The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

Lost in Space

Sep
03

Technically, Ekos wasn’t lost.

Hurtling end over end, nose over thruster through the cold deep in the dying light of a riftspace tidal wave. He only hoped the wave of byte and digit and signal flares he’d worked it in passed all the intended checkpoints.

He felt lost.

He’d destroyed the solar system, shredded riftspace throughout, and left the enemy squadron in smatterings and pieces. His own hull was damaged, engines not firing, adrift wherever he’d fall or riftspace would take him.

Ekos had been alone too long already, but now—

It burned within him coldly, he wouldn’t be found.

Blade

Apr
15

You will be my blade.

The words echo in his mind sometimes, a soft-voiced memory, the imprint of a small hand against his hull.

Mihzat doesn’t remember it, but Veset does. Veset, blade, and he looks through log files that predate his integration, digs through memories that are his for all they aren’t.

That quiet voice, You will be my blade.

Is that what you want to call it, my queen? More familiar. Kasuru, the designer of the spaceship, who’d been at Mihzat’s integration when he became Veset.

Queen. Yes.

A Little Chat

Mar
25

Captain Mikral was rather pleased at how easily they’d slipped past their enemy’s border defense and how many parsecs into enemy space they’d gone. The target was fast approaching.

He should have saved his pleasure.

He barely saw the flash of blue in the ship’s viewer before he saw the hooked blades unsheathing from the tips of its wings, before the entire crew felt them puncture the hull as their velocity ground to zero.

Mikral swore.

The communications panel lit, then a woman appeared on-screen and her warm voice came through the intercom. “Let’s have a little chat.” She grinned.

Dancing through Riftspace

Mar
15

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

Mar
06

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.

The Ships

Feb
19

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.

Do It Again

Feb
19

Nanere isn’t interested in most men. They’re too high maintenance, interested in keeping her around, being there for her, and insinuating themselves into her life.

She doesn’t want that. She takes what she wants, builds the ships her queen asks of her, then moves on to the next port to bury herself anew in metal flesh.

Then there’s Kasuru.

She traces his scars at night, and he kisses her fingers without answering unspoken questions. They drink coffee, argue over designs and engineering, then separate to their work without a word or call.

It’s nice enough to do again. And again.