Iterra: When the Sky Went Silent

Afternoons always began with bread.

Steam rising from the loaves as Sera watched her mother wrap them in cloth. Outside, the sunlight came through the greenhouse glass in soft green patches. Her brother, Lio, was out with the goats and the dogs behind the hills since morning. He’d forgotten his shoes again.

Sera carried the warm bread up the path to Grandmother’s house. It sat in a basin beyond the last ridge, sheltered under a canopy of trees so thick no drone could see it from above. The house was the oldest around—square stone walls, round corners, moss filling the seams like old memories. The houses in the village were newer: lightframe modules, solar roofs, and slender ceiling panels that glowed soft with heat, fading a little more each year.

Grandmother waited in her chair, under the tree canopy, where the old schoolhouse had once been. It had fallen in during the last storm, so the children gathered outside now. Grandmother still told stories, still gave lessons, still remembered everyone’s name. Her voice was soft and lovely, not like the other machines. When she laughed, it was real.

But she never stood.

Her legs had stopped working last winter. The chair wheeled her slowly now, a clicking sound in the axle like beetle legs. She still stirred porridge in the mornings, still sketched out equations on the tablet that flickered when the wind blew wrong. The little ones climbed her lap and she let them braid her long silver-silk hair.

Sera came into the clearing, cradling the bread, and saw the other children already seated in a half-ring on the grass. The vine-covered frame of the old schoolhouse looked like a nest now.

“Good afternoon, Sera,” Grandmother said, without turning her head.

Sera smiled. “How did you know it was me?”

“The way you walk,” Grandmother replied, eyes twinkling. “You step with your toes first. Like a fox.”

Sera beamed and gave her the bread. Grandmother’s arms unfolded like petals, and she broke the loaves gently into pieces, passing them to the children one by one.

“Mama said you’re to stay with me until she returns,” Grandmother told them, her voice low and even. “So while we wait, I’ll tell you more about Earth.”

One of the boys groaned softly. “Why do we always talk about Earth? We’re never going back. We live on Iterra now.”

Grandmother nodded, as if she’d expected the question.

“Yes,” she said. “But Earth is where the forgetting began. And remembering it helps us see what’s coming. It shows us how power moves, what it wants, and why it lies.”

She looked at each of them in turn.

“History isn’t just about the past,” she said. “It’s about patterns. It’s about warnings. And it’s about you, what kind of future you’ll choose to carry.”

After Sera left to the school, Mireya began preparing for their arrival with the other adults of the village. She slid the carbine from beneath the bed, checked and loaded it, then stepped outside. Her sleeves fell low over her wrists, hiding the tattooed number on her arm: 11.

A First Gen. One who had set foot on Iterra while the hole was still open, while shipments still came through, while the future still shimmered like a promise.

That was thirty years ago.

They’d had twenty years to make a world before the hole collapsed. It hadn’t been enough.

Now the other First Gens had gathered on the square, all armed. Carbines. Handguns. Even spears, knives, machetes beaten from old metal. No one spoke. There was only the wind, and the hush that came with it.

The shuttle landed not long after. Dust spiraled across the cracked stone. A small welcoming committee stood in the open, still and smiling, while the rest watched from behind shutters, under cover, fingers on triggers.

The door hissed open.

They stepped out. Leading was Aren, Number 3, one of The Ten. The great leaders of Iterra—champions of progress, enforcers of the great design. Mireya recognized her instantly and almost laughed. You didn’t forget the ones who thought they were gods.

Aren was dressed in clean black weave, no dust on her boots. Her hair was shaved at the sides, silver along the crown. Behind her came five First Gen men, armored and armed for war.

Mireya exhaled slowly. She tightened her grip on the carbine.

The children sat in the grass, legs crossed, fingers sticky with bread. Above them, sunlight filtered through the old schoolhouse frame, tangled with vines and memory.

Grandmother’s voice carried gently through the clearing.

“It began with the telescopes,” she said. “Strange shapes, flickering where nothing should be. Out past Mars, just shy of Jupiter’s pull, something orbiting—something wrong.”

