Z.A. Mackic

Alathea entered the hangar where her ship was. There was no one around. She took a few steps. “Hello?” Silence was her only answer. Her lips stretched into a smile. She was finally alone. All the engineering staff was busy helping the generation ship they had encountered recently. It had captivated everyone on Voyager, especially the Captain. The solitude in the hangar offered a welcome reprieve, and Alathea was eager to delve into the mysteries of her ship with no prying eyes or curious minds around. Alathea frowned at the whole situation with the generation ship. The captain had never established a clear contract with the ship, just started helping without asking for anything in return. Hopefully, they would get a good deal for their efforts, considering the limited resources Voyager had. But the entire situation was now affording her some precious alone time. Finally. The solitude in the hangar was a rare respite, a chance to focus on her own ship without the backdrop of altruistic

They placed Alathea at the round part of the male sign designed into the conference table. The captain, a female, occupied the seat where the arrow of the sign pointed. It seemed like a designer had pulled an elaborate prank on her. The table, in its peculiar design, almost screamed at her she was an intruder. Alathea maintained a neutral expression, chuckling internally. Such a design must inject a bit of insecurity into a captain. “…so we cannot use the wormhole that our guest used. The time dilation is too great. And there is also the question of her quantum variances.” “Our probes registered nothing that would show the entrance to the other universe. However, our guest is correct. The other end of that wormhole is between galaxies, and the probe confirmed that the other end of the wormhole is shifted approximately twenty thousand years in the past,” explained Harry. Alathea tilted her head. What that man said made little sense. It had taken over thirty thousand years for the known

Alathea trailed behind the short redhead woman through the corridors of an exceptionally comfortable ship. She observed the pristine passageways and the well-coordinated attire, each hue showing a rank within the crew. If the person in front claimed to be the captain, then this cultural palette held red as the most revered color. The captain glanced over her shoulder. “Am I too fast for you?” “No.” “So why are you behind, then?” The question hung in the air, a gentle nudge toward the nuances of shipboard etiquette. Alathea closed the gap. “Why are you calling black holes wormholes?” “Because some of the black holes are wormholes.” Alathea frowned. “What is a wormhole?” The captain stopped and tilted her head. “You have space travel, and you’re human. How come that you don’t know? Einstein published his theories before we even set foot on the Moon.” The cosmic paradox deepened, revealing a perplexing gap in the shared understanding of the universe. “Who’s Einstein?” Alathea inquired wit

Alathea settled into the pilot chair, adopting the Zen-like pose of cosmic indifference, eyes shut tight. With each jerk of the ship, she counted breaths like a galactic yoga instructor leading an interstellar class. The ship performed its interpretive dance through the Null Sphere and beyond. Alathea, with her eyes firmly closed, let the cosmic choreography unfold without the privilege of sight. Finally, as the celestial rollercoaster came to a halt, Alathea found herself suspended in a gentle absence of gravity, akin to a spa day, for her relaxed arms floated above while she remained tethered to the pilot chair. She opened her eyes, expecting to see a shimmering galaxy or quirky space café. Instead, she was greeted by a reddish cyclone with a fashionable touch of black at the center. “Oh, lovely,” she deadpanned to the cosmic void. “A black hole.” So close to the event horizon, her ship decided it was done with thrusters, opting for a spontaneous spiraling routine towards the ominous

The door to Alathea’s room swung open, revealing a corridor as dark and foreboding as a black hole with a penchant for melancholy poetry. She raised her head, contemplating the cosmic symphony of absurdity that had brought her to this point—the grand finale of her Ghola escapade. “This must be it, the thrilling encore of my existence,” she mused to herself, imagining the universe donning a top hat and tails for the occasion. Gholas, she reasoned, was like the space-time equivalent of a screwdriver—they served a purpose, and once that purpose was fulfilled, they ended up in the cosmic toolbox, waiting for the next DIY project. With a resigned sigh, Alathea stood up and straightened her robe, considering it her ultimate fashion statement. “Well, if I’m going to meet my doom, might as well look fabulous doing it,” she quipped, a touch of cosmic humor in her voice. After all, in the grand absurdity of the universe, even impending doom could use a dash of style. As she made her way to the d