Author: jdiehl

The Beacon Voice

IV

Through that tapestry of darkness pricked with endless points of lights, there are vast stretches of nothing along the trail. An autofuel station here and there, but the bots run those. Haulers sleep through those. Why wake when there’s no one to chatter to? But there on the edge, where the great gate thrums before the jump point, is a terminal with a voice worth hearing. Xe’s a friendly voice, muffled by endless stellar static, a worn antenna, and thick sheets of pockmarked metal, but it’s a friendly voice that’ll guide vessels through that jump across the endless.

Xe is a sole manager and operator of an outstation at the fringe of this sector’s assigned space. Alone, isolated, and solitary is the impression most travelers get when passing by. The voice, though, xe’d tell you that just ain’t so. Oh, there’s bouts where the comm is silence ‘sides the beacon off the gate or the data pulse notice from the inner worlds, but someone’s always coming or going. One can see them, on the scope: silhouettes of heat against an ocean of black. On their way coming here or heading deep. And those, eventually, they’ll be back around.

Xe hasn’t been off the little pebble of a station in a decade. Maintenance crews occasionally pop in but the local swarm takes cares of most things. Every now and then someone launches a tube of printer matter for the station’s fabbers, and the garden pod’s a great time eater for things worth eating. Things are okay out here.

The fly-bys ain’t short. Comm range is measured in days, sometimes weeks depending on how big of an antenna or how vocal the chatter. And xe loves the stories. Loves trading them too. Not a ship goes by that xe doesn’t see, and maybe, for the gift of a little something dropped out the back of a cargo hold, xe’d tell someone about who was logged.

A quiet life marked by occasional bit of charming talk, xe’s not manipulated by too much except gossip and the occasional world bound treat. Xer station is designed to survive rogue debris storms and the worse the gates can dish out, so unless someone has come packing a military vessel, they’re probably not popping that can. Kindness will take someone an extra light year.

In sci-fi, they’re the station before a system gate. The last check point before the big star jump, or the first voice heard after the arrival. They’ll put eyes on a party’s ride and make sure everything traversed without a hitch.

In westerns, they’re the last wagon depot before heading out. They can point towards the guides who know the lands as their birthright, and sell that last bit of kit needed to make the trip possible.

In epic fantasy, they’re the voice of the healing spring the party finds just before the dungeon entrance. The cautious nature sprite that wants no harm to come to the children of humanity.

Out there, just at the edge of civilization. A watchful keeper, holding the flame aloft against the sea of night. This is a life xe has chosen, but xe will eagerly hear of the adventures of others. Trade goods, but more importantly trade stories.

The Swarmed Data

III

In the wake of our day to day lives, we leave behind a tapestry of data across multitudes of devices and systems. Historic events, casual encounters, our movement and communications; all points that can be collected, organized, and analyzed. But when magic manipulates systems, and digital requests are fueled by ritual sourcing, that sea of knowledge can take on a new existence. They birth a digital phantom, ready to join a swarm of others living an echo of the lives they mimic.

Never alive, and never to die, The Swarmed Data is a facsimile of a living being. Magic mixed with an avalanche of data in a world adjusting to digital life has given rise to vagrants of code. These wanders watch from device cameras, speak through myriad fonts across screens, and spread themselves across networks in ways that shouldn’t be. They post about their favorite topics, live stream a party’s adventure, and even serving as the occasional watchful eye to help their favorite protagonists.

These packages of noise are young datavores. They are tempted by the rare, the new, the fresh. Most never want to do things other than to horde or distribute information. Using this, they can be tempted to aid or harm, infiltrate or sever. They are also full of information, and if caught and dismantled may provide useful data about the events and person that unintentionally sired them.

In urban fantasy, they are the whispers in the net, the ghosts in the machine. Living social media accounts and magpies of access. Starring out at the divine world through glass prayer boxes.

In cyberpunk stories, they’re the swarm of the digital dead. The forgotten accounts of people a century gone, shifted from database to database until something clicked and new personas formed. Eager for new access and unlimited opportunity for misunderstanding.

