Ten Little Explorers
A Selene City Collaborative short story
For more stories in Selene City, check out
’s project here:
OK, I did my best to connect to Selene City setting, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. I was hoping to pay homage to one of the novels I loved most as a boy (I can’t reveal it yet). I had a blast working on it, and I hope you enjoy it as well. Images and graphics by
; thanks, bro! And thanks to for this nice collaborative project (and forgive the length, I was overwhelmed by the story).
Eve Fields - Electrician
Diego Santos - Maintenance Specialist
HEX-1 - Android Technician
Carla Novak - Structural Engineer
Matteo Giusti - Security Guard
Sakura Thai - Mechanic
Johan R. Wilson - Sewer Technician
Ingrid Möller - Waste Management Specialist
Miguel Torres - Hi-tech Equipment Specialist
Edmond Halley - Medical Officer
THERE WERE TEN OF THEM
This time there were ten of them. Before them stretched a corridor where every noise they made echoed through the silence. It felt lonely, but not deserted—like someone, unseen, was standing just out of reach.
HEX-1 deactivated the ultraviolet beam with a sharp click. “Nothing, Engineer Novak,” it said in its steely voice. “No sensitive material, no biological fluids, no radioactive markers. Just faint traces of hidden writing.”
“Meaning?” she asked.
“Historical or archaeological evidence,” the android replied, flat. “This section is designated 0.001, dating back exactly fifty years.”
“Well done,” Novak said, her eyes scanning the team. “Get ready—we’re going in.”
“We’d be gettin’ ready for the party instead,” Eve Fields muttered, adjusting her jumpsuit with a resigned sigh.
“Yeah,” Johan Wilson chimed in, his eyes fixed on the floor beneath them—the oldest surface he had ever walked on. “Ten hours until the biggest party of the year, and here we are,” he grumbled. “No champagne. No fireworks. Just us, stuck in this obsolete sewer.”
Fields looked at him. Wilson was one of those men who never seemed to stop growing, so broad-shouldered and towering. And she liked him for it. He lowered his gaze to meet hers, and they exchanged a smile—a cautious smile, one that had to remain secret.
Diego Santos, the Puerto Rican, approached them. “According to the robot, this place was built fifty years ago. I’d say nobody’s been here since.”
“Pretty much,” Eve Fields confirmed.
“There were prisons down here, too,” Wilson added, closing his pack.
“Prisons?” Santos echoed. “Thought Selene City had no prisons.”
“There are,” Wilson replied.
“But they’re external,” Eve Fields explained. “Ever seen the artificial islands orbiting the moon? There are White Institutes up there.”
Santos chuckled. “But they’re not prisons. They’re hospitals for the mentally ill. They treat people there.”
Eve concluded, “Yeah… They treat people who think for themselves.”
“You’re paranoid,” Santos laughed. “That’s why I like you. Paranoia is my favorite quality in a girl.”
Wilson shot him a glare. “Bite your tongue, man. Fields no need you gettin’ her into trouble.”
“You her bodyguard, Wilson?” Santos retorted.
“Shut up!” Novak called them to order. “Come on, line up.”
They fell into formation as Novak turned to the old HEX-1 model. “Roll call,” she ordered.
The robot began, “Eve Fields, five-year revision completed.”
“Mierda,” Santos muttered under his breath. “Not the revision years we’ve done.”
HEX-1 continued, “Diego Santos five-year revision completed. Matteo Giusti, Security, no revision needed.”
The others turned to glance at the Italian in the sergeant’s uniform; but he remained still.
“Sakura Thai, five years of revision done. Johan R. Wilson, five-year revision completed.”
Santos quipped, “You’re a rat, Wilson.”
“Always better than you, you sun-baked Puerto Rican,” Wilson shot back.
“What sun? ¡No hay sol aquí!”
“The sun your ancestors baked in,” Wilson retorted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You inherited their baked brains.”
“Will you stop that?” Fields cut in.
“Ingrid Moeller,” HEX-1 continued, “five-year revision completed. Miguel Torres, our High-Tech Equipment Specialist, five-year revision completed.”
The others turned to the Spaniard, who smirked and said, “Yeah, your passwords don’t mean jack with me, guys.” He flashed a grin, showing teeth marked with tribal tattoos nestled in his reddish beard.
