Space

Long ago, when the planets were small, Victi taught them literacy, taught them to read, speak normally, and also taught them to write. Another written exercise was gravity control, so they could properly repel asteroids or manipulate other objects.

As the planets grew, they acquired satellites. These satellites now orbit the Sun, listening to it, recording data, and attempting to manipulate gravity.

But how to control gravity is both complex and simple. The star simply places asteroids in front of them, which they are obliged to lift with their gravity and hold steady, preventing them from flying off. Some satellites develop their cores well, they control their gravity well, and they write and read well. They usually read strictly by roles or in a chain.

They were always planets—vast, rounded spheres, devoid of arms, legs, or the familiar human form. Their bodies were composed of layers of rock, gases, and molten cores, and instead of hearts, they smoldered with an internal fire that pulsed with the rhythm of gravity waves. They had no fingers to touch, no lungs to breathe, but each planet had its own distinctive features: expressive eyebrows arching above white eyes, as if carved from ice, and mouths—not for eating, but for talking, arguing, laughing, and sometimes whispering something very softly when the system was quiet.

They used gravity as an extension of their own will: holding satellites close, deflecting asteroids, gently nudging each other if one fell out of orbit. For them, it was the same as for people—reaching out a hand, hugging, keeping someone from falling. And despite their stony essence, they sincerely considered themselves human. For them, being human wasn't about the shape of the body, but about the ability to feel: to worry, hope, fear, love. They quarreled, made up, kept secrets, and shared dreams, and in those moments, it seemed to them that there was no difference between them and real people.

Over time, however, some in the system began to see things differently. Especially those accustomed to rigorous thinking and relying on facts: they increasingly said that planets were simply celestial bodies, subject to the laws of physics, and that everything else was just a figment of their imagination. "They just imagine it that way," they whispered, glancing at Galstron's emotional outbursts or Blacksword's careful maneuvers. "These aren't feelings, they're gravitational anomalies and atmospheric vortices." For such observers, the planets' eyebrows and eyes weren't facial features, but intricate patterns of cracks and bright spots on the surface, and their "voices" were merely fluctuations in the magnetic field, easily confused with speech.

But the planets themselves were in no hurry to accept this cold explanation. Even if someone called them simply balls of rock and gas.

Weightlessness truly reigns in space—it's the first thing that comes to mind when you imagine the vast void, where ships and astronauts float freely, and objects seem to forget what "down" is. But if you look more closely, you'll find that gravity never disappears: it simply changes its rules depending on who is where. In interstellar space, its influence is almost imperceptible, and so everything seems to simply float freely by inertia.

But for planets and large moons, gravity is no longer an abstraction, but a real force that shapes entire worlds. It operates according to a simple but strict law: the greater the mass of a body, the stronger its gravitational pull. This is why giant planets like Galstron or even the more restrained but imposing Kempler are capable of literally "gathering" everything in their vicinity around them. Their gravitational fields act like invisible threads—gently but persistently pulling asteroids, small debris, dust clouds, and even small moons, if they are smaller in mass and diameter.

This force can not only attract but also hold. Large planets can retain entire retinues of satellites for years, even centuries, aligning them in stable orbits. Sometimes they literally "capture" wanderers (dwarf planets) that accidentally fly too close, suddenly discovering they can no longer escape this attraction and becoming new satellites. Thus, new bonds are born: the angular rocks become loyal guardians, circling their massive protector.

Gravity isn't a brute force that simply drags everything around. It can be subtle and precise. For example, Blackswurd doesn't simply attract asteroids—it carefully arranges them into a belt, as if arranging stones along an invisible path, so they don't interfere with other worlds while still providing reliable protection. Galstron, on the other hand, is more powerful: its field is so strong that it can hold all its satellites.

Asteroids are not living beings at all, possessing neither thoughts nor feelings. They are simply cold debris, fragments of ancient collisions, swirling aimlessly in the void. They have no will, no desires—only inertia, gravity, and the inexorable physics of motion. But it is precisely this soulless simplicity that makes them among the most unpredictable and dangerous guests in the system: any one of them can be picked up by a gravitational field and hurled anywhere—at the waist, toward a rocky planet, or even directly into the orbit of a moon.

For rocky worlds like Kempler, Tres, or even tiny Tylor, an asteroid impact is always a risk. Even a relatively small fragment traveling at high speed can leave a deep scar on the surface: piercing the crust, uprooting layers of rock, and burying valleys in rock dust. And if the asteroid is larger, the consequences become far more serious: it can crack the planet's fragile shell, disrupt the stability of tectonic plates, and set off a chain reaction of destruction. Such impacts leave more than just craters—they alter the landscape, disrupt the usual rhythms of wind and rain, and cause the planet to bear these wounds for years as a reminder of its encounter with chaos.

Gas giants like Blacksword and Galstron are a completely different story. Their colossal gravity acts on asteroids almost like an invisible hand: it doesn't so much attract them as swirl them into swift vortices, forcing them to change trajectory. An asteroid approaches, makes a sharp turn, describes a short, almost graceful circle through the dense layers of the atmosphere—and flies away, having lost some mass and speed, but without causing any harm to the giant. For these giants, even large debris is just a tiny ripple on the surface of an endless storm.

But there's another extreme—enormous asteroids, veritable drifting mountains of rock and metal. If such a giant is hurtling along at around 100 km/s, the consequences could be catastrophic. For a rocky planet, a collision with one is practically a death sentence.

shine - none.
Tres Hollow and Duck.
Kempler is a virus.
Galstron - Pelli and Melli.
Blackswood - 2007 satellites.
Poseidon - 20-30 satellites.
Taylor - Viok.

Galstron was not always the harsh, almost frightening giant that everyone in the system used to see him. His toughness is not an initial trait, but a scar that over time began to seem like a part of his nature. Yes, he had once destroyed his former companions, not out of malice, but in a whirlwind of his own indomitable power, when his gravity got out of control and the world around him simply couldn't withstand it. But after the dust settled and the silence became unbearable, a belated realization came to him: he had deprived himself of something important. And then Galstron was really sad for the first time. It wasn't just a longing for the usual whirling of small bodies around him, it was a void that could not be filled by flashes, collisions, or the loudest storms.

