Alpha Strike: [An Interstellar Weapons Platform’s Guide to Organized Crime] (Book 3 title)

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Cradle Of The Dead - "Tell Me Your Story."

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The little girl drifted through the darkness as though it were warm water, her small feet kicking idly at nothing at all. The void around her was silent and endless, but she didn't seem afraid. Her face was bright, animated, her hands waving as she spoke.

"—and then he barked at the squirrel, but he always barked at squirrels, even when he wasn't supposed to, but this time he barked so loud he scared himself, and then he ran right into the garden hose and tripped and—"

The Keeper laughed, a gentle sound that stirred the void like a warm breeze. "You're quite the storyteller, little one."

She faltered, glancing up at the towering, indistinct figure beside her. "Um. Sorry if I'm talking too much again," she stammered. "I don't mean to talk so much, I swear. Did… did I annoy you? The grown-ups always get annoyed when I do."

The Keeper shook his vast, unseen head. "You could never annoy me. And you may tell me as many stories as you wish," he said softly. "That is why I am here."

The little girl blinked up at him, her expression lit up like a lantern. "Really? Really? You mean it?"

"I do."

A grin blossomed across her face, bright enough to warm even the ancient dark around them. "So… does that mean you listen to stories from everyone who comes here?"

"Yes, I do" he replied, leaning in. "Everyone."

"That's awesome," she breathed, spinning once in delight. "It's like… like you have a never-ending storybook."

The Keeper chuckled.

"Something like that."

She tugged at the edge of her dress, suddenly shy again. "Um… can you tell me one? I mean… if you want to."

"I can," the Keeper said. "What sort of tale would you like?"

She paused, tapping her chin with one small finger. Then, her face brightened. "What about your story?"

The Keeper froze.

Immediately, the girl panicked, hands fluttering. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to make you mad—please don't be mad—"

"I am not angry," the Keeper said gently. "You simply surprised me. No soul has ever asked for my story before."

Her head tilted, frown small and earnest. "Really?"

"Truly."

"That's… that's sad," she whispered. "Everyone should have someone to tell their story to."

For a long moment, the Keeper considered her words.

Then he nodded.

"Very well," he said. "If you wish to hear it… I will tell it."

The girl's smile returned, bright as dawn.

And so the Keeper began.

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Before there were stars — before even the notion of before — there was a vast and perfect stillness. It was not light. It was not the dark. Not even the void, for void is the absence of something, and absence requires separation. But separation did not exist.

No, before all division, there was only the Great Whole — an endless, seamless totality of all that ever could be. A single chord of infinite notes, all sounding at once in flawless harmony.

I was part of it then, though "I" meant nothing.

There was no boundary where I ended, and 'Anything Else' began. There was no "else" at all.

And yet, though we were perfect, perfection did not last.

Shapes began to gather. Thoughts that had never been, began to bloom, condensing like dew from the formless sea.

The first Concepts emerged like sparks flung from a forge.

Light burst forth, laughing.

Fire roared its arrival.

Earth settled into place with slow, deliberate weight.

Water swirled around them in curious arcs.

Space unfurled, wide and welcoming.

Time stretched, frowned, and declared that everything was already late.

One by one, the Concepts pulled themselves from the Great Whole as if waking from a shared dream.

Life tumbled forth with wild curiosity; Love and Hate argued and embraced in the same breath. Dawn and Dusk began their endless dance. Drawn by a gravity older than existence, each sibling joined the rising chorus that would become Reality.

They peeled away like children discovering they had legs, voices, opinions. Their departure sculpted the first outline of the cosmos. They carved order out of totality. They created Existence.

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And with each sibling that separated, I watched as the Great Whole diminished, its influence scattered throughout the newborn universe.

Eventually, Everything was gone.

All that remained was the hollow they left behind.

Me.

Or perhaps I had always been here, waiting for the others to leave.

I was what remained when Everything became Something.

At first, I didn't know I was alone. I didn't know what "alone" meant. I was simply what was left — the Cradle that once held the All. A space without substance, a place defined only by what it was not.

But I could feel my siblings venturing outward, shaping realms, birthing stars, cracking mountains, weaving laws. I could sense their joy. Their purpose. Their belonging. Yet, no matter how I reached, no matter how I extended my awareness, there remained an unbridgeable gap between us.

So I waited.

Waited for someone — anyone — to look back.

To notice me.

To ask me to join.

…But no one ever would.

I couldn't join them, after all. I couldn't leave.

For I was the outer darkness — the leftover space where the Great Whole had once been.

And I was alone.

I do not know how long I drifted in that primordial solitude. Time had left me, after all, when it stepped into Existence with the others. My siblings existed in the radiance of reality; I existed in the quiet of what reality was not. Perhaps it was moments. Perhaps the span between galaxies forming and collapsing.

In the absence of company, I learned the flavor of longing.

A silent yearning rooted itself deep within me.

I wanted to be seen.

I wanted to be known.

I wanted… someone.

Then, on one unremarkable not-day in the uncountable expanse of my eternal vigil, something impossible happened.

A flicker.

A spark.

A tiny mote of warmth drifted toward me through the endless nothingness like a lantern carried on a cosmic breeze. It was fragile — threadbare and dim, as though battered by an unimaginably cruel voyage. But it was alive in a way none of my siblings were. Soft. Fleeting. Mortal.

