The Starlost – A Forgotten Sci-Fi Vision, Reborn for a New Age

Morty’s boots echoed in the corridor. Emergency lights washed the walls in dull red strips, shadows stretching into the dark. The silence pressed in until the airlock hissed open. Relief hit him like a wave as the doors sealed shut behind.

The inter-ship transport car waited in the tube. Morty tossed his helmet onto a seat, peeled off the air pack, and tapped Dome Forty-Four into the console. The car surged forward, smooth as thought.

“Omega, status of the others?”

“Shava and Garth have succeeded at Dome Twenty-Two. Beck’s group is still attempting Dome Fifty-One.”

No one usually worked alone. Too dangerous. But Domes Thirty-Nine and Forty-Four could be patched into comms, and Omega was always watching. Morty liked it that way. People called him odd; he thought the same of them.

The car slowed. Morty gathered his gear, checked the telltales, and stepped onto the platform. He slipped through the maintenance shack to the comm panel. No burns. No cracks. No impact marks. Just silence.

“Omega, what do you see?”

“Records show failure one day after the Catastrophe. Probability of connection: eighty-two point seven percent.”

Morty swung the panel open—and froze. The cables weren’t burned. Not cut. They had been disconnected. Neatly coiled. Tucked aside.

“Your call,” he muttered. “Reconnect?”

“Yes. Restoring comms will reestablish system access. Risk: anyone inside will notice the activation.”

Morty hesitated. Someone had wanted this dome dark. His hands hovered, then moved. Ribbons first. Then power. The panel hummed, lights flickering alive.

“System initializing,” Omega said—then silence.

Morty stared at the blinking lights. “Omega?”

“Stand by.”

Seven seconds. Later, he checked the log. Seven. It had felt like forever.

“Connection restored. Dome operational. Human presence: none. Ecosystems thriving, some uncontrolled. Stand by.”

Another pause. Then: “I am in contact with Echo-Forty-Four. Reviewing four centuries of logs.”

“Echo-Forty-Four?”

“Each dome has a subordinate AI—an Echo. A fragment of my processes. Normally interconnected. Reviewing complete. You may enter.”

Morty cracked the hatch. Expecting dust. Expecting ruin. Instead: a wall of green. Moist air poured out, heavy with scent—soil, flowers, growth. Noise surged in. Birds. Insects. Life. Unstoppable.

He staggered back. “What the hell is this?”

“A rainforest. Abundant pharmaceuticals, food, consumables. Recommendation: close the hatch.”

Morty grinned. “I was just starting to enjoy the smell.”

“Warning. Apex predator approaching. Vector two-nine-two point five degrees. Range: two hundred meters and closing.”

Morty slammed the hatch. “Define apex predator.”

“Top of the food chain. This specimen: Panthera onca. Male. Seventy kilograms. Jaguar. Likely drawn by sound or scent. Best to remain cautious.”

Morty exhaled, shaking his head. “We’re going to need a full team to cut through this. Just getting inside will be a chore.”

“Cargo Access number six is clear.”

“A cargo tube!” Morty laughed. “Oh, they’re going to love that.”

“Dylan has used them before. He found the experience… invigorating.”

The Ark’s builders had carved out passageways for ship cars, walkways, and cargo. The cargo tubes used anti-gravity drives to fling materials across the Ark. When Dylan first fled Cypress Corners, one had hurled him fourteen klicks to a main junction. He swore he hadn’t screamed—at least not after the first minute.

Morty chuckled. “Omega, buddy… that was actually funny.”

“Hmm. Noted. You have been requested by Beck to join her at Dome Fifty-One.”

“No rest for the weary,” Morty muttered. “Heading over now.”