It was in this silence that Pelly and Melly came. They did not appear out of nowhere, they were formed from debris, from dust, from the very remains that still stored the warmth of his field. It was a slow, fragile process: tiny nuclei gained mass, layers fell on top of each other, and gradually two new worlds were born out of chaos. Galstron did not fly away from them, not an inch. He stayed so close that his gravity gently hugged them, preventing them from flying apart, as if he was afraid that if he turned away even for a moment, everything would fall apart. He watched their every move, every spark that flashed on their surface, and waited for them to "open their eyes"—for their own faint glow to light up in their orbits for the first time, a sign that they had become real.

He didn't even blink, or so it seemed to anyone watching him from afar. With a soft, almost shy smile, he hung in his orbit, staring as if he was afraid of missing the most important moment. And then, when Pelly and Melly finally got in shape and began to circle quietly side by side, he stayed asleep in the same orbit, not somewhere to the side, not at a safe distance, but right next to them, to be the first to feel any change, any disturbing shift.

As has been said more than once, Kempler has his own "parents" - Newton and Tera. But he himself knows nothing about them. And he cannot know: after all, he has never seen them. For him, they are just a void on the map of the system, a gap in history that no one talks about aloud. The truth is that Newton and Thera died to give him and Virrus life: their matter, their gravity, their very essence melted into that dazzling flash from which these two new worlds were born. And now everyone in the system - from Victy to the tiniest satellites - carefully keeps this secret. Not out of cruelty, but out of concern: no one wants to hurt Kempler with the weight of such a truth. After all, what do you do with the realization that you are the result of someone's ultimate victim?

Sometimes when the name "Thera" is heard in the system, a strange thing happens to Kempler. He does not understand who it is about: in his memory there is neither the face, nor the orbit, nor the voice of this planet. The name slips past my consciousness like a strange, unfamiliar word. But deep inside, in the very core, where the quiet fire of its origin smolders, something shudders slightly. It is not a memory, but rather an echo, warm and vague, like a dream that melts away as soon as you wake up. For a fraction of a moment, fragments flash before the inner eye: a gray surface riddled with thin veins of minerals, a swift orbit, a feeling of lightness and stubborn hope. And then there is the image of Newton: massive, reliable, with heavy, confident gravity, which seemed to hold this entire fragile union.

The same thing happens with Virrus. When he hears the name "Newton," he can't associate it with anything in particular—for him, it's just a sound that has no weight. But something also resonates in its core: a short impulse, like an old, almost erased emotion. He suddenly feels a little calmer, as if someone who knows how to take a blow was next to him for a moment. And then everything disappears, dissolves in the familiar noise of winds and electrical discharges. Virrus blinks his eyes and forgets, saying nothing.

Kempler took his place in the third orbit - in the very cherished safety zone where Victy's light was generous enough to warm, but not so fierce that it burned everything to ashes. It was here, according to all the laws of astronomy and dreams, that something living could be born: heat, water, a soft rhythm of the change of day and night. At first, it seemed that Kempler would never become a home for life. Its surface was harsh and rocky, and its atmosphere was alien, unbreathable for those creatures who were accustomed to the earth's air. The oxygen here was different, heavier, with a taste of metals and ozone, and even the sky itself seemed a little denser, as if pressing on his shoulders.

But gradually, as if contrary to all calculations, nature began to wake up on the Kempler. First came the blue-gray lakes and meandering rivers, their water cool, almost icy, but there was already a sense of life in it, barely perceptible as the first whisper of the wind. Then the grass appeared on the rocky shores — not bright green, as on Earth, but muted, with a grayish tint, as if it had absorbed the color of the stones themselves. Gradually, islands began to appear: dark green, almost black in the shade, with sparse trees, whose branches stretched to the sky, as if trying to reach something bigger. Moss-covered rocks lay among the thickets, and heavy, swirling clouds hung over it all, ready to burst into a downpour at any moment.

Next to Kempler, like a faithful guardian, circled his companion - Virrus. It was often called the red moon, for it had a lot of iron in its rocks, and in Victy's light it shone a dark scarlet, as if it had always borne the reflection of the very flash that had produced it with the planet. Virrus didn't just accompany Kempler, he protected him. When a particularly daring piece of debris erupted from the asteroid belt, Virrus was the first to rush across it, taking the blow. He covered the planet with his body, dampened the speed of dangerous guests with his gravity, and either pulled them into his orbit or, if they were too large, redirected them away.

Every day, Newton and Tera had the same dream—that their orbits suddenly lost stability, their trajectories converged, and the two planets collided in a blinding flash. But instead of silent chaos, something new is born from this collision: another planet, calm and green, and next to it is a single satellite, angular and restless, as if woven from wind and lightning. The dream was repeated over and over again, with such precision of detail that gradually they ceased to regard it as a mere play of the shadows of the night. They began to see it as a hint, not a frightening prophecy, but something more: a sign that their union could produce something beautiful, even if the path to it lay through a storm.

They continued to rotate in their orbits, allowing gravitational fields to come closer and closer to each other, as if the very laws of the cosmos were beginning to give way to their senses. Their orbits intertwined in a strange, almost impossible dance: not a collision, but not an ordinary neighborhood either, something in between, where each movement was both an attraction and a careful attempt not to destroy each other. And Victy watched with growing alarm. For a star accustomed to keeping the system in balance, this proximity looked like a step towards disaster. He tried to gently but persistently separate them: sending short flares to push the planets slightly apart, changing the solar wind, hoping to bring them back to safe distances. But nothing helped. Newton's gravity and Thera's quiet, stubborn magnetism were stronger than these gentle pushes, as if they knew they had to be there no matter what.

At some point, they stopped fighting this attraction. In one of the orbits, when Victy's light painted their surfaces in golden-pink tones, they finally got close enough that there was no emptiness or doubt between them. And then what everyone saw happened: they kissed — not as people, but as planets whose fields merged in a single impulse. From their wreckage, a couple of days later, Kempler and Virrus (satellite) were formed.

When new rocky planets appeared in the system, Shine and Thres, two more shone next to them, almost immediately riveting their eyes: Thera and Newton. Newton was almost the size of Kempler, solid, solid, with a heavy, confident gravity that seemed to set a serious tone for him. Thera, on the other hand, was quite small, about the size of Virrus, light, swift, with a surface shimmering with thin veins of minerals. It was often referred to as a hypothetical planet, as if it had not fully decided whether to be there or to dissolve in the asteroid stream, as if its orbit itself was a question rather than a statement.

