The Journals of the S.C. Nostradamus

The sound of this ship makes me feel insane sometimes. The echo of silence. It was built for tens of thousands, but a comparatively paltry few remain after our crew of scientists unlocked the horrible secret on Iorus and the mutinies began.

I became the leader of this doomed vessel after the captain and her underlings were assassinated during a ration break. Magar. That bastard Magar managed to sneak a powerful explosive into a bag of humble bread. The concussion breached the hull…and well, all the leadership went with it. The war on the ship didn’t feel real until that day. The people looked to me afterwards, a lowly navigation tech, to take up arms and defend the ship from the madness that was spreading. We’ve managed to beat back the bastards for now, but the wars that waged in the engineering deck knocked out most of our navigation controls. For months we floated in this space, this nothingness. No north, no south, no direction at all but forward. In our space all that exists is forward. We have to get back home. We have to warn the human race of what we have found out here.

The only clue that we are on the right track back to earth is a series of 4000 year old broadcasts. I believe the primates of their time called it “Television”. From what we’ve gathered the broadcast appears to be an ice based sport called “NHL Hockey”. It’s a simple task: I monitor the broadcasts and steer the ship, the better the quality of the signal, the closer I am on the path to home. This echo is our road map.

Hot takes and headlines:

The one they call “Evander” has served his time in King Bettman’s forced labor camps. He is free to patrol the ice, and although it is possible for him to score 30 goals, he is ostracized by his own team for numerous humanitarian offences. I believe the team they refer to as the “Penguins” will make a play for him, and he will fit in well on the team until his true colors are revealed when temptation rears its ugly head.

The northern sector team, the one they call The Canadians, have executed their generals and have replaced them in less than a fortnight! Emperor Gorton, former general from the once great future city of New York, has been named successor. Gorton doesn’t speak the strange tongue of the region, and needs to acquire a sad puppet man in order to sway the foolish public. I do not think he will find success. The locals seem hostile.

A young man by the name of Hughes was adorned with riches and merriment, or as much as one could acquire in such a shit time of history, for simply maintaining the appearance of talent. I believe he could be a rebel agent, designed by a rival to destroy the financial footing of his organization. Very interesting tactic. I’ll have to store that one in my files for when Magar and I eventually clash again. 

The players of the NHL federation are determined to attend a large sport festival that takes place at the center of the Earth, despite all the contrary evidence. They are stupid, but I find it honorable, as the only payment is glory along with a gold, silver or bronze amulet. Could this be an outcome of the mineral wars that I learned of? I’ll have to visit the knowledge base and explore this time period more.

This was a beautiful ship. Now it’s face and torso are scarred. It limps through the dreadful vacuum of space propelling at a tenth of the speed it was designed for. We, the proud 3245 souls of the S.C. Nostradamus, are split down the middle and constantly battling for it’s control. Magar and his terrorist tactics are gaining and losing ground everyday. It’s impossible to know if I’ll get home, but as long as the NHL signal continues to come in clear, I know I’m on course.


Rob White is a Canadian-based award-winning filmmaker and part-time author. Follow him on Instagram @robwhitemakemakesstuff

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