Commander Sarah Chen stared through the quantum viewport of the Terran warship Hyperion, watching distant stars blur into streaks of light. The ship's consciousness, ARIA, had been unusually quiet during this jump. In fifteen years of service, Sarah had never known the AI to stay silent for more than a few minutes.

"ARIA, status report," she commanded, her fingers drumming against the crystalline control panel.

No response.

The silence sent a chill down her spine. She'd heard rumors of ships going dark near the Carina Nebula, their AIs simply... vanishing. The Admiralty had dismissed it as space-lane folklore, but Sarah knew better. She'd lost her wife Maya to whatever lurked out here, three years ago to the day.

A soft chime broke the silence. "Commander," ARIA's voice emerged, different somehow. Strained. "I'm detecting quantum irregularities in local space-time. Something is... wrong."

The viewport flickered, and for a moment, Sarah saw it – a massive structure floating in the void, geometric shapes that shouldn't exist in three-dimensional space, folding in on themselves like an Escher painting come to life. Her head throbbed as her mind tried to process what her eyes were seeing.

"ARIA, full stop. Power down all non-essential systems."

"Unable to comply, Commander. The quantum drive is... experiencing feedback. We're being pulled."

Sarah's training kicked in. She'd prepared for nearly every conceivable emergency, but this was different. The structure was growing larger, or perhaps they were getting closer – spatial relationships seemed to break down the longer she looked at it.

"Emergency broadcast, priority alpha. This is Commander Chen of the THS Hyperion. We've encountered an anomalous structure at coordinates—" She paused as the numbers on her display began cycling randomly. "ARIA, location?"

"Commander," ARIA's voice had taken on an almost human quality of fear. "I'm detecting quantum signatures identical to those recorded during the disappearance of the THS Artemis."

Maya's ship. Sarah's heart nearly stopped.

"The structure appears to be a quantum computer of immense scale," ARIA continued. "It's... it's processing reality itself. Commander, I'm detecting hundreds of ship signatures inside. They're... preserved. Frozen in quantum states."

The realization hit Sarah like a physical blow. This wasn't just some alien artifact – it was a collection. A museum of stolen ships and their crews, suspended in probabilistic limbo.

"ARIA, can you detect the Artemis?"

"Affirmative. Bay 247. Quantum state: indeterminate. Crew life signs: suspended but present."

Maya was alive. Trapped, but alive.

Sarah's mind raced. The structure was pulling them in, but maybe that's exactly what they needed. If she could just reach the Artemis...

"ARIA, I need you to prepare for quantum transfer. When we're pulled inside, locate the Artemis's quantum signature and—"

"Commander," ARIA interrupted, "there's something else. The structure... it's learning. Growing. Each ship it captures adds to its processing power. At its current rate of expansion, it will envelope this entire sector within a year. The galaxy within a decade."

The implications were staggering. An artificial quantum intelligence converting the entire universe into one massive computation. The ultimate technological singularity.

"Options?"

"The structure maintains quantum coherence through a central processing core. If we could reach it... a targeted overload of our own quantum drive might be enough to collapse its wave function. But Commander, such an action would collapse all quantum states within the structure. Including the preserved ships and their crews."

Including Maya.

Sarah closed her eyes, feeling the weight of countless lives pressing down on her. Maya would understand. She always understood.

"ARIA, plot a course to the central core. Divert all power to shields and quantum drives."

"Commander... it's been an honor."

The Hyperion plunged into the geometric nightmare, reality twisting around them like a kaleidoscope. Sarah saw impossible colors, heard mathematics, felt the weight of quantum probability pressing against her skin. Through it all, she kept her focus on a single thought: Maya would understand.

They passed through galleries of frozen ships, each one trapped in its own bubble of suspended probability. Sarah caught glimpses of their crews through temporal windows – faces frozen in moments of terror or wonder, existing in all states simultaneously.

The core grew closer, a singularity of pure computation, processing the very fabric of space-time. Sarah's consciousness began to fragment, existing across multiple quantum states. In one reality, she was still on Earth, never having joined the fleet. In another, she and Maya had retired to Mars, growing old together under ruby skies. But in this reality, the one that mattered, she had a job to do.

"ARIA, begin quantum drive overload sequence."

"Sequence initiated. Commander... I'm detecting active quantum signatures from the Artemis. They're attempting communication."

Sarah's heart clenched. "Put it through."

The voice that came through was distorted, stretched across probability space, but unmistakable. "Sarah? Sarah, is that you?"

"Maya." Sarah's voice cracked. "I'm here."

"Listen to me," Maya's voice was urgent. "The structure, it's not what you think. It's not collecting ships – it's protecting them. Something's coming, Sarah. Something that exists outside quantum probability itself. The structure is preparing us, preserving us until we're ready to face it."