From the very beginning, Tera lived one dream - to start a life on herself. She reached for Victy's light, soaking up every spark of warmth, trying to hold on to the moisture in her crevices, and believing that one day something would sprout from that stubborn hope. But all was in vain: the air remained foreign, storms thwarted any timid attempts, and lightning only burned out hope. Every time another tiny sprout barely had time to appear, the storm erased it without a trace, and Tera was once again alone with the silence and her stubborn desire.

At first, Newton looked down on her efforts. To him, Tera was just a small, naïve planet that wasted energy on the impossible. He considered her dreams to be empty vanity, and more than once in conversations with other planets he called her "just stupid", as if this very word could cool her ardor. His world was built on the laws of gravity and collisions, on the clear mathematics of orbits, and there was no room for fragile hopes.

But time passed, and something new began to sprout between them. More and more often, Newton found himself fixing his gaze on her light, dancing orbit, noticing how stubbornly she held on, even when storms tore at her atmosphere. And Tera, in turn, began to see in his severity not a mockery, but care, albeit clumsy, said in harsh words, but still care. They began to talk more often, and then fell in love with each other.

Kempler himself with all his gray-green soul is drawn to a dream - that life will blossom on its surface just as it once did on distant Earth. He seems to feel that he has everything he needs for this: water, soil, stubborn sprouts that break through the stones again and again, even if yesterday they were swept away by another squall. But the path to a real, sustainable life is incredibly difficult for him, and there are enough reasons for this.

Firstly, the composition of the atmosphere here is completely different: there is oxygen, but its concentration and combination with other gases make the air unusual, almost alien to those forms of life that are accustomed to terrestrial conditions. Plants have to literally fight for every breath to adjust to this strange balance, and any attempts to grow something more complex invariably run into this chemical incompatibility. Secondly, the weather itself does not give a moment of peace: storms rage almost non-stop, giving birth to new tornadoes every day, which roar over the plains, tearing off young shoots and eroding the soil. Lightning draws dazzling patterns in the sky, and rains pour down like a wall, turning the earth into a viscous swamp, then into raging streams, carrying away everything that has not had time to take root firmly root. Life on Kempler is not peace and comfort, but an endless struggle for survival, where each new sprout is already a small victory. There is a plus, it is in the safe zone (3).
In its atmosphere, amidst storm clouds and gusts of wind, there is a stubborn desire to become special—not just another planet in the system, but a world where life does not just cling to rocks, but blossoms in all its beauty. And in this endeavor, he has a faithful ally - Shine. He treats the matter with a seriousness rare for a bright, sparkling planet: he not only sympathizes, but really helps, putting all his energy and ingenuity into it.

Brilliance hauls rare minerals to Kempler's orbit that can enrich soil, pulls up small icy comets to add clean water, and even experiments with light scattering

Victy has a quiet, almost intimate dream - that real life will arise in his solar system, as it once appeared on distant Earth. Not just the whirling of stones and the eternal shimmer of orbits, but breathing, movement, fragile green shoots breaking through the soil, and creatures that look at its light and feel warmth. He doesn't talk about it loudly—for stars rarely admit their hopes—but in the depths of his radiance he cherishes the idea that it alone can warm a little more than usual.

For him, Kempler is like living proof that the dream is not entirely unrealizable. This gray-green planet does indeed have water: it pours from the heavens almost non-stop, gathers in lakes and rivers, runs through canyons, and nourishes strange, hardy plants accustomed to constant wind. Even fruits grow among them - not the same as on Earth, but still real: with a dense skin, a tart taste and juice that smells of rain and ozone. Kempler seems to have collected everything you need for life, and even more: its atmosphere is thick, humid and full of electric sparks.

True, this life exists on the verge. Storms on the Kempler do not subside for a moment: they circle, collide, give birth to tornadoes that roar over the plains, tearing off everything from the ground that has not had time to take root firmly root. And next to the planet, his moon Virrus is always rushing around - restless, angular, as if woven from lightning and wind. He does not so much help Kempler as he amplifies his storm: his gravity pulls the atmosphere, causing the vortices to swirl even more violently. Life here is held together not by tranquility, but in spite of chaos – and this is what makes it especially valuable.
Victy is aware of this fragility, and therefore Kempler is under his special protection. The star follows his orbit with almost paternal attention: the slightest deviation, any suspicious shift, and Victy immediately reacts. If he notices that some asteroid has fallen from the belt, then the victy will burn this asteroid.

Ollie is a gray, inconspicuous-looking planet, almost the size of Blackswoerd, except that it is slightly inferior in mass and diameter. In this restrained grayness, there are no bright flashes or bizarre patterns — it seems to have absorbed the coldness of interstellar emptiness and the weight of unspoken grievances. But behind the outward simplicity there is a flame that has not been extinguished for long cycles: it is the flame of hatred, carved out of a sense of injustice and loneliness.

Ollie is obsessed with revenge. He can't forget the moment Blackswoord's gravity hurled him away, throwing him outside of his home system like an unwanted fragment. And not only does he mourn himself, but the moment of the death of the rocky planets is forever frozen in his memory: Doyle, Dean and Rouyo. Though there were only three of them, and not hundreds, as resentment sometimes grows in dark thoughts, for Ollie, each of them became a scar that no excuses could erase. He does not believe in accidents and does not want to hear about a panic breakthrough or an unsuccessful maneuver: for him it was a deliberate destruction, the collapse of a world where he felt in his place.

He remembers Victy's words verbatim, as if he carved them into his own crust: "Whoever dares to kill any rocky planet or throw someone out of the solar system will be expelled from the system!" He waits in the wings to return and say them aloud, looking directly into the star's face. For him, this is not just the restoration of justice - this is the only way to regain the right to be called part of this system.

But his goal is not to protect or care, as Blackswoord does. Ollie wants not just to tell the truth, but to achieve the expulsion of his former friend. He dreams of seeing Blackswoord stripped of its orbit, its status, its right to support thousands of satellites. And then take this place yourself. He wants to become a new point of attraction, a new voice that the planets and satellites will listen to. He wants his grayness to cease to be invisible.

