GALACTIC REFLECTIONS

  STORIES OF TIME, WAR, AND TRANSFORMATION

  Copyright Information

  This is an original publication of Cameron Cooper

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2024 by Stories Rule Press

  “Winds of Change” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, September 2023

  “Fetch” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, September 2024

  “An Average Night on Androkles” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, December 2020

  “A Place for Everyone” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, June, 2023

  “Flying Blind” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, October 2019

  “A Room of Her Own” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, April 2023

  “He Really Meant It” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, July 2024

  “But Now I See” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, November 2019

  “And We Danced All Night” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, September 2022

  “The Body in the Zero Gee Brothel” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, October 2021

  “Insanity is Infectious” Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, January 2022

  “Resilience”. Copyright Tracy Cooper-Posey, September 2019

  Text design by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Edited by Mr. Intensity, Mark Posey

  Cover design by Dar Albert

  http://WickedSmartDesigns.com

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  FIRST EDITION: September 2024

  Cooper, Cameron

  Fiction, Science Fiction, Space Opera, Solarpunk

  2409.2

  Table of Contents

  Half Title Page

  Copyright Information

  About Galactic Reflections

  Praise for Cameron’s Science Fiction

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Winds of Change

  Fetch

  An Average Night on Androkles

  A Place for Everyone

  Flying Blind

  A Room of Her Own

  He Really Meant It

  But Now I See

  And We Danced All Night

  The Body in the Zero Gee Brothel

  Insanity is Infectious

  Resilience

  Did you enjoy this collection? How to make a big difference!

  Other Books by Cameron Cooper

  This is a Stories Rule Press title.

  About Galactic Reflections

  All Cameron’s standalone fiction (so far) in one collection

  Galactic Reflections: Stories of Time, War, and Transformation is a captivating collection of short stories by Cameron Cooper, a master of speculative fiction. This anthology brings together a diverse array of tales that explore the human condition across time and space. From the solar-punk landscapes of “Winds of Change” to the cosmic origins in “Fetch,” each story offers a unique glimpse into different futures and alternate realities. In “A Room of Her Own,” journey aboard a generation ship where the boundaries of personal freedom and societal expectation blur, while “Resilience” delves into the haunting consequences of war and regeneration.

  Whether it’s the noirish intrigue of “And We Danced All Night,” the whimsical twist in “He Really Meant It,” or the first-person narration of “Insanity is Infectious” from the Iron Hammer series, Cooper’s stories are united by their rich world-building and thought-provoking themes. Galactic Reflections invites readers to explore the delicate balance between hope and despair, love and loss, and the enduring human spirit in the face of unimaginable challenges. This collection is a must-read for fans of science fiction and anyone who enjoys stories that challenge the imagination and inspire reflection.

  Includes:

  Winds of Change

  Fetch

  An Average Night on Androkles

  A Place for Everyone

  Flying Blind

  A Room of Her Own

  He Really Meant It

  But Now I See

  And We Danced All Night

  The Body in the Zero Gee Brothel

  Insanity is Infectious

  Resilience

  Also (only from Stories Rule Press):

  Cam’s Standalone Fiction Special Bundle

  Cameron Cooper’s Super-Bundle

  Science Fiction Short Stories.

  Note: These stories were written by a human, without the use of LLM artificial intelligence.

  Praise for Cameron’s Science Fiction

  Finalist, Hugh Howey’s SPSFC#2

  Epic science fiction at its finest. Realistic far future worlds. Incredible characters and scenarios.

  The concepts are staggering and intensely interesting.

  It's intriguing and futuristic and human in its telling.

  I was pleasantly surprised by the depth of the world building.

  Very interesting, beautifully written, complex story.

  Very interesting and imaginative, it's like Cameron has already been there and lived that!

  Original and entertaining.

  About the Author

  Cameron Cooper is the author of the Imperial Hammer space opera series, among others, and is the pen name used by bestselling author Tracy Cooper-Posey. As Cameron Cooper, she writes science fiction short stories and novels, including space opera. As Tracy Cooper-Posey, she writes historical suspense, romance, plus women’s fiction. She also writes contemporary, epic and urban fantasy stories and novels as Taylen Carver.

  She has published over 200 titles under all pen names since 1999, is an Aurealis Award Finalist, has been nominated for five CAPAs including Favourite Author, and won the Emma Darcy Award. She turned to indie publishing in 2011. Her indie titles have been nominated four times for Book of The Year. Tracy won the award in 2012, a SFR Galaxy Award in 2016 and came fourth in Hugh Howey’s SPSFC#2 in 2023. She is currently a city magazine editor and for a decade she taught writing at MacEwan University.

  She is addicted to Irish Breakfast tea and chocolate, sometimes taken together. In her spare time she enjoys history, Sherlock Holmes, science fiction and fantasy and ignoring her treadmill. An Australian Canadian, she lives in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, a former professional wrestler, where she moved in 1996 after meeting him on-line.

