Gods (Promptober 2025 #28)

Detail of the Divinty Sanctum

An outside observer's view of Fellport's attitude toward the gods. Excerpted from the merchant wizard Katelyn Durgin's expansive letter to Lord Gavin Stewart, the 37th Secretary of the Runlorg Society at the Bochord in Occam, the southernmost city in Dunhill, written during her extended stay in Fellport in the spring of 793 AUC.

You bemoan the Bochord's haphazard organization scheme? Try cataloguing entire faiths the same way. I don't know how the people of Fellport don't go mad deciding which gods to worship, as they seem to worship every god that's ever shone the very hint of a divine face over land or sea.

Dunhill's got the Tuatha for everyone, and that runs like a chaotic fief with cousins fighting everywhere you look, plus a local god for every house. Ionia does the same thing, though their list of gods is shorter than ours. Fellport seemed to open up the Divinity Sanctum and let servants of every last one of the gods set up a stall to proselytize anyone who comes in. Tiny island gods of deep waters rub shoulders with Tengri, the Okulari Sky Father. The Goddess of Spiders spins calmly next to Surtur's fiery chosen. It's madness.

Dreams/Nightmares (Promptober 2025 #27)

Everlight City

He last worked at the job he loved seven months and ten days ago. Fat, dumb, and happy pushing research data around the institution, he had plans of retiring from there in another decade or so. The new administration decided to throw a wrench into human health research, and he was one of several casualties that fateful Monday in April. The institution furloughed him for six months, as if continuing to have a job that he could not legally work on and would not get paid for was anything other than a cruel joke meant to crush hope.

The weeks since then stretched long with application after application sent to an uncaring employment shredder whose output got piped to /dev/null. His long career of figuring out how to move sensitive data efficiently to where it would do the most good apparently doesn't matter when he thinks he's near the end of his usefulness. The pandemic that kept coming back and kept carving away pieces focus from him every time it infected him didn't help matters.

Found Footage (Promptober 2025 #26)

FT Espresso Addiction

Text transcript and video analysis of the free trader Espresso Addiction's video log, flagged by Captain Vivek "V" Valdez with the note "TROUBLE SOURCE FOUND?" Transcription by Elysium System Defense Lt. Octavia Drusus serving on board the patrol boat Interdictor during the mandatory post-boarding quarantine period of a derelict craft, currently orbiting Elysium-7, aka Stygia.

Main Cargo Bay camera, stationary, wide angle. Regular flashing power lights on cargo containers and door controls provide the only illumination. Audio consists of the background hum of life support systems during a jump.

Door to Central Corridor slides open. Lights come on. Two sophonts, one human (ID: Valdez, Vivek; Role: Captain and Navigator), one aslan (ID: Raka'oh; Role: Security Chief and Gunner) enter.

Valdez: -why I pay you, Raka! You need to at least look at the cargo before it's loaded. It's a ship security thing, right? Can't have hijackers hiding in a crate and smothering us in our sleep, right?

Thalassaphobia (Promptober 2025 #11)

NopeNopeNope.

The shopkeeper twists their face, blinks both sets of eyelids, and flares their gills in confusion. "Wait. What did you say?"

The human shopper smiles patiently and repeats, "I'm thalassophobic." The shopkeeper isn't great at reading human expressions, but can't detect any indications of irony.

The shopkeeper claps their mouth shut and takes a moment. "That's the fear of oceans, right?"

"Yes." Again that maddening human smile in the face of absurdity. His uneven freckles remind the shopkeeper of algae clumping on the water's surface.

"Triton's Scales. Are you feeling okay?" the shopkeeper asks out of genuine concern.

"Perfectly fine, thanks."

"You realize you're on a water world, right?"

The Adventures of Cochrane Ironcalf

The Adventures of Cochrane Ironcalf burst upon the literary scene in Fellport 180 years ago with the first book in the continuing pulp fiction series "Cochrane Ironcalf and the Pirate Princess". Every few years since then, a new title appears under mysterious circumstances. The author's penname, Oculus Marenatus, spawned much speculation about the author's true identity, but nothing conclusive has ever come to light. The tongue-in-cheek bawdy writing style seems consistent across all the books, implying that perhaps all were written by a single long-lived author or perhaps a generational team of talented humans.