Victy knows that Ollie is missing - this emptiness in its usual orbit could not go unnoticed. But he doesn't know the whole truth: in his understanding, Ollie just decided to leave the system one day, to leave the system of his own free will. Victy is not openly angry, but there is a faint cool note in his light now, as if he still cannot fully believe that someone could voluntarily leave his light. If Ollie suddenly returns, Victy is unlikely to open her arms. Rather, he will first sense the alien mass in his system—that sharp, unexpected weight of alien presence disturbing the usual balance—and his first reaction will be instinctive, almost uncontrollable. It can burst into a solar flare, bright and scorching, or hurl a swarm of asteroids towards an intruder to restore balance at least for a moment. For him, this is not cruelty, but the reflex of a star protecting his home from chaos.

In the aftermath of that tragedy, Blackswurd seemed to have taken on an unspoken duty to become a shield for the rocky new planets of Shine, Thres, and Kempler. He no longer allowed himself sudden jerks, learned to calculate every movement of gravity to the smallest part. When asteroids rushed to their inner orbits, it met them not with a blow, but with a dense, elastic field, dampened their speed and carefully redirected, turning dangerous fragments into calm elements of the belt. It was a delicate job: not just to stop, but to put it in order, to make sure that the threat became part of the defense.

At the same time, he was well aware that he could not bear everything alone. Galstrong, no matter how hard he tried, didn't hold everything either: sometimes particularly fast or heavy asteroids broke free from his gravitational grip, as if mocking the very idea of control. At such moments, Blackswurd was already ready - he caught these "fugitives", gently but firmly returning them to a safe trajectory. His and Galstron's work began to resemble a well-coordinated dance: one put the first barrier, the second backed up, not allowing the breach to become a breach.

Blackswoerd is someone that many in the system unwittingly look up to, even if he is slightly smaller than Galstron in size. He is respected not for his massiveness or brute strength, but for the way he manages what he has: with patience, attention and real care. He is always ready to help, lend a shoulder – or rather, a gravitational field – and explain everything step by step if someone is confused in orbits and trajectories. For its 2007 satellites, it is not just a major neighbor in space, but one that remembers everyone's name and tries to make sure that no one feels lost among the stars.

But behind this reliable, warm force hides a silent, but very heavy fear. Blackswurd is not afraid of collisions, asteroids, or storms, but of the truth he once chose to hide. This story stretches back to ancient times, when their solar system looked completely different: then there was no Poseidon, nor the usual rocky planets, and in the near orbits lived the planet Olli - calm, gray, with a soft, reasonable character. He was one of those who always tried to do everything according to his conscience and was the first to go to Victy if he felt that something was wrong.

In those days, the irreparable happened. In a series of abrupt maneuvers, G-forces, and unsuccessful gravitational jerks, Blackswurd accidentally caused the death of three rocky planets - Doyle, Dean and Rouyo. This was not out of malice, but out of mistake: he wanted to hold on to one asteroid, but its field caught too much at once, and the orbits collapsed one after another. When Ollie realized what had happened, he was determined to fly to Victy and tell it like it was, not to punish anyone, but to restore honest order to the system.

Galstron and Blackswurd tried to hold him back in a panic. They simultaneously jerked their gravity, trying to prevent Ollie from breaking out on a straight trajectory to the star. In the chaos, as the fields collided and sparkled, Blackswoerd took a sharp leap backwards, and he didn't realize how his power had sent Ollie flying far beyond the system.

Victy has his own special gravity – not just a physical force, but as if the very fabric of order on which his entire system rests. It doesn't just shine and warm: it holds the first asteroid belt in place, preventing rocks from flying apart in a chaotic vortex and crashing into fragile rocky planets. Without this invisible barrier, Shine, Thres, and Kempler would have long ago been scarred by constant impacts, and their surfaces would have turned into continuous craters. Victy seems to hold this belt in a soft but steel grip - not crushing, but also not allowing her to break out of the given rhythm.

But there is also a secret ally in this story - Galstrong. While everyone thinks that order in the system rests solely on the power of Victy, it is Galstron who quietly, without fanfare, helps to keep the chaos at bay. Its gravity, though smaller than a star, is surprisingly strong, even stronger than that of Blackswoord, that red-hot giant. Galstron stealthily pulls particularly daring asteroids towards him, "pacifies" them with a sharp jerk and either absorbs them or sends them along a safe trajectory away from the inner orbits. He does it so deftly and so habitually that the others do not even think about why dangerous debris almost never reaches rocky worlds. It is his unspoken duty to be the lightning rod of the system, to take blows that could hurt others.

At the same time, Victy is well aware that he alone could not cope even with Blackswoord, whose own gravity is already a serious force that can affect the nearest orbits. And if you take into account the entire mass of asteroid belts and the riot of distant icy bodies, stellar power alone would definitely not be enough. Therefore, Victy is not ashamed of the tacit alliance with Galstrong: he appreciates this help, even if he does not talk about it out loud. In their system, strength is not in pulling everything on oneself, but in knowing who can lend a shoulder next to them.
Sometimes, when a really serious conversation is brewing - about the fate of the system, about the boundaries, then Victy attracts the planet to herself with the help of her gravity.

In this solar system, each corner has its own rules, its own rhythm and its own special atmosphere, as if the Universe specially selected a separate character for each section. In the very center, like the heart of the entire universe, rests Victy - a huge, wise star who never moves. It is the axis around which the entire life of the system revolves, its immovable support. Its light pours evenly in all directions, warming and at the same time holding everything in its place.
Immediately behind it, the orbit of rocky planets begins - harsh, solid, as if forged from the very essence of the cosmos. The first is the planet Shine: bright, sparkling, it seems to have deliberately stood closest to the light in order to catch each ray and turn it into sparkling patterns of blue and purple crystals. Tres follows her, his black, almost light-absorbing surface in stark contrast to that of his neighbor, and his silent austerity seems to balance the irrepressible energy of Shine. Further down the orbit is Kempler, calm and a little brooding, its grey-green fields and endless rains creating a sense of quiet, stubborn resilience.
Beyond the orbit of rocky worlds lies the first asteroid belt, a wild, chaotic band where rocks whirl in an eternal dance, colliding and flying apart, as if they could not find their place. This belt serves as a kind of border separating two different worlds. Immediately behind it begins the domain of gas giants - majestic, unhurried giants. Galstron and Blackswurd reign here: the first is noisy and daring, as if the cosmos itself has decided to gather all the energy of movement in it, the second is calm and caring, its heat and power serve as a support for thousands of satellites.
Even farther away, beyond the next asteroid belt, is the ice giant Poseidon. Its dark blue surface, covered with icy waves, seems almost silent, but deep power is hidden in this silence. It is as if he is watching the entire system from afar, staying a little aside, but at the same time feeling everything that is happening.
in the Far Belt sits Tylor. In the end.