In ages of legend, they’re the lost stories given life by ember sprites. Birthed by storytellers around bonfires, these aspects found connection in the dreams of mortals, and took shape on the periphery of the mind’s witness.

Like shadows, they are us but not. Our forms blurred, lost, and reforged through imagination. They do not understand the data they know and have a challenging time sharing it with those who ask. But they love the ask. Curious as children, dangerous as cats; one must never underestimate the digital native.

The Grim Displaced

II

Uneasy and distraught, this seeker knows the price of exploring the distant and surreal. Born to the chaos of the cosmos, with a life spent chasing a dream, a cure, but eventually landing on private acceptance and compassion, they find themselves a speaker for the unknown, a witness, and a healer of hearts.

Bodies are molded by discomfort and woes as they age, but some are cast to pain straight from the forge. The Grim Displaced was born on a world fluctuating between the physical and the immaterial and have spent a lifetime feeling their flesh wracked between realities. They sought cures, travelled to distant enclaves, found sister moons, but never found a salvation. Only sympathetic voices and long-lost cousins that shared the same story. Left with a sense of acceptance, they’ve come to rest before the next big challenge brings them back into the heavens.

They can be encouraged by those who seek the unknown or coaxed to help guide those whose pain and condition need a hand of compassion and a lesson in crafted family. The Grim Displaced can be made distraught over the loss of connection, or fear of a worsening condition as the immaterial looms closer. They do not wish to become a ghost adrift in stellar planes.

As a semi-retired explorer, they can share their knowledge of distant stars, hidden paths amongst the mountains, and the secret ways of the galaxy. They are knowledgeable about the limitations of medicine and can help guide those learning to deal with a body reforged by life’s dangers.

In space and slipstream stories, they are an explorer looking to the rim of known space and wondering what’s out there, their bodies objecting to the gravity-freed movement but still advancing forward.

In ages of discovery, they’re an explorer of distant shores, with parts replaced with interesting prosthetics and a ship built to support them. As long as there is a wind to sail by, their eyes will be set firmly to the horizon.

In fantasy, they’re a world jumper, always looking for a way to stabilize their presence in reality, and saving those who can’t find a place to land.

Never lost for long, and hope always within reach, the Grim Displaced may not always be the source of joy but they will always see to the survival of their friends. They seek not to be an example, nor to be a hero; only to share a kind word and a sense of exploration.

The Fallen Crusader

I

Once a gleaming bulwark of faith and mission; this former true believer has severed the thread that bound her divine heart. A youth spent in service to justice and sacrifice, a warrior cleric willing to risk flesh and soul for the righteous path and is now only a remnant of a failed god-sent campaign.

A survivor, despite her best intentions.

Her life now is one of reminiscing the past. The Fallen Crusader lives a demure life, odd jobs here and there her education and training afford her in these autumnal years. Her neighbors don’t know the breadth of her past, but everyone recognizes the sorrow that visits her eyes during certain times of the year. Only those who have sat patiently through slurred words and drunken sighs have a clue of what light she once wielded.

The Fallen Crusader can be coaxed out by those who still believe. She can be convinced to seek justice and tempted by the hope of legacy. Whispers of vengeance can manipulate her to burn the rest of that tattered soul, or shame can conquer her and break her spirit one last time.

As a guide, she can teach of the history that failed her cause. A mentor of what went wrong, she can speak wisdom to those who traverse along her quest. Caution, concern, and trust infuse her words.

In fantasy and medieval tables, she is still a knight, regardless of her lost faith. She will carry herself with dignity and honor.

In modern times, she was a defense attorney who failed to save her client and prove innocent those falsely burdened.

In distant sci-fi, she will be a time traveler abandoned in the wrong path, a ghost who failed to correct the course of history.

Ally or foe, she still possesses her armor, her arms, and her shield. Though skills may be rusty, and flesh no longer as young, her blade is still sharp. Deep within, she is eager to shed her fear and wield the sword of faith once more.