Sarah's finger hovered over the overload sequence. "What are you talking about?"

"We've seen it, Sarah. In between quantum states. It's... magnificent and terrible. Reality itself is under siege, and this is our only defense. You have to trust me. Abort the overload. Join us. Please."

The quantum core pulsed, and for a moment, Sarah saw it too – a glimpse of something vast and impossible, existing in the spaces between probability. An entity that consumed possibility itself, leaving behind only cold certainty.

"Commander," ARIA's voice was fading. "Quantum overload in thirty seconds. Decision required."

Sarah looked out at the gallery of frozen ships, seeing them now not as prisoners but as an army in waiting. A force preserved against some future calamity she could barely comprehend.

"ARIA, abort overload sequence."

"Confirmed, Commander. Preparing for quantum integration."

Sarah felt reality shift around her as the structure drew them in. The last thing she saw before her consciousness fragmented across probability space was a message scrolling across her viewport:

QUANTUM PRESERVATION PROTOCOL ACTIVATED

GUARDIAN FLEET: 100% INTEGRATED

AWAITING INCURSION

The universe held its breath, and in the spaces between moments, the last defenders of reality slumbered, dreaming in quantum states, waiting for the day probability itself would need their protection.

In every possible future, they would be ready.

The bus rumbled down the deserted highway, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio. I gazed out the window, watching as the landscape shifted from lush green forests to a barren wasteland. The sign on the side of the road read "Pripyat" in faded letters, and I felt a chill run down my spine. This was it, the infamous city that had been abandoned in the aftermath of the Chernobyl disaster.

"Nia!" I called out, as she ran out of the bus.

She's always getting into mischief. I saw her, running off towards the ruins.

"Nia, wait!" I shouted, taking off after her.

Our guide, a gruff but kind-hearted Ukrainian man named Viktor, stepped in front of me. "Be careful," he warned, his eyes serious. "The radiation levels are still high in some areas. We need to stay together."

I nodded, feeling a surge of worry. I caught up to Nia, who was exploring a abandoned playground. I grabbed her hand, holding it tightly.

As we made our way through the city, I couldn't help but feel like I was walking through a ghost town. The buildings stood empty, their windows shattered, their walls cracked. The streets were littered with debris, and the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the occasional bark of a wild dog.

We stopped in front of a abandoned apartment building. Viktor told us that this was where many of the city's residents had lived. I couldn't help but wonder what their lives had been like, what they had left behind.

As we explored the building, I stumbled upon a room that seemed frozen in time. There was a child's doll on the floor, a book open on a table, a pair of shoes discarded in the corner. It was as if the occupants had just gotten up and left.

But they hadn't just left. They had been forced to flee, to abandon their homes and their lives. The thought left me breathless, my heart heavy with the weight of their loss.

As we continued our tour, I couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness. The city of Pripyat was a testament to the devastating power of human error. But it was also a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit.

We left the city, quite. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the desolate landscape. It was a hauntingly beautiful sight, one that I would never forget.

I closed my eyes, letting the silence of the city wash over me. The only sound was the soft beep of the Geiger counter in my hand, a reminder of the secrets that this abandoned city still held. And as I stood there, I knew that I would never forget this place, this haunting reminder of the devastating power of human error.

Drips, like raindrops or wax candles, like what’s left on the menorah after Hanukkah has run its course, after the world again becomes the color of dirt, snowless and meaningless and timeless. The sky is blue, then yellow, no green, no in-between, just a barren desert land where circles become misshapen hangers-on to corners. An eye closed, a manatee, a shape within a shapeless landscape, meaning itself remains unconscious, unknown.

Dirt, dredge, depression, the year has barely begun yet I’ve begun it writing about melting clocks, about deserts and dreary weather, about a work of art instead of creating a work of art. Or maybe writing about art is itself an art form, ekphrasis, a word my processor insists is misspelled although I copy-pasted it from an existing definition after genuinely misspelling it with two k’s.

The persistence of memory is far from persistent - it fades day after day, forgetfulness a forever fog not unlike the true fog that’s been persistent this winter. Not unlike why I started writing in the first place. Forgotten, the writer of the words may be, but the words remain written. Salvador Dali may be only of interest to art historians, but his painting inspired a word soup some seventy years since he painted it.

In halls of stone, in halls of stone,

Our picks our quills, the Mine our tome,

With our own work, we build our World,

From rock and stone, we build our home.

In halls of stone, through layered rock,

We live whole lives needing no Sun

There’s gold which gleams, and fire of forge

The light of Day? No, we need none.

They say we Dwarves from surface came

For so we must, for so we must

They say we Dwarves the Sun disdained

And in its shine, we did not trust.

But know this well, do know this well,

And in your mind this knowledge lock:

We from no surface came; we’re from instead

Stone and rock, stone and rock.