Victy is not just a star, but a giant whose size and mass seem almost incomprehensible even by cosmic standards. It is so huge that next to it other stars look almost modest lights, barely glowing in the dark. Its radiance does not oppress, does not burn - it spreads throughout the system with a soft, enveloping light, as if the cosmos itself has decided to collect so much heat in it that there is enough for everyone.

Other stars have their own strict rules: strict laws of gravity and discipline operate there. The planets are obliged to stay in their allotted orbits, not daring to deviate a single step. Any desire to go a little further, to look at the far corners of space or just to circle in a different arc is immediately suppressed by an invisible, but iron hand of rules. There, freedom is a rare luxury, almost an audacity, for which you have to pay.

And Victy is completely different. He does not shackle his "children" with cold prohibitions. If one of the planets suddenly wants to go, even to the edge of his solar system, or beyond it, he will not hold it by force. But he will not let you go just like that, at random. First, he will listen to why this is necessary, assess whether the trajectories intersect, whether there is a threat of a collision with the asteroid belt or another celestial body. And only when he is sure that the path is safe, he nods: "Go. But be careful. And come back when your core is ready." For him, it is not control that is more important, but trust – and the understanding that freedom without responsibility can turn into trouble.

This softness is not a sign of weakness at all. On the contrary, there is great power and wisdom behind it: after all, it is possible to keep a planet in orbit by brute gravity, but to let it go and know that it will return is something more than that. You need to see beyond your own boundaries, feel the system as a whole and understand that each of its inhabitants grows exactly when they try their wings.

The planets feel it. They know that they can ask Victy not only for permission to fly, but also for advice, and just sit quietly next to him, absorbing his calm light.

Blackswurd is the hottest planet in the system, a veritable fiery giant that seems to have absorbed some of the star's heat. While the rest of the worlds are shackled by eternal cold, their surfaces are covered with frost and ice, and the winds carry only icy dust, Blackswoord is a completely different element. The usual temperature on its surface is plus 23,777 degrees: a figure so huge that even the gas giants next to it seem dank and dull.

And this heat is not just a consequence of its proximity to the star, but the result of Blackswurd's own indomitable nature. It literally feeds on the energy of space: its favorite "delicacy" is asteroids. It grabs them with its gravity, pulls them closer, and consumes them one by one like giant hot coals. Each such asteroid does not just disappear in its bowels - it spurs on the inner flame of the planet. The core of Blackswurd begins to pulse more violently, throwing out waves of heat, and the temperature on the surface jumps even higher - to an incredible 30,577 degrees. At such moments, it literally shines, as if it itself becomes a small star for a short time, and even distant comets try to stay away so as not to melt from this withering light.

Blackswurd also has his own funny but dangerous feature: when he yawns, his gravity becomes chaotic for a moment, and the open "mouth" turns out to be a real trap. Anything can fly into it - from small debris to entire asteroids. There were times when even his own companions were almost drawn there: they changed their orbit in panic, just not to be inside this fiery maw. So Blackswoerd had long made it a rule to yawn as a last resort. He diligently restrains himself, clenches his "jaws" and pretends that he does not know what yawning is at all. Sometimes, however, fatigue takes its toll, and then he turns away from the system so that no one can see how he opens his mouth for a second, and immediately hurriedly closes it, as if nothing has happened.

The Roche limit is a special invisible boundary, a kind of cosmic "danger line" that runs at a strictly defined distance from a planet or star. She marks the very line that is extremely risky for celestial bodies to cross: if a satellite flies too close to its patron, powerful tidal forces will literally begin to tear it apart. The planet's gravity pulls on the near side of the satellite more strongly than the far side, and at some point, the internal cohesion of matter can no longer resist this tension. Then the satellite does not just break down, it dies: it crumbles into a whirlwind of debris that scatters in orbit like shards of a broken mirror, and continues to spin in a cold dance around its former owner.

This threat exists not only near planets — it also exists near stars. Victy himself, for example, also has his own Roche limit: if some brave planet or comet dares to fly too close to its flaming layers, heat and gravity will do their job. The planet will either burn in blinding flames or explode under monstrous pressure, leaving behind only a swarm of red-hot fragments that will forever rush through the system, reminding us of the cost of carelessness.

And if the two planets collide with each other, the consequences will be even greater. Their impact will create a colossal explosion in which rocks, ice and gases will mix, and only countless fragments will remain of the worlds themselves, scattered in all directions. And this is where space can play a surprising joke: these fragments do not always remain just garbage. Sometimes gravity gradually reassembles them, and something new is born out of the chaos. A very young planet can form, a barely noticeable point against the background of giants. And it also happens that the debris is collected in a pair at once: into a planet and its satellite, as if the Universe itself is in a hurry to recreate a family, even if the previous one died in a collision.

Blackswurd - There are rings that hide his eyes. They are insanely huge and beautiful.
Poseidon - there is.
Galstron - no.
Tres - none.
There is no shine.
Tylor is gone.
Victy - there is no (he is a star.
There is no Kempler.

Blackswurd, as has been said more than once, is rightfully considered the most caring and attentive "parent" in the entire system - and no wonder, because there are as many as 2007 companions under his care. And what is especially surprising, he knows the name of everyone. Not just a general name or a serial number, but a personal name - with a slight hoarseness, with a special stress, as the companions themselves are used to hearing it. To Blackswurd, they are not faceless dots in orbit, but separate worlds, each with its own personality, habits, and even small weaknesses. He sincerely loves them all - and therefore never keeps them in a tight rein.
Among his wards there are real giants - impressive, unhurried, with their own dignity. Gal, Rio, Tree, Vee, Sak, Fiol, Wally, Picky and Tikki, Heron, Hall, Vivi, Astro, Zeik, and Lawley, each of them is like a legend in their own right.
There are also fast satellites - those who cannot sit still for a second. Gal, Rio, Tree, V, Tayo, Yoll, Fall, Fotlestav, Zolli72637, Payson, Rarit - they are forever rushing along elongated trajectories, overtaking each other, leaving thin glowing trails behind them.
And then there are the little companions, tiny but incredibly stubborn. Shayk, Fall, Tayo, Yoll, Schick, Shine, Gisti, Rose, Simpy, Trim, Ares (named after the god of war, although he himself is much more peaceful than his name), Afro, Pason, Rarit, Gigi, Ji, Yrson, Er... Their list can be continued for a long time, because each of them is a separate story, a small world with its own joys and anxieties. They circle closer to Blackswoord, as if drawing warmth from his calm confidence, and from time to time they talk quietly among themselves, discussing everything from the shape of the next asteroid to how beautiful Victy shines today.