“Five years of rev, same as the rest of us. Big deal,” Fields remarked.
“They had to have picked us for somethin’,” Wilson said. “No way this crew is random.”
“Finally,” Novak stepped in, shutting down the chatter. “Dr. Edmond Halley, former Medical Officer, fifteen years of revision.”
Edmond Halley shuffled forward, his patchy red hair doing little to cover the shiny scalp that gleamed under the flashlight beam. Short and stout, with a scruffy beard and a calm, steady look, he had the vibe of a guy who could stick you with a needle without you even feeling it.
“A doctor with so many years of revision?” Ingrid Moeller muttered from the back. “That’s wild.”
Novak turned to her, “Know the rules, Moeller: no questions about revision processes.”
Moeller jerked her chin toward Halley, “But he’s not one of us.”
“I am,” Halley said.
“Doctor, you don’t have to explain anything,” Novak scolded, cutting him off.
“But I want to,” Halley replied, meeting the group’s stares. “I’ve been accumulating radiation too.”
“That doesn’t make you one of us,” Moeller snapped back. “You’re not just some cog in the big wheel, running on monthly coupons. People like us are stuck in this for the scraps. People like you—well, you’re here for the official Project Heping trial. For sure.”
Halley met her glare but said nothing this time.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Novak interjected. “We’re here because of a glitch, and we need to fix it before it screws up tonight’s party. Midnight’s not far off, so we don’t have time to waste.”
“But—” Moeller started, only for Wilson to grab her by the arm and pull her back in line.
“You hear what the chief engineer said?” he told her, his voice low. “Stop it. Raising hell won’t help.”
She yanked her arm free with a scowl but stayed quiet. Wilson shot a glance at the others, and they all moved to get ready.
THE SONG
They marched like soldiers, knowing full well they were stepping into a place where communication with the rest of the base would be cut off. But that was where the malfunction signal had originated.
The Ancient Core of Selene City loomed gray and desolate, like a broken memory. Tunnels stretched around them, eerily resembling a sewer system. Dust blanketed the walls, dotted with faded notes scrawled in half a dozen languages—like stickers slapped on the back of an old Camaro. The hexagonal floor tiles groaned under their boots, some of them cracked and uneven. Signs of micro-structural failure clung to every corner, the place looking like it could collapse at the slightest provocation.
“Well?” Santos piped up suddenly, glancing over at HEX-1. “You pick up anythin’ on your scans?”
“No network or frequency markers,” the robot replied, its monotone unyielding. “No symbols indicating access points to electrical, magnetic, or computer networks.”
“Emergency exits?” Wilson asked.
“None to highlight,” the robot confirmed.
Moeller tapped her boot against one of the cracks. “We’re walkin’ into a trap,” she muttered. “This place isn’t safe.”
Novak didn’t even bother to turn around. “If you’re looking for someone to hold your hand, Moeller, you signed up for the wrong mission,” she said.
Dr. Halley’s calm voice cut through the tension, “We all have work to do. Let’s focus on finding the prob.”
“But Moeller’s got a point,” Torres blurted out. “It doesn’t add up that they sent us down here. They’ve got all the gear they need to figure this out remotely.”
“In fact,” HEX-1 interrupted, its monotone precise, “I am obligated to report a strange electrical and magnetic instability in this area.”
“So that’s why it smells like ozone,” Eve Fields chimed in. “Like we’re standing in a lightning collector box or somethin’?”
“Probably,” the robot replied flatly.
“Maybe the Italian—the guard—knows something about it,” Moeller suggested.
“The guy doesn’t know jack,” Wilson muttered. “They dragged him out on his day off to babysit us.”
“Patience will help us solve the problem,” Dr. Halley offered gently.
For some reason, his steady tone worked. The group fell quiet, deciding to follow the lead. They pressed forward, stopping in front of a wall with an old electrical panel embedded in it.
Santos laughed, tossing his backpack to the ground. “Haven’t seen anything like this since my great-grandfather sent me the last pictures of Earth.”
“There’s a faint signal coming from this one, though,” HEX-1 warned. “That might be what triggered the alarm.”
“Get to work,” Novak ordered curtly.
Eve Fields stepped up to the panel, examining it. “This wiring’s ancient,” she muttered. “I have no skills to deal with this.”
