← LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE - Science Fiction and Fantasy Story Podcast (Sci-Fi | Audiobook | Short Stories)
LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE - Science Fiction and Fantasy Story Podcast (Sci-Fi | Audiobook | Short Stories)
"Hell Is Empty" by J.R. Dawson + "Saint Zero of the Hollows and the Eagle Knight" by V.M. Ayala
00:42:34
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- [00:05]
Narrator/Host
Lightspeed.
- [00:07]
Alison Belle Buse
Hello, my name is Alison Belle Buse. Pleased to be your muse for the Lightspeed Magazine podcast. Today we have quite the pair of stories for your listening pleasure. First up is the short shot Hell is Empty by J.R. dawson. Narrated by Nan McNamara. Coming up right after this message,
- [00:29]
Podcast Advertiser/Promoter
K
- [00:30]
Narrator/Host
Pop Demon Hunters, Haja Boys Breakfast Meal and Hunt Tricks Meal have just dropped at McDonald's. They're calling this a battle for the fans. What do you say to that, Rumi?
- [00:38]
Alison Belle Buse
It's not a battle. So glad the Saja Boys could take breakfast and give our meal the rest of the day.
- [00:43]
Narrator/Host
It is an honor to share.
- [00:45]
Woodbine Podcast Narrator
No, it's our honor. It is our larger honor.
- [00:49]
Alison Belle Buse
No, really, stop. You can really feel the respect in this battle.
- [00:54]
Narrator/Host
Pick a meal to pick a side.
- [00:56]
Story Narrator (Hell is Empty)
Ba da ba ba ba and participate in McDonald's while supplies last.
- [01:01]
Alison Belle Buse
And now Nan McNamara.
- [01:06]
Story Narrator (Hell is Empty)
Hell is Empty by J.R. dawson and all the Devils are here. What's that from? Millie asks as she gets her coat. I stand at the back window looking out. Usually you can see the downtown skyline from this position. Today it's just the Hell Mouth, a long tube that looks like an esophagus that's been yanked out of a Kaiju and dangles from the ground. Bloody, meaty, smoking. It's Shakespeare, I say. I don't remember which play. I think one of the Henry's. Millie follows my gaze to the Hellmouth. She zips her coat. She purses her lip. Well, she says. We need dog food. We need to work out if I'm going to hit my minimum for reimbursement. I know, I say. It's far enough from us. I think we'll be okay if we make it quick, she says. Our phones ping again. I look down. A new woman has been killed by the Devils. Executed, I should say. I look out to The Hellmouth again, 20 minutes away. When I was a kid, back before all this, when things were peaceful, we had tornado warnings and I remember standing behind the couch, my entire nervous system on fire as I listened to my parents decide if we should go watch the funnel cloud from the porch or if we should go down in the basement, the Midwestern ambivalence to deadly things coming straight for us. But we need to keep our heads about it. It's moving a little, I say as we step out onto the porch and Millie checks her tracking app. A little, she says. The Hellmouth is mostly downtown, but it looks like the devils are fanning out here. Only a couple, she looks to me. We'll be okay. The ones in Chicago didn't move. The one in Portland didn't move. The one in New York only moved a little. But the one in D.C. multiplied, Millie mutters as we slowly make our way off the porch into the back garage. We haven't had the energy to ice the pathway to the garage. The is the guy who made the deal with something below and dark and awful because like anyone who makes deals, he wanted power. And now we have devils. Once we get into the car and turn on the heat, we duck on to the normalcy of the neighborhood streets where you can't see the hellmouth anymore. But I keep my eyes open. Millie looks at her phone. It says the woman was yanked right through her windshield. She says her wife was right next to her. She gives a little gasp and lets her phone fall into her lap. Her her arm limp, her eyes the heart kind of scared where you don't let yourself cry. She looks up at the sky like the devils are going to descend right onto me. We're okay, I say. We're just getting dog food and going to the gym. And the grocery store's parking lot is still crowded. There are still people asking for change at the sliding doors. Teenage boys in lime green vests still collect wayward carts. We still struggle to find a parking spot, and we go inside and there's still Purina Dog Chow in a big smelly plastic bag for our Dalmatian. The supply chains are still open, the trucks are still going. People are still working. No devils here, all just downtown. And it seems like a lot of people