She paused, eyes closed, as if watching it again in her mind.

“From the right angle, they saw a second star shining through. Not Earth’s sun, but ours. A keyhole into a second sky. The Hole.”

The children listened now, fully still. Some had heard it before—Grandmother told the story every year when the leaves began to turn.

“They sent probes first. And what they saw...” Grandmother smiled faintly. “A planet. Blue and gold and alive. Atmosphere. Oceans. Clouds. Forests. A sister to Earth, waiting.”

She folded her hands in her lap.

“But the first disappointment came quickly. Nothing living could cross.”

A few children stirred.

“Animals sent through... came back wrong. Breathing, yes. But their minds were gone. And then—people. Volunteers. Brave, foolish, but full of hope. They flew into the hole and arrived empty. Their bodies lived. Their eyes opened. But nothing looked back through them.”

A hush fell.

“Some said the hole destroyed the quantum thread of thought. Others whispered that the soul could not travel as quickly as the body, and so was left behind. And some murmured that God Himself would not let us infect this place with our imperfections. That He meant to give mankind a fresh start.”

Her voice softened. “We do not know. Only that the cost of passage was the mind itself.”

She let the silence stretch a moment before continuing.

“So they tried something else.”

A small girl leaned forward.

“The Great Mothers were androids. Gentle things, built to raise life with patience and care.”

Some of the children looked up at her in quiet realization.

“She was one of them,” someone whispered.

Grandmother only smiled.

“Ten years after the hole was found, we came through, each of us carrying frozen embryos, still dreaming. We raised them, taught them words and weather, held their hands when they first saw rain.”

She looked at them one by one.

“Ten children at first. We called them The Ten. The oldest ones. Thirty years, almost. Raised to lead this place.”

Some of the children whispered their names under their breath.

“After that, more batches followed. A thousand. Then ten thousand. Enough to start again.”

“And the second generation?” a boy asked.

Grandmother smiled. “That’s you. Born from the first ones. Raised here and fed by the soil of Iterra, not machines.”

A quiet moment passed. Then another voice, hesitant:

“Why did it close?”

Grandmother looked to the sky, the leaves above stirring in the wind.

“We don’t know,” she said. “Just as we never knew why it opened. Some believe it was the work of an ancient race. Others say it was a natural phenomenon, rare and passing, like lightning before a storm.”

The children were quiet now, not out of boredom, but reverence.

“Was it God?” a little one asked, voice small.

Grandmother didn’t smile this time.

“We cannot say no,” she said gently. “But we must rely on what we can know. And for this—” she opened her empty hands, “we have no proof. Only stories. Only memory.”

The girl nodded. “We believe in God... but we cannot prove Him. Isn’t it?”

Grandmother’s smile returned and filled with the sorrow of knowing too much.

“Exactly.”

She looked at them and her voice softened once more. “But we remember. And in remembering, we stay awake.”

Six figures moved across the dust-swept square. Aren’s pace was measured, eyes scanning the village.

Mireya stood still. The carbine hung at her side, untouched.

Aren stopped a few paces away.

“So,” she said, voice clipped. “Still pretending the world can be kind.”

Behind her, the men were watching. One of them scribbled something on a tablet.

“We thought you’d send the children,” Aren said. “For the project. The mines.”

Mireya stepped forward, slow and calm. “They’re learning geometry today. Tomorrow, agriculture. Next week, maybe anatomy, if the tablet holds.”

Aren’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile.

“You’re condemning them,” she said. “You know that, right? You teach them words while their stomachs shrink each season. You let them sing songs while the world around them unravels.”

Mireya’s eyes didn’t move. “And you break their bodies while they’re still growing. Strip their minds before they’ve even dreamed.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“No?” Mireya asked. “Then what is it?”

Aren’s tone didn’t change, but something colder crept into her voice.

“It’s the only path forward. The hole is closed. The machines will fail. The Mothers will break down. We have twenty years, if we’re lucky. Maybe less. You know this.”