Wilson moved beside her. “I can help. We’ll take it apart, slap it back together, and call it fixed.”
“You and your road engineering,” she shot back. “You’d stick your hands anywhere.”
“Well,” he whispered, “you generally like where I put my hands.”
She flushed and glared at him. “Shut up. Wanna ‘em hear you?”
“I don’t mind, ya know.”
“Well, I do,” she hissed. “They record every damn conversation. You tryin’ to get us kicked out of the Heping Project? You know the rules: no feelings, no reproductive risk.”
“They’ve got millions of conversations to sift through. They’ll never catch us. I wanna tell you how I feel about you.”
“You can’t, Johan,” she snapped, locking eyes with him. Then, softer, almost reluctantly, “Ya know the rule—people like us can’t express any feelings.”
Wilson said nothing, but his jaw tightened so hard she could hear his teeth grind.
“Have you found the problem?” Novak’s voice cut through the moment.
“Actually, there is a problem, ma’am,” Wilson said, his tone strained. “I’m tired of hiding for…” His voice trailed off, the sentence unfinished.
Novak stared him down. “Well?” she demanded.
Wilson turned, his gaze fixed on the darkest part of the corridor. “Do you hear that?” he asked, his voice dropping.
The team fell silent, their eyes following his. They stared into the shadows.
Something was glowing faintly in the darkness—maybe the metal walls, maybe something else.
“What did you hear?” Santos asked, his earlier laughter gone.
“A sound,” Wilson continued. “Kind of melody or somethin’.”
“Yeah, I hear it now, too,” Moeller confirmed.
One by one, they began to notice the faint music, drifting toward them like a shadow of light. It was faint, scratchy, and distorted, echoing in the air like it was being played on an old radio.
“It sounds like old Earth music,” Sakura Thai whispered, speaking up for the first time.
“That’s not possible,” Novak said. “There are no active sound systems in this section. Nothing can reach us, and we can’t communicate with the outside. We’re isolated.”
“Tell it to my ears,” Torres shot back. “The music’s everywhere—it’s like it’s coming out of the walls.”
“The model is repeating verses,” HEX-1 noted.
“Can you understand what it’s sayin’?” Wilson asked, glancing at the robot.
At that moment, Giusti, the Italian guy, stepped forward, “It’s in my mother tongue,” he said. “The song … it’s in Italian.”
“Italiano, you mean?” Torres asked.
“Yes, that’s right, Italiano.”
“So Al Capone’s ghost made it all the way here?” Torres quipped.
“Knock it off, Torres,” Novak snapped, stepping closer to Giusti. “Can you transcribe it?”
Giusti shrugged, managing a forced half-smile, his dark eyes clouded with doubt. “I can try.”
“Then try,” Torres urged, giving him a light tug. “Transcribe it into the base’s common language.”
“What for?” Moeller protested, her voice rising.
“Let him do it,” Wilson cut her off.
Giusti took a few steps forward, then operated the Holo-Dev, and a bronze-colored light panel projected toward the ceiling, echoing off the hallway walls. He focused on the faint melody, his brow furrowed. After an initial, tentative gesture, his hands began to move fluidly through the air, as though writing on an invisible canvas. His black gloves pulsed with glowing blue veins, and the first sentences began to compose themselves within the hologram’s colored ribbon—solid strips of words in the shimmering evanescence.
The others huddled closer, their faces illuminated by the hologram’s glow. Halley’s voice cut through the silence, steady but low, as he read aloud:
Ten little explorers on the moon so wide,
One fixed the track but fell to the side.
Nine little explorers, their fate unclear,
One was buried, forever near.
Eight little explorers found tech to combine,
A spark took one—now there are nine.
Seven little scouts with their leader astray,
One ghost collapsed, fading away.
Six little explorers, their journey alive,
Steel pierced through—then there were five.
Five little explorers searched shadows once more,
One was crushed—leaving just four.
Four little explorers, through depths they flee,
One slipped through—then there were three.
Three little scouts, the music in view,
One trapped in the gas—then there were two.
Two little scouts saw the light’s faint hue,
One spark went dark—leaving just one who.
The last little scout faced the signal’s might,
And in the silence, the light took flight.