in this store don't even care that a hell mouth has opened. Maybe it's something we've all come to decide. We'll work around like a squeaky stare. I think when I was a kid a hell mouth would have been enough cause for a grocery store to close. But now we're all so silent as we wrap our scarves around our faces to keep out the cold as we jog to our cars. Maybe we're all numb that hard, kind of scared, and on the way to the gym we see buses picking people up from bus stops, and if you don't look to the sky where the red and black smoke are now churning into a Chernobog esque swirl, or how a winged bat looking thing shoots over the intersection on their way to attack someone. They sound like helicopters and it could almost be like it used to be. I stare at the devil above as it disappears and goes north. We're okay this time. The devil's already killed most of the poets in town I'm not a poet. I can't put all these words and images and contrasts together into something coherent. But my body begs me to make sense of it, just swallow it all down and digest it and regurgitate something beautiful. Hell is empty and all the devils are here, I whisper again, the only semblance of art I can grasp right now. A poet, a long time ago, before the tornadoes I saw or the days like today, said something I can hold on to. Millie looks at her phone as I drive and she says, the Tempest. It's from the Tempest. That makes sense. I agree. We park in the gym lot. We walk inside. The only evidence of the Hellmouth within our little cocoon of treadmills and ellipticals is on television screens hanging above the weightlifting equipment like it's a movie, like it's happening somewhere else. And then the sky goes black outside and I grab Millie's hand and I hold it very tight and I wait for the devils to shatter the glass, rush inside, try to take her, let them try to take her. I will fucking murder them. I will claw them with my nails until I am nothing but dust. Then the sun returns and no windows are broken, no devils arrive. The TV's only flicker for a second and then they're fine. And that waiting, the waiting for the strike, it fills my nerves with an unwanted horror, the anticipation of something. Just get it over with, I want to say. But nothing comes. No absolution. Just more notifications on our phones and the newsroom on the TV keeps spinning. How the Hellmouth is actually a really good thing for the economy. I want the day to be over. My body is on fire. I open my phone again as we buckle into the car to go home. Millie puts her hand over my screen and she says, look at me. I look at her, her big green eyes, her curly ringlets. They're all here in front of me, trying to ground me to a home I'm so afraid of losing. When we are on our phones, she says, are we using it to connect with someone to get information? Or are we doom scrolling? We both know the answer. So just take a second and be here with me. How can I be here with her when the sky is red? She gently puts her hand on my shoulder. We are still here, on our way home. We're going to text our neighbors and see if there's anything they need while we're out. We're going to go home and make yummy food that is good for our bodies and we're going to get a good night's rest so we can show up tomorrow. The neighborhood will need us, even if it's just putting a door back on its frame or donating an extinguisher. And after we do all that, we are going to crawl into bed again and we're going to get back up again and again, strong and ready. They can take it all from us, I say. Any of that can be interrupted by I wave. Outside, the air is cold and dry and tense. I can feel it like a dybbuk latching onto my shoulders, digging into my spine. She nods. They can, she says. That's all she says. No buts, no resolutions. She starts driving, though. We call our neighbor. They ask if we can drive through and get something to eat for them. They tell us about their neighbor who might need us to run an errand. Tomorrow we drive through Burger King. We deliver a warm collection of kids meals and Whoppers. Then Millie and I haul our dog food in through the porch and the back room to the kitchen where our dog waits. I numbly follow. She doesn't pull the curtains closed. We can still see the Hellmouth, and we quietly make some chicken noodle soup. We watch she Ra and we hum along to the theme song. We crawl into bed and the sky is still red and I am still scared and she touches my skin. I think to myself as she holds me close to her warm chest and stomach and I feel another human against my back, that all the devils are still here. But so are we.
