At first, there was nothing. Just the void, the quiet emptiness that stretched on forever. And then, there was the Grain. A strand of something, some call it God or a deity, or perhaps a facsimile of either. The last trace of whatever created this sprawling mess of debris and stars that we now call our home. The Grain was sacred for so long, worshipped by those who believed in its potential, its mystery. The religions that rose around it shaped the lives of so many. But, as it always goes, someone—no, not someone, something—saw the Grain for what it truly was: a commodity, a resource, a vast power waiting to be tapped.

The Grain became the heart of an empire, its energy feeding the insatiable hunger of a capital world. With that hunger, came abuse. The strain of harnessing the Grain’s power didn’t come without a price. It wasn’t obvious at first, the consequences, not when the news assured us that it was only one reactor, only one little malfunction. But the disasters grew. It wasn’t just one reactor. Then it was a planet. And then more. And soon enough, the truth was clear to us all. What we had once called paradise was a façade, a carefully curated mask for a world teetering on the brink of collapse.

By then, it was almost too late.

The Eden—our salvation—was a last-ditch effort, a glimmer of hope that we could escape the coming devastation. It was a colossal vessel, a ship powered by the last dregs of the Grain’s energy. And we, the fortunate few, were the ones chosen to leave it all behind. To salvage what we could—art, music, loved ones, anything to preserve our world as it once was. But there was only so much we could bring. So much was lost. So little was saved.

The Eden was our lifeline. But what we left behind was a curse, a fragment of the Grain, the very thing that had doomed us. And so, we set out. With a timer on our backs. A limited supply of fuel. Only so much time to chart a new course. We followed the strands—the last remnants of the Grain—scattered across the void, a journey that many called a pilgrimage. A quest to find a new home, a new hope.

I was one of the “lucky” ones chosen to carve a path for Eden. My job? An Icebreaker. I clear out asteroids, debris, and anything that might threaten the ship. And I collect what I can of the strands. They are scattered, far apart, and harder to find with every passing day. But the work is necessary. It’s better than my last job, I suppose. More prestigious too, if you’re into that sort of thing. But the accolades, the ceremonies, the medals—it all feels hollow. There are too many funerals. Too many faces that have been lost for the sake of Eden.”

The pay’s good, though. Double rations. It helps, at least. I don’t eat much on most days. I try to share what I have with my family. My squad, they’ve taken to calling me “Messiah,” because I’m always breaking bread with them instead of eating for myself. It’s endearing in its own way. I know they’re just as hungry as I am, but with every mission growing longer, and the strands harder to find, we’re all feeling the strain.

Poor Amir. He signed up to send his rations home to his family. Days slip by faster out here than you think. And now, his sister’s gone. It’s a damn shame.

After enough time, you stop counting the strands. You collect them mechanically, one after another, until the very idea of them fades into the background noise of the ship. People stop talking, too. There’s nothing left to say, nothing new. Conversations have been wrung dry, every topic exhausted. All that’s left are the occasional glances exchanged—hollow, cold eyes searching for something. Anything.

I roll out of bed, the cold metal of my bunk pressing into my spine. It’s a simple room, nothing fancy. I’m lucky, though—lucky to have been stationed before the expansion. I got to pick my bunk. C2. It’s a small comfort in the face of everything else.

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I make my way to the commons, a circular room with dim lighting and a low ceiling. The tables and chairs are bolted to the floor, relics of a time long gone, before gravity cores and modern comforts. A few workers scatter about, some eating, others staring out at the dark expanse through the thick windows. I worry about them sometimes. If the glass wasn’t as thick as it is, they might just try to jump.

I head towards navigation, trying to avoid the inevitable noise of the alarm. I hate getting woken up that way. It always takes me back to the first days on this ship. But when I get there, I see something I haven’t seen in a long time—a grin.

“We’ll be back to Eden soon!” the young voice calls, almost out breath like he’s at the end of a long speech. “I know it! We need to dock, and we haven’t in two cycles!”

I glance over at the new face, the one wasting all the oxygen with his rants. “Hey, you know when we’ll be back? I’ve been told I get double rations for every cycle I don’t come back, so I must have like, uh, eight packs by now, and—”

I cut him off. “No, I don’t. Can you please quiet down? I came here to avoid the alarm and not hear you daydream.”

The kid falls silent, but I’m patted on the back by Kole. Everyone calls him “Cap,” even though he’s never steered the ship once in his life. He’s the one who always seems to be around when things go wrong.

Just then, the walls thrum with a muffled sound—the alarm. Even through the noise, I can tell the ship is heading back to Eden. The ship mostly steers itself these days, but we’re going back.

“Yes,” comes a muffled voice, barely above a whisper.

The day starts with a rush. People scatter, moving quickly, as the gears of human labor grind into motion. You’re lucky if you can avoid getting swept up in the crowd. My early rise gives me an advantage. I’m stationed on the arms, where we collect the strands near Eden. Even on docking days, we don’t stop.

I strap into my station, the tangled mess of wires and levers in front of me. We’re a team of twenty now, down from forty. Some got reassigned. Some didn’t make it back. We’ve learned to let each other take the easy strands, every now and then.

“Attention, all stations will be closing in 15 clicks,” a voice crackles over the intercom. “Make your way to the Docking Bay for unloading.”

The urgency is palpable. We’re moving fast today. I’ve never liked docking during a warp. You have to strap yourself tight, or risk being peeled off the wall and carted to the Med-Bay for a few cycles. I find an open seat, the repetitive motion burned into my body. The Docking Bay windows close, and the stars begin to blur as the ship accelerates.

The ship goes dark to conserve power. It’s only for five minutes, but it’s enough to collect my thoughts. The stillness, the quiet darkness, it’s almost peaceful.

“I never can get used to how dark it gets down here. Can you?” a voice asks, breaking the silence.

I sigh inwardly. I recognize the voice. I turn, even through the dark I can tell its same kid from before.

“I mean, back on Eden, I think we warped maybe once. I can’t remember, it was forever ago. Probably only a few years after I was born.”

I try to ignore him, but he persists. “Hey, wait a second, I remember you. You’re the guy from navigation, right? Big, grizzly guy in desperate need of a shave?

I groaned. “Kid, I don’t need your life story. I don’t want a biography, alright?”

There’s a pause, then he continues, “Well, I think we started on the wrong foot. How about this: I’ll give you your quiet if you tell me your name. I’m Oswald.”

I bit back my frustration. “Messiah.”

It’s ridiculous that I’m even entertaining this. But before I can dwell on it, the lights flicker back on, and my seat releases me from its grip.

“Attention: We have docked at Eden. Welcome back.”

I turned to look at the kid for the first time. Scrawny, no older than sixteen, his skin smudged with soot. He’s grinning to himself, clearly amused by something.

“Huh, you must not be very good at keeping track of time, huh? How’d you make it this long, old timer? Well, stay safe, Messiah,” he says, his voice full of that obnoxious tone only a little brother could have.

Before I can even respond, he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd with that same smug smile.

I sigh, watching him go. No use in sulking about it. We don’t have much time while we’re docked. Might as well make the most of it.