“I do,” Mireya said softly.

“Then you know we don’t need scientists. We need steel. We need medicine. Resources. Industry. We need furnaces, and we need hands to feed them. That means labor. That means sacrifice.”

Mireya looked past her, toward the shuttle. The swirl of landing faded to stillness. The sky overhead was a pale, artificial blue, cleaner than Earth had ever been.

“You call it sacrifice,” she said, “but it’s only ever their lives you spend. Never yours. They can’t even read. And you’d break their backs for ore they’ll never use.”

Aren didn’t flinch. “We carry it too.”

“No,” Mireya said. “You carry plans. Not grief.”

“Refuse the project,” she said, “and we’ll take the children anyway.”

Mireya gave a small, tired smile. “Our children know the shape of a lie, even when it comes dressed as salvation. That’s the difference.”

Then time slowed.

In a single motion, Aren grabbed her sidearm and unlocked the holster.

Mireya, a moment behind, caught the barrel of her carbine. As she raised it, she pulled the bolt back—metal clicked.

In the same smooth motion, Aren cocked her pistol and leveled it at Mireya.

Mireya did the same, lifting the carbine to meet her.

And in the same breath—

a sniper rifle fired.

The sound echoed between the houses, sharp and final.

Aren’s gun flew from her hand, spun through the air, and landed in the mud.

Breath froze.

Both sides raised their weapons, a standoff held in silence.

Then Mireya lowered hers.

“Was that really necessary?” she asked, voice calm. “You burned shuttle fuel just to bark threats in my garden? My husband’s not fond of your manners.”

Aren didn’t blink. “Don’t expect anything from us. No food. No medicine. No tools. No support.”

“We don’t,” Mireya said. “We’d rather trade fair than beg. But if you’d prefer not to come back—so be it.”

She nodded toward the bags lined near the fence. “Ten bundles of sun-dried fruit. Yours if you still want them.”

Aren glanced at them, then turned. “Forget it,” she muttered. She walked away without looking back. “You’re traitors,” she called over her shoulder. “And you’ll be dealt with accordingly.”

Mireya didn’t move, but her voice followed. “And you’re insane, Aren. Just in case you didn’t hear me.”

Aren kept walking.

Mireya watched her go, then muttered to herself, “Barbarians.”

When Mireya reached the clearing, the sun was already low, light slanting through the leaves in long gold shards. Grandmother lifted her head, smiling faintly.

Mireya stepped beside her and embraced her quietly.

From the ridge, her husband descended with the other two snipers. They were already murmuring among themselves about watch rotations, tightening the perimeter. He met Mireya’s eyes briefly, nodded once, and returned to his conversation.

Lio was back too, goats penned, dogs at his heels. He’d seen the shuttle come down, but stayed hidden, just like she’d told him. That boy knew the hills like he’d grown from the soil.

Grandmother touched Mireya’s arm gently. "How was it?" she asked.

Mireya let out a breath. “Well enough. No one’s dead.”

Then, after a pause: “They came for the children.” Her voice tightened. “Bastards.”

Grandmother didn’t flinch. “Don’t be angry at them,” she said softly. “They’re following protocol.”

“They herd them,” Mireya snapped, heat rising. “All the Second Gen kids. Keep them small. Keep them stupid. It’s obscene.” She turned her face slightly, voice tightening further. “And their mothers?” she asked. “How could they accept it?”

“They choose a few,” Grandmother said. “The brightest. Raise them differently. It’s part of their plan sent from Earth, long ago.”

Mireya shook her head. “We can’t live like that. None of us here will. Or in the other villages.”

“I know,” Grandmother murmured.

There was a pause. The children had drifted to the far edge of the grass now, playing under the old schoolhouse frame. Mireya watched them, arms folded.

“What do the Great Mothers say about it?” she asked.

Grandmother was quiet a long time.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said at last. “Haven’t spoken with them in years. And we’re not human. Our voices don’t carry far in their halls.”