- [11:56]
Alison Belle Buse
You have just heard Hell is empty. By J.R. dawson Narrated by Nan McNamara JR Dawson She they is the golden Crown Award winning author of the First Bright Thing. Their short story Six People to Revise youe is a 2026 Nebula finalist. She has other work in places such as fnsf, Uncanny, and Reactor. Dawson currently lives on Dakota Land in Minnesota with her loving wife. She teaches at Drexel University's MFA program for Creative Writing and fills her free time with keeping her three chaotic dogs out of trouble. Her latest book, the Lighthouse at the Edge of the World, is a Sapphic orpheus retelling. Nan McNamara is the recipient of multiple Earphone Awards and Audiophile Magazines Best Audiobook of the Year distinction. She has narrated more than 300 audiobooks. NAN is the recipient of the Los Angeles Drama Critic Circle Award, Louisiana Weekly Award, and Stage Raw Award for her stage work in WIT and 33 variations. She has performed on television and film, most recently in Hulu's Good Trouble and Fox's 911 Lone Star, and co hosts a podcast called From Beneath the Hollywood Sign about the Golden Age of Hollywood. Welcome back. Up next is Saint Zero of the Hollows and the Eagle Knight by V.M. ayala. Narrated by Janina Edwards. Coming up right after this message.
- [13:36]
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- [15:02]
Narrator/Host
the war
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Podcast Advertiser/Promoter
is over and both sides lost. Kingdoms were reduced to cinders and armies slaughtered, scattered like bones in the dust. Now the survivors claw to what's left of a broken world, praying the darkness chooses someone else tonight. But in the Shadow Dark, the darkness always wins. This is old school adventuring at its most cruel. Your torch ticks down in real time and when that flame dies, something else rises to finish the job. This is a brutal rules light nightmare with a story that even emerges organically based on the decisions that the characters make. This is what it felt like to play RPGs in the 80s and man, it is so good to be back. Join the Glass Cannon podcast as we plunge into the Shadow Dark every Thursday night at 8pm Eastern on YouTube.com theglasscanon with the podcast version dropping the next day. See what everybody's talking about and join us in the dark.
- [16:05]
Alison Belle Buse
Buckle up, we're going to light speed.
- [16:10]
Narrator/Host
The only sound zero heard in their helmet was their own hyperventilating and the gentle Pings from their Pegasus. Waiting, waiting. Communication received. Confirmation of countdown initiation. 30 seconds. The green text hovered in Zero's vision through the neural link to their steed. This was it. Everything they'd prepared for Zero was fine. They were fine. They knew how to joust. They had trained for years against rusted and abandoned bots on discarded shells of Pegasi and Sylvie. But still a long span of asteroid surface stretched out before them, banked on either side by the curves of the crater. A well polished rail delineated Zero's side from their opponents, who was a famous knight and an awful man. Everyone expected him to win. Dents and small divots were the only remaining clues from joust. Impact after impact set and repaired as if nothing happened. After all, these games were an experiment. Vital science, the queen proclaimed. Certainly none of this was theater performed for bored nobility long abandoned by their empire. Zero's Pegasus pawed the ground, fueled by Zero's impatience and rage. Its chassis was designed to survive most land strikes. Zero's suit was not. A skeletal wing motif had been cut into the Pegasus sides. Its small wings and tunisals were welded to the main body directly behind the riding seat. Zero held their lance up. A targeting reticule locked onto their opponent's chest and beeped, calibrating. It turned red and wailed. A high pitched keening tone confirmed target trajectory. Zero confirmed with a blink and mental yes. The long braid of the neural link cord, questionably wrapped in Zero's haste, curved from the back of their helmet down to the right side of the saddle. It was a target as much as any other part of their body. The countdown ended. Their breathing was still all their mind could focus on. They had to do this. They had to. Initiating launch. Gravity nearly knocked them out of their seat. Their vision blurred and blackened, narrowing their world to that single red circle against shimmering titanium. Impact to helmet in 5 seconds. Suggest left lean 10 degrees. It seemed silly that moving their head slightly left while still holding their lance on target against gravity was the real challenge. But that was the true struggle. Everything after was just reaction to those actions. Zero was ready to suffer the consequences. They did as their Pegasus suggested. Their opponent also leaned backwards and right 25 degrees. He meant to glance Zero's hit off his armor. Their targeting reticule moved. Accept adjustments to