ONE
Halley’s voice faltered on the final lines, the weight of the words settling over the group like a lead blanket. The hologram shimmered faintly, its glow casting jagged shadows across their faces. No one spoke for a moment, the echo of the song lingering in their minds as if the melody itself had embedded into the air.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Wilson finally muttered, uneasy.
“Sound like a nursery rhyme,” Santos quipped, though his smirk was thin. He shifted uncomfortably.
“Is this another one of your experiments, Novak?” Moeller accused. “Another page from your precious Heping Project?”
“Not that I know of,” Novak shot back. “We’re here to find and fix a malfunction, nothing more.”
“So much for the New Year’s party,” Torres muttered with a bitter laugh. “They’re really rolling out the red carpet for us, huh? What a gift!”
It was then that Wilson froze, his eyes darting across the group. “Where’s Fields?” he asked, his voice rising with alarm. “Where is Eve?”
The group turned to look around, the chaotic movements of their flashlights now frantic. Wilson’s voice climbed to a near shout, his fear palpable. “She was just here—where is she?”
“I’m here,” Fields called out, back in front of the panel. “Forget the song,” she added. “There seems to be a short circuit here, and maybe that’s what’s sending the signal to the control center. And maybe … maybe the song’s tied to the malfunction too.”
Halley’s breath caught in his throat. “Fields, don’t touch anything.”
“Easy, Doctor,” she replied with a faint smile. “I know how to do my job.”
Wilson stepped closer, his concern palpable. “Are you sure that—”
The words were burned out in an instant of impressive energy. The entire team leapt back, shielding their faces as electric shocks ricocheted wildly off the walls. A deafening silence followed, broken only by the haunting melody—soft, distorted, yet unmistakable. When the light faded, Fields’ body lay crumpled on the floor. Her limbs were twisted unnaturally, motionless. Disjointed, eccentric sparks leaked from the open panel, looking like bees buzzing hysterically around the hive.
“What the hell…” Torres muttered, his voice shaky, the words barely forming.
“Eve!” Wilson’s scream ripped through the silence, raw and desperate, clearing out every other sound.
Santos lunged at him, grabbing his arms. “Stop! Don’t touch her!”
“Stay away from me!” Wilson yelled, thrashing wildly against him. Halley rushed over, joining Santos to hold him back. “Eve! Get up! Please, Eve … no, no, no!”
Wilson struggled fiercely for a few moments, clawing and shouting, but his strength finally gave out. His body collapsed into Santos’s arms, his breathing ragged and uneven, as though the air itself refused to fill his lungs. A strangled gasp escaped him, and then silence.
The others stood motionless, rooted to the spot.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Only the song remained, winding its haunting way through the air.
TWO
“Eve Fields is deceased,” HEX-1 confirmed inflexibly after a check.
Moeller turned to Halley, “Ya're a doc," she shouted. “Do something!”
“I’m sorry. There's nothing I can do.”
“Fuck it,” Santos said, his voice shaking. “Esto no me gusta.”
”Easy, Santos,” Halley said, but Santos grabbed Giusti’s service weapon.
”What are you doing?” the Italian said. “Give it back.”
”It’s a trap, isn't it?” blurted Santos, pointing the gun around.
”Diego, take it easy, come on, give me the gun,” Halley said, stepping forward.
”The doctor, the engineer, the soldier...” Santos continued. "It's an experiment, a fucking experiment.”
Reaching back, he put his foot on something and the floor opened beneath him, plunging him into a blind trapdoor. He had no time to draw a breath, which was sucked in by an old heating fan. Blood splattered everywhere and reached them, red, frothy and full of chunks of flesh and bone.
The others were still, as if their veins were frozen.
THREE
“Let’s get out of here!” Torres raged, his voice raw. “Let’s go back.”
“They won’t give us the signal to leave unless we find the damn fault!” Moeller shot back. “We have to clear the active fault message to leave. That’s the procedure.”
“Fuck the procedure,” Torres cursed. “The Italian guy can get us out of here.”
“I can’t do anything at all,” Giusti snapped. “I’m just as stuck as you are.”
“Bullshit!” Torres yelled, turning on him. “Get us out of here!”
“I located the source,” HEX-1’s monotone suddenly interjected, cutting through the chaos. “The music originates from a central node within the structure.”
