A Farewell
It's been three hundred years since WWV wrapped up, ending that whole thirty-three-year nightmare. After the dust settled, the United Americas (from North to South plus Greenland) shook hands with the Eurasian Federation (all of Europe and Asia), and the Republic of Africa (which somehow swallowed Saudi Arabia and Australia when the continents shoved together). They dropped the beef, signed a treaty, and became the Global Alliance. Over a billion souls—people, animals, workers—were crammed into these megacities, like roaches in a jar. Everything outside the city limits was blasted and poisoned.
Out there, the hydro-barriers glowed, keeping what was left of the good land from turning to dust. Big-ole scrubbers hummed, keeping the air breathable. A.I ran the whole damn show, micromanaging every little thing you did. They even tried to fake it with hydroponic vertical green walls, like a band-aid on a bullet wound, trying to make the concrete jungle look less like a trap. The whole city vibrated with a constant tech hum, a reminder of how 'brilliant' humanity was. But in reality? Privacy was dead. Every thought, every handshake, every damn blink—it was all getting piped through your Echo-sync, your digital shadow.
And you know the Fieldarnos? They're tight, and they're everywhere: senators, engineers, nurses, teachers, even military vets. Their family tree had branched out significantly over the last century, a vibrant tapestry of every shade, from paper sack brown to deep dark skin. Most of them held it down in the Mississippi River Valley megacity.
"Do you think they'll ever really let us turn these things off?" Orry Fieldarno, a lanky eleven-year-old with an engineer's practical mind, tapped his temple, referring to his own Echo-sync band. He glanced nervously at his mother, Marie, a senator in the Global Alliance, who sat across from him in the pod, reviewing data on her comm-pad.
Marie lowered her pad, her expression weary. The fluorescent glow of the transit pod seemed to accentuate the lines of stress around her eyes. "Not while the Alliance deems it essential for global harmony and resource allocation," Orry said. "It's the new normal." She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Every unit of energy, every ration of clean water, every movement... it's all accounted for. The 'Echo-sync' isn't just a record; it's a constant feedback loop for the central A.I. They call it efficiency. "We call it a gilded cage." Her voice dropped to a near whisper, almost swallowed by the low hum of the pod. "But some cages are better than the alternative, aren't they?" She gestured vaguely towards the desolate, filtered landscapes on the public info-screens, starkly contrasting the sterile perfection within the city's walls. "At least here, we breathe. We eat. We exist."
Weeji, always more interested in the immediate gratification of the digital world, perked up, a wide grin splitting his face. He pulled his sleek comm-pad from his pocket, already swiping through filters. "Mom, please! We've been packed for days! My new zero-G selfie stick is fully charged, and I've got my holographic emitters ready. I'm going to post so much content to the family page, woowe! "Uncle Bravid is going to love my moonwalk in the observation lounge!" He gestured wildly, already picturing his viral posts.
Orry rolled his eyes, good-naturedly, at his brother's enthusiasm. "Yeah, Mom, he's been buzzing like a proton driver. "Our bags are at the door, waiting for the automated pick-up." He shot a teasing grin at Weeji. "He thinks he's going to be an 'orbital influencer.'"
Weeji gasped, feigning offense. "Hey! It's a valid career path in the new economy, Orry! Besides, someone's gotta document the Fieldarno legacy in the stars!"
Marie chuckled softly, a rare, genuine sound that smoothed away some of her weariness. "Orbital influencer, huh?" "Well, just try not to break any Alliance regulations with your content, Weeji!" "We don't want any flags on our family data profiles." She stood, adjusting her crisp, gray Alliance-issue tunic. "Alright then, let's get going, shall we?"" Don't want to miss our ride to paradise." She offered them both a reassuring, if slightly strained, smile. "This will be good. A real break." She opened the pod door, and the familiar hum of the megacity rushed in, a palpable pressure that reminded them of the life they were about to briefly, gloriously, escape.
Departing at Port Terminal Entrance 3B
Out there, beyond the city's oppressive light pollution, the hydro-barriers glowed with an eerie, steady pulse, their energy drawn from the planet's scarred core. Even within the city limits, the sky was a muted, perpetually hazy gray, a far cry from the vibrant blue of old Earth.
