach you the commands I wish for you to input.”

“Very well.”

He smiled. “And then all you have to do is figure out how to steal a Polity flier.”


Music spilled from the tavern in Newlondon, flooding the dock with its cheer. A Polity officer stumbled from the bar, his boots staggering across the cobbles as he swayed to the tune. The stench of ale on his breath clouded the air around him.

“Hey, handsome,” Cordelia called from an alleyway.

Music spilled from the tavern in Newlondon, flooding the dock with its cheer. Photo by Giuseppe Famiani.

The officer turned on the spot, and through bleary eyes, toured the contours of her body, before coming to rest on those blue irises, almost glowing in the darkness. He flashed his best Polity smile and stumbled towards the alley. “You talking to me?” he slurred.

“I don’t see any other handsome men around here. Do you?”

He turned left and right, but the harbor was empty, save for the slosh of waves and the odd fishing net. “What’s a lady such as you doing alone on a night like this?”

Cordelia backed into the alleyway. “How would you like to remedy that?” she whispered as she slunk into the shadows.

His eyes bulged as he wobbled closer, striking blind into the narrow alley. Darkness consumed him, and he reached through it for the promise of the maiden’s lips. A pinprick jabbed his neck, and he swatted it away, thinking it no more than an insect bite.

“Come to me, my pretty Glober. And let me show you what the Polity can do.” He tumbled into the wall. His head swam. From the bite on his neck, heat spread down his back. His vision clouded and he lost his footing, collapsing in a heap as the black fog of unconsciousness overwhelmed him.

Cordelia backed into the alleyway. Photo by Darwin Vegher.

Cordelia pocketed the syringe, offering a silent thanks to the Finsber who’d mixed the sleeping cocktail. She stooped to the officer and searched his pockets until she found his ident-strip.

She flicked her wrist, and a drone whirled down from where it had hovered overhead.

“Copy the data,” she instructed it. The drone emitted a green strobing beam as it scanned the ident-strip, duplicating the information into its storage banks. The beam vanished.

Cordelia replaced the item on the officer and left him sleeping. “Sweet dreams,” she whispered. Then she turned to the drone. “Inform the Governor that we move at dawn, and return to the meeting point.”

The drone thrummed skyward, vanishing from sight.

She turned to the officer and blew him a kiss. “Better luck next time,” she said, leaving him to sleep off his stupor as she disappeared into the night.


The engine of the Governor’s hovercraft rattled, skirting the desert. Strapped below the underside of the craft, Cordelia clung to the frame. Sand kicked up her back. Why couldn’t they have just put her in the trunk, like she’d asked?

Brakes whistled, biting her ears as the hover screeched to a halt in the shadow of the Polity’s lander.

Cordelia’s sinews roared. She breathed through the pain. Beside her, two sets of feet exited the craft, and voices drifted to meet them.

“Governor, this is an unexpected pleasure,” a woman said.

“Captain Ward,” the Governor answered, “I wonder if you’d permit me the pleasure of your company. There’s a small matter I wish to discuss with you.”

“It couldn’t wait?”

“I’m afraid not. May we come aboard?”

Cordelia’s skin itched as the pause stretched into an eternity. Since when did the Governor of Whitehall have to beg for an audience with anyone?

She allowed her body to lower into the straps that held her in place, and craned her neck for a glimpse beyond the hovercraft. From her waist, she slipped a pistol from its holster, loading the pellet she’d purchased from one of Westminster’s beast-chasers. In all her trades along the river, she’d never succeeded in obtaining bullets from an Artemis. But she’d never had the Haller’s credits to barter with before. If every Newlondoner knew the value of Haller credits, they’d all be working for the Governor.

Cordelia snapped the barrel shut, taking aim at the hulking metal landing-frame of the Polity’s cruiser. Its size dwarfed everything she’d thought possible in an airship. How could something so colossal ever lift from the ground? Still, at least it made an easy target.

Come on, she thought. Hurry up, Governor. I agreed you’d be on board before I fired. But a girl can only wait so long.

She strained her wrist, stretching it for a clear shot at the prow, her finger closing in on the trigger.

She strained her wrist, stretching it for a clear shot at the prow, her finger closing in on the trigger. Photo by Sofia Sforza.

“Fine,” Ward capitulated. “I can spare a few minutes.”

The feet beside the hovercraft shuffled towards the lander, and the huge mouth of the shuttlebay consumed them all.

Cordelia’s lip curled. Here goes nothing.

She released the shot, and the pellet flew through the air, erupting in clear goo across the lander’s hull.

Across the sand, a rumble echoed.