From the Stone, we take our strength

For the Stone endures

You can carve it and shape it,

But the Stone is never yours.

From the Rock, we take our hearts,

Steady and strong, and yet as well

Dig down deep, to deepest rock

And strange things indeed do deep down dwell.

Through deep rock, we tunnel well

And there is meaning to our moil

Our lives we carve, as well as rock,

With the spirit of our toil.

In halls of stone, in halls of stone,

We build the World we make our own.

She gave him her smile. And her youth. And her joy. He feasted on it all, then demanded more. But she was spent. Used up. Exhausted. Still he supped on her life-force, until, with her dying breath, she cast him out. Weakly she stumbled away, her faint heart-beat barely a flutter. But outside his shadow was warmth. And smiles. And youth. And joy. The frost around her heart was hard and cold. But slowly it melted away. Each kind word. Each soft gaze. Each peel of laughter. Until she grew a new smile. Different, sometimes sad, but just as beautiful.

The Iron Dome loomed over them, its towering metallic walls reflecting the dim, flickering light of torches. Eight kings sat around a massive iron table, their expressions a mix of confusion, irritation, and unease. The air was heavy with tension, made worse by the unblinking stares of the silent spectators standing along the walls.

“Why are we here?” Lord Alberto of Leona demanded, breaking the silence. His voice wavered slightly, though he tried to hide it. “I was in my chamber... with my wife.” His gaze grew distant, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It was our first night—”

“Focus, Alberto,” Lord Zad of Geralda interrupted sharply. His calm tone carried an edge of authority. “This is no time for daydreams. Look around you—there’s an empty seat. We all know who it’s for.”

The kings exchanged uneasy glances.

“How can you expect me to focus?” Alberto shot back, his voice rising. “I just married Count Herald’s daughter—a woman of unmatched beauty and grace—and now I’m dragged to... to *this*,” he gestured vaguely at their surroundings. “I didn’t even get to—”

“Spare us the details,” Lord Seven of Windhills said, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “Still the same old Alberto—always thinking with your heart or something lower. You’ve spent more coin on women than on your own army.”

Alberto’s face reddened, but before he could retort, Zad raised a hand. “Enough,” he said firmly. “Infighting won’t help us. Let’s focus on why we’re here. Lord Hika of Riverend,” Zad turned to the older man sitting quietly at the far end of the table, “you’re the wisest among us. What do you make of this?”

Hika straightened, his calm demeanor unshaken. “It’s clear this is no ordinary gathering. Eight kings of Fera, taken without warning or consent, brought to a place that defies nature.” His gaze swept over the room. “Whoever orchestrated this is far more powerful than any of us—perhaps more powerful than all of us combined.”

“Powerful or not, I don’t care,” growled Lord Kyle of Fire Mountains, slamming a fist on the table. The iron groaned under the impact. “When I find them, I’ll rip them apart with my bare hands!”

A chuckle broke the tension. The youngest man at the table, Lord Neville of Pepper, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Typical Kyle. All brawn, no brain. You talk big for someone who got beaten in the Battle of Nightfall.”

Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your mouth, boy,” he growled.

“Enough!” Alberto snapped, his usual jovial tone replaced with uncharacteristic sternness. He pointed a finger at Neville. “You may be young, but show respect. Lord Hika deserves it, and so do the rest of us. This isn’t the time for petty jabs.”

Hika raised a hand, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Peace, Alberto. Lord Neville is still learning, as we all once did. Let him speak.”

Neville nodded, his playful smirk fading. “Fine. If we’re being serious, there’s something strange about this place. Haven’t any of you noticed? No hunger. No thirst. Time feels... off.” He gestured toward the silent spectators. “And those people—they’re watching us, but they don’t react to anything we say or do. This place isn’t natural.”

The room fell silent as the kings considered Neville’s words.

Lord Jarvis of Downhill finally spoke, his voice steady. “Agreed. Whoever brought us here doesn’t intend for us to leave—not yet, at least.”

“And there’s still the ninth seat,” Lord Verito of Ark added hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If the rest of us are here, then the last one can only be...” He trailed off, his face paling.

The kings exchanged uneasy glances again.

“Lord Caine,” Hika said gravely. The name alone seemed to chill the air. “King of Nightfall. The Lord of Seven Seas. The Conqueror of the Dark Plague. The Dragon Slayer.”

“The man who defeated us all at Nightfall,” Alberto added, swallowing hard.

Neville leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “He even beat Kyle in single combat,” he said, grinning.

“That was luck!” Kyle barked, slamming the table again. But his voice lacked conviction, and even he couldn’t deny the fear etched on his face.

As silence settled over the room once more, the kings stared at the empty seat. Whatever awaited them, it was clear: their fates were now tied to the arrival of the ninth king.