"Another 'pollution warning,' Grandpa Ricchy?" Eight-year-old Berry Fieldarno tugged on the sleeve of her great-grandfather, her brow furrowed as she pointed to a flickering alert on the transparent wall-screen of their transit pod. The air in the pod, usually so clean, carried a faint metallic tang.
Ricchy, his ancient eyes twinkling despite the grim news, patted her hand. Just the usual, sweet pea. The scrubbers are working overtime today. "It just means the wind's blowing the wrong way from the old Rust Belt." He sighed, the sound lost in the constant, low thrum of the city's machinery. "Reminds me of the stories my grandma used to tell about in the skies you could see stars in, not just the glow from the upper districts."
Morgan, Ricchy's granddaughter, glanced up from her wrist-mounted interface, a faint line etched between her brows. "It's a far cry from the old days, Granddad," she said, a dry note in her voice. "Do you recall the Respiratory Index alerts from when I was a child?" "Those terrifying red flashes on the monitors, warning us to seal the Hab-units?" She gave a humorless chuckle. "At least the AI ensures we don't suffocate." "The air might be filtered and re-filtered a hundred times until it's thin and tastes of nothing, but it's safe." Her gaze drifted to the humming purification vents above them. This is simply our reality now, Berry. Humanity found a way to survive, didn't we?"
Bela, Berry's older aunt, barely even glanced up from the bright screen hovering over her own Echosync bands. She was messing with some slick 3D blueprints, her fingers flying. Without even looking away, she grumbled, "Yeah, 'we adapt' by hardwiring, every single thought straight into the network. "You can't even cook up a secret idea anymore without those E.S. bands blasting it out to the closest tower." She let out a quick, dry chuckle of disbelief.
The A.I.s were running the whole show, from making sure the food was coming up right and getting to everybody, to scrubbing the air so you could breathe. They even cooked up special mix-breed seeds for the hydroponic plant walls—miles of them creeping up the side of the high-rises, looking all lush and green, but that didn't hide the fact that this was still a concrete jungle. It was a quick fix to a big problem, trying to make the neighborhood look like paradise. But privacy was gone. Every idea, every handshake, every single blink—all that was getting streamed right through your Echosync bands (ESB), your digital ghost. You just can't shake it off, no matter what.
"Did you remember Aunt Kaisy's antigravity compression socks?" called out Artemus Fieldarno, a gruff but caring former military medic, checking a packing list on his wrist-mounted screen. He was supervising the last-minute luggage transfers to the orbital shuttle bay. "Yes, they're here."
"Got 'em, Dad! And "Uncle Joe's special probiotic nutrient paste," shouted back Akara, his daughter, a quick-witted nurse who could charm information out of even the most tight-lipped Alliance bureaucrats. She adjusted her glasses, a slight smile playing on her lips. "He'd never survive a week without that stuff, especially not on a 'space cruise.'"
You could always count on Kaisy Fieldarno to be the first one there. Right on her heels were the twins, Keith and Korry, their wives, and their kids, a bustling mini-crowd.
"Hi there, Applehead!" Ricchy's voice boomed, a teasing grin plastered across his face as he and his entire immediate family came through the port.
"Brother, am I glad to see you!" Kaisy shrieked, her eyes wide as she pointed past him. "Look at it! The Majestic Starship Phoenix—" She didn't even finish before she dragged him away from the window, just like their own little kids would do.
Soon, more cousins linked up, their greetings a cheerful cacophony. Siblings, who hadn't seen each other for far too long, wrapped each other in tight, excited hugs. The adults mingled, their laughter filling the space, while the children, wide-eyed with wonder, pressed their faces against the reinforced windows, their tiny hands leaving smudges as they gasped at the sheer, overwhelming scale of the Phoenix. Finally, Jerry arrived, his two wives, Sally and Marsha, by his side.
Every couple of years, it's time to throw a family reunion. This year, they went all out: a seven-day run on the Majestic Starship Phoenix. On July 23rd, 2282, at 09:30 AM, two hundred twenty-seven Fieldarnos rolled up to the Phoenix's dock, ready for a reunion that was way beyond some regular resort—they were going space cruise partying.
