High quality 8k SciFi Spaceship Corridor, shuttle interior based on the cupola space station ISS International space station.window to earth view.footage available on gettyimages video
Adam and Eve touched down on the planet’s surface with a thud and bump at the location that Charles and Vanessa had so wisely selected for them. It was a level, grassy field surrounded by rolling hills. A large stream cut across the land, full of jumping fish, and an old forest of oak and maple trees stood in the distance. Here and there metal frames and limbs jutted out of the ground like pieces of abstract art.
Standing hand in hand, squinting into the bright sunlight, Adam and Even attempted to drink it all in with their senses. The holograms and the artificial sunlight on the garden on the Athenia could not prepare them for this.
Aboard the Athenia, a signal was transmitted across the light years. Back on their home planet, Charles and Vanessa Pilgrim, the sperm and egg donors of Adam and Eve, would rejoice–their children had reached the new world.
Adam pointed his arm up into the Terran sky, and Eve followed his gaze into the heavens. There was a steak of color and fire tearing through the atmosphere, evidence of the Athenia’s final order to self destruct. A tear coursed down Eve’s cheek–their parents were dead.
Then, unlatching their cumbersome helmets, Adam and Eve breathed the air of new beginnings.
While the children finished getting ready Charles and Vanessa transmitted between one another a flurry of holographic images of the children–mundane scenes of the children playing or learning; extraordinary images of the pair fencing, acting out Shakespeare, and even dissecting a small Terran amphibian called a frog that had been carried to the colonies with many other species from Earth. All the images were transmitted and absorbed in fiber optic seconds.
“I’ll miss them too, Vanessa. But we have raised them well. With some luck, they will prosper on the planet’s surface.”
Vanessa did not reply, but simply kept playing the images back within her digital mind.
Soon Adam and Eve appeared on the deck, glowing and confident in their shiny new space suits.
“Goodbye, Mother and Father,” they stated in one voice. Then, in an unexpected and irrational manner, both moved over to the wall and placed their hands on the cool metal of the ship.
“Good luck, children. Remember your teachings,” said Charles.
“Goodbye…dear ones,” whispered Vanessa.
The pair’s booted feet clunked down the ladder to the shuttle bay. Once the children were strapped in, Charles and Vanessa sent a signal to the Athenia to open the shuttle bay doors.
Ghost-like, the silver shuttle rocketed away from the metal world that had sheltered them for all of their years.
Eve placed one gloved hand and the visor of her helmet against the starboard portal of the shuttle to watch the shiny obelisk of the Athenia shrink behind them.
Centuries ago the machine wars had ravaged Earth, sending groups of humans to the stars to avoid extinction. Probes sent to Earth from Adam and Eve’s ancestors had finally returned with confirmation that it was safe to return. Earth had become a metallic graveyard-somehow, perhaps due to bitter fighting between rival AIs or more simply exhausted power cells, the machines that had conquered the planet were now little more than rusted hulks.
“Good morning, Vanessa,” the computer named Charles intoned. “Good morning, Charles. I take it that you slept well?” The higher, sexless voice of the computer named Vanessa replied. “Like a baby,” replied Charles. These words, too, had been spoken in exactly the same manner at exactly the same time for years as well. But today was different. Today represented the culmination of eighteen years of wandering the stars. Today Charles and Vanessa would make a very conscious decision to self-destruct the Athenia, thereby scattering the tiny bits of their circuitry across the void of space like so many atoms, being of quite rational mind while doing so. But that was later today. Now it was time to wake the kids. Soft diodes of light slowly increased in radiance within the sleep chambers of the children, bathing the faces of the boy Adam and the girl Eve in angelic luminescence. For reasons Charles and Vanessa could never understand, Adam and Eve rubbed their eyes, yawned, sighed, scratched themselves, and in general responded to their awakening in a uniquely human but totally irrational manner. “Good morning, children,” cooed Vanessa. “Good morning, Mother,” replied Eve. “Good morning, Father,” replied Adam. This also was part of the daily ritual. “Please groom and take nourishment, children,” boomed Charles. “Today is a special day.” “Yes, Father,” the pair replied in unison. The children went about their business while their guardians chatted. “I can’t believe that the day is here,” fretted Vanessa, her external sensors playing across the blue-green planet far below the ship. The Athenia had assumed orbit around Terra, what the humans of the old world had called Earth, during the night while the children slept. “Yes,” mused Charles, “it seems only yesterday that they were infants.” Adam and Even had been artificially conceived, born and raised aboard the ship. Its metal interior had defined and bounded the children’s entire existence…until today.
Are you ready to immerse yourself in a story that will keep you hooked and craving more with every turn of the page?
PREPARE TO JOURNEY INTO THE VOID, WHERE THE UNKNOWN ISN’T JUST WAITING… IT’S WATCHING.
In Asteroid 6 and Other Tales of Cosmic Horror, R. David Fulcher invites you into a universe where reality bends, fear lurks in every shadow, and ancient forces hunger to reclaim their dominion. This chilling collection features twelve masterfully crafted stories that transport readers to unsettling realms where cosmic dread meets human vulnerability.
