The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname



The first time Cor saw sand, he ran across the beach with giggles and bare feet, not even noticing the stinging heat and grit. Zana watched with a smile and settled down to build castles.

He came back over, curiously, after her towers began to rise from the sand, looked with wide eyes, never touching. She was raising him at essentially a spaceport. He knew to keep his fingers away from delicate things.

But he was her little brother. She took his small hands and showed him how to shape and pat and firm the walls.

“Our castle,” she said.

Long Distance Family


Zana ran Ijeve’s training facility, almost never leaving it, and had since she was a teenage girl, well trained but saddled with a little brother she wouldn’t leave. Her little brother wasn’t little anymore, but a warship who only came home on leave.

But how the messages flew between them!

She knew his triumphs and struggles before the battle reports rolled in, and every infuriating thing she didn’t need to know about his pilot. He knew about her frustrations with each new batch of trainees and which ones she had high hopes for. But they never said, I miss you.

Don’t Want to Know


Cor wasn’t a virgin when he was integrated, (more…)

Dancing through Riftspace


When most people first learn about integrates and the need for a entire spaceship computer to be able to calculate a safe trajectory through riftspace, they think of numbers and advanced math and a human enabled to think like a machine.

Cor doesn’t bother to correct them, but it’s not like that at all.

It doesn’t feel like numbers or cold calculations. It feels like diving and spinning and swimming through space, knowing with instinct and reflex how to follow the paths that match his affinity and capability. He can do anything, go anywhere, dancing in the headiness of space.

Watching and Waiting


Rhezere’s been staring after Cor from the moment he first saw him.

Kasuru never interfered beyond the reminder that future pilots shouldn’t interact with future integrates. It kept Rhezere from speaking and safeguarded him for the moment they might meet mind to mind.

But he never stopped staring at the way Cor threw himself over the wings and under the bellies of the spaceships he repaired, the way he streamed to practice flights, the way he honed his body in anticipation of his affinity for war.

Cor would be a warship one day, no doubt. Rhezere would be his pilot.



Her little brother was so small.

Zana stared at him, tucked away like a curled up kitten beneath the blanket in her narrow bunk. She barely remembered him, a newborn when she’d been forced to leave.

But here he was now, his breaths soft and even with sleep, his freckled face open and trusting. She wondered why he would trust when it was their own mother that had brought him to the training facility and abandoned him to his sister’s arms.

Zana sighed and shifted in the chair to gently kiss the top of his hair. “I won’t leave you.”

Let It Go


Cor knew it wasn’t a lack of trust that made Rhezere shy away from displaying any kind of vulnerability with his own integrate. There were enough issues bubbling between their minds that the filter couldn’t hide for Cor to know it wasn’t even personal. But it grated.

“You okay?” No matter how neutral and offhand the delivery…

“Aww, Cor, you were worried about me!” Rhezere always managed to brush it off with brilliant smiles, a light tone, deliberately changing the subject to something annoying. Anything to avoid letting Cor acknowledge there was vulnerability.

Never talked about the scars they both knew weren’t from accidents. Never talked about the people Rhezere wouldn’t admit to caring about. Never talked about the fact that Cor preferring to sleep in Rhezere’s room wasn’t only because they were synced.

Cor sighed in disgust and let it go.

The Ships


The first time he sees the ships, he’s just a tiny thing at the edge of the wide open bay dropping out like an abyss before them. Cor is four years old and unafraid. Only his older sister’s hand keeps him from stepping too close to the edge.

He has eyes only for the ships, their graceful forms reflected in his bright blue eyes.

“Zana,” he breathes.

He’s pointing, eyes aglow, and something inside her forms into a heavy knot of dread. So young, and already he knows the riftspace singing in their family’s blood.

“Come.” She draws him away.

Empty Sheets


Rhezere complains every single time Bhazaf takes major damage that he doesn’t act like a normal integrate and sleep in the cradle, where he can heal properly and the ship can finally shut down his extensive sensors.

It minimizes pain. It’s smart. Bhazaf never does it.

For once he has.

Rhezere remembers all the usual complaints—at having to share his bed, having to throw an arm across Bhazaf’s chest to remind him he has a human body and it’s not in critical condition.

Right now, the bed is achingly empty.

He sighs and goes to sleep by the cradle.



“Big sister.”

Cor hesitated, enough to make Zana stop pouring tea to narrow her eyes at him.

He squirmed despite being a teenager. “You don’t—” He huffed, then forced the words out. “You don’t have to stay here for me. Anymore.”

She stopped breathing, topped off his cup, sat. A slow inhale of steam. “I’m head of this entire training program,” she said quietly, sipped. “I’m not suffering on your account.”

She’d promised not to leave him.

“Little brother.” Zana waited for him to look up. “I’m fine.”

Cor finally nodded. His shoulders relaxed as he reached for tea.

Like Raising a Kitten


Raising a little boy as rambunctious and eager as Cor was an exercise in the fine art of not screaming.

Zana took another deep breath. The four-year-old clung to the top of a teetering bookcase. Ijeve was a space station, occasionally subject to turbulence, and furniture was lashed to walls. Only that had saved Cor from crashing to the floor with the books.

“Little brother—”

“I’m sorry!” He whined as he scrabbled to maintain his grip.

She reached up and snatched him down, making him yelp, then held him tightly to her chest. “You are in so much trouble.”

Don’t Go Away


The tiny boy hit Zana like a missile, waking her out of a sound sleep.

“Cor?” she demanded. “Little brother, what’s wrong?”

He was trembling, clinging to her, arms around her waist tight enough to hurt. He shook his head but said nothing.

Zana thought about turning on the light but didn’t. Instead she settled one hand on his back, the other his hair and stroked through the soft strands. “I’m here,” she whispered softly.

Her shirt was damp from his face, and he shuddered at the words. “Promise you won’t go away?”

Their mother had.

“Yes, Cor. I promise.”