  GALACTIC REFLECTIONS

  STORIES OF TIME, WAR, AND TRANSFORMATION

  BY

  CAMERON COOPER

  Stories Rule Press

  WINDS OF CHANGE

  A world lived above and below…

  Saima, who comes from a different way of life, is searching for a sense of belonging among the nomadic trader tribe she lives with. The Winterwillow Collective moves between underground villages, providing goods and news. For the Aberuthan Warren they must also provide judicial services to resolve the matter of an abduction committed by a girl whom Saima must learn to understand if the child is to be saved.

  “Winds of Change” is a short solarpunk story by award-winning SF author Cameron Cooper.

  ___

  “Winds of Change” first appeared in Every Tomorrow Worse?, on September 30, 2023, then again in “Shelter of Daylight,” on July 1, 2024.

  ON THE THIRD DAY AFTER the Winterwillow Collective changed routes, they reached what should have been the Aberuthen Warren. The valley which greeted them was not as it should be, which didn’t reassure Saima.

  She trusted Pallas. Of course she did. He was her husband. Only he had looked so strained lately, bent over his books and data. And he had argued so strongly with Director Brid, until it seemed that Pallas had forced the Director to declare the Collective would visit Aberuthen, instead of Director Brid coming to his own decision. Then Pallas had insisted upon walking behind Brid as the Collective travelled north-west.

  Saima and Markas, her other husband, had walked with Pallas at the head of the file. They could scarce do anything else. They’d given their wagon to one of the relief drivers.

  Now the slow-moving caravan of creaking salvage carts, enclosed living wagons and mongrel vehicles came to a halt behind Director Venkat Brid as he pushed back his hood, unhooked his face veil and stared out across the shallow valley they’d reached. Everyone gathered behind him and spread out across the low crest to study their destination.

  Saima pulled aside her own veil and sniffed the air. It was close to dawn and the omnipresent ivory dust was minimal. She lowered the veil, but left her hood in place.

  Under the thick, permanent cloud cover, there was no moonlight to illuminate the valley. Saima only knew what moonlight was because she had grown up on a platform. Yet the bone-white, bare, heat-baked and sterile earth told its own story, for it lay across the valley like a winding sheet, pale in the night and bereft of details.

  “Where is the Warren?” Director Brid demanded. “The lobby should be right there.”

  Saima rested her hand against Pallas’ back as he tensed. She soothed silently.


  “What did their lobby look like, Director?” Markas asked. He spoke with the smooth, placating tones he used when examining witnesses and pronouncing judgements.

  “It’s been twenty years. More!” Brid sounded disgusted. “I can’t remember. It was wider than it was tall. Corrugated steel and girders. Sturdy. It’s not there, now.” He held out his hand. An assistants thrust the battered, scratch and cherished binoculars into it.

  Brid studied the valley in detail. “This is damned peculiar.” He lowered the glasses. “The entrance is there, but nothing protects it.” He brooded, weighing the safety and wellbeing of the Collective. He turned, his boot heel under the djellaba digging a round hole in the white dirt. “Pallas, did you know something had happened to the warren?”

  Saima stroked Pallas’ spine, where the Director couldn’t see it, reminding Pallas that his skills were valuable, that he must trust himself and remain firm.

  Pallas shook his head. “The data doesn’t give details, Director. The patterns merely suggested we should head in this direction.”

  Pallas was an unregistered asset. He served formally as Markas’ secretary and archivist, for Markas was the registered asset in the Collective. But Pallas’ real talent was an ability to absorb and process huge amounts of data. He could see patterns in datasets, and across them, too. Unlike assets who could also memorize vast seas of information and spot trends, Pallas specialized in social and anthropological movements. He was very good at what he did, even though it often meant he was preoccupied with feeding his mind with data, a furrow between his fine brows. He consumed information, his narrow chin down by his chest, working to retain it. Sometimes Saima found it hard to draw him back to the real world, to share a meal with her and Markas.

  “We’ll go down there,” Venkat Brid decided. “Find out what happened and lend a hand if they need it. Collectors, spread out. Let’s do a sweep across the valley. We might yet profit from this detour.”

  He handed the glasses back, replaced his veil and dug his hiking pole into the ground. The Collective shifted into slow forward motion.

  Saima swayed so she could see Pallas’ face. He was a very tall man for a Collective-born, which meant their eyes were level. Over the top of his veil, his looked silver in the last of the dry, dark night. He picked up her hand. “I’m fine,” he assured her. He tugged her into following Venkat Brid down the hill toward the remains of the warren they had come to trade with.

  •

  AS THEY APPROACHED THE ENTRANCE to the Aberuthen Warren—a wide set of rammed earth steps heading down to the forum level—more signs of trouble reached them.