Witness the harrowing tale of an asteroid hiding unfathomable secrets. Experience encounters with beings that defy reason. Wander through worlds where the fabric of existence unravels with each turn of the page. Fulcher’s vivid storytelling pulls you into the depths of madness, making you question what’s real and what lies beyond.
Perfect for fans of Lovecraftian horror, science fiction thrillers, and dark speculative fiction, Asteroid 6 is more than a book—it’s an experience that lingers long after the last page is turned.
When we arrived at my penthouse we popped the pills and chased them with crystalline goblets of Champagne. The minutes turned into hours and the hours into a night. I probably had lost my job at the art gallery and didn’t care. When I felt I could make love to her no longer she would find a way to entice me again.
I told her about my marriage, my hatred for her uncle (my boss), my disdain for the artists my position forced me to cater to. She was content to listen and not speak, running her cream-colored fingers through my hair and resting her head on my shoulder so that iridescent strands of her hair played with my mouth.
I don’t remember drifting off to sleep, but when I awoke it was almost noon. I quietly slid out of bed and watched her for several long moments. Reposed in sleep she was more beautiful than ever.
I quietly tip-toed down the hall to the kitchen to make some coffee when I noticed the flashing light on my Vid unit.
I hit the PLAY button and returned to my task. The sound of the mug shattering against the floor woke me out of my numb shock. I hit the PLAY button once again but there had been no mistake: “Steven, it’s Michael Spectra. I wanted to give you an update on my newest project. It’s called Tyla, and I exhibited her last night at your gallery. I think you’ll agree that she is surprisingly advanced–“
I slammed my fist down on the STOP button. It had to be a cruel joke. Somehow Spectra had managed to set me up with this strange woman, but his plan had backfired. I had fallen in love with her, and I truly believed that the same had happened for her.
When I returned from the bedroom, the noise from the kitchen had awoken Tyla. She sat up on one arm in the bed looking at me. So beautiful, I thought.
Then I noticed the way the sunlight spiked down through the skylight and struck her eyes. They were amber, but when she turned her head I could see flecks of blue.
(she was undoubtedly all women)
She smiled up at me wonderfully and I rushed over to her. We embraced, and I knew finally that Spectra was right. The fantasy is better than the reality. Real truth is holding nothing in your arms that believing that it is everything.
“My apologies, miss–Tyla. I thought that I had met all the guests. It’s a real pleasure. Your uncle is a great patron of the gallery.”
“Since you’re handsome, I’ll accept your apology. And you can stop brown-nosing. We both know my uncle is a jerk.”
I was utterly speechless. I had never met a woman so sure of herself or her power over men. Of course, she was right about Topper. The man was on a personal vendetta to replace me as director. I don’t know if it was her strength of character, or the lilac scent of her perfume, but my pulse was racing like a techno opera.
“You’re cute when you blush,” she said, placing her hand in the crook of my arm and nuzzling up against my shoulder.
I quickly stepped to the right. “Please, Tyla. This opening is my life.”
“Really?” she retorted. “You must have an exciting life.” She wetted her lips with her tongue to accentuate the sarcasm of her last statement. I will never recover from this woman, I thought to myself.
She nuzzled close to me once again. “Let’s go,” she whispered, managing to brush her lips against my ear. I was standing with my back to the corner and had no way to escape.
“Listen, I’m very flattered, miss–um, Tyla. But I simply can’t!”
“They won’t even miss you. We both know that. Do you live for them, or do you live for yourself?”
Damn, she’s good. What had I made of my personal life over the last few years? A failed marriage and not much else.
“All right. All right, let’s go. But only for an hour,” I said exasperated. My exhaustion had been temporarily replaced by sexual adrenaline but I knew it would return.
“Whatever you say, Herr Director.”
We slipped out to the street and into my Volvo-Benz Gridmaster GX. I was no longer fighting her and she laughed out loud as she pulled down her blouse, ran her hands over me, and generally kept me from flying the hover craft in a safe manner. At her request we soared down to the lower-class traffic grid and purchased some eroto pills from a shady beverage cart that was missing one propulsion unit and was listing badly.
I tried to look bright-eyed and enthusiastic as one-by-one the sleek black craft settled silently on to the VIP terrace and the board of directors and their exotic escorts emerged. Like Spectra’s piece, they too were from the four corners of the world, and I laboriously managed to recall greetings and compliments in six different tongues. I was bone weary in body and spirit but would not have the luxury of sleep for many hours.
The night got easier as the hours wore on, mainly because the guests generously partook of the free food and drink. I avoided the latter and drank coffee instead. I fumbled through the presentation speech, laughed at the appropriate times, and generally kissed ass until my lips were sore. Considering the circumstances I was surviving quite well.
I knew that I was in the clear when the ribbon was finally cut and the guests surged into the new wing. In some cases the artists attempted to show reality, using contemporary clothing and body art on the subjects. In others they made statements, making figures transparent instead of solid or adding heavenly glows or fiery rings around what the press was quickly dubbing “free stands”. In one particularly vulgar case the body was little more than a faint outline but the highly detailed (and unfortunately functioning) vital organs showed through. Some were seductive, others contemplative, still others tragic. Some were slightly animated, flowing and beckoning the viewer to engage in a dialogue the morphs could never complete.
