A New Dawn on Enceladus

Free Story Summary:
A geologist, resentful of her cousin’s perfect life, accidentally travels to a forbidden continent and is offered a chance to move to another planet-Enceladus.

Rating: PG – 13
Contains: Fantasy Violence/Peril and Thematic Elements (isolation, loneliness, etc)
Does not contain: Explicit Content

PROMPT: You wake up one morning to find out that you get to move to any planet of your choosing.

Lauriella was getting married… to a king. Of course she was. Everything seemed to go her way, and for me, not so much. She landed her first million before even graduating college. I was in debt up to my eyeballs when I graduated. She started her own business and grew an empire. I ended up working part-time at the local grocery store while scouring every resource for a job, moving back in with my parents. When the invitation arrived, my parents insisted that I go with them to Erydessa, but I really did not want to. I needed to find a permanent job and couldn’t afford to take a week or two for a wedding.

I had declined the invitation. Besides, we never talked. We hardly saw each other growing up. We had lived on the other side of the country. Would she really miss her second cousin once removed? (Also, what’s with “once removed”? I’d Googled it once—something about generational gaps, but it still sounded like a math problem.)

Anyway, my parents tried once more to get me to go with them. “But Aynslee is so old and untouched by most modern things, Elena,” my mother said. “Fae magic is still believed to exist there. Imagine digging up that?”

That was a dig, literally. I majored in Geology, and honestly, I probably would love to study it. But how much would I get to explore going to a wedding?

The moment the car went down the driveway, I felt regret. It was an opportunity of a lifetime to see the continent of Aynslee. Very few were given permission to enter beyond the port cities. Their history was still sore from the past wars that caused the slaughter of so many innocent “fae” citizens that had closed their borders for generations. Whether you believe in faeries or not, the continent had a very bloody past. Even after 50 years of reopening the borders for trade, very few had ventured into any of the five kingdoms.

My geology texts dismissed Aynslee’s magic as superstition, but the continent’s isolation and scars from the fae purges—when thousands were hunted for their supposed powers—made me wonder what truths lay buried in its soil. It took five minutes in the quiet, dark living room to figure out that I did actually want to go.

I was jealous of Lauriella. There I said it. It clouded my judgment. What if I could get a job over there? I ran to my bedroom and packed my suitcase quickly. Grabbing the ticket that was supposed to be for me, I quickly raced to the airport, barely making it in time. Thankfully, I found my seat and my parents, who were ecstatic to see me.

Planes couldn’t fly near Aynslee—something about magnetic interference that scrambled navigation. Most people believed it was old fae magic that protected the island. We had to take a plane to Glendan and from there a boat to Aynslee.

Our plane landed late due to weather conditions. However, there was another problem. Since I boarded so late, my luggage didn’t make it on the plane. I had to go to the baggage desk and fill out forms for it to be sent after me. At least I had my carry-on. It was getting late, and I told my parents to go ahead to the boat. I would get on once I was done. They didn’t want to leave me. After a moment of arguing, they agreed. Once again, I raced to catch my transportation, being the last one to board the boat.

As the ship sailed toward Aynslee’s coastal waters, I took a moment to stand on the deck, staring at the horizon where jagged cliffs loomed through the mist. Shaking off a sudden jitter, I went to find Mom and Dad. I looked around the deck and didn’t see them. Perhaps, they were sitting down to eat already. That made sense. Pushing by strangers, I made my way inside and looked in the dining area, which did not look like the brochure.

I circled around twice and didn’t find them. Gulping down my panic, I looked for someone in charge. Only to find out I was on the wrong ship! Instead of going to Chaysle (in Erydessa), I was going to Gainsnis (in Elbio).

I slumped down on a deck bench, piecing together what happened. The docks had been chaotic, with two ships departing at the same time—one for Chaysle, the other for Gainsnis. In my rush, I’d misread the faded sign above the gangplank, and the crew, too busy shouting orders, hadn’t checked my ticket closely. Now I was headed to Elbio, a kingdom rumored to be less welcoming to outsiders than Erydessa.