A Cataclysmic Farewell
July 23rd, 2282, 09:30 AM aboard the Majestic Starship Phoenix.
The Majestic Starship Phoenix was an interstellar sanctuary for 300 guests, blending luxury and innovation. Suites ranged from panoramic view lofts to anti-gravity havens, with smart AI, custom holograms, and hydroponic plants crafting private retreats.
The Grand Owner's Suite stood apart with its own observatory and unmatched opulence. Dining venues spanned a gravity-flexible Grand Hall, the farm-to-table Stellar Bistro, and the experimental Zero-G Gastronomy Lounge, with guests witnessing cultivation in onboard farms.
Exploration thrived in the Astro-Dome, Holodecks, and Zero-G Play Zones, while the Aquatic Center featured gravity-free pools and glowing lagoons. Guests unwound in Zen Gardens, Art Galleries, or took in live performances.
Youth zones offered tailored adventures, while wellness seekers found balance in the Grav-Gym and Celestial Spa. Service included private butlers, full medical care, and luxury retail. Even the ten escape pods offered comfort, safety, and starlit views.
Phoenix wasn't just a starship—it was interstellar elegance redefined.
Centered on the platform stood Captain Marcus Hayes, a figure of calm authority, with his four co-captains arrayed stoically behind him. Ten shipmates, their uniforms crisp and purposeful, stood at attention on the floor below.
As the excited chatter of the Fieldarno family died down, and they came to a halt, Captain Hayes' voice, deep and resonant, filled the space.
"Welcome, Fieldarno family. I am your Captain, Marcus Hayes. It is my distinct honor to escort you on this seven-day orbital journey around Earth's atmosphere. Please be assured all your luggage has already been securely placed in your designated living areas." He gestured to the co-captains behind him. "With me are my four co-captains: Matthew Bacon, Travis McBay, Hiltson Grey, and Timothy Hackworth. "And here," his hand swept to the crewmen below, "are the ten dedicated members of our crew who will be managing the ship to ensure your comfort and enjoyment." A brief, almost imperceptible pause. "We will be launching at approximately 10:15 AM. Each of your personal Echo-Sync Bands will now guide you to your designated launch pod. Thank you all for choosing the Majestic Starship Phoenix for this momentous journey."
The very instant Captain Hayes' final words faded, the Fieldarno family's personal Echosync Bands (ESB) simultaneously activated, a soft chime accompanying their polite instructions:
"Please proceed to your designated pod for takeoff."
A ripple of excited tension moved through the group. Cousins clapped each other's backs, siblings exchanged meaningful glances, and even the normally Stoic elders allowed themselves rare, quiet smiles. With growing anticipation, the family surged forward toward the sleek individual pods, their movement like a tide drawn by destiny.
Climbing into the surprisingly spacious seats, each pod responded with a gentle hum. The AI systems engaged, securing both passengers and their belongings with smooth, reassuring precision. Despite the looming launch, a soft murmur filled the cabin—snippets of awe, hopeful whispers, and shared exhilaration.
Over the comms, Captain Hayes' voice returned, now sharpened with a mission-driven focus:
"Launch sequence initiated. Ten... nine... eight... seven... six... five... four... three... two... one…"
And with that final word, the Majestic Starship Phoenix began its ascent, carrying dreams and souls toward the edge of the heavens.
A profound shudder ran through the entire vessel, a deep rumble that vibrated through their very bones. Then, with an unimaginable surge of power, it was as if they were no longer simply sitting, but being hurled, effortlessly and irrevocably, through the smoggy sky. The Majestic Starship Phoenix tore through Earth's atmosphere, carrying the Fieldarno family towards a new, uncertain future, a truly life-changing event unfolding with every accelerating second.
Strapped tightly into their seats, every Fieldarno eye was glued to the mini viewports. They watched, transfixed, as the massive landscapes below became smaller and smaller, receding with alarming speed. Unknown to them, the Earth was a ticking time bomb. Below, they began to see colossal clouds of smoke, punctuated by angry, red-orange flames. Deep, concussive booms resonated even through the thick hull. They felt a slight, unsettling turbulence—the first tremor of the cataclysm they were escaping. Panic and raw terror began to etch themselves onto every face.