I had to admit that despite my biases towards the VR body of work they were all fascinating; however, I was far too exhausted to enjoy them and worked on making myself invisible. I stood in the far corner and finally allowed myself to indulge in a scotch on the rocks.
Not used to being studied myself, it took several moments for me to identify the peculiar feeling of eyes on me. I finally located my audience in the opposite corner of the gallery.
I did not remember having met the young woman earlier in the evening. She was young, perhaps early twenties, delicate and supple. She seemed amused by the intensity of my gaze and I idiotically blushed. Her movements were graceful and effortless as she made her way over to me through the maze of shimmering forms.
I hated what I was about to say, but a director’s work is never done I suppose. “Miss, the gallery is closed.”
“No shit,” she replied. “I’m Mr. Topper’s niece, Tyla. And you can drop the ‘miss’ stuff.”
I tactfully waited until he exited the VR chamber.
“Excellent piece, isn’t it?” I asked coyly, as if he were a stranger to me.
“Better than reality,” he replied.
Maybe he is arrogant after all, I thought to myself.
“Do you really believe that?” I asked.
The artist’s eyes became fevered. “How could it not be? Everywhere you look people continue their empty lives, being false to one another and to themselves. That woman…,” he said, taking a deep breath and gesturing towards the VR chamber, “…that woman is the feminine spirit of the universe, the four quarters of the moon. She is truth. You, me, all of this…it’s nothing.”
“But I thought art imitates life?” I asked, playing along.
“Hardly. Life attempts to imitate art. And it never achieves it.”
“That is your subjective opinion, Mr. Spectra. Others would disagree with you, even other artists.”
“They are mistaken. I speak the truth. The truth is absolute, not one man’s reality.”
I changed my opinion once again. Not only was Spectra arrogant, he was a pompous ass.
“But, Mr. Spectra, if you could but prove it–“
He turned his shaggy black locks so that his emerald green eyes met my own firmly. His eyes were mysterious and bright, and I was strongly reminded of the woman’s eyes in “The Four Corners of the World.”
“Now that is an excellent idea! Brilliant!” he exclaimed, gripping my shoulders with glee. A moment later he was sprinting down the exhibit hall playfully running his hands through the floating holograms.
Then he was gone.
(break)
Over the following months I did not often think of Michael Spectra. The gallery was christening a new wing and I was occupied with preparing for a visit from the board of directors. The rumors were that Spectra was buried in a new project, and that was fine with me. The last thing I needed during this hectic period was another bizarre encounter with that odd man.
The new wing was to contain free-standing holomorphs. Unlike the VR exhibits, free-standing holomorphs could be enjoyed without a pair of VR goggles or a harness. Secretly, I was partial to the VR experience. There was something intensely intimate conveyed between the artist and the viewer as one hung suspended in a gyro harness in a darkened, solitary chamber (although unlike Spectra I would not describe the experience as better than reality, despite the fact that the timeless woman from his masterpiece haunts me nightly). In any case, it showed good political acumen to support the new wing and its creations.
Under certain conditions of light her skin appears cream-colored. In other times her skin is dark olive like virgin dirt. One would be tempted to say that her sparkling eyes are amber, but they unmistakably throw off glints of blue in direct sunlight. Her breasts are full and voluptuous, and her torso and legs slim and contoured. Sometimes she seems innocent and sincere, perhaps no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. In other poses her predatory smile portrays a much older spirit.
On the northern slopes she rests seductively on a ledge, covered only by a string of sapphires across her lower torso. A single saber tooth hangs suspended from a black cord around her neck. This was the woman as concubine.
In the lush tropics she is a plaintive innocent, laid out on a stone dias for sacrifice atop a Mayan temple. This was the woman as a virgin.
In the East she is a ferocious Kali, her breasts and torso wildly painted and knives in each of her eight arms. Thousands bow to her in worship in the cities and along the hills. This was the woman as death.
In the American West she sits on a checkered blanket in the fields, her hair streaked with blond highlights. She wears a white blouse knotted above her belly button and what the early Americans called “jeans.” Her smile is welcoming, and a large picnic basket at her side reveals bread and meats. This was the woman as fertility.
Undoubtedly, she was all women.
And undoubtedly Michael Spectra was the strangest of men. As the curator of the first museum dedicated solely to virtual art I’ve met all kinds of digital artists. They range from the vicious and inhuman to the drug-induced and morose. The one common thread between them is that they all have amazing egos when it comes to their work and cyberart in general. All of them come from one school of thought or another and run with artists of similar thought.
Not Spectra. He had no family or personal contacts whatsoever, and rarely attended even his own gallery openings. He was a recluse in the truest sense of the word. And to say that he was disinterested with the rest of the art world would be an understatement.
I was then astonished to discover him in the museum near closing time quietly pondering “The Four Corners of the World” exhibit.
R. David Fulcher, Writer 