On the positive side, I was going to Aynslee, just a country too far north of where I needed to be. Ugh! I checked my cell phone, and there was no signal. I knew most places on Aynslee did not have internet or phones. I guessed I crossed over that threshold to a primitive lifestyle now. I didn’t have a lot of money on me, but hopefully, I could get a ride down to Erydessa. That was the best plan I had.

Once we docked, I made my way down to shore. The air smelled like fish. It was like stepping back in time. There were no cars or buses. Everything looked old, like it hadn’t changed in hundreds of years. Sailors were shouting at each other at one end of the port. People shouted about their fish to sell. I approached the man lugging trunks and bags off the ship.

“Excuse me, do you know where I would go to get a ride down to Erydessa?” I asked.

“Erydessa?” The man burst out laughing. He never answered me.

In fact, no one would. When most saw me, they would turn the other way and ignore me. Maybe it was my foreign accent or my rumpled clothes from the 11-hour flight, but Elbio’s distrust of outsiders was palpable. What was going on?

The best I could do was take a road that led south. Hopefully, once I hit the border, someone would be able to help me. I was cousin to their future queen, for crying out loud! Okay, yeah, now I wanted something to do with her because this was getting a little scary.

After walking for some time, I sat down on a fallen log. Once I was out of the port area, there was hardly anyone on the road. I wasn’t sure how safe it was to be traveling alone here. “If I get murdered, I’m going to kill Lauriella,” I thought.

Suddenly, I heard a huge crash behind me that sounded like a wounded meow. My head swiveled around, and I stood up. Desperate meowing echoed through the trees. Going off the trail into the forest, I searched for the source of the crying. A few minutes later, I came across what looked like a bear trap that had caught a black cat.

“You poor thing,” I cooed. I slowed my approach so I didn’t scare it any further. Its back leg was caught, and it was struggling to free itself.

“It’s all right. It’s okay. I’m here to help.” As if the cat understood me, it stopped struggling and looked at me with such an intelligent gaze that I thought it was human.

I dropped down and examined the trap. The leg didn’t look too bad, but it could easily become infected. I had no way of helping it beyond freeing it. If I didn’t free its leg, it would surely die.

I sucked in a breath. “This might hurt when I open it….I’m talking to a cat.” I shook my head and got to work.

The trap was harder to open than I thought. With a struggle and a yelp from the cat, I got it open enough for the cat to hobble away. It stared at me for a moment. It seemed to be okay. I hoped it would make it.

As I turned to leave, I heard a humming mixed with a whispering wind. I turned back around, and the cat was no longer a cute black cat. It was…..huge! Like a cat, dragon, and werewolf all in one.

My heart hammered as I stared at the creature, its eyes glowing like twin moons. I’d read about the Cath Palug in a dusty library book on Aynslee’s myths—a fae beast, born from the continent’s ancient magic, said to guard the magic of the land. Legends claimed it could weave fates, granting boons to those who proved worthy. Its fur shimmered with star-like flecks, and its voice, deep and resonant, seemed to echo from the cosmos itself.

Was this why Aynslee’s borders were so guarded? Did creatures like this still roam its wilds?

“Thank you, Elena Voss, for freeing me. As a reward, you have been selected to relocate to any planet in the solar system. Choose within 24 hours. Coordinates and transport will be provided.”

I scrambled to my feet, my mind reeling. The Cath Palug’s offer made no sense—planets? Transport? Yet its presence felt like a bridge between Aynslee’s fae-touched forests and the stars I’d dreamed of as a kid.

My geology professor had scoffed at tales of fae magic, but she’d also said the universe was full of mysteries science hadn’t cracked. Maybe the Cath Palug was one of them, a relic of Aynslee’s past with powers beyond our understanding. Its tail flicked, and I glimpsed a constellation in its fur, as if it carried the heavens within it.

I blinked, half-expecting the Cath Palug to vanish like a dream. It didn’t. “What?” I managed to spurt out.