target. This was the joust gambit. Did their Pegasus guess correctly? Did its predictive analytics and course calculations aim true? Zero believed in their father's genius. He had programmed this Pegasus in his dying days. They trusted in their own updates to its Programming, too. And instinct. It felt like the right play. Simple. They confirmed adjustments. If this was their final act, they'd be disappointed. But there were worse ways to die. They'd imagined worse. They turned their lance sharply up toward their opponent's head. He in turn, shifted his lance down to Zero's chest. The impact sent white bursts of agony through their spine, boiling their vision in black and white and nothing else for a long, long second. Actually, 10 seconds, according to their neural link readouts. Zero wasn't sure what happened. Emergency protocols activated. Numbing administered to left shoulder prosthesis. Pain interface deactivated. Sedative administered. Please remain seated. Emergency personnel have confirmed injury report. Emergency personnel arrival in 20 seconds. 0 numbly looked down at the stump where their left arm prosthetic used to be. They laughed and the sound was strangely delayed, reverberating through their shock. Well, it's a good thing I already lost that arm, huh? They looked up at a screen now hovering right in front of them. Victory St. 0 of the Hollows Beneath the wavering text, Zero's opponent lay unmoving on the ground. Unmoving because his helmet was shattered, his face strewn across the gray asteroid scrabble, his Pegasus pawed, ambivalent as the neural link cord pulled taut between it and its dead rider. Zero laughed again as darkness began to eat at their reality, more intently now. Guess he won't be needing a face anymore. They slumped forward as they were trained to do by their father so, so long ago, to stay seated. Meant to win the match if the other rider fell. Zero would not let this end in a draw so soon. The nice part about entering a tournament to the death? Free repairs and free healthcare. Zero Santos, a nurse called as she entered Zero's sterile and impressively clean room. A room reserved entirely for Zero and not crammed with as many other patients as possible. They'd never experienced such luxury. See? That's me. They looked at the nurse's confused face and remembered all the little infractions stitching together Zero's existence. Not woman enough. Not white enough. But kind of white. Maybe until they spoke Spanish. Not proper enough. You can call me Saint Zero. The gender marker is, well, wrong, but it's fine. So you aren't. The nurse eyed Zero's body with confusion. Zero shrugged. This nurse clearly wasn't equipped to process Zero's complicated gender situation. Which was fine. Zero rarely was either. Why people cared so much when gender on a good day felt like a giant shrug they'd never understand. But that and being from the Hollows were the two defining gates keeping Zero out of the places they wished to enter. It was time to break them down, even if only a little. Even if all they managed was to kick a tiny dent in the metal, at least it was proof they existed. Women aren't allowed to interface with a Pegasus, the nurse said. She emphasized aloud, which was interesting. In Zero's home sector, it was. Can't guess women got a few more rights when born with exorbitant wealth and privilege up here. Zero smiled and winked. Good thing I'm not a woman, then. I. I don't. Sorry. I should talk to my superior. And what are you doing? A sharp, familiar voice said. Sylvie d' Aquilan stood, arms crossed in the doorway. The Eagle Knight there. Eagle Knight. She was exorbitantly wealthy, proof that privilege exempted rich women from any rule. She wore a clean purple bomber jacket over her riding suit, clearly fresh from either preparation for the tournament or marketing for her queen and sponsor. Either way, she was imposing, tall, and beautiful as always. You're so hot when you demand things, zero said in Spanish, guessing the nurse couldn't speak it, not really caring if she did. And if a surface dwelling nurse did speak Spanish enough to understand, it would embarrass Sylvie more, which made Zero's grin widen out. Sylvie commanded the nurse, not breaking eye contact with Zero. After the woman all but ran out, Sylvie gestured to the rock tokens and withering flowers all hollowers could afford, and said, you've got plenty of admirers. Maybe calling myself a saint was too on the nose, zero said, your next matches in two days. Sylvie picked up a green glimmering shard off the window ledge. Doctor said I'd be Pegasus ready tomorrow. Zero pointed to their missing arm. Should be printed and ready for adjustments in a few hours. It's against. I know, zero said. Sylvie didn't move, statuesque and bitchy as ever, unreadable and sharp until she was underneath Zero in bed. And they couldn't help but love her. All of this would be so much easier if they didn't love her. But they did. They waited, Sylvie's anger out. They always did. Finally, Sylvie's demeanor