Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about anything to do with Christmas.
This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is an
Italian author and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. She writes fiction, with
a focus on children’s literature and science fiction.
by Chiara De Giorgi
Created with Canva
The Space Station at the edge of the Galaxy held its course, eternal and silent. The technological upgrades that Commander Punzel had implemented over the centuries, both on the Station and on herself, were the reason she was still alive. Over time, they had become her only reason to live.
They had intended to condemn her to a solitary existence at the
fringes of the Galaxy, but Punzel had turned that sentence into a victory.
Centuries later, those who had signed her exile were long dead; their
successors still tried, at regular intervals, to take back control of the
Station and its technological secrets, and to capture the commander, now more
cyborg than human. They tried. Without success.
No one, after all, knew about the immense source of energy lying
just beyond the borders of the Galaxy. No one but Punzel. It was thanks to that
energy that neither she nor the Station ever powered down.
Ping.
An automatic notification blinked on the Commander’s visor.
“Christmas is happening on Earth.”
“Christmas…” Punzel whispered.
As her cybernetic parts gradually replaced her organic ones, Punzel
had realized she had lost the ability to dream. Feeling emotions had become
increasingly difficult, until she understood that, just as time for her was no
longer measured in days but in events, her memories had become nothing more
than dry lists of people, objects, and exchanges.
So she had rolled up her sleeves and created SEELE, a Memory
Database linked to an Empathic Artificial Intelligence.
A quick glance at the console: all systems stable. The perfect
moment to tap into a memory. Punzel connected to SEELE and ordered: “Christmas,
childhood, Earth.”
“Connection initiated,” buzzed the AI.
A fire burned in the hearth, a Christmas tree decorated with shining
baubles and twinkling lights, colorful packages tied with tidy bows at its
base. A soft blue shawl draped over her shoulders. Outside the window, snow
fell in gentle flakes. The notes of Vivaldi’s Winter floated from the record
player, and the scent of hot chocolate filled her nose.
Punzel closed her eyes. She felt the warmth of the fire on her
cheeks, and then, just after, her father’s voice from the doorway, carried on a
chill breeze.
She leapt off the couch. Her feet, wrapped in thick red socks,
pounded the wooden floor.
“Papa! Papa!”
He scooped her up, spun her in the air, and then held her close. His
strong hands supported her, his beard pricking her skin. The smell of his heavy
leather jacket mixed with the scent of snow and, in the background, motor oil.
Her father worked in the Air Force. He was a skilled engineer and held the rank
of general. He had returned from a mission in space, away for what felt like
forever. For a moment, Punzel had thought he would never come back.
“I was near the edge of the Galaxy, you know,” he said as they ate
knödel and sauerkraut.
Then he smiled, as if speaking of a simple stroll, and added:
“There’s no emptiness out there. Only something waiting to be understood.”
Punzel didn’t much like the sauerkraut: it was slightly bitter,
slightly sharp, prickling her tongue. But then the presents would be opened,
and there was no time to linger over food.
“My gift,” Commander Punzel whispered.
She remembered it, but she couldn’t feel it anymore. Not without
SEELE’s intervention.
The ribbon came undone almost on its own, and Punzel lifted the lid
of the box. She was kneeling on the floor, the warmth of the hearth on her
back; her father and mother were beside her, present like a silent embrace,
their eyes shining with anticipation and affection.
Inside was a model kit of a Space Station. Punzel studied the
picture on the box and felt a twinge of disappointment. It wasn’t what she had
asked for. And she was just a little kid… how would she ever assemble it? On
the box it said: 2,500 pieces.
Without a word, she lifted her eyes to her father, already a little
defeated. He smiled at her.
“If you understand how it works, it will never be able to scare
you,” he said.
Punzel lowered her eyes back to the box. Of course. What was there
to be afraid of? Two thousand five hundred tiny plastic pieces? She laughed.
Her mother opened her gift: a coat like they used in the Kepler Star
System, with embedded fiber optics. She hugged it around herself and laughed. A
full, bright laugh. She was happy.
Punzel felt that happiness wash through her and realized that, in
the end, anything could have been in the box, and she would have been happy all
the same. Her family, that tiny microcosm in the living room, in front of the
hearth and the Christmas tree, with Vivaldi filling the air, was everything her
heart could have wished for.
Centuries later, Commander Punzel smiled and opened her eyes aboard
the Space Station at the edge of the Galaxy. She was still emerging from the
memory, that almost felt like a dream, when a notification blinked on her
visor.
“Three vessels approaching. No identification codes.”
A quick wave of her hand, and the main display flared to life. Three
small ships, patched and asymmetrical, moving in tight formation. Too small for
a government fleet. Too deliberate to be debris.
"Enhance," she commanded.
The image sharpened, isolating the hull of the lead vessel. A symbol
emerged from the noise: crude, hand-painted, unmistakable. A skull. Two crossed
bones.
Punzel’s breath caught. “I know that symbol!”
“It appears repeatedly in your Memory Database,” SEELE noted.
“Associated with childhood. With defiance. With redistribution.”
“They’re pirates.”
Punzel smiled. Not in anticipation of danger, but of possibility. Of
something unplanned. Of emotions she had not felt in centuries.
“There is no emptiness in their trajectory,” the AI said. “Only
intent that has not yet been defined.”
“Then,” she murmured, “I suppose I’ll unwrap it. And... merry
Christmas."
The Spot Writers:
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie:
https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/
Chiara De Giorgi:
https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
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