Cordelia snatched the knife from her hilt, and sliced the straps that held her to the underside of the Governor’s hovercraft.

The rumble grew louder. Louder.

She checked her hoverpads were fastened tight to her boots.

Grains of sand shuddered as the ground slithered around the lander.

Cordelia took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

From the heavens, a thousand skycrawlers descended. The beating of their wings forcing the sand to shiver beneath them. They dove at the lander, snapping at each other with fangs of steel, all of them drawn by the Artemis’s lure, splattered across the hull.

Countless beasts crowded, wrestling for a taste of the clear nectar, the air filled with their beating wings. There were so many, they blocked the sun.

Cordelia activated the hoverpads on her boots and emerged from her hiding place under the hovercraft, lifting from the clawing nest of skycrawlers. Their distraction disguised her flight perfectly, and she landed on a wing of the Polity ship, deactivating the boots as she ran towards the nearest solo craft.

Below, between the screeches of the beasts, Polity officers emerged from the lander, blasting rifles into the pack, but still the skycrawlers lusted for a morsel of the clear liquid.

Cordelia flicked her wrist, and the drone zipped across the sky, appearing at her side.

“You got those credentials?” Cordelia asked the drone. It scanned the copied ident-strip across a panel on the solo-flier, and a green light flickered as the cockpit slid open with a hiss. Cordelia climbed in and eased herself behind where the rudder should’ve been. But instead, a series of wheels and levers protruded from a console.

It’s okay. All machines are the same.

A series of wheels and levers protruded from a console. Photo by Leonel Fernandez.

As the carnage crescendoed on lander’s hull, the shrieking beasts flapped in a frenzy, rifle blasts following them. Talons slashed against reptilian hides, spewing the ground with a carnival of torn flesh and neon blood.

This must be the thrusters. And here’s the tiller.

Cordelia reached on instinct for the controls, and the whoosh of hydraulics released the clamp which fixed the flier to the main ship. She called to the drone, “Engage protocol Mirrim.”

The drone bleeped and lowered to where the clamp was open. It scanned the flier’s systems and duplicated the readings showing on the console, then it pressed itself onto the clamp, allowing the vice to squeeze its frame until it closed. The drone plugged into the Polity’s systems, and fed data back so that if anyone ran a diagnostic, they’d see a solo flier on the readout, exactly where it should be. A perfect switch. Unless the Polity did a manual inspection. But what were the chances of that when all the readouts looked normal?

Skycrawlers broke from the surface, rising in spirals like a swirling cyclone. Cordelia lifted with them, shielded from view in the melee of beating wings. She secured the latch on the cockpit door, and strapped in for the ascent.

Everything shrunk as she drew further up. Below, she saw the spires of Whitehall diminish until they were the size of children’s toys. Desert stretched all the way to the misty mountains of Belmont. The river seemed no more than a pencil line, tracing a path to the ocean. Waves patterned the sea like rips in fabric, their majestic surf reduced to mere ripples.

She reached out to taste the ocean air, the desert’s heat, the mountain’s mist. But she met only the stale glass of the cockpit window.

Cordelia glanced around her. There were four walls, the same as her cell. And no way out. She could no more reach out and touch the Globe than if she were back in the brig, chained to the wall. And then the sky darkened as the atmosphere thinned.

Her hand pressed against the glass, searching for a connection to the world, but it had been robbed from her. Yet, such a world that she beheld—the beauty of it startled her as much as its vastness. How small the Polity. How tiny was Whitehall. The higher she climbed, the greater the wonder of her vista magnified. She sailed above the sky, looking down on the Globe, and as her eyes absorbed the planet unfolding before her, Cordelia’s head filled with music. An aria unlike any that she’d ever heard.

The beauty of it startled her as much as its vastness. How tiny was Whitehall. Image by NASA.

She raised her fingers to her mouth and imagined the piccolo piping the tune. When she opened her eyes, the planet sparkled brighter than any treasure. A perfect pendant to adorn the heavens.

The world she saw didn’t belong to any of them. Hallers, the Guild, the Polity. None of them. And as she joined the company of stars, her voice called out in song—

The world is not ours,Not the land or the seas,To the Globe be the power.All who take it are thieves.


If you enjoyed Frasier’s story, please make sure and share some kind comments below.

We will be seeing more of Governor Octavius in future installments of “Nights of Revelation,” and we’ll catch up with Cordelia in Act 3 of the Globe Folio series.

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

P.S. Now you can enjoy the Globe Folio from the beginning:

Act 1: Night of the Rocket

Act 2: Nights of Revelation

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross