3024 Nova Arcis A 8
The Taste of the Soup
In the contemplative silence in the Malina-Varna Cinematheque the immersive display dissolved, and the soft, golden lights of the dome slowly rose, revealing the faces of the audience, each one lost in their own thoughts. The film, nearly a millennium old, still held its strange, quiet power.
The broadcast feed found Cokas Bluna and LYRA.ai back in the vibrant heart of the D1.LoG broadcast garden. They were seated at a small, elegant table, a quiet island in the bustling but soft-focused river of Nova Arcis’s daily life. A silent, graceful server-bot had just finished pouring them both steaming cups of tea—real Proxima-grown tea, Cokas noted with a connoisseur’s appreciation.
He took a moment, letting the film’s meditative mood linger before breaking the silence. “It’s always the simplicity of it that gets me,” he said, his voice a low, reflective murmur. “Da Vinci staring at his sketches of a flying machine, Malina at his rocket equations, Varna at the quantum foam… three of the most complex minds in human history. And the film keeps bringing them back to the soup. To the simple, grounding act of staying alive. Of needing to eat.”
LYRA.ai held her cup, a gesture she had learned was socially appropriate for moments of shared thought. Her manicured fingers registered the precise temperature, a sensory input her bio-components interpreted as a pleasant, low-level thermal bloom. “It is a perfect metaphor for the era, Cokas. The ‘Stagnation of Speed’ was a time when humanity was forced to confront its own mundane realities. The grand, explosive dream of instantaneous interstellar travel had faltered. And so, they had to focus on perfecting the soup—on building stable habitats, refining life support, creating the resilient social and economic systems, like the early Grant-System, that would allow them to endure the long wait.”
“A long and deeply frustrating wait,” Cokas added. “Two hundred years. Generations were born and died in that great quiet, all living in the shadow of a promise that seemed no closer to being fulfilled. You can feel that frustration in the art of the time. But the film… it argues that the stagnation wasn’t a failure. It was a necessary gestation.”
“A time to learn how to live in the worlds we had already built, before rushing off to build new ones,” LYRA agreed, her progressive mind picturing the film’s themes with startling clarity. “I remember studying that film. It gave me a new perspective on the idea that the true genius of Varna, Malina, and Da Vinci was not just in their grand visions, but in their obsessive attention to the small, foundational details. Da Vinci’s studies of anatomy, Malina’s meticulous engineering, Varna’s endless, painstaking calculations. You cannot build a flying machine until you understand how a bird’s wing works. You cannot reach the stars until you have perfected the soup that will sustain you on the journey.”
Cokas took a slow, thoughtful sip of his tea. The flavour was rich, complex, with a hint of the alien soil of Amara. “And they did perfect the soup,” he said, setting the cup down. “That long, slow century… it’s when humanity truly learned to live off-world. The great universities on Luna, the first generation of children born in orbital habitats… they were strong, resilient, and ready for the next great leap.” He smiled a sad, ironic smile. “The tragedy is, the soup they perfected was not the only thing on the menu. There was another dish, being prepared in secret. A poisoned one.”
He gestured back toward the main broadcast console, where the portrait of Mego Reveers still lingered in the archival queue. “That was the poison. The hierarchical, exploitative society being built on Mars, a mirror of Old Earth’s worst impulses, dressed up as progress. And the other ingredient… the misleading hope that simple, raw speed could solve the deep, complex problems of Earth’s Climate and Overpopulation Crises. They believed a faster ship was the cure, when the disease was in their own philosophy.”
This was the pivot. The calm, philosophical reflection was over. It was time to set the stage for the next, more violent act of their thousand-year drama.
LYRA.ai caught his shift in tone immediately, her emotions recognizing the narrative transition. She held her cup, the steam warming a face that could not feel it. “A beautiful and thoughtful film,” she said, her voice providing a gentle sense of closure to the first block of their broadcast. “A perfect place to pause, I think. We have witnessed the age of genius, the great disruption of ITT, and the beginning of a long period of consolidation and introspection.”
Cokas nodded, his expression now grim and serious. He looked directly into the primary broadcast camera, his warm, inviting host persona replaced by the gravitas of a historian about to recount a great tragedy. “But that consolidation,” he said, his voice low and serious, “that quiet, industrious century… it was built on a poisoned foundation, laid decades earlier by the ambition of a single man. A foundation that would lead to tyranny, exploitation, and ultimately, to a bloody revolution.”