Goals for 2017

It's my second day home after PAX East. Post-con letdown aches in my bones, and this snowstorm doesn't help. Shoveling clears the head and raises the heart rate, but doesn't help with the fatigue.

Again I ask myself how to create lasting community outside of an expensive con that forces us to reserve hundreds of dollars and a weekend of time to hang with friends that live locally but we don't see as often as you want to. It should be easy to reach out and schedule something, but the mundane reality of parenthood and being a responsible adult with a job and a mortgage means that friendships slip down on the priority list far more often than they should. And that sucks.

Sometimes introversion sucks. Self-induced anxiety tends to suck all the time.

Frame

Hubert Robert [Public Domain]
via Wikimedia Commons

There's a little grey box with a light in the middle
  And buttons and switches that beg you to fiddle
Sitting there on its back, on the table dead center,
  Your eye finds it right quick just as soon as you enter.

Plus that frame on the wall? It holds nothing at all.

Wanted: Your Brain

Partial transcript of an Imperial Navy recruitment holovid on file at the Cronus Academy of Sciences, Elysium, Corinthian Subsector.

If you think science is boring, you're not seeing all of its implication and applications. Science isn't something you need to endure while you're in school, its uses are all around us in technology and methodology. Science saves lives every day. Science lets you turn the raw materials you have at hand into real advantages. Science gives you options that you wouldn't otherwise know about.

As an ancient astrophysicist once said, "Science exposes The Truth whether you believe in it or not."

I remember we were sent to investigate a rebellion. We arrived in-system and did the standard planetary analysis. We were outgunned 10 to 1, but we had the element of surprise. We went over the geographic data, and it turned out this huge rebel base was right next to a fault line under significant stress. That was our way in.

I talked it over with my CO, and we decided to give the fault line a little nudge. We did the math as fast as we could before we were detected, and we hit it with as blunt an instrument as we had available: all six missile bays. Targeting was dead on, and we could see the whole line line lit up with fire. That did it - the fault slipped a good couple of meters, and it looked like the whole continent kicked up a cloud of dust.

We didn't hit the base at all, but the quake flattened every structure and damaged every ship on the ground. Our company of marines hit the ground and cleaned house in only a couple of hours with zero friendly casualties. The captured equipment alone would keep a couple of batallions of mercs in the field for a year or more. And we did it with barely a shot fired.

That day we ended a rebellion in an afternoon. We captured thousands of enemy combatants with scientific analysis of the situation and a proper application of force. As an added bonus, the land should be quake-free for the next few thousand years.

We were outgunned ten to one. Xenogeology saved our ass that day.

Never tell me science is boring. It's what gets me up in the morning. Science bores you, you need to go find better questions to ask.

Now study hard so you can make a damn difference.

- Lt. Cmdr. Benjamin Cartwright, PhD
  Chief of Planetary Data Analysis Command (PDAC)
    aboard the Strike Destroyer Fulcrum (DS-8817)

Insubstantial

Gossamer Dome by Steve Jurvetson

Full silver moonlight weakens boundaries, doubly so on All Hallow’s Eve. Faerie walls made from butterfly sighs and cricket whispers cemented together with dew-damp mushroom gills bar passage by bound mortal souls. Except, perhaps, tonight.

Dawn stains the east as Queen Mab finally retires. Time grows short as I hear opportunity’s window sliding closed. My indistinct hand reaches the invisible wall, morning fog fingers pressing against imagined creatures’ dreams.

Reflections of heat lightning throw me back into the faerie ring; distant thunder echoes this year's slamming window. I rush back before I’m missed, doomed to serve, hoping until next Halloween...

Memento Civilis

"Time grows short, Archivist. We must leave."

