Sanctuary

The stars didn’t seem so far away from her bedroom window. They scattered across the sky like a thousand glimmering eyes, all watching from beyond the black dome that kept Jupiter’s cold shadow at bay.

On Ganymede, the colony sky never truly darkened. A gentle aurora shimmered overhead, generated by magnetic panels that copied Earth’s natural lights. Artificial clouds drifted in controlled cycles, and every breath came from machines that worked silently to keep everything alive.

At twelve, Solara had begun to understand her world—a place where time stretched long and people lived for centuries. The older she grew, the more the station began to feel small, even with its endless corridors and hidden rooms. She’d explored most of it by now, learned the different paths and shortcuts, and even found a few places that felt like her own secret corners of the universe. One of her favorite spots was a quiet observation deck, a narrow room with a glass wall that showed a sweeping view of the stars. She liked to go there to think, to feel the vastness of space stretching out before her.

Her days were filled with virtual classrooms and light chatter in the open green spaces, but there were whispers in the corridors and hallways between living quarters that always seemed to quiet when she approached.

Two adults spoke in low, hurried voices.

“It’s unnatural,” one of them whispered harshly. “Living for so long, losing track of time… It’s not how humanity was meant to exist.”

“Keep your voice down,” another voice hissed back. “You know the consequences if they hear you talking like this.”

“Consequences or not, I know I’m not alone,” the first voice continued, a tremor of anger in his words.

The voices faded as the two figures moved farther down the path, leaving her with a strange, unsettled feeling. She wanted to know more, but she knew better than to ask her parents. Some questions, she realized, were safer left unspoken.

_________________________

Solara shifted in her seat in her room at home, a smooth, curved cocoon-like living space. Her life was surrounded by metal walls and machines that took care of everything. She could press a button, and the whole room would change, with soft green light making it feel like a meadow, or warm orange like a sunrise.

The instructor’s voice filtered through the virtual classroom: “Today we’ll continue studying humanity’s expansion beyond Earth…”

It was easy for Solara, relaxed at home and connected virtually, to wander in her thoughts as the instructors lectured. Why were there so few kids like her? Why did everyone talk about life stretching on and on, almost forever, yet never mention where babies came from? She’d asked her mom once, and her mother’s face had softened, her eyes sad but kind.

“Life is a gift,” she’d said.

That answer had only made her more curious. In her classes, most of the other kids were older, some well past two hundred years, though they looked like teenagers.

“Medical advances allowed colonists to survive the long journeys,” the instructor paused, her smile maintaining its programmed warmth, “and maintain knowledge across generations.”

“Now,” the instructor continued, “who can explain why Earth colonies developed differently from outer settlements?”

Silence.

“Enhanced infrastructure,” the instructor stated. “Earth colonies had access to advanced medical facilities, allowing for more refined implementations of life extension.”

The instructor’s pause was barely noticeable. “Family structures adapted to extended lifespans. The focus shifted to quality over quantity, ensuring each generation could be properly supported.”

Halfway through the lesson, a chime sounded. One of the avatars froze mid-motion.

Participant Removed: ID–KAL.Nex041.

No flash of red. No system-wide alert. Just a clean notification tone. The digital instructor paused for half a second, then resumed as if nothing had happened.

But Solara had noticed. Kal. She knew him. He lived two buildings over, always quiet, always polite. His family had the kind of warmth that felt out of place but was what Solara found memorable.

The class ended.

Now back at her home, staring at the stars through the glass, the familiar beep of the intercom chimed.

“Solara,” her mother’s voice came through. “Dinner in ten.”

“Coming,” she called back. She stood at her window, watching the pedestrian lanes two levels below. A medical transport glided silently down the corridor, a frosted texture to the glass partially making it hard to see a child in the chamber.

Two enforcement agents walked alongside in dark grey suits marked only by white bands at collar and wrist. The parents followed behind. No struggle. No sound. Both stared straight ahead.

Solara pressed her hand against the glass. No sirens. No crowds. Just clean, orderly removal.

She watched the stars for a few more moments, trying to picture Earth again. She’d seen a few pictures of it, some from a long, long time ago. She couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to live somewhere so alive, where things grew all on their own without artificial lights or life support systems.

Later that evening, Solara heard her parents’ hushed voices from the main room. She crept closer to the door.

“…happening more frequently,” her mother was saying. “First the Henicks boy, then that girl from Sector 7, now Kal…”

“Those poor families,” her father replied grimly. “They thought they could hide…”

Solara focused. Hide what?

“Solara has clean documentation,” her mother said with relief.

“That’s what worries me,” her father’s voice turned fearful. “Do you remember? I think those masked kidnappers wanted her specifically-"

A soft chime echoed through their home—an incoming call. Solara heard her father’s footsteps moving toward the communication panel.

“Good evening,” came a pleasant, professional voice from the speakers. “This is Medical Facility Coordination checking in on your family’s wellness status.”

“Oh, yes, hello,” her father replied, his tone becoming neutral.

“How are you and your partner adjusting? Any concerns we should note for Solara’s upcoming developmental assessment?”

“We’re all doing well, thank you,” her mother joined in. “Solara’s been excellent. No issues to report.”

“Wonderful. Please ensure she’s prepared for her scheduled check-up next week. Standard growth monitoring and wellness evaluation. Any questions about the process?”

“No, we’re familiar with the routine.”

“Perfect. Have a restful evening.”

The call ended. Solara heard her parents’ quiet, worried murmurs that followed, but couldn’t make out most of the words.