shifted, a weariness settling into her as she untensed and strode over to Zero's injured side. Gently, she perched on the bedside. She ran a finger along the edge where skin grafted onto Zero's exposed prosthetic socket between the numbing meds and disabled pain sensors. Zero didn't feel it at all. She sighed. Your last opponent was the mine owner responsible for your Sister's accident. Is that so? Zero mused. Sylvie glanced at them, still tracing circles on their skin. Is that your plan then? Vengeance? Take out as many of them as you can before they get you. Naive and simple as that. Zero kissed Sylvie fiercely. It couldn't have been comfortable for her. But they didn't care. Who said anything about a plan? They failed to sound light hearted. Your next opponent will likely kill you. That was true. He had a lifetime of training and killed many men for sport. Zero had learned that firsthand. What's the matter? You said this wasn't personal, just fun. Sylvie yanked away and grabbed Zero's chin as if that would somehow allow her to regain control of Zero's actions. It made them think about all the nights Zero taught her Spanish naked in her room after sneaking up to the Hollows. Sylvie's sneaking training manuals and Pegasus programming booklets. In exchange, every time Sylvie would repeat, this isn't a real relationship. It's just fun. Because in the end Sylvie would die in a tournament as the Queen's favored as the Eagle Knight. It was her duty. Zero was supposed to die in the Hollows mines or get caught sneaking up to the surface to see Sylvie. They had no other endpoints. Until now. Until Zero chose to die in a tournament too. Zero's next opponent was Augustus Pleone iv, youngest son of the Queen, winner of last year's joust being the Queen's cruelest and favorite child. Most of his challengers forfeited their lives or a limb or two rather than kill him. An attorney, but not Zero. No, while Zero wasn't here to kill him exclusively, there were a few others on their list. Ending him was a high priority. Their new arm gleamed as Zero and Augustus rode the elevator up to the prep area. It was the fanciest thing Zero ever owned, and they'd owned it for a few days at best. How ironic. How annoying. You look familiar, augustus said, looking down at them. Surely we haven't met before. I don't interact with many of you Hollowers. Does the name Noe Santos mean anything to you? Zero asked. He shook his head. If it's supposed to. Well, I guess it would be polite of me to apologize, but I'm not feeling very remorseful. Of course not. Why would he be? Noy Santos was just another servant. Or maybe a courier or some Hollower mechanic as far as this asshole was concerned. Zero smiled at him. Don't worry, you will. There were moments, well rehearsed and fantasized, that once transpired left an empty ache. Zero Supposed in their scenarios and unspooled confrontations with Augustus, that it would mean something. The time would dilate. Their father's name would have meaning. But why would it? To someone like Augustus, the name Noe Santos was just a strange name uttered by a strange person he assumed he would kill shortly. In the crater, Zero slipped into their riding suit and donned their armor. Their new arm ached and they did their best to ignore it. The lance was lighter. At least that would make aiming it easier. Augustus's Pegasus was a brilliant red that matched his armor. A purple plume billowed all the way down from his helmet, tangling in his neural link. He initiated countdown. Start. Waiting. Waiting. Message received from Sylvie. Last chance. Back out now. Zero felt the weight of the neural link on the back of their head and didn't move, didn't reply, didn't do anything but wait and wait. Communication received. Confirmation of Countdown initiation. 20 seconds. With each new round, the timer grew shorter. It forced knights to use all their skills rather than rely on an extended countdown to prepare plans. In this case, it was also so Augustus could get it over with. He was notorious for his countdown boredom. Zero was relying on it. Command Augusta's protocol received. The reticule moved until it stilled and turned red. Keening confirm target trajectory. 0 confirmed. With two seconds to spare, their Pegasus bolted forward until the speed grew fast enough for its engines to take over. They didn't have any trajectory suggestions, no defensive maneuvers. They hadn't lied to Sylvie. There was no plan, only a defiant scream into the ether as they roared their father's name. Zero's lance contacted something. Their arm jolted and everything went white. Augustus was a weak knight because everyone let him win. He never varied his stance and he always left his neural link wide open on the side. It was easier than Xera expected to thread the lance in the open space between his side and the neural link. What they hadn't expected was the sickening pop as the force ripped the link out of Augustus skull. Zero turned their Pegasus around, blood dripping down their lance as red as Augustus