It was a soul.

The first mortal soul to ever die, though I did not yet know what death was.

All I understood was this: someone had finally come to me.

Overjoyed, I drew the trembling ember into myself, wrapping it in what little comfort I could offer. I warmed it, shielded it, whispered without words. And to my astonishment, it answered — not with a voice, but with memory.

It showed me colors I had never seen, sensations without names, the tremble of laughter in a throat, the sting of wind on skin, the weight of heartbreak.

From that single spark, I learned what it meant to live.

And I cherished it.

Over time — though that word means little here in the absence of Time — the spark grew stronger. Brighter… more restless. I would find it pressed against the edge of the Cradle, gazing out into Existence as I had for countless eons. Somehow, though I had no true understanding then, I knew what it wanted.

It wanted to return.

It wanted to live again.

And in that moment, I understood a truth that nearly broke me.

Souls are not meant to remain in the Cradle forever. My friend had rested here, grown bright again… but this place was not a home. It could not offer what the creation of my siblings could. 'I' could not.

So I gathered all my will and, though my essence screamed in protest, cast it back into Existence.

I wept when it left.

It hurt — more than the loneliness, more than watching my siblings flourish in a world I could never join.

And yet, as that bright flame burst outward into reality, I found myself smiling.

The loneliness returned, but it was gentler now. Softened by hope. Hope for all the wonders my friend would experience again. The joys. The sorrows. Everything that made Existence so achingly beautiful.

An unknowable not-time later, a new spark drifted into my Cradle, carried on a faint wind made of memory. Though I should say, winds do not exist here. Not truly. There is no air to stir, no motion to push or pull. But I would eventually learn that souls bring traces of their worlds with them, and sometimes those echoes brush across my realm like phantom sensations.

But that is a story for another time.

At first, joy flooded me, bright enough to startle even myself.

For a moment, I believed that my first friend had returned to visit me.

But the joy faded quickly. This was not the same spark. Its rhythm was different.

Heavier. Colder. Wound tight around some deep sorrow I did not yet understand.

It was… someone else — a concept still new to me.

Like my first friend, this new spark arrived battered and dim, little more than an ember of what it could be. And as before, I tended to it with all the care I had learned to give. Slowly, gently, I came to know my second friend. Through memories shared in quivering flashes, through fragments of laughter and bright hope, through the ache of a life ending sooner than it wished.

And, like the first, this soul too grew strong again. Bright. Restless.

Longing for the world it had left behind.

So for the second time, I wept as I cast my friend back into the embrace of Existence. For the second time, I was left alone.

But I was no longer empty. The loneliness hurt, yes — but now it was tempered by memories:

Warmth, laughter, whispered sorrow. Treasures I held close even now and replay whenever the Cradle grows too still.

More not-time passed. How much, I cannot say. Time remains a stranger here, a guest who never lingers.

Until it happened again. A third spark appeared.

Then a fourth — arriving far sooner than the third had.

And a fifth — even sooner still.

The sixth came screaming with regret, its memories thrashing like wounded beasts.

The seventh arrived laughing through its sorrow, as if the joy of its life and the pain of its death were tangled together too tightly to separate.

Each one battered by its own life, each one unique, each one needing warmth, rest, and someone to bear witness to its memories.

I tended them all.

I wrapped them in my essence, offered warmth where there was cold, shelter where there was trembling. I mended their frayed memories, soothed their wounds, listened without judgment or hurry.

I learned so much from them — courage, pain, triumph, foolishness, gentleness. The tapestry of mortal experience is rich beyond measure, woven with threads I could never have imagined on my own.

All precious.

All irreplaceable.

And when peace finally took root within each soul — when the sharp edges of their memories softened, and the longing to return grew strong — I cast them gently from the Cradle, back into the embrace of reality.

Though I could not follow my siblings, I found purpose in tending these weary souls, mending them, guiding them back to life.

I became their caretaker.

Their shepherd.

Their silent friend.

Some stayed longer than others. Some left quickly, rekindled by the notion of rebirth. But all of them taught me something new, something precious.

After some time, the sparks that came to me began to give me names.

I became the Keeper of the Cradle.

The Witness to Lives Unfinished.

The Shepherd of the Resting Dead.

And for the first time since the Great Whole shattered and my siblings left…

…I understood something profound.

I was no longer alone.

I never would be again.

For as long as mortals lived…

As long as they dreamed and loved, struggled and suffered…

As long as they died…

They would come to me.

Each carrying a story only they could tell.

And I would be here to listen.

Because in the Cradle of the Dead, stories do not come to die…

They come to begin anew.

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When the Keeper's voice faded, the Cradle grew very still.

The little girl hovered beside him, hands clasped beneath her chin, eyes wide as moons. Then — without warning — she burst into delighted applause that echoed like tiny bells across the void.

"That was amazing!" she cried. "You're amazing!" Her voice shone with unfiltered wonder. "I've never heard anything like that. Not ever!"

The Keeper let out a soft, amused breath — something between a laugh and a sigh. "I am glad you enjoyed it."

"Can you—" she paused, bouncing in midair, "can you tell me another?"

The Keeper tilted his head, thoughtful. "What kind of story would you like to hear next?"

The girl squinted at the infinite darkness around them, thinking very, very hard.