“I will return to this spot within 24 hours for your answer,” it said. With a swish of its tail, a bright blue light blinded me. When I opened my eyes again, it was gone.

“I have totally lost it…” I sat back down on the ground, catching my breath. My heart was racing. Any planet? The idea was absurd, yet it appealed to me. I had a penchant for sci-fi novels and wanted a job studying volcanic rocks. My life was unremarkable, at least until this trip. Now, I was being offered the cosmos. I had to indulge in the fantasy for a moment.

I grabbed my cosmos book from my bag and started researching. Mars was the obvious choice—colonized, with domed cities and a gritty frontier vibe. But it felt too safe, too human. Jupiter’s moons were chaotic, radiation-soaked. Venus was a furnace. Then I landed on Enceladus, Saturn’s icy moon. Tiny, barely 300 miles across, but with geysers spewing water from a subsurface ocean. Liquid water meant possibility—maybe life. It was remote, uncharted, a scientist’s dream. I whispered the name aloud: Enceladus. It felt right.

Within twenty minutes, I’d made my choice. If this was going to happen, it had to be now. I clutched my cosmos book, its pages worn from years of dreaming about alien worlds. Enceladus felt like Aynslee in a way—remote, untouched, whispering secrets. If the Cath Palug’s magic could cross kingdoms, why not stars?

I’d spent my life digging for answers in rocks; maybe this was my chance to unearth truths on a moon no one else had claimed. I stood, brushing dirt from my jeans, and spoke to the empty forest:

“I want to go to Enceladus.”

I didn’t see the Cath Palug but heard its voice say, “Enceladus selected. Prepare for transport in 5 minutes.”

No explanation, no bureaucracy. I paced, waiting. Was this a trick? Had I completely lost my mind?

Suddenly, I heard a chime and wind again. A low hum filled the area, and the air shimmered. My stomach lurched as light enveloped me, and then—silence. I was standing in a chamber, its walls smooth and translucent, like polished ice. Beyond them, Enceladus stretched out: a landscape of glittering snow, cracked ice plains, and distant geysers spraying mist into the starry void. Saturn loomed overhead, its rings slicing the sky.

I gasped, my breath fogging the visor of a suit I hadn’t noticed I was wearing. A voice, calm and synthetic, spoke through my helmet. “Welcome, Elena. This is Habitat One, your base. You are the first permanent resident.”

First? Permanent? My knees wobbled. The chamber’s door slid open, revealing a compact living space: a bed, a desk, a kitchenette, and a window framing the alien world outside. A console blinked with data—oxygen levels, temperature (-200°C), suit status. I was alone, but the habitat felt alive, designed for me. I spent the first day exploring the habitat. It was small but advanced, with a greenhouse for growing algae and vegetables, a water recycler, and a 3D printer for tools. The console offered a library of scientific texts and a map of Enceladus’s surface, highlighting geysers and fissures.

I was a kid in a cosmic candy store, but the solitude gnawed at me. No colleagues or parents, no chatter, just the hum of machines and the faint creak of ice shifting outside. On day two, I suited up and ventured out. The suit was light, its joints flexible, with a heads-up display showing terrain and vitals. Enceladus’s gravity was a whisper, one-sixth of Earth’s, and I bounced across the ice, kicking up powdery snow. The geysers were my target, a mile from the habitat.

As I approached, I saw them erupt—plumes of water vapor glittering against Saturn’s glow. I knelt, collecting samples with a drill. The ice was laced with salts and organics, molecules that hinted at life. My geologist’s heart sang. Days blurred into weeks. I established a routine: mornings analyzing samples, afternoons mapping the surface, evenings reading or sketching the view. The console taught me to maintain the habitat, from fixing air filters to calibrating the greenhouse. I named the geysers—Artemis, Orion, Cassiopeia—after myths that felt fitting under Saturn’s gaze.

The solitude was heavy, but the work kept me anchored. I was unraveling Enceladus’s secrets, one crystal at a time. One night, a console pinged with a new message: “Incoming data from subsurface probe.” I’d launched a drone into a fissure weeks ago, hoping to sample the ocean below. The results were staggering: complex organic compounds, thermal vents, and chemical gradients that screamed “life-friendly.”