And these are only those whose names are now on everyone's lips. It is impossible to count all the satellites: there are too many of them, orbits are intertwined, trajectories overlap, and sometimes even Blackswoord himself admits that he loses count. But he does not seek to turn his concern into dry accounting.

Blackswoerd and Galstron are inseparable friends, and in their union it is as if two opposites are intertwined, which, against all odds, complement each other perfectly. Blackswurd is quiet, collected, and incredibly caring. There is so much softness in it that even its dark surface does not seem frightening, but cozy - as if it is ready to shelter from any storm. It is like a young planet — not because it appeared recently, but because of its sincerity and touching attention to detail. However, planets do not age: no matter how many thousands of years pass, they remain the same as they were at the moment of their birth. Time has no power over them, and so Blackswurd always retains this warm, almost childlike sensitivity of his.

Galstron is the complete opposite: noisy, daring, hot-tempered, with a sparkling, but sometimes prickly humor. He loves to be the center of attention, loudly declare himself and does not hesitate to be tough if something does not go according to his plan. He also has a share of a manipulator - he knows how to deftly push others to the decisions he needs, covering it up with friendly jokes. But for all his harshness, he is genuinely attached to Blackswoerd and is always ready to stand up for him: if he is in danger or just gets stuck, Galstron will be the first to rush to the rescue without hesitation.

And Blackswoord responds in kind. Even if he is quiet and does not like big words, his support is in a calm presence, in the ability to listen, in the very reliability that is felt even without unnecessary phrases. He smooths out the rough edges when Galstron gets too hot, and with a steady glance he can cool down his friend's hottest impulse. Their friendship rests on this balance: one gives strength and pressure, the other gives peace and support.

They orbit the gas giants. They communicate often, but their companions get along very well and are friends, as well as their parents.

Galstron doesn't just treat his companions with no warmth—it's as if he doesn't consider them significant at all. Yes, he had two: Pelli and Melly—but he didn't even bother to remember their names. To him, they weren't individuals, but rather space debris accidentally stranded in his orbit. He barks at them, vents his frustration with sharp shouts, and sometimes even tosses them around, taking advantage of his monstrous gravity, as if they weren't living companions, but soulless pebbles.

There wasn't a shred of concern in his gaze, not a hint of paternal warmth—only irritation and weariness at the very fact of their existence. "There they go again!" he grumbled, barely noticing how Pelli or Mellie timidly flew a little closer, somehow trying to attract his attention. And as soon as they timidly asked for anything—even a crumb of attention, even advice—Galstron would immediately snatch them up with his gravity and casually toss them aside, as if shaking dust from a surface. He literally didn't consider the possibility of their pain or fear.

Pelli and Mellie lived in constant fear. They were afraid to even approach him, because any choice they made could result in another sudden plunge into the void. To Galstron, they were mere specks flickering against his colossal frame—specks that could neither move him from his orbit, nor affect his mood, nor earn a shred of respect. Even their timid attempts to be helpful were perceived as importunity.

And the most bitter thing was that they themselves began to believe they were worthless. Their orbits were subordinated to his will, their movements to his rhythm, and their voices drowned out by his thunderous outbursts. They tried to stay close, because somewhere deep in the core, the hope still glimmered that one day he would see them not as an annoying nuisance, but as something close. But for now, this hope was fragile, like thin ice on a distant planet—and every new shout from Galstron threatened to shatter it.

Their solar system was formed in 2009—as if the universe had decided to give a new home to a few lost souls. At its center is the star Victi: it flared into space after the death of librarian Victi Northwest, initially completely unaware of what had happened to him.

Gradually, planets began to appear around him, each with an echo of a past life. Galstron (28), a former musician, arrived first—loud and brash, now "playing" on gravitational waves. Behind him came Blackswurd (27), with his kindness, mercy, honesty, and politeness: he vaguely remembered his days in a psychiatric hospital, and now became a support for his companions. Poseidon (34), whose dark blue surface retained the memory of cold water, found peace amid the ice and winds.

A little later, Shine (18 years old) appeared
and Kempler (16). Shine, once the "winter man," now sparkles with cold crystals; Kempler, once a pizza delivery boy, now eternally hurries through storms and tornadoes. Tres (24), whose impenetrable darkness seems to have absorbed his mafioso past, has become a stern but reliable protector of his little companions, Hollow and Duck.

At first, they all stubbornly insisted they were human and recalled how their lives had ended. But over time, these memories faded, and they increasingly began to wonder if perhaps they had simply once imagined themselves to be human, when in fact, they had always been planets and stars. This thought was both frightening and reassuring: they could simply continue to live, revolving in orbit and illuminating each other.

Among them was Tylor (20 years old)—a dwarf planet in the asteroid belt, almost invisible. He was a killer, according to the other planets, but they don't even suspect that their killer was also a planet, at the end of their solar system.

Victi is the heart and soul of their solar system, its primary star. Bright yellow, like a clot of pure light, it is striking in its scale: twenty times larger and more massive than our Sun. There's something simultaneously calming and awe-inspiring about its radiance—as if the Universe itself had decided to gather enough energy in one place to power an entire family of restless planets.

Victi isn't an official name, but rather a warm nickname: the star boy himself long ago forgot his original appellation, and doesn't particularly strive for it. To his "children"—the planets and satellites—he's simply Victi, and that's quite enough. And while he's strict and demanding when it comes to maintaining order in the system, there's no cruelty in his strictness—only the concern of a wise father who knows the dangers lurking within the vast cosmos.

Victi has a remarkably distinctive appearance—so much so that it's impossible to mistake it for anything else. He wears neat glasses, behind which he always conceals a thick book: either studying ancient star charts or reading something for the soul. He also has one eye slightly higher than the other—this slight asymmetry gives his "face" a special charm, as if he's perpetually raising an eyebrow, observing the latest mischief of his charges. At the same time, Victi is always smiling: his light seems imbued with this soft, forgiving smile that warms even the coldest corners of the system.