As their vessel, the Majestic Starship Phoenix, gracefully pierced the Earth's upper atmosphere, the planet below simultaneously plunged into chaos. On the bridge, Captain Marcus Hayes and his four co-captains frantically worked the comms, their desperate calls echoing into the vast silence of space. No replies. Not a single beacon of hope from any other vessel.
Now truly in space, the family was finally allowed to move freely aboard the ship. Most gathered at the grand lobby windows, their gazes fixed on their dying home.
Over the comms, Captain Hayes' voice, strained but resolute, cut through the growing unease: "The Earth is falling. Massive earthquakes have ripped across the United Americas, the Eurasian Federation, and the Republic of Africa. Simultaneously, three of the world's largest volcanoes have erupted, a terrifying chorus of destruction."
Other vessels, desperate specks of light, were seen fleeing the inferno, but one by one, they were consumed by the rapidly expanding fallout. The vibrant blues and greens of their home world quickly transformed into a swirling canvas of ash, fire, and suffocating darkness. Returning home was no longer an option.
As the Phoenix completed its ascent, its ten-member command crew pressed against the observation windows and monitors, their faces illuminated by a macabre, flickering light from below. Earth—their home—didn't just explode; it imploded first, then erupted outward, a violent symphony of destruction that left them stunned and adrift in a sudden, terrifying void.
"Still can't believe it," Harry murmured, his voice raw with disbelief. "That's... that was home." Just gone."
"The sky turned blood red," Drenba whispered, her gaze still fixed on the fading inferno, a haunted look in her eyes. "I saw it. The kids... they won't even remember the real blue."
Ricchy, ever the pragmatist, interjected, his voice firm, "We can't dwell on it. We have to teach them what's out here now. Keep them focused on what's next, not what we lost."
As the fiery remnant of Earth dwindled from view, Lekenneth spoke quietly with the Captain, then broadcast a ship-wide announcement: "Everyone, please gather in the chow hall for an emergency meeting. This concerns the rest of our lives."
A New Beginning, Under New Laws, New Realities
The Chow Hall buzzed with deafening, panicked chatter, the air thick with fear. Every Captain, crew member, and Fieldarno family member was present, their faces pale under the ship's cool, artificial lights. Captain Hayes, standing at the central podium, raised a hand, his expression grim, waiting for the noise to subside. When a fragile quiet finally descended, his voice, usually so steady, was heavy with regret.
"I am truly sorry to say this," he began, his gaze sweeping across the anxious faces, "but we do not know when—or if—we will be able to return to Earth." On the massive holographic displays that now banded the Chow Hall walls, real-time data flickered into terrifying visuals. Our systems are showing you what's currently happening." Nearly every city has collapsed from earthquakes, or burned from the sheer force of magma from volcanic eruptions, or been swallowed by massive ocean waves." "For now, I believe we must continue on our current course until further notice." His voice cracked slightly. "But first… we haven't made any contact with survivors. Not a single distress signal has broken through the static. So, let us take a moment of silence for all those we've lost."
A profound, heavy silence fell, broken only by the hum of the ship's life support and the occasional stifled sob. Across the room, at the head table closest to the Captains, sat the Elders—Ricchy, Harry, Drenda, Kaisy, Lekenneth, and Earl, all siblings. Drenba finally broke the stillness, her voice trembling with raw grief and indignation. "How are we to enjoy ourselves when the Earth is in such a state?" She gestured wildly at the silent screens. "This topic must be discussed now!"
From across the hall, James Jr., a younger cousin known for his impulsiveness, interjected loudly, "Captain, I believe this meeting should be for adults." "Look at their faces, they're devastated!" Co-captain Travis McBay nodded in agreement, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
Lekenneth, the oldest and most stoic of the Elders, his voice somber but infused with an unyielding resolve, cut through the rising tension. "He's right, James. And the painful truth is this, everyone: Earth is no longer an option for return. Not for any of us." He swept his gaze across the faces of his family and the crew, emphasizing the finality of his words.
The New Order
Following this stark pronouncement, the discussion shifted to the daunting, immediate tasks ahead. Captain Hayes, with Lekenneth's quiet support, moved to a central console, a new set of data appearing on the main screen: a manifest of skills.