“Give us a direction!” Moeller demanded, stepping forward.
HEX-1 tilted its head slightly. “I will attempt to interfere with the signal.”
The team watched as HEX-1 stepped forward and connected a diagnostic tool to one of the exposed cables jutting from the control panel. For a moment, the robot was still—then it froze entirely.
“HEX?” Halley called, approaching cautiously.
The android’s voice sputtered, distorted, “System … compromised. Quantum resonance detected. Initiating failsafe.”
“What’s that?” Moeller demanded.
Before anyone could react, HEX-1’s bio-metallic body began to shudder violently, almost as if in pain. Blue sparks erupted from its joints, squealing in the dark. The explosion hit like a thunderclap, sending the group sprawling as shards of synthetic flesh and bone, wires, and jagged metal rained down around them. The air filled with a sickly-sweet odor, the unmistakable stench of combusted synthetic flesh. For a moment, there was only the sound of scattered debris clattering to the ground.
HEX-1’s head, severed and lying several feet away, flickered to life one last time. “Error: incomplete transition. Calibration failed. End of cognitive support.”
FOUR
“Is everyone okay?” Halley coughed, helping Moeller to her feet.
There was dust and electric shocks everywhere.
“We have to get out of here!” shouted Wilson.
“Wait!” called them back to Giusti. “The song, the song.”
The others swarmed around him.
“What?” pressed Novak.
“The first three stanzas: Ten little explorers on the moon so wide, one fixed the track but fell to the side. Nine little explorers, their fate unclear, one was buried, forever near. Eight little explorers found tech to combine, a spark took one, now there are nine.”
Wilson pointed a flashlight in the Italian’s face. “What does the fourth stanza say?” he asked.
Giusti listened, then reported, “Seven little scouts with their leader astray, one ghost collapsed, fading away.”
“It makes no sense,” Novak muttered, her voice cracking, almost choking on the words. “It’s revenge against me, isn’t it?”
“No one is getting back at you,” Halley said gently, trying to calm her. “Take a deep breath. We’ll figure this out.”
But Moeller shoved him aside. “People are dyin’, Doc, and you know somethin’ ‘bout it. Come on, speak up! What are ya hidin’?”
“I’m not hiding anything! I have nothing to do with this!”
Novak seemed disconnected, her body slack and her movements jerky. Her hands shook violently, then froze, stiff at her sides. Slowly, she leaned forward. Her lips moved, but no words came—just a guttural, uneven whisper, an irregular rhythm that followed the song.
“Novak? Carla!” called Halley, staring at her face.
Her expression was rapturous, almost ecstatic, her head tilted as though listening to something profound. Slowly, streaks began to drip from her nose and eyes—dark on her pale skin. The Chief Engineer’s shadowed eyes glistened with a red sheen, her lips curling into an idiotic smile.
FIVE
“She’s dead,” Halley said softly.
“It’s the music!” Moeller shouted, her voice rising in terror. “It’s killing us!”
“Wait,” Giusti said, a glimmer of hope in his voice. “There’s movement. Look down there, maybe there’s someone. We can call for help.”
The others stopped, their flashlights sweeping the corridor. A faint reflection seemed to shift across the dull metal walls, like the shadow of a figure gliding just beyond the edge of the light. For a fleeting moment, even Halley thought he saw something—an elusive presence.
“Giusti, don’t move,” Wilson ordered.
But the Italian guy took a step forward. “We can’t stay here and do nothing. If there is someone over there, we have to try! Voglio uscire di qui!”
Above them, a massive tube suspended from corroded supports vibrated ominously. Giusti froze for a moment, his eyes lifting to the ceiling.
Wilson’s heart dropped as he saw the pipe begin to give way. “Giusti! Get the hell back! Now!”
The pipe tore free with a deafening screech. Giusti’s wide-eyed terror froze in place as the pipe slammed into him, pinning him to the floor. Wilson reached him, his hands scrambling to lift the heavy pipe. His fingers slipped on the cold, lick metal. “We can get this off you! Just hold on!”
Halley grabbed Wilson by the shoulders, yanking him back. “There’s nothing we can do,” he said, his voice trembling. “Come away. He’s gone.”
“No!” Wilson screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. “We can save him! We have to save him!”