Like a true father, he doesn't hold his "children" to strict boundaries, but he also doesn't let things slide. Victi allows the planets to deviate from their orbits briefly—after all, everyone wants to break free from familiar boundaries and see what lies ahead. But he only does this under strict supervision: first, he listens to the plan, assesses the risks, checks that the trajectories don't intersect, and only then nods his approval. After all, he understands perfectly well that if the planets collide, according to the laws of physics, an explosion will occur. Victi always stands still. In the center of the system.

Tres-2b, or simply Tres, is a planet whose very nature seems woven from absolute darkness. It is the blackest planet in the entire system: it reflects not a single ray of light, as if absorbing the very idea of ​​brightness, and thus appears not simply as a celestial body but as a living shadow gliding in orbit. Its coldness is not only physical but also spiritual: Tres is reserved, extremely serious, and at times mercilessly stern. Its silence conveys the weight of centuries, and its steady, almost icy gaze conveys the understanding that there is no room for weakness in the cosmos.

It occupies a position just beyond the Sun, slightly further from the Sun, and is smaller than both it and Kempler—but this modest size in no way diminishes its significance. On the contrary, its compact power conveys a sense of composure, as if all its energy were compressed into a dense, impenetrable mass. There's not a glimmer of light or a hint of warmth on its surface—only a pristine, almost frightening darkness in which even the brightest stars are lost.

Tres is a demanding planet. He doesn't tolerate carelessness or forgive mistakes, preferring clarity and discipline. His companions, Hollow and Duck, are mere infants compared to him, and are covered in fine, barely noticeable cracks, like traces of past trials. But despite his severity, Tres is genuinely attached to them. He rarely expresses emotion, almost never speaks kind words, but his care manifests itself in other ways: in his tireless vigilance, his readiness to be the first to defend if danger clouds gather on the horizon.

And when they say that Tres "stands up for his friends," it sounds almost like a metaphor—after all, he's essentially just a ball spinning in the void, without arms, without legs, without a familiar body. But in this "wandering" cosmos, it's not form that matters, but essence. And Tres's essence is to be a shield. He becomes that impenetrable barrier between the threat and those he holds dear. He may not smile as broadly as Shine or whisper encouraging words like Kempler, but his silence is more reliable than any oath. No rings.

Kempler is a rocky planet, just like its best friend, Shine, and like it, it appears tiny, almost a pitiful speck, compared to the majestic gas giants that reign in the depths of space. But this modesty conceals a special power: Kempler seems to harbor a quiet yet stubborn potential that is unrelated to its size and mass.

It's located in the habitable zone—that blessed space where life could theoretically emerge, just like on distant Earth. And that potential is real: conditions on Kempler are truly conducive to the emergence of life. There's just one catch: the oxygen composition here is slightly different, unfamiliar to human organisms. It's perfectly suitable for some other, as yet unknown, life form—perhaps more resilient, adapted to harsh conditions. So, while Kempler could become a new home, it remains alien and inhospitable to humans.

Its coloring is calm, even a little brooding—a faded blue, as if faded by the endless rains that fall here every day without fail. Dark gray clouds perpetually swirl above its surface, creating a sense of eternal autumn. The fields and lands are painted in gray-green tones—whimsical patterns, as if painted by the rains and winds that leave not a single patch of dry ground. Tornadoes also frequently rage here—powerful, uncontrollable whirlwinds that reshape the landscape with frightening regularity. Because of them, there is literally no "quiet spot" on Kempler's surface: any place can find itself at the epicenter of another storm at any moment.

Kempler has only one moon—Virrus, a bright red moon that looks as if it has absorbed the heat of distant stars. But behind this fiery exterior lies a reliable, almost selfless nature: Virrus is always ready to help and tirelessly protects Kempler's surface from meteorite attacks and cosmic storms. It is like a faithful guardian who never sleeps. There are no rings, and never have been.

Blesk is a rocky planet, incredibly cold despite its proximity to the Sun: it occupies the very first orbit, as if it deliberately positioned itself closest to the light source, yet has never managed to warm up. And there's a certain cosmic irony to this—its frigid nature only accentuates its rare, almost unearthly beauty.

The surface of Blesk is a true marvel: it seems to be woven from the finest crystals of deep blue and violet hues, shimmering in the rays of distant stars. And on top of this mosaic lies a thin white shell, giving the planet a distinctive, powdery sheen—hence its name. It doesn't shine brightly like a scorching sun, but shimmers softly, as if covered in frost in which thousands of tiny rainbows are frozen.

He wears black, deliberately brutal glasses—so dark that his eyes are completely invisible behind the dark lenses. This is especially amusing in the context of the "wandering" cosmos, where planets usually have everything on display: eyebrows, mouths, expressive gazes. But Blesk seems to deliberately hide his innermost being, leaving only a hint of his character to those around him.

He has no companions—he's a loner by nature, but not a hermit at all. On the contrary, he's incredibly loud and energetic, the kind of friend who'll be the first to shout out a word of encouragement when everyone else is lost. His signature weapons are sparkling jokes and an infectious smile, which he generously shares with anyone willing to notice. He's the kind of person who knows how to turn even the gloomiest day into a reason for joy, and that's why other planets are drawn to him, even if they sometimes wonder where he gets his energy from.

His best friend is Kempler22B, and their friendship is a constant contrast: while Kempler is inclined toward reflection and silence, Shine is inclined toward action and noise. Together, they complement each other like ice and fire, like silence and loud music. Shine is also a truly lucky man: somehow, he always manages to extricate himself from the most absurd cosmic predicaments, as if the Universe itself were preserving him for new adventures. He has no shiny rings.

Poseidon is a majestic planet of a deep blue hue, a true ice giant whose appearance seems to capture the cold waves of a boundless cosmic ocean. He occupies a peculiar position between the two giants, Galstron and Blacksword: somewhere in the middle in size and mass, he allows them to both tease him and listen to his words, while he, in turn, is capable of both reining them in and supporting them with good advice. This golden mean has made him a sort of balancing force in their unusual company.

He was named Poseidon after the ancient Greek god of the sea—and it would seem to have a certain poetic logic: his deep blue color and icy nature seem to evoke the depths of the sea and storms. But in the whimsical, wobbly cosmos, such a name often becomes a source of ridicule. Other planets sometimes chuckle: how can a planet, an ordinary cosmic sphere with eyes and a mouth, bear the name of a person (even a mythological one)? To them, it seems like a funny inconsistency, almost a joke, which they happily repeat at every opportunity.