The bearded elder remains bent over the machinery spread across the table, twiddling crystals in the splitting and refracting ruby light. "You go ahead, Avi. I'll be right behind you."

Avi's forehead creases more deeply. "You have no intention of joining me, sir. And I would remain with you."

The Archivist glances up. "I have no intention of staying here, Avi. But I have a responsibility to the memory of our people. I must use every second I can." He sighs. "Get the last of the physical records through the portal and head through yourself. You will be instrumental in organizing the archives on the other side."

The Veteran's Mantra

She rounded the final bend and saw the tunnel open onto the sea. She stared at the beautiful crystalline depths of the sea she had hoped to avoid, but saw only mockery and defeat. Captain Fisher's ancient survey maps had led her astray. Again.

If only the Old Goat (as she calls the good Captain on a good day) had landed closer to the temple site, but he had insisted on landing at Idyls Downport in hopes of trading. If only the Old Goat had given her his hovercar, but he needed it to haul his stash of gods-damned single malt. If only the Old Goat had agreed to pay for a rental, but all his money was tied up in his hold, and it would take a few days to sell any of his cargo for a fair price.

If only she had insisted the Old Goat pay her something up front, but he had called in a huge favor. Worse yet, he sent his crew's doctor to talk her into bailing his ass out of jail after he tried to bribe a theocracy official with a flask of single malt. Typical. She dragged a hand through her red hair, adjusted her rifle, and exhaled. For the tenth time today, she muttered her less-charitable nickname for the Old Goat, which became her mantra every time she had to pull him out of whatever rathole he blindly ran down this week:

"Duckfucker."

Funnel Photo Finish

This snippet of story, all 800 words of it, exists solely because of the following image, used with the permission of its creator, Robert Cornelius. He does fantastic Photoshop work. Don't believe me? Check out his portfolio and blog. Look for more photo-inspired pieces like this in future posts.

This image screamed "DCC Funnel" to me, so I went with it. Enjoy!

Fight or Flight by Robert Cornelius. Used with permission.

Sixteen volunteers descend those cold and ancient steps in the keep's basement. Ninety minutes later only the Woodcutter still lives, desperate to find a way back up those steps to relative safety.

Shuttle Tiberius: A Routine Flight

“Janus, you old bucket of bolts! Good to see you!”

Janus's head pivots until his LED-blue eyes face the approaching human. “Greetings Ensign Decker.” His soothing voice turns his everyday speech into a relaxation program. “I noticed you requested the copilot seat again. Are you still pursuing your Ship's Boat certification?”

Decker claps him on the shoulder and sits. “I am! I really want my Pilot cert, but I'll take what I can get while I'm on satellite duty.”

“It is unfortunate that you lack the opportunity to study what you want.” Janus turns back to his preflight preparations.

“I can study on my own, but it just doesn't stick without actual practice with a real ship.” Decker turns toward the control panel. “Permission to assist?”

A Somewhat Unethical Plan

The desk phone rings. Ell tears herself away from her screen to answer it with her usual script. “Neuro Research.”

Angry car honks and crackling line noise almost drown out the thin voice. “Hi. Is this Elana Garcia?”

Still wary of crank calls, she leans back to her laptop. Ell wonders how a pre-teen kid got a cell phone and why he’s calling from such a busy street. “This is.”

“The same Elana Garcia that works with Dr. Delgado?” A static pop punctuates his words.

“He’s no longer with the program, but I did work with him, yes.” Ell realizes the kid is using a pay phone. She didn’t realize those still existed, never mind one that actually works.

“I’m more interested in talking to the real one, if that’s possible.”

Ell forgets her laptop and focuses fully on the caller. Thin voice or not, this kid is remarkably self-assured. She hedges, “I’m not sure what you mean.” She glances at the etheric sphere and wishes Dr. Delgado still had human form and senses. It would make getting his attention and voicelessly communicating her freakout so much easier. But for now she’s on her own.

The child continues. “A little bird told me about him. The real one, I mean. And we have an idea that we need some help with, so I’m trying to get in touch with him. Can you do that?”

