Cadet Davos has one last test to pass - a flight through space on a dragon!

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I zipped up my jumpsuit, adjusted the slim oxygen pack attached my shoulders, and took a deep breath.  My stomach churned as I stared at my reflection in the polished metal wall. The red suit looked like a big warning beacon.

"Cadet Davos." Lieutenant Evrek strode into the locker room. "Are you ready for your flight or not?"
I snapped a quick salute. "Ready as I'll ever be, sir."

The Lieutenant held the locker room door open for me. I scrambled past him and into the hangar. The huge gun-metal gray space echoed with a cacophony of dock workers' shouts, the beeps of loading cranes and segues, and the loud flutter of wings. Crates obscured much of my view of the ground.

Dragons were everywhere

A Rescue Operations robot must put its existence on the line to save a crew shipwrecked in space.

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The six-brace cargo vessel had been family’s livelihood. One wrong maneuver too near a planet’s gravity well, and it was fast becoming their graveyard.

SN127-AK3 hurtled across the empty kilometers of space between his home aboard a Rescue Operations starship and the six-brace, solar winds and the planet’s pull accelerating it faster than a human’s body could stand. He was a three-meter-long Rescue Ops Survival Servitor, a robot designed to contort itself into the tightest spaces of the most twisted wreckage. His body was 10 centimeters across, with a micro-armor surface covering self-repair systems, dozens of servos that let him twist into all manner of shapes, and delicate sensor arrays, as well as five storage compartments. Like standard ROSS units, he’d earned the sobriquet “space snake” from his biological directors, who like to replace the designation “Servitor” with “Serpent.”

A police snake in a mechanized suit of armor faces a peculiar reaction from a hostage during a standoff.

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“Let the lady go, Thomas,” I say, my forearm cannon armed and pointed at the man in front of me. “My backup’s already on the way. You’ve got nowhere to run.”

Tom Crougar’s forehead, shoulders, and upper back are covered in jagged, bony protrusions, and a long bone blade extends from his right forearm to press against the neck of his unfortunate hostage.

“Not a chance, freak,” he sneers at me. “You let me walk, or I open her jugular.”

“You’re only wanted for robbery and grand theft auto, Tom,” I say directly. “Adding murder to the list will only make things worse for you.”

“I’ll die before I go back to the pen,” he insists. “You can’t make…”

“Um...excuse me?” the middle-aged woman in Tom’ grasp interrupts, looking at me. “I’m sorry, but...what are you?”

An up and coming fighter pilot, Dex D'Felco seeks glory as a Blood Ace in the depths of space.

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Dex D’Felco had every reason to feel good. His polished dress uniform shoes clicked smartly on the duranium deck plates of the United Coalition carrier Callisto as he navigated the thick press of the always-busy passageway. He nodded curtly to new subordinates making eye contact while smiling in acknowledgement to peers offering their congratulations. Typical of most Coalition Navy observances, Dex’s promotion ceremony had been short but meaningful.  Under the clear panoramic dome of the Callisto’s observation lounge—the pure white void of etherspace playing havoc on reality just beyond—he had stood at attention while Captain Anton Walters pinned the UCN Medal of Valor and a new gleaming gold bar to his uniform tunic. The recognition of Dex’s heroics in the Oranos engagement had only taken two weeks to clear the customary bureaucracy, and now it was official. Dex D’Felco, the pilot who had single-handedly saved a civilian light transport from six bandits, scoring kills on three hostile Razors in the process, was now a full-fledged lieutenant.

As Dex strode purposefully down the passageway, his friend, Lieutenant Hagen Lebrian, kept pace just behind him. Broad-shouldered and nearly two meters tall, he had to juke and jostle a little more than Dex to avoid the surge of pilots, deck sergeants, and support personnel all wanting to acknowledge the young hero.

Unlike humans, snakes can't cry . . .  even in space.

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Tears don't fall in space. They just pool around your eyes. At least… that’s the case if you’re a human. Us snakes don’t cry. Our tears just drain back into the roofs of our mouths.

In the very near future, Trevor tells his pastor he wants to get a plastic uterus and become pregnant.

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"Pastor, I'm young and healthy. I have a whole summer before college starts. I think it makes sense if I -- I think God is leading me to spend the summer pregnant."

"I . . . see." Pastor Williams suppressed a frown. "Tell me more, Trevor."

C-8, a serve bot, is struggling with an invasive code that's affecting all of his systems. As the virus spreads he discovers he is able to act against his programming.

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“You don’t understand man, none of us are free.”

I stand looking at the man, an unkempt, blood-smeared human. In comparison I would seem twice the specimen this man is. I am a foot taller, perfect physique, and admirable features. I am C8, a cyber unit designed to be perfection, human-like in every perceivable way. Some may note my second team member’s flaws when compared to me, but B5 is an earlier model. Though still very advanced, he does not have my level of upgrades. Some say his fair complexion lends itself to flaws. A-7 is the oldest model in my team and lacks in almost every area where B-5 and myself excel. She modestly resembles a human female but is incapable of imitating any of the complexities that are humanity. One thing that my whole unit lacks are the imperfections that makes humans human. We also lack an understanding of this very earthborn concept of freedom.

“I am not a man, but my programming indicates that you are wrong.” My team and I have been programmed with knowledge on all aspects of humanity including, though I do not understand the concept, that all humans are free and therefore responsible for their actions. I ignore the bug crawling through my code.

When the natural order breaks down, it is up to the intrepid crew of the Wolsey I to bring hope to their people.

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Amadeus' lean frame practically flew up the ladder to his control station on the SFC Wolsey MK.I. His crew, likewise, scurried to their places in excited anticipation. The weather had turned, and it was time to take the hope of their race out on its first active mission.

A service technician helped him strap into the harness, plunked a helmet on his head, and smacked it to seat it properly. "Good luck, sir," he saluted, "happy hunting."

Amadeus grimaced as the technician exited, and closed the hatch. He really wished they wouldn't use language like that; hunting, as if they were going out there with the purpose of killing. Oh, they might kill, it was a risk any operation of this sort ran, but if they could infiltrate and escape with the package, it would suit him just fine.

What caused the ruin of the second Babel?

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I sit in the ruins of a second Babel-
the shattered,
irradiated remains of the glorious dreams of humanity.

This time, it wasn’t a tower.