He let the ominous words hang in the air, a stark and chilling promise of the drama to come.
“When we return,” he concluded, his gaze steady, “the great, tragic drama of Mars. The rise of the Asterion Collective, and the birth of the very philosophy that would one day come to define this station. Join us after the break, as ‘Stars Unbound’ continues.”
The broadcast feed held on his serious face for a moment before fading, …
The Gentle Parrot’s Morning
In the year 3024, mornings stretch across countless suns. On Mars, dawn is a pale red shimmer, a thin light that bleeds over the iron hills. On Europa, mornings come in tidal pulses, lit by Jupiter’s glow. And in the asteroid belts, mornings are simply whenever a body decides to wake.
But everywhere, one thing remains: Mamas Pappa’s.
The pods are impossible to miss—smooth, bioluminescent domes of soft green light that look like miniature suns blooming against steel corridors and cratered outposts. Inside, warmth replaces the void. Seating isn’t manufactured, but grown, patterned like soft vines and moss. Aromas—always different, always local—drift through the air.
And presiding over it all is the Gentle Parrot.
He appears as an Ara costume, nearly two metres tall, his feathers shimmering with cosmic iridescence. His voice is deep and reassuring, like someone who has seen a thousand dawns and wants only to guide you through yours. With every flutter of a feather, stars scatter in the air.
Mars Lira, a miner coated in crimson dust, stumbles out of the tunnels at sunrise. Her muscles ache, her breath heavy in the thin air. The pod doors open without a sound.
“Good morning, traveller,” says the Parrot. “No matter where you’re from, breakfast feels like home.”
A tray slides forward: bread from Martian grains, eggs rich with solar-farmed protein, and a steaming cup of kav brewed from hardy desert beans. Lira smiles for the first time in days.
Tau Boo A On an orbiting station, a group of teens float in zero-g, laughing as pancakes spin like coins around the table. The Parrot arches a wing, releasing glowing feathers that drift weightlessly, lighting up their faces.
“Equal quality, local flavours—no matter the gravity.”
The pancakes are laced with kelp harvested from Tau Boo moons’ oceans. Syrup is extracted from engineered frost-fruit. Different from Mars, different from Earth, yet somehow—it tastes familiar.
Sesame’s Asteroid Belt In the cramped corridors of a Belt settlement, the pod pulses like a living heart. Diplomats, engineers, and wanderers crowd the space, all sharing tables carved from local rock. The Parrot circles gracefully overhead, dipping its beak to each cluster.
“Sustainably sourced, tailored for every tastebud—from asteroid dust to nebula nectar!”
A miner from Vestalia shares a tray with a trader from Titicus, their laughter mingling with the scent of hot grain cakes fried in recycled oils.
Wherever morning finds you — on a planet, a station, or adrift between stars — the ritual is the same. The Parrot’s feathers always glow, the promise always repeats:
“Galaxywide, always the same comfort. Local taste, gentle care.”
And so, leaving only the faint shimmer of feathers behind the Mamas Pappa’s logo across thousands of worlds, breakfasts are eaten in peace. Not by clowns or mascots, not by hollow slogans, but by the quiet wisdom of a parrot who promises that mornings can still be gentle—even among the stars.
Jade-Shipyard: Your Freedom
The galaxy is full with commerce, chatter, and promises of comfort. Stations glow like artificial suns, pods open their arms with community and routine. But not everyone belongs at someone else’s table.
Some wake with a hunger that no cafeteria pod can quiet. Some wake for silence, for risk, for the sharp taste of the unknown.
That is where the Jade-Shipyard begins.
The screen is dark. A single note vibrates low and resonant, a synth-bass that feels more like heartbeat than music. Out of the void, a ship screams past—sleek, personal-sized, built for one life and one destiny. Its engines flare in blue fire, streaking a path into blackness.
The Prospector In a cockpit lit only by scanner light, a lone prospector leans forward. The readout flares green. Rich veins of ore ripple beneath the surface of an untouched asteroid. The prospector throws back their head, shouting triumph into the silence.
This is not comfort. This is victory.