“Could you hold on a minute, please? I’m going to see if I can clean up this connection a little. Thanks!” She jams the hold button without waiting for a response. “Dr. Delgado? We have a problem.”

Gail's Ghost

Received: Today 5:01 PM
To: Gail Greene
From: Ghost

My Dear Gail,

As promised, I compose my first missive in what I hope is an illuminating correspondence. I believe this is after your scheduled work time, so I hope you have a few minutes to spare.

I would like to apologize in advance, as I deal with information from a wide array of sources, and some of that information pertains to you. I try to preserve your privacy, but I feel I must share one thing: your penchant for coffee, particularly the overpriced and additive-laden swill from Starbucks, shall cause your demise. I realize it’s an extra block’s walk and you strive to increase your Fitbit step count, but the extra half mile to Whole Foods would do you even more good and net you a tastier cup of stimulation.

In any case, I implore you to limit yourself to two cups per diem.

My first question: Why banking? My father was a banker back in the day, and I can’t imagine a more mundane field. For someone with your obvious talent and brilliance, it strikes me as extremely limiting. True, the occasional opportunity to match wits with an interloper alleviates the monotony, but the sheer inanity of dealing with monitoring security and keeping your utilities patched would drive me into an asylum. I should need a cadre of friends to extract me before the treatments I received cause permanent injury. But I digress.

Little wonder you’re a coffee addict.

Would you be amenable to alternative employment should the opportunity arise?

Now with the unsolicited advice far in the past and an interrogative outstanding, ask me what you will.

Yours,
-Ghost


Sent: Today 5:37 PM
To: Ghost
From: Gail Greene

1) Stay the hell out of my coffee.
2) Aren’t you taking the supernatural thing a little far, “Ghost”? I mean, really.
3) How the hell did you remotely hack a camera? It doesn’t have a network connection.
4) Are you offering me a job? If so, doing what?

g


Received: Today 5:38 PM
To: Gail Greene
From: Ghost

1) Fair enough. I share out of concern, but I shan’t bring it up again.

2) I used to be fascinated with supernatural phenomena. Suffice to say that fascination has become somewhat more serious of late.

If you wish to discuss this topic further, I would much prefer to visit in much the way we interacted before, though perhaps in a more personal setting. You have done well with your bank’s security, and dealing with it drains me somewhat. Words fail to capture the details and magnitude of my situation. A demonstration may have greater impact. Please let me know if you’re willing and we can schedule a time for us to meet.

3) Electronics are electronics. If I can reach them, I can modify the firmware, software, and stored data. I have been programming since before you were born, so I have access to a few techniques you may not have seen before. Also, my current situation allows me to break some rules and reach far further.

4) I believe I am. Details forthcoming as I get the organizational pieces in place, but suffice to say that you would never be bored. Given the size of the charitable donation from the last time we spoke, I know you will trust me when I say you would want for nothing. I imagine development tasks, bolstering computer security, and the odd infiltration should you desire some distraction.

This may take me some time to set up, but please forward me the salary requirements of your furthest-flung dreams and I shall make the numbers work.

Yours,
-Ghost


Sent: Today 5:42 PM
To: Ghost
From: Gail Greene

OK, I’m intrigued. I’ll need some time to rediscover my “furthest-flung dreams”, but I’ll get you a number. And I want 50% of that number as a signing bonus before I give my notice.

And yes, let’s talk in real time.

Just who the hell are you, anyway?

g


Received: Today 5:42 PM
To: Gail Greene
From: Ghost

I shall give you a hint as to my identity, as games surely keep the mind sharp.

A bonus shouldn’t be an impediment. It’s all just numbers in this modern age, and electronic ones at that, so money is quite literally no object.

I have somewhat extensive plans. I would be remiss if I didn’t share them with you before you made your decision. Money is well and good, but it hardly forms the basis for a meaningful and lasting professional relationship.

Your idealism should be a great asset in this endeavour, but I shall reserve specifics until after we meet. I assume your calendar is up to date?