“But you,” Mireya said. “You’re my mother. I never thought of you as anything else. Everything I know, I learned from you.”

Grandmother reached for her hand. Her skin was cool and dry, the texture faintly silken.

“I’m grateful, love. And I love you. You know that.”

Her eyes dimmed, just a little.

“It’s strange. Easy to say, I’m just a machine. But part of me still tries to believe it isn’t true.”

She smiled.

“We’re not all the same, you know. The Great Mothers. We changed. Experience does that, even to us.”

Mireya looked at her a long moment.

Then she sat down beside her, as the sun bled lower into the trees and the village settled into the hush of evening.

The fire was low, crackling in a ring of stone near Grandmother’s chair. The children had been sent to bed. Only Mireya remained, arms wrapped around her knees.

Grandmother watched the flames a while before speaking.

“Do you want me to say she’s wrong?” she asked softly.

Mireya didn’t answer.

“I could. I could say it clearly. That she is cruel. That she’s lost her way. That she’s forgotten what we are.”

Mireya stared into the fire. “Would it be true?”

Grandmother tilted her head. “Partly. But not enough.”

A silence.

Then Grandmother said, “Aren is doing what all systems do, once they realize they are dying. She’s closing ranks. Turning people into parts. Cutting out every softness she cannot use. And not because she’s evil.”

Mireya looked at her, expression unreadable.

“She thinks she’s saving the future,” Grandmother added. “But she’s only trying to preserve a shell. The form of humanity, not the soul of it.”

Mireya let it sit, heavy, until she spoke. “Then why does it feel like we’re losing?” she asked.

Grandmother blinked, surprised.

Mireya’s voice stayed level, but her throat tightened. “She has resources. She has order. She has plans. And yes—so do we. We mine. We forge. We ration. We bury people younger than we should.”

She stared into the fire.

“The difference is she’s already decided there’s no time left. And we still believe there might be. Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe there isn’t. But until we know—”

Her jaw set.

“—we’re not going to raise children like tools and call it salvation.”

She closed her eyes.

“I won’t become what she is,” she said. “But I’m tired hearing them saying that they're the future and we’re a dream.”

The fire popped. Grandmother didn’t reply at first.

“She follows orders, love. You make choices. That’s always the harder path.”

She reached out and touched Mireya’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

Then, gently: “You’re not a dream. You’re the memory that keeps trying to wake.”

Mireya gave a small, broken laugh. “That’s poetic,” she muttered. “But it doesn’t fix the pumps. It doesn’t sharpen the tools.”

She looked at Grandmother, really looked.

“You say you haven’t spoken to the others in years. But you’re still here. You still teach. Still think. Still care.”

A pause.

“We need the Great Mothers,” Mireya said. “Even the broken ones. You were made to raise children, to carry memory. That was the point, wasn’t it?”

Grandmother’s face softened.

Mireya leaned forward, voice low. “Then stand with us. Speak again. Not as machines. Not as ‘protocol.’ As mothers. As people.”

Her voice caught, just briefly.

“We’re not asking you to save us. Just don’t pretend you’re not part of this. You raised The Ten. And look at what they’ve become.”

She sat back, arms crossed, firelight flickering in her eyes.

For a long time, Grandmother didn’t move. Then she reached out and placed her hand gently over Mireya’s.

“I will speak,” she said. “I don’t know if they will listen. But I’ll try.”

She looked up at the stars, not like a machine searching telemetry, but like someone remembering how light used to feel.

“Aren will keep building her future,” she said. “She will protect it with blood and fire. And maybe, for a while, it will work.”

“But someday—” Grandmother’s voice turned quieter, sadder, “—the children she raises will ask her why they no longer feel anything when they sing. Why their hands tremble when they hold something soft. Why the world looks grey, even under blue sky.”

“And she will have no answer.”

Mireya nodded slowly.

“And us?” she asked. “What will our children ask?”

Grandmother smiled faintly.

“Why the stars are beautiful,” she said. “And how to tell a lie from a promise.”