"Our first priority," Captain Hayes announced, his voice regaining his command, "is maintaining the Phoenix. Our ship's AI has analyzed everyone's professional backgrounds and certifications. We'll be assigning teams for every critical function, from life support and atmospheric recycling to hull integrity checks and power core regulation." He paused, looking directly at Ricchy. "Even those of you who managed planetary conglomerates will find ourselves with new hands-on duties."
Ricchy scoffed, leaning back in his chair at the Elders table. "Hands-on? Captain, my hands managed billion-credit contracts, not… wrench-turning. Surely, there are enough crewmen for that?"
Lekenneth's gaze sharpened on his brother. "Ricchy, there are plenty of us. "Every capable body is a resource now." "You understand 'resource allocation,' don't you? "Your 'billion-credit contracts' aren't worth the nutrient paste we'll be eating if this ship fails."
A young woman, one of Kaisys' daughters-in-law, spoke hesitantly from the crowd. "What about those of us who don't have… technical skills? What can we do?"
"That brings us to the second critical point," Captain Hayes interjected, nodding at the young woman. Survival in the Phoenix demands a new social contract. This ship is now our home, and like any home, it needs rules. Rigorous ones." He looked to his co-captains. "Co-captain McBay and I, with input from Lekenneth and the Elders, have drafted a preliminary set of Ship Laws. These aren't suggestions. They are the framework for our continued existence."
He gestured, and a stark list appeared on the holographs: Mandatory Work Schedules. Rationing Protocols. Designated Quiet Hours. Strict Waste Management. Disciplinary Procedures for Non-Compliance.
Drenba gasped, pointing at the screen. "Rationing? But… we have all these amenities! We're in the Phoenix, for goodness's sake! There are pools, bars—"
"Luxury is a concept of the past, Drenba," Lekenneth stated, his voice firm, cutting off his sister. Survival is our only currency now. "These laws are designed to ensure order and, above all, the survival of every single soul onboard, a precious commodity in our new, empty universe."
The discussion shifted from the shock of the Earth's end to the immediate, pressing reality of their new lives and the strictures that would now govern them. The implications of this new, stringent code settled heavily in the Chow Hall, a stark realization of what they had truly lost, and what they had to become.
Two Years Later
The Fieldarno family, a sprawling clan encompassing generations, had adapted to their nomadic existence. They'd learned to farm hydroponically, recycled every last drop of water, and educated their children under the distant glow of unfamiliar stars. Their bond, initially forged through shared heritage, was now tempered by shared survival, yet the grinding reality of their new life was starting to truly weigh on them.
The family had carved out a meticulous lifestyle aboard the Majestic Starship Phoenix. Their days weren't marked by sunrises and sunsets, but by the ship's internal clock and the rhythmic hum of life support, a constant reminder of their enclosed, fragile world. Early mornings often saw family members engaged in preventative maintenance, checking atmospheric scrubbers or running diagnostics—a silent, often tense, dance of responsibility passed down through generations. Their entire existence revolved around the ship's operational needs, creating a blend of ancestral traditions and stark necessity.
But the close quarters, the ceaseless hum, and the ever-present fear of the void outside began to fray their once-unbreakable ties. The "new normal" was less about adaptation and more about gritted teeth and suppressed irritation.
"Did you have to use the nutrient paste with the synthetic berry flavor again, Kory?" Keith snapped one morning in the communal mess hall, his voice unusually sharp. "You know London can't stand it, and it's not like we have options."
Kory slammed his empty bowl down, eyes flashing. "Oh, forgive me, brother, for not consulting your palate before ensuring our children eat! "Perhaps your 'Executive Chef' role on Earth didn't prepare you for actual scarcity!"
Their wives, usually a calming presence, exchanged weary glances. Even the children, once so resilient, had begun to pick up on the underlying tension. Little Iris, normally quiet, burst into tears at the raised voices, clinging to Drenba's leg.
Later that week, a more serious altercation erupted during hull inspection. Ricchy, still struggling with the practical demands of his assigned tasks, had misread a pressure gauge, nearly causing a minor system overload. Harry, ever diligent and now acting as a de facto section lead, exploded. "Ricchy, this isn't some corporate merger you can bluff your way through! A mistake here could depressurize the whole deck! Do you understand the stakes?"