Yours,
CB

Queen Mary's Return

Prince Philip started this morning with a smile. Yesterday he had ascended to the throne of The Royal Family crew through right of assassination. He stabbed Queen Mary in the back and watched her bleed out as he placed the crown on his own head. Little tragedies like this happen every day in the alleys far from the ghost-lit affluence of respectable society.

True, Mary had been fair and generous during her reign, but lately she kept half of the crew in the dark, Philip among them. Rumor had it she was planning a few high-risk jobs to thin the ranks of the Family. Philip would be damned if he’d play the fall guy for someone else's unchecked ambition.

Besides, Mary’s fake brogue annoyed the hell out of him.

The Real Delgado

“Have you heard? They finished debunking Tony’s notes.” The young woman drags a stool over to her workbench, flipping the tail of her lab coat to avoid sitting on it. "True to his word, you're not mentioned at all."

The Etheric Sphere on her desk glows brighter. The obviously after-market speaker jury-rigged to it emits a voice. “I hadn’t heard. Call it up for me, would you?”

“Sure thing.” She keys in a search on her laptop and clicks a result. She pivots the screen to face the sphere. The first few paragraphs of a news story fill the screen:

DELGADO'S MEDICAL LICENSE REVOKED
Dr. Antonio Delgado was stripped of his medical license on Tuesday after a year-long investigation into his unorthodox treatment of mental illness.

The Ghost in Your Machine

“I’ve got you now!”

The blinking LED on the palm-sized detector next to her monitor goads Gail into pouncing on her keyboard. Typing furiously with a hacker’s focus, she mutters, “Nobody skims on my watch.”

Her fingers blur. Her attention darts between a half dozen points on her screen, all filled with scrolling data. The recorder app in the lower right slowly ticks up as it records more and more data. She smiles, accomplishment’s sunshine breaking through effort’s storm clouds. She clicks “Stop Recording” and drags the recorded file to her thumb drive. “And now I have proof. Jackass.”

Lurk's Workout

“I'm working out and then having drinks, honey! Don't wait up!”

I close the front door behind me, not waiting for an answer. I'm still in my office clothes, and I have my workout bag, which weighs a ton. It can't be helped, with the lead lining and all. Suffice to say I work as an anonymous health care administrator in the city, but I do all right for myself. Especially after hours.

Becky still thinks I go to the gym. I still do most of the time in case anyone checks up on me, but my workouts lately make the toughest cardio class look like a stroll on the beach. I'm never sure I'll even survive.

I swipe my card at the gym and duck out through the locker room. It's a three mile run to the containment facility, and if we're very lucky nobody will ever know we were there.

I change into my workout clothes. It's harder to sneak around wearing a filter mask and lead-lined suit, but tonight I'll need the protection. Liz should be inside already, distracting this week's boyfriend. I can hear Father Cutter singing drunkenly around the corner to keep the guards busy. I pat Bulldog's head on the way by. She nods, starts mouthing the words to the Piña Colada Song, and lowers her eye to the scope, looking for trouble to eliminate with her whisper-quiet rifle.

Whisper to a Scream

Public Domain
via Wikimedia Commons

I know Teddy Roosevelt, but I'm a nobody and it's a hundred years after his death so nobody believes me. I see him when others can't, and occasionally I let him have a ride in my body. Like today, as we wait for the train to get out on the bridge.

He said he came home to New York after his death. Even dead, he's larger than life. He's brave, loud, overconfident, and he gets me in trouble. He's sill kicking himself that he didn't run for reelection. His heart's in the right place, though, and he's just a stand-up dude. Which is why we're starting something in about 2 minutes.

He tells me he can't abide seeing decent people shackled to someone else's work. He tells me we can do something. He tells me that after we free a few, they can help us to free more. He tells me he knows what to say to get them on our side.

We chose the train because the etheric detectors can't quite discern what's train power and what's raw spirit. They say the detectors will find terrorists with etheric bombs, but everybody knows that's total bullshit. They're looking for escapees and for the people who help them, like me.