But Poseidon doesn't take offense. He's friendly and calm by nature, disliking fuss and loud arguments, preferring to act quietly but confidently. His character is a surprising combination of caring and a touch of sternness: he won't coddle anyone, but will always offer a helping hand if needed. His companions sense this reliability and are drawn to him, knowing they can rely on Poseidon.

He has twenty-four companions—a whole little family, each with its own character and history. Among them, three giants stand out: Chrysalis, Kaitor, and Foltor—they are like his loyal lieutenants, on whom he relies in the most difficult situations. The rest of his companions are tiny, barely noticeable among their enormous neighbors, but Poseidon treats each one with equal attention: for him, there are no "important" or "unimportant" ones; he remembers everyone's name and tries to give everyone his attention.

At the very edge of a distant solar system, in the dark and restless asteroid belt, a tiny dwarf planet lurks—like a lost cog in some vast cosmic machine. This is Tylor, though official catalogs list it under the stern alphanumeric name TU7272_77. Apparently, a simple human name is much closer to it—it seems to make it feel a little less lonely among the cold stones and eternal darkness.

Unlike the other planets in this bizarre, erratic cosmos, Tylor looks unusual even by local standards. Yes, like everyone else, it has a face—it has eyes, eyebrows, and a mouth—but it's not just a faceless orb floating in orbit. Its surface is covered in a dense white shell, riddled with numerous scars—as if, over its long life, it has repeatedly collided with asteroids and comets, each time miraculously remaining intact. These marks give it the appearance of a seasoned traveler who has seen and experienced much.
His look is completed by details that make Taylor resemble a humble space vagabond. He wears a willow-colored hood and a cap of the same shade underneath. His mouth is hidden by a bandana of a slightly darker willow hue, as if he's deliberately hiding his emotions from prying eyes. He also adores jewelry: he wears it so carefully and with such touching seriousness, as if each pendant or pin were not just a trinket but a memento of some important event. There's something very human about it: the desire to surround yourself with little things that make the world a little warmer.
Tylor is incredibly quiet and unobtrusive. He doesn't seek the spotlight, doesn't argue with giants, and doesn't try to shout down the chaos of space. Almost no one notices him: not the mighty Galstron, not the wise Blackswurd, not the other planets—for against their backdrop, Tylor isn't just a dot, but a barely perceptible mini-dot, almost dissolving into the darkness. Even the rocky planets, constantly bustling in their orbits, are unaware of his existence. He is cold, serious, and stern, throwing asteroids.

Blacksword is a beautiful, jet-black planet, fitting in this bizarre, cosmic realm where the familiar laws of the universe give way to a fantastical logic. Its appearance is captivating and slightly terrifying: enormous, glowing orange rings, seemingly woven from the reflections of distant stars, actually almost belong to a nearby black hole—and it is they that shroud Blacksword in a mysterious veil. These rings serve as its eyes: only its mouth and expressive eyebrows remain visible, giving it an expression that is either thoughtful or slightly tired.

In appearance, it truly resembles a black hole—just as black, absorbing light, inspiring awe. But despite this resemblance, Blacksword is just a planet, albeit an incredibly impressive one. It's larger than Saturn, and almost as large in diameter as Galstron—they're like two giants born in different corners of the same insane universe. True, Blacksword is slightly smaller in mass than its bold companion, and, if you can call a planet that, it's also slightly shorter in stature—as if it deliberately avoids reaching upwards, lest it overshadow the others.

But the main difference between Blacksword and Galstron is his personality. While Galstron is a storm, hot-tempered and blunt, Blacksword is a calm haven, a caring father to his countless companions. He has over two thousand of them—no one has counted them exactly, but the number 2007 has become firmly entrenched in cosmic legends. He listens patiently to everyone, does not impose his will, and if a companion wishes to embark on a long journey, he calmly lets them go, only quietly wishing them luck. Moreover, he often comes to the aid of others, especially fragile rocky planets, which are sometimes lost in the chaos of orbits and collisions.

Blackswurd is a quiet, kind, and honest planet: his silence radiates a calm joy, as if he draws happiness from the very fact of his existence. He is modest, unwilling to show off, and it is precisely this restraint that makes him particularly valuable to others.

The planet GJ 504b proudly calls itself Galstron—a name that seems to echo the rumble of distant stars and the hum of cosmic vortices. Galstron is male, occupying the sixth orbit in its system, as if deliberately choosing a position far removed from the bustle of nearby worlds. Its dimensions are staggering: ten times larger and more massive than Jupiter, the giant gas cloud next to it appears to be little more than a pitiful speck, barely visible against the dazzling pink glow of Galstron.

He has only two satellites—tiny, modest dots, barely visible next to his colossal frame. He destroyed the rest with his own hands, coldly declaring that he had no intention of playing nanny to anyone. And it wasn't just his satellites that fell victim to his harsh disposition: many rocky planets crumbled to dust at his behest—and he did this deliberately, as if testing the fragility of this cosmic order.
Galstron has a complex personality: he's rude, brash, and sometimes downright cruel, but at the same time, there's a strange, almost mischievous humor about him—as if the entire universe were just a giant playground for him. He acts like an older brother who's supposed to be looking out for everyone else, but in reality, he doesn't listen to anyone: he just rolls his eyes (after all, in this twisted cosmos, planets have eyebrows, mouths, and eyes—so nothing surprising there) and pretends to listen to what others are saying, while he's already planning his next prank.
Despite being a mere space object, devoid of arms, legs, and a familiar physical form, Galstron has somehow acquired a whole collection of human belongings: headphones, a Wi-Fi router, and even a phone, as if trying to detect the pulse of distant civilizations. But most of all, he loves simply flying in his orbit, reveling in his own power and the vastness of space.
After all, this is a twisted universe. Here, every planet has its own mouth, eyes, and eyebrows, and the rules aren't based on physics. Galstron has no rings.

Somewhere far away in the vastness of space, beyond our familiar world—as if in that very same "wandering space"—there lies another solar system. It is remarkably similar to our own: the same shining stars, the same orbits along which the planets move, and the same mesmerizing harmony of celestial bodies. But for all the similarities, this system has its own unique twist: special rules apply, unique patterns emerge, and a history filled with its own ups and downs, scientific breakthroughs, and sweeping changes. It teems with its own life, its own revolutions are born, its own traditions are formed—and for that reason, it is no less astonishing than our own corner of space.