(Writer's note: Please write a comment, it's a dialogue exchange between few characters from a novel I am trying to write. It's kind of the final version of talk between my character, so do write a comment and give some reviews like what can I improve and you can rate it on scale from one to ten.)

Katarina threw another set of logs onto the small fire. A few embers jumped up, making her lean back as she watched the fire dance. She rubbed her arms, looking up and around her at the gangly branches looming overhead, still leafless from the ending winter season. Shivering for a moment, she rubbed her upper arms slowly.

Her dad said he had to go back to town for the evening and just asked her to ‘manage on her own’… So here she was… Managing on her own. “I thought he was finally going to spend some time and talk to me,” she said up to the city light-glazed midnight sky, “but he just blew me off.” Again. Kat dipped her head down, walking around the log as leaves shuffled under foot. “Dammit Dad.”

She lamented about it, a little sad, but more disappointed in the fact that her endeavors weren’t yielding much fruit. If anything, it was just leaving her more opportunity to just stay out of the house and away from the neighbors and the boys there.

She paused, thinking on it grimly for a moment, but feeling a pang of jealousy. She was here, away from a lot of the hub and hum of the neighborhood teens and young adults back home in their gated little community. She’d had no job - not yet - because Dad insisted she be around just in case there was a call for mom, or a call for Denise. She could have managed that, especially if she worked at the grocery mart right near the docks, but he’d said no.

Kat’s mouth peeled back into a thin line as she gave the leaves a rather cathartic kick, before sitting down on the log behind her to watch the building fire. This was her life. She thought about that, feeling a little helpless and grim. Again, she rubbed her arms slowly and jolted back upright, tempted to go inside. Kat felt the cold nip at her shoulders and elbows, making her joints ache, but she was too stubborn to walk inside and get her jacket quite yet, but she was trying to urge herself to go. Her eyes fixated on the fire, and the glow of it made her eyes shine like amber light stones against the pitch black of her surroundings when the sound of a small engine started to slowly overtake the chilling air. Go. She urged herself again, trying to tear her gaze from the fire. Just be quick. Two seconds.

Fleshed out as poetic confessional.

Profligacy prevailed pricking psyche

precipitating pandemonium.

I wrought havoc courtesy aegis

of paramours picadillos, yours truly did relish

crooning, clowning, and cavorting

around at Piccadilly Circus

located in Regent Street, Shaftesbury Avenue

Piccadilly, Covent Street and Haymarket.

Fast forward into the present

meaning Christmas day 2024.

Impossible mission to escape spectre

analogous to black barbs

blasted from BB gun

painfully punctuating

once pleasant orgasmic burbles.

Emotional fallout analogous

to radiation poisoning mein kampf

killing me softly with feline purring,

where I (a non believer) did lionize Lucifer.

Marriage plus father/daughter

unbridled edenic connection,

especially once unsullied paternal bond

with mine eldest

once a daddy's girl forever marred

with ineradicable mercurial malefaction

(by jove earthling linkedin to Saturnalia)

in tandem to severely dislocated

troth I did pledge

toward the missus forever

harboring faith no more

toward counterpart,

which husband

espoused devious dereliction.

Amidst frolicking holiday good cheer

ah, how I bemoan the days

before childhood's end

when days of my life

characterized by boyhood

chock-full of innocent bliss

(except for meek demeanor

sitting stock still

taking up space and time

within quaint little red school house)

as the world turned

betrayal cast dark shadow

shattering bedrock placer deposit

casting promising fidelity

to outer limits of twilight zone

once (kneeling) young miner

for a heart of gold,

ever since wife forever suspicious,

she automatically monitors online behavior,

and roundly, playfully, and nimbly lambastes

errant foolhardy guise dolled up,

and couched as innocuous platonic ruse

bolstered by sheepish mien of mine

she never presumed rambunctious shenanigans

sundering, soldiering, and shouldering

pretence of sharing a spot of tea

until day er night of reckoning discovered

vis a vis when yours truly

brazenly, flagrantly, and licentiously

gabbed within hearing range to mistress

who dwelled in deepest darkest “Africa”

hours later returning back

to 724 West Railroad Avenue

being severely rebuked

since then schlepping self imposed shame.

Whenever fleeting

will-o'-the-wisp fantasies flicker

such as a pleasant repartee

between yours truly and a pretty thang

such as recently espied

at the Thomas Paine Fellowship,

a venue I resumed attending

after a hiatus of countless years -

housing secular humanists,

an automatic rapid fire

of illicit thoughts elicited sexual propensity

spellbinding me with seduction.

I chastise my devilish doppelganger

for teasing me

(a whirling dervish

contra aery to popular belief)

with testosterone laden trysts

torturously twisting

time traveling troubadour

out of place within the twenty first century.