Shaken Cores

Shaken Cores: Ashes and Machines

A vast, glistening storm of chaos swirled across Crucibus, a planet perched on the outskirts of the Milky Way. Its rugged surface gleamed with veins of precious minerals and gemstones, jagged brown peaks slicing into the sky, carved and scarred by violent ion storms. Three moons hovered high, their pale light spilling across the jagged terrain. Comets streaked across the heavens, leaving trails of vibrant color cutting through the darkness below.

Ashvale, founded as a mining colony during the 8 Worlds War, had fed the Empire’s insatiable hunger for resources. Miners were driven ever deeper, convinced that the surface only hinted at the treasures beneath. And the Empire had been right: the deeper they dug, the rarer the minerals. A century after peace, the mines remained the heartbeat of the planet, though their toil had consequences—worsening storms, tremors beneath the surface, and the ceaseless arrival of mining corporations eager to claim their share. Production surged once again, just as whispers of the Reclaimers’ rebellion began to stir.

Syra Caine trudged home through thick mud and clinging soot. Her worn leather boots squelched with every step. Overalls and work jacket, once light grey, were now mottled with grime and torn from the roughness of the mine. Her calloused hands gripped her jacket cuffs as she moved swiftly, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. Her piercing blue eyes, flecked with amber, reminded her of sunrise breaking over a dark horizon—beautiful, untamed, and sharp.

“Ion storms have worsened since Terra ramped up production. Damn corps.” The storm roared above, lightning carving jagged scars across the sky. Syra tightened her coat against the biting wind. “I better hurry home.”

The apartment tower loomed ahead, a concrete monolith in the heart of the city. Thirteen flights of stairs waited for her—the elevator, of course, broken as always. “When… will they fix… that damn elevator?” she huffed, calves burning with every step.

Inside, flickering hallway lights cast long shadows across beige walls and a carpet of muted reds and oranges, more spill than design. Her apartment greeted her with soft synthetic warmth. “Welcome home, ma’am.” She dropped her bag and shrugged off her coat, sinking onto the couch with a sigh that carried both relief and exhaustion.

Nexis, her perpetually unimpressed feline, barely twitched from his mound of brown and orange fur. One half-lidded eye assessed her, then he promptly returned to sleep. “Hmph. Didn’t want to talk to you anyway,” Syra muttered, rolling her eyes. She wandered to her bedroom, grinning. “Looks like the diver is going for the gold!” With a dramatic leap, she landed face-first into her pillows. “It’s a perfect 10,” she mumbled from beneath the blankets. Outside, the storm raged, but inside, for now, there was peace.

Shaking. Smashing. Cracking. Shattering.

Syra awoke to chaos. The apartment trembled beneath her feet as deep, guttural rumbles rose from the planet. Glass splintered, walls groaned, furniture scraped across the floor. “What the hell? Never felt a quake like this before!” Her pulse raced as she scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping in panic.

Frames dangled, skewed or shattered. A lamp lay in shards. Vases toppled, their contents strewn across the carpet. CLE-4N, her cleaning bot, skittered across the debris, whirring desperately. Another tremor rocked the room. Syra dove beneath the steel-framed table, curling into herself, as the quake raged on. Minutes stretched like hours—crash, crack, rumble, roar—until silence fell.

When she dared to crawl out, her home was a ruin. CLE-4N approached, wheels spinning precisely. Its mechanical voice chimed: “Ma’am, I have redeposited your father.”

Syra froze. The little bot extended a small cardboard box, tied neatly with a black bow. Spilled ashes and the overturned urn stared back at her from the carpet. Her throat tightened. “I… I…” she whispered, collapsing to her knees, clutching the box as a shallow sob escaped her lips.

Shaking. Smashing. Cracking. Shattering.

CLE-4N jolted from its charging station, circuits flickering as systems rebooted. Initialization sequence: complete. Sensors scanned the room—dust hung thick, glass lay shattered, debris strewn across the floor.

One anomaly registered: fine black particulate in the corner. Scanning… identity confirmed: Harlan Caine, ashes dispersed.

Mechanically, it extended its vacuum arms, moving carefully over broken furniture and scattered shards. Every fragment was collected and placed into a small cardboard box, tied neatly with a black bow.

It is the thought that counts, CLE-4N muttered, resuming its methodical tidying of the room. Minutes passed. Silence settled. Syra rose, unsteady, eyes sweeping the wreckage. The bot rolled the box toward her. “Ma’am, I have redeposited your father.”

Shaking. Smashing. Cracking. Shattering.

Nexis remained unmoved.

None of it concerned him. A contented, lazy heap of fur, he barely lifted his head, white sliver of eye visible. The world could collapse around him; he would not stir.

Syra knelt among the ruins, breath uneven, clutching the cardboard box that held her father’s ashes. And then Nexis rose—slowly, majestically—like a lion surveying its pride lands. He lifted himself from the couch, his throne, and gazed down at the humbled servant before him. Then, without ceremony, he licked his ass.