I danced around the habitat, whooping into the void. If life existed here, I’d be the one to find it. I sent the data to the console’s uplink, unsure who—if anyone—would receive it. But Enceladus wasn’t just beauty and science. It was unforgiving.

During a trek to a distant fissure, a quake split the ice beneath me. I leapt clear, but my suit’s oxygen line snagged, hissing air. The heads-up display flashed red: “20 minutes of O2 left.” I patched the line with trembling hands, my breath shallow, and limped back to the habitat. Inside, I collapsed, staring at Saturn through the window. This world could kill me, but I wasn’t ready to leave.

Months passed. I found no life, but the ocean’s chemistry kept me hopeful. I carved a life here, strange and solitary, but mine. I wrote letters to my parents, stored on the console, describing the geysers’ dance and the rings’ shimmer. As I typed, I pictured Mom’s worried frown when I’d raced onto the plane, Dad’s quiet pride when I’d graduated despite the debt. Lauriella, too, flickered in my mind—not the polished queen-to-be, but the gangly cousin who’d once shared her ice cream when I dropped mine at a family picnic. We’d drifted apart, but her wedding had brought me here, to this impossible life. I hoped they’d read these letters someday, maybe understand why I’d stayed.

One morning, the device—silent since my arrival—chimed again. “Option to return to Earth. Respond within 24 hours.” I traced the device’s smooth surface, wondering if the Cath Palug was watching from some starlit realm. Its gift had upended my life, but it had also set me free. Aynslee’s magic, Enceladus’s ice—they were two sides of the same coin, both calling me to chase the unknown.

I stared at it, the weight of the choice pressing down. Earth meant family, warmth, a life I understood. But Enceladus was discovery, purpose, a frontier no one else had claimed. I thought of the geysers, the ocean’s secrets, the sketches on my desk. I thought of who I’d become here. I pressed the device’s node and spoke: “I’m staying.” The message vanished, and the device went dark. I stepped outside, the ice crunching under my boots. A geyser erupted, its plume catching Saturn’s light, and I smiled. This was my planet, my dawn, my life. I’d chosen the unknown, and it was enough.

Grok’s Version

I woke to a chime, soft but insistent, from a device I didn’t recognize on my nightstand. It was sleek, silver, and humming faintly, projecting a holographic message in crisp blue light: Congratulations, Elena Voss. You have been selected to relocate to any planet in the solar system. Choose within 24 hours. Coordinates and transport will be provided.

I blinked, half-expecting the words to vanish like a dream. They didn’t. My apartment was the same—cluttered desk, coffee mug from yesterday, the hum of Seattle traffic outside—but this message was real. I sat up, heart racing. Any planet? The idea was absurd, yet the device felt solid in my hands, its surface warm, etched with symbols I couldn’t read.

I was a geologist, 32, single, with a penchant for sci-fi novels and a job studying volcanic rocks. My life was steady, unremarkable. Now, I was being offered the cosmos. I grabbed my laptop and started researching. Mars was the obvious choice—colonized, with domed cities and a gritty frontier vibe. But it felt too safe, too human. Jupiter’s moons were chaotic, radiation-soaked. Venus was a furnace. Then I landed on Enceladus, Saturn’s icy moon. Tiny, barely 300 miles across, but with geysers spewing water from a subsurface ocean. Liquid water meant possibility—maybe life. It was remote, uncharted, a scientist’s dream. I whispered the name aloud: Enceladus. It felt right.

By noon, I’d made my choice. I pressed the device’s central node, and a new message appeared: Enceladus selected. Prepare for transport at 0600 tomorrow. Bring only what you can carry. No explanation, no bureaucracy. I spent the day packing—a backpack with clothes, my favorite books, a notebook, and a photo of my parents. I called them, dodging their questions with vague talk of a “research trip.” I didn’t sleep that night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d lost my mind.