But Giusti didn’t move. His head lolled to the side, and the dim light caught the lifeless glaze in his half-open eyes. The flashlight he held rolled away, stopping against the wall.
Halley stepped forward and approached Giusti’s lifeless body. His gaze lingered on the Italian's face, before his hand reached for the gun at his side. He picked it up.
SIX
Moeller’s voice broke the silence, “Who’s left?”
“Five,” Sakura replied. “There are five of us.”
“What else did the song say?” asked Wilson. “Who remembers the rest?”
Torres said, “Five … Five little explorers searched shadows once more, one was crushed, leaving just four. Four little explorers, through depths they flee, one slipped through, then there were three. Three little scouts, the music in view, one trapped in the gas, then there were two. Two little scouts saw the light’s faint hue, one spark went dark, leaving just one who. The last little scout faced the signal’s might, and in the silence, the light took flight.”
“It’s not just about killin’ us,” Moeller whispered. “They’re choosin’ how to do it.”
“Where’s Sakura?” Halley asked.
“I’m here,” Sakura said, crouched beside a dormant service bot. Her fingers worked quickly at the controls. “If we can get it working, we might be able to—”
The bot suddenly lurched to life with a harsh mechanical whir. Its arm swung violently, faster than anyone could react. Sakura barely had time to turn her head before the heavy limb slammed into her, pinning her against the wall with a dull thud. The sound echoed through the corridor as her body went limp, the bot’s arm holding her like a rag doll.
SEVEN
“Let’s go,” Wilson ordered, devoid of feeling. Empty.
They moved quickly, avoiding the places where the melody resonated the loudest. The song seemed to follow them, a haunting thread weaving through the corridors. Eventually, they entered a room that resembled a former holding cell. The floor beneath them was cracked and uneven, tiles creaking ominously with each step. Layers of dust obscured the difference between solid ground and unstable gaps.
“Be careful,” Halley whispered, her voice barely audible.
But Wilson was already ahead of them, driven by a mix of anger and reckless determination. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wild. He didn’t notice the tile beneath him shift until it was too late. A network of cracks spread beneath his foot like a frozen lake splintering apart. Wilson turned to face the others, his face twisted in a grimace of belated realization—then the floor gave way.
He sank into the darkness with a scream that cut off abruptly. The room filled with an unholy sound: a dull, heavy crash followed by a wet, red noise.
Halley and Torres rushed to the edge of it, flashlights trained downward, while Moeller lingered behind, her arms crossed tightly as if holding herself together. The beams of light revealed an inferno of machinery below: massive, toothed gears turning slowly, their surfaces slick with something dark and viscous. Wilson’s body was almost unrecognizable, twisted and mangled like it had been fed through an industrial grinder. One boot lay on a nearby platform, intact.
EIGHT
“He and Fields were together,” Moeller murmured from the back, her voice distant. “They loved each other… even though it’s against Heping Project protocol.”
“One slipped through, then there were three.” Halley whispered, his face ashen. “Just like the verse says…”
“It’s no coincidence,” Torres growled, his voice rising. “The song… it’s choosing for us.”
“Or it’s urging us to follow it,” Halley replied, his tone eerily calm.
“What do you mean, Doctor?” Torres asked, turning toward him, his flashlight trembling.
“Someone—something—is conditioning us. Autosuggestion… or hypnosis.”
Torres turned abruptly, pointing his flashlight behind them. “What do you think, Moeller?” he asked. But there was no answer. “Hey… where did Ingrid go?”
The music pulsed again, bouncing like a slick, electric shadow off the walls. A broken pipe hissed near the corner, exhaling a strange, icy mist. The light caught Moeller’s body—rigid, lifeless, encased in frost. Her frozen eyes stared into nothingness.
Torres stumbled back, muttering, “She didn’t even scream…”
Halley’s hand tightened on the flashlight. “We’re running out of time,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Torres stumbled backward, away from the grim sight. His breathing grew erratic, and his eyes gleamed with a near-mad determination. He spun his flashlight wildly, the beam slicing through the mist as though searching for answers, or escape.
The music grew louder.
NINE
“I’m not dying in this damn place. Screw their fucking song!” Torres growled. “If I can disable the signal, maybe we can get out of here.”
“What you wanna do?” Halley shouted, running after him.