warped armor. Bits of braided wire and viscera dotted the gray ground leading up to his Pegasus. He slumped forward onto its neck, twitching with every motion in a ghostly reaction until he finally fell. Victory St0 of the Hollows. Zero looked up at the screen and pumped their lance into the thin asteroid air. Their father wouldn't approve of this in his name, but they didn't care. He was dead, their sister dying, their mother disappeared long ago. What was left turned out. Assigned personal quarters were even better than a private hospital room. Despite the constant and unskippable ads decrying Saint Zero as a menace for murdering beloved Augustus and news reports of riots in the Hollows, Zero didn't pay it any attention. Instead they they marveled at the space and luxury of their short term reality. It had a huge kitchen and a formal dining space and a viewing room for guests and a massive bed. The imperious and demanding knock at their door could only be one person. Sylvie strode through into Zero's extremely temporary housing. They kissed her and kissed her and didn't stop as the two stumbled back to it immediately. I hope you're satisfied now, sylvie growled. I need you to do me a favor, zero said afterward in a temporary lull while they caught their breath and savored Sylvie's warmth pressed into their shoulder. Sylvie gave a sleepy scoff. You presume too much, she said in Spanish. It was an old column response. Zero met Sylvie when they had snuck up to find out what happened to their father and had asked for a favor. Sylvie had answered in peak noble fashion, but ultimately gave Thin guidance. Zero showed up the next day and the day after, and soon they were teaching Sylvie Spanish because Sylvie wanted to learn more about heritage. Your accent has improved a little, Zero noted in Spanish. In English, they asked, who've you been practicing with? Your ghost? She murmured, kissing Zero's collarbone and down to their breasts, down and down until Zero moaned. After a few moments longer, Zero far too spent to come again easily. Or anytime soon, they said. You can't avoid it forever, you know. You know my next opponent is. Sylvie worked her way back up to kiss Zero fiercely until Zero tasted their own blood on their lips. Stop thinking about tomorrow when we only have tonight, or I'll kill you now give me all of you. Zero happily, achingly, sadly obliged. They stared balefully down at their next opponent the next morning. Sylvie d' Aguilaran's Pegasus was a beautiful, deceptively delicate Pegasus, its silver filigree and visible interior mechanisms enhancing Sylvie's grace. Small eagle wings sprouted from either side of her helm. She saluted Syri with due deference and respect, which neither opponent Prior had bothered to do. Neither initiated countdown for as long as legally allowed. They stared each other down. Better to let the crowds watching safely from their surface boxes and those crammed together in filthy rooms in the Hollows the believe they were bitter enemies. Saint Zero's legacy was growing beyond Zero's wildest imagination. They were practically a mythological Hollows figure, a knight for justice. When All Zero wanted was to scream with their Pegasus and their lance powerfully enough for someone to hear. As they watched Sylvie unreadable in her helmet, they began to wonder if it was worth it. Maybe Zero and Sylvie could have run away together. What if they had gotten on some cargo ship off asteroid bound? But Sylvie had never promised anything so silly and childish as that. And Zero, Well, Zero didn't like running. This was their home. The Hollows deserved better. Zero's family deserved better. Maybe one day, long after Zero was dead and gone, the Hollows would get a better life.
- [36:09]
Story Narrator (Hell is Empty)
Waiting.
- [36:11]
Narrator/Host
Waiting. Communication received. Message received from Sylvie. I did as you asked. Don't you dare back out now. Confirmation of Countdown initiation. 10 seconds. 0 had a protocol prepped for Sylvie had trained for her the same way she had for Augustus and any other potential opponent. But they didn't initiate targeting. Instead, they held their lance up into the emptiness, listening to their own fast breathing and nothing else. Initiating launch. Despite wanting time to slow or stop, nothing shifted. Nothing froze. Nothing changed. Zero hurtled towards Sylvie and Sylvie towards Zero. They'd been hurtling towards each other for years. Why was this any different? This was a final destruction. Zero knew Sylvie was ruthless. She'd killed opponents in joust for over a decade. To the crowds, Zero was just another number to add to the total. She was unstoppable. Maybe that was fitting, since Zero wasn't going to stop either. A part of them wanted to stop, to lift their lance and call off the match. They focused on targeting without the reticule. Focused on the memory of Sylvie's bare skin against theirs. Of sheets twined against legs and pressure and groaning. They never should have left that bed. They