Ricchy's face flushed. "I understand perfectly well, Harry! I also understand that I spent my life building an empire, not calibrating atmospheric sensors! "Maybe you should have kept your hands on the controls back on Earth, instead of letting it all burn!" The accusation hung heavy in the recycled air, touching on the unspoken grief and blame they all carried.
The Elders, particularly Lekenneth and Kaisy, often found themselves mediating these increasingly frequent squabbles. Lekenneth would gather the involved parties in a small, soundproofed auxiliary cabin, his voice low and steady. "We are all grieving," he'd often begin, looking from one hardened face to another. And we are all terrified. This ship is too small for grudges, and the universe out there is far too vast for us to face divided."
Their ship laws, initially a distant concept, became a living, breathing, often resented, entity. Minor infractions, like leaving a recycling bin unemptied or exceeding water rations by a few drops, were met with formal reprimands and increased work shifts, enforced by the Captain's crew with quiet, unyielding authority. The Fieldarnos, who once commanded respect through wealth and lineage, now learned humility under the rigid discipline of survival. They were a family, yes, but now they were also crew, bound by necessity, scarred by loss, and locked in the intimate, unyielding confines of their new, metallic ark. Their minds, once expansive, were now focused solely on the next breath, the next maintenance cycle, the next sunrise that would never come.
Two years crawled by aboard the Majestic Starship Phoenix. The initial, blinding shock of loss had long since given way to the monotonous, soul-crushing grind of survival. The limited rations, once an emergency measure, were now just "food," a constant, gnawing source of tension that seeped into every conversation, every glance.
One sweltering cycle, Iris, Drenba's granddaughter, attempted to sneak an extra algae cake from the stores. Her tiny hand, quick and desperate, snagged the forbidden square, but she was caught by the unblinking, watchful eye of her great-grandmother.
"Hey! "What are you doing with that?" Drenba's voice was sharp, a drill sergeant's bark, though it was laced with a familiar, bone-deep weariness that suggested this wasn't her first or last battle of the day. "Every gram's accounted for, Iris! You know that!"
"I'm starving, Grannie!" Iris protested, clutching the small, green cake as if it were pure gold. Her voice was thin, reedy, reflecting the constant hunger in her small frame. "This isn't enough to keep a kid going!"
Drenba sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire universe. Her stern gaze softened, a flicker of the old Drenba surfacing.
"I know, I know, my sweetheart. Believe me, nobody's got 'enough' out here. We've got 'just enough,' and only if we all stick to it. If you break the rules, we all starve. Do you understand me? Your cousins, your aunts, your uncles… everyone."
Iris's eyes welled up, tears tracing paths down her dust-smudged cheeks. "I'll return it, Granny. I'm sorry. "I just thought no one would notice one." The whispered "one" was true heartbreak.
Such is the nature of life now. Arguments frequently flared, not with the explosive anger of fresh grief, but with the simmering resentment of exhaustion and deprivation. Debates raged over water usage—hygiene versus hydroponics—or erupted into heated shouting matches over priority for limited communal spaces. These conflicts relentlessly tested their once "iron-clad" family bond, forcing the Captain and Elders to enforce the strict rules with unwavering, often painful, consequences. A day's missed chore meant a docked ration. A public outburst meant solitary confinement in the small, spartan auxiliary cabin, a chilling reminder of how small their world had become.
Yet, they'd brought their sprawling culture with them, adapting old ways to the confines of a metal shell. Mealtimes, for instance, remained sacred communal gatherings, even if the "harvest" now came from glowing hydroponic trays, and water for drinking was measured with careful precision by automated spigots. Resourcefulness wasn't a choice; it was their creed.
Meals were simple, centered around nutrient-rich algae cakes and crisp, lab-grown greens, creatively stretched into satisfying dishes that often drew on forgotten family recipes.
Every last drop of water was recycled meticulously through multiple filters, rationed for quick, cold showers and carefully portioned drinking. Nothing was wasted; broken parts were scavenged for repairs, and even their clothing was constantly mended and repurposed, telling a silent story of their enduring journey.