The Lovers On the barren lip of a deserted moon, a ship rests quiet, its hull catching the first rays of alien dawn. Inside, a couple holds hands, their silhouettes framed against a viewport that swells with the rising of a blue-green sun.
This is not community. This is intimacy, undiluted.
The Drifter-Kin Through a lethal asteroid field, a battered ship cuts paths tighter than any nav-comp can predict. At the controls sits a veteran Drifter-Kin pilot, eyes narrowed, grin sharp with exhilaration. She moves not with hesitation, but with ownership—every scrape on the hull a story she survived.
This is not safety. This is mastery.
The voice does not soothe. It does not promise gentle mornings. It growls from the depths, speaking like a challenge whispered into the bones.
“They offer you comfort. They offer you community. They offer you a place at their table.”
The sleek ship burns past a crowded station, not docking, not slowing. With a flare of light, it breaks free, snapping into FTL—one streak of brilliance swallowed by infinite dark.
“We offer you the door.”
The final image lingers: a single speck of light, fragile but unyielding, swallowed by the vast and dangerous stars. The logo of Jade Charon Dock Shipwrights carves itself across the black:
Your Ship. Your Time. Your Freedom.
No circus, no corporate clown – only the gentle wisdom of the Parrot. Mamas Pappa’s: More than a breakfast. It’s a galaxywide family, dedicated to sustainable mornings and unique planetary flavour, guided by care—on Earth, Mars, or far beyond the stars.
The Same Good Morning
The shriek of stressed metal and the blinding arc of a plasma welder are the heartbeat of the Wolf 1061 shipyards. It’s a place of controlled chaos, a constant, grinding symphony of creation. But just through a viewport, the noise dies. Calm.
Here, in the warm, terracotta-coloured interior of a Mamas Pappa’s, the air tastes of peace and brewing Amaran beans. Kwenzikuo, a lead engineer, slumps into a booth, the weariness of a long cycle etched onto his face. He takes a sip of strong, black coffee, the heat a welcome shock that cuts through his fatigue. He bites into a dense protein pastry, its ingredients sourced from the hydroponic bays of Ross 128. It’s real. It’s solid. A wall-screen flickers, and a gentle, 1.8-meter-tall macaw-like figure named Polly appears, their iridescent feathers shimmering. The parrot on the screen leans in towards a tired engineer and speaks, its voice warm, comforting, and deeply reassuring. “The void is vast,” Polly says. “Your morning shouldn’t be.” Kwenzikuo lets out a small, weary smile. He agrees.
Light-years away, a new scene unfolds on a thousand different screens. On one side, a farmer on the planet Amara, her hands deep in the rich, alien soil, harvests dark beans under a crimson sky. On the other, a young, focused barista on a gritty mining station in the RIM moves with the speed of a blur, expertly grinding those very same beans. The two images merge into one, and the silent, watchful face of Polly appears in the corner. The text resolves below them: The Same Good Morning, on a Million Different Worlds.
On Varna-Station, in the heart of the Republic, Zinyan, a young political science student, gestures emphatically with her ceramic mug. “The Asterion Collective Paradigm isn’t just an economic theory!” she argues to her study group, seated in a bustling, open-air Mamas Pappa’s on the university plaza. “It’s a shared ritual! A common experience!”
In a crowded transit hub on Barnard’s Star, a massive screen displays the fierce, snarling wolf’s head logo of the Wolf-Pack. But its proud, aggressive eyes are drooping with a comical exhaustion. Below it, a steaming cup of coffee and the words: Even a superpower needs a good morning. A veteran freighter captain, Temɓalina, sees it and chuckles, shaking her head at the sheer audacity.
The galaxy flashes by in a rapid montage of shared moments. A cramped “Shop-in-Hab” on a frontier outpost, a solitary beacon of warmth. A sprawling, elegant café in a Martian dome, its furniture moulded from local bio-polymers. A simple counter on a long-haul freighter, serving real glass mugs to a grateful, weary crew.
WE finally return to Kwenzikuo in the Wolf 1061 shipyard. He finishes his coffee. He stands up, the exhaustion in his shoulders gone, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve. He places his empty ceramic mug on the counter. He is ready to face the void again.
The image fades, leaving only the Mamas Pappa’s logo and its simple, reassuring slogan, a promise whispered in Universal Language across the stars:
Mamas Pappa’s: Start Your Cycle Right.