At dawn, the device chimed again. A low hum filled the room, and the air shimmered. My stomach lurched as light enveloped me, and then—silence. I was standing in a chamber, its walls smooth and translucent, like polished ice. Beyond them, Enceladus stretched out: a landscape of glittering snow, cracked ice plains, and distant geysers spraying mist into the starry void. Saturn loomed overhead, its rings slicing the sky. I gasped, my breath fogging the visor of a suit I hadn’t noticed I was wearing.

A voice, calm and synthetic, spoke through my helmet. “Welcome, Elena. This is Habitat One, your base. You are the first permanent resident.” First? Permanent? My knees wobbled. The chamber’s door slid open, revealing a compact living space: a bed, a desk, a kitchenette, and a window framing the alien world outside. A console blinked with data—oxygen levels, temperature (-200°C), suit status. I was alone, but the habitat felt alive, designed for me.

I spent the first day exploring the habitat. It was small but advanced, with a greenhouse for growing algae and vegetables, a water recycler, and a 3D printer for tools. The console offered a library of scientific texts and a map of Enceladus’s surface, highlighting geysers and fissures. I was a kid in a cosmic candy store, but the solitude gnawed at me. No colleagues, no chatter, just the hum of machines and the faint creak of ice shifting outside.

On day two, I suited up and ventured out. The suit was light, its joints flexible, with a heads-up display showing terrain and vitals. Enceladus’s gravity was a whisper, one-sixth of Earth’s, and I bounced across the ice, kicking up powdery snow. The geysers were my target, a mile from the habitat. As I approached, I saw them erupt—plumes of water vapor glittering against Saturn’s glow. I knelt, collecting samples with a drill. The ice was laced with salts and organics, molecules that hinted at life. My geologist’s heart sang.

Days blurred into weeks. I established a routine: mornings analyzing samples, afternoons mapping the surface, evenings reading or sketching the view. The console taught me to maintain the habitat, from fixing air filters to calibrating the greenhouse. I named the geysers—Artemis, Orion, Cassiopeia—after myths that felt fitting under Saturn’s gaze. The solitude was heavy, but the work kept me anchored. I was unraveling Enceladus’s secrets, one crystal at a time.

One night, the console pinged with a new message: Incoming data from subsurface probe. I’d launched a drone into a fissure weeks ago, hoping to sample the ocean below. The results were staggering: complex organic compounds, thermal vents, and chemical gradients that screamed “life-friendly.” I danced around the habitat, whooping into the void. If life existed here, I’d be the one to find it. I sent the data to the console’s uplink, unsure who—if anyone—would receive it.

But Enceladus wasn’t just beauty and science. It was unforgiving. During a trek to a distant fissure, a quake split the ice beneath me. I leapt clear, but my suit’s oxygen line snagged, hissing air. The heads-up display flashed red: 20 minutes of O2 left. I patched the line with trembling hands, my breath shallow, and limped back to the habitat. Inside, I collapsed, staring at Saturn through the window. This world could kill me, but I wasn’t ready to leave.

Months passed. I found no life, but the ocean’s chemistry kept me hopeful. I carved a life here, strange and solitary, but mine. I wrote letters to my parents, stored on the console, describing the geysers’ dance and the rings’ shimmer. I stopped missing Earth’s noise—traffic, crowds, deadlines. Enceladus was my home, its silence my rhythm.

One morning, the device—silent since my arrival—chimed again. Option to return to Earth. Respond within 24 hours. I stared at it, the weight of the choice pressing down. Earth meant family, warmth, a life I understood. But Enceladus was discovery, purpose, a frontier no one else had claimed. I thought of the geysers, the ocean’s secrets, the sketches on my desk. I thought of who I’d become here.

I pressed the device’s node and spoke: “I’m staying.” The message vanished, and the device went dark. I stepped outside, the ice crunching under my boots. A geyser erupted, its plume catching Saturn’s light, and I smiled. This was my planet, my dawn, my life. I’d chosen the unknown, and it was enough.

Images by ChatGPT

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