“Don’t even think about it, Doc!” Torres spun, pointing his flashlight at Halley like a weapon. “I’m done taking orders! I’m doin’ my own thing this time.”
Ignoring Halley, he stepped up to an old console, his trembling hands running over encrusted knobs and exposed wires. His breath came in quick bursts, fear etched into every line of his face.
“Torres, hold the next verse,” Halley warned, his voice urgent. “A spark went dark… don’t you see? You’re the spark!”
Torres didn’t stop. “I’ll send a fake signal,” he muttered, almost to himself, “tell them repairs have been made… then they’ll let us out.”
He wiped the sweat from his face and connected the wires to a portable device he carried—a tool designed for short bursts of emergency power. The circuit came to life, pulsing with a faint glow that lit his face for a brief moment. Then, abruptly, the lights on the console went dark. The song stopped.
Torres stared at the machine in disbelief. “It worked.”
The room exploded with blinding, cold energy. Torres screamed, his voice breaking into static. Light swallowed him whole, burning, cracking, tearing—then nothing. Just silence. He staggered, his eyes wide with terror. “What is this?” he murmured.
His voice cracked, and his fear turned desperate, “Dr. Halley… I don’t wanna die.”
Halley reached out instinctively, but Torres’ body began to swell with light, his silhouette stretching and breaking apart. Molecules of his form scattered into a dazzling array, a kaleidoscope of light around a pulsing center—his heart muscle. Then, in an instant, he was gone.
TEN
Edmond Halley followed the music, step by step, and the melody led him to a small, hidden control room, concealed behind a half-open door. Here, there was an old Earth radio, its dials and knobs worn with age. Next to the radio was a black cathode-ray tube monitor.
On its flickering screen, green letters crackled into focus, blinking:
# Turn it off.
Halley hesitated. His hand hovered near the main knob of the radio, finally, he turned it. The music ceased abruptly, plunging the room into the silence. Then, on the monitor, a new message appeared:
# Thank you, Dr. Halley. The hypnotic induction test is complete.
The words burned into his mind, igniting both reason and doubt. His breath quickened as he approached the monitor, his fingers brushing the keyboard beneath it. He typed, the letters appearing one by one on the screen:
# You had not mentioned deaths.
The reply came instantly:
# Their fates were inevitable. Engineer Novak’s group was chosen based on their exposure levels—high-risk candidates with limited survival probability. Their deaths served a dual purpose: to refine our methods and to ensure compliance.
# But why kill them? Why today?
Long pause, new line:
# You’re right, we should have notified you when the contract was signed, but we were afraid you would miss the chance.
# I’d have opposed this.
# Coming out of the Heping Project opens up many possibilities for you.
Halley’s throat tightened as his thoughts spiraled. He slammed his fingers against the keys:
# Who set this up? Who made me approve this?
A new green line in the old black screen:
# We submitted the matter to the judgment of the G.A.I.
# You asked the AI of Educational Review of White Institutes to generate the outline of this simulation? Why?
# The Great Artificial Intelligence is able to make objective assessments that are only an unattainable ideal for us humans. The song was a tool—both to synchronize the group’s actions and to measure the limits of their resistance. A fitting tribute to the Heping Project’s precision.
Halley staggered back from the keyboard, his eyes wide, his chest heaving. The floor beneath him began to vibrate. For a moment, Edmond Halley simply stood there, frozen. Then, slowly, he lowered his gaze. His hand reached for the gun—the weapon he had taken from Giusti—and brought it to his temple.
Above, in the glittering Selene City, fireworks exploded across the dark moonlit sky. Laughter and cheers filled the air as glasses clinked in celebration. The leaders toasted to another prosperous year.
The first sound of the new year in the section 0.001 was the crack of the gunshot.
Yeah, I know, Agatha Christie is second to none, and And Then There Were None is prob her mastepiece, but thanks for reading my mess.
I wish you a great new year, Substakers! :-D
Take also a look at Stragglers a Selene City Collaborative short story by
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Oh and I love the artwork @marco brunet! I read the story late last night on my phone and didn't look closely at the images, but I'm looking at them now on my laptop, very cool!
This was a gripping read, couldn’t take my eyes off until I got to the end! And definitely reminded me of the Agatha Christie book, nicely done!