  The outrunners reported back that a motherlode of salvage was in the valley, but scattered like sand particles, not grouped in huddled remains of what once had been buildings.

  Also, the warren steps were not shielded from the elements. Old girders thrust from the ground, bent and twisted, showing mangled, unweathered steel between rust. They marked in metallic Morse the shape of the building that had once protected the entrance.

  The wall that staved people away from the rear of the stairwell pit remained. It was made of old, massive Hedonist concrete chunks bound together with rammed earth and slathered over with straw mud.

  “No lobby, salvage lying across a valley that was picked clean a generation ago…” Brid muttered. He looked up at the sky. “Dawn, soon. We can’t linger here to figure this out. Pallas, you said it would be worth while heading here. Go down there and see if the weather seal is in place. Rouse them, if it is.”

  Pallas pushed his hood back and unhooked his veil. Markas handed Pallas their solar torch. Pallas switched it on, then trod down the steps, the bright, focused beam playing ahead of him, before he and the light disappeared beneath the earth.

  Another scout ran up. “Their power dish is misaligned, Director.”

  Saima pressed her lips together. Power collectors were built to endure. What force had wrenched it out of alignment?

  “Fixable?” the director asked. “Within the engineers’ skills?”

  “They say yes.”

  Brid nodded, as the solar torch lit the upper steps of the warren entrance once more. This time, many people emerged, climbing behind Pallas, all of them in the loose, many layered clothing of the warrens.

  One of the taller among them lifted her arms. “Venkat Brid! I see and breathe!” She encased Brid in a hug determined to compress him into a sliver.

  “Grazia Ederne,” Brid said breathlessly. “You’re leading Aberuthen?”

  The stout woman stepped back. “Two years, now. I cannot believe Winterwillow is here at my door.” In the light of the solar torches springing up around them, her face looked worn, her eyes drawn by lack of sleep. “We are in dire need, Brid. Does your Collective still have a Judge Jurist among its assets?”

  Brid nodded. “We do. You are in need of one?” He looked around the remains of the building that had once protected the warren entrance. “I’d have thought you’d be in need of engineers. Your dish is misaligned.”

  “Those, too,” Ederne said, gripping Brid by the elbow. “But we are more sorely in need of a judge. We have trouble. Criminal trouble. Come. All of you. The warren is still awake. Let’s deal with this now…and our thanks will bow your food nets, I promise you.”

  •

  THE FORUM LEVEL OF ABERUTHEN Warren was a proper fifty meters below surface level, carved out by hand, as many of the older warrens were, to form a vast chamber with supporting native rock pillars which soared thirty meters up to the vaulted roof.

  And everywhere, there were shrubs and trees and beds of plants, separated by honest earth beaten to smoothness by the passage of many feet. Among them were public squares with benches. At the center of the forum was the heart of it—a larger public square, surrounded by hedges and featuring a field of clover underfoot.

  The sun lights were all turned to yellow orange, to signify the shift from the active nocturnal period to the sleeping period. The lowering light cast shadows across the forum.

  As the members of the Collective spilled down the stairs and into the central square, the entrance was sealed against the heat, dust and dryness of the coming day.

  Despite the size of the forum, people were packed into the public areas, many of them sitting or lying on the flooring. Those that were reclining wore the pale, thin coverings the Collectives preferred for their coolness, protection against ultraviolet light and the ever-present dust.

  As always, whenever she stepped into a warren, Saima paused to adjust to the rich aromas that marked warren life. While she absorbed the impact of the scents and stenches, she examined the people lying and sitting on the floors and benches. “There is a second Collective here?” she asked.

  “Aye, but not from any design of mine, I assure you. We’re a C-classified warren,” Grazia Ederne said. “And we’ve been at capacity for a generation.”

  A C Classification meant they were licensed to house three thousand people, Saima recalled.

  “This here is all that is left of the Honeyherb Collective,” Ederne added. She waved toward a short man in a stained and torn djellaba, with very dark features, who got to his feet and came toward them. “This is Eydís Mertens, Director of the Honeyherb Collective.”

  Mertens nodded grimly.

  “What happened to your vehicles? Your salvage?” Brid said. “There is nothing above us but sand.”

  Mertens sighed. “Damn girl happened, is what.”

  “That’s part of why we need a judge,” Ederne added. “We can explain everything before him.”

  Brid beckoned to Markas. “Mr. Domhnall.”

  Out of habit, Saima and Pallas moved alongside Markas as he put himself before Governor Ederne and Director Mertens. Markas was the short step between Pallas and Saima. “Who is to be judged?” he intoned, his voice making up for the elevation he felt he lacked, despite them both assuring him it made no difference. But Markas, in private, was a gentle and sensitive man. A thoughtful one, who offset Pallas’ passions and drive.