were always going to leave that bed. There were two jolts, almost simultaneous. Zero's arm half ripped out of its socket from the force. Something heavy weighed on their chest. Breathing was difficult, almost impossible. It took all their willpower not to collapse off their Pegasus and onto the dirt. They didn't know what happened to Sylvie yet. To get off the Pegasus was to lose. And they were not going to let this wind up in a draw. Zero would stay seated. They had to make this worth losing her. With a quick mental command, the Pegasus turned back to face the opposite side. Sylvie was slumped forward. A shard of Zero's lance cut into her helmet, blood seeping from it. The rest of Zero's lance pierced through her stomach. Sylvie's intricately carved lance in turn pierced through Zero's chest, pinning them to their seat. The screen descended Victory ST0 of the Hollows that was was done, and over. They wheezed, struggling to gasp in anything but the tang of blood. The screen's image crackled, becoming pixelated until new text appeared. Hold on, Saint Zero. We broke through. Hold on. Zero looked at Sylvie's motionless body on the ground, feeling numb and anything but victorious. Sylvie had opened the Hollow's elevators like Zero asked. In Zero's most fanciful imaginations, the Hollows overtook the surface and killed the Queen and restored peace to the asteroid. It wasn't a plan, not really. All of these thoughts were more akin to simple hope and reckless action. Zero was supposed to care. They were supposed to be some valiant hero, a knight of the people or something. In this moment, all they cared about was being near Sylvie as they died. There was nothing left, and Zero had done all they could. They commanded their Pegasus to walk up to Sylvie's body with a scream. Vision blurring, Zero unscured themself from the seat and fell to the crater floor. The pain flooded over them like a thousand pinpricks, unceasing, until the world grew dim and distant. They were absolutely in shock. They were dying. They got on their knees somehow and knelt before Sylvie's body and cradled her head in their lap. Of all the ways I was scared to die, zero mumbled to the body. I'm glad it was with you.
- [40:36]
Alison Belle Buse
You have just heard Saint Zero of the Hollows and the Eagle Knight by V.M. ayala narrated by Janina Edwards V.M. ayala she they is a queer, disabled, biracial Mexican American sci fi fantasy writer. She loves dragons, space, giant robots and their partner. Their work has appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies Escape Podcast, the Best American Science fiction and fantasy 2024 and more. She is also a streamer Ask them about indie games, an TTRPG Actual Play performer, as well as one of the co founders of Otherside, an upcoming queer speculative magazine. You can find her most social media places at Space valkyries or@spacevalkeries.com Janina Edwards is an award winning narrator of more than 500 audiobooks. Her narration work has received multiple Earphones Awards, an audie win and 2 Society of Voice Arts and Sciences nominations. She is a member of the Audible hall of fame class of 2026.
- [41:46]
Woodbine Podcast Narrator
There are vampires out there. They walk among you. Shoulder to shoulder in the dark. Heading to work, heading home. Going to the bar. It's a life just like anyone else's and I have grown used to it. To the darkness, to the moon, to the taste of blood on my tongue. But vampires are dying out. We are a fading kind, and I am the first one created in so long, and that is a dangerous thing to be. Those who came before me, elders of all stripes, they do not want to see our kind gone, and they will do anything to keep their power. And for myself and for Grace, who created me, that is a sword that hangs above our heads. And the worst person of all carries our secret, and he will use it however he sees fit. Who do you look to when things are at their darkest? From the creators of Park Dil Haunt comes Woodbine, a podcast about monsters, dreams and changes those you want and those you never saw. Coming Season 2 arrives September 24th. Distributed by Realm.
- [42:46]
Meg Bashwiner
Hi, we're Meg Bashwiner and Joseph Fink of welcome to Night Vale and on our new show the Best Worst, we explore the golden age of television.
- [42:54]
Joseph Fink
To do that, we're watching the IMDb viewer rated best and worst episodes of classic TV shows.
- [43:00]
Meg Bashwiner
The episode of Star Trek where Beverly Crusher has sex with a ghost. The episode of the X Files where Scully gets attacked by a vicious house cat.
- [43:07]
Joseph Fink
And also the really good episodes too.
- [43:09]
Meg Bashwiner
What can we learn from the best and worst of great television? Like for example, is it really a bad episode or do people just hate women?
- [43:16]
Joseph Fink
The Best Worst available wherever you get your podcasts.
- [43:20]
Alison Belle Buse
Oh please, not that music.
- [43:22]
Ellen Marsh
That music gives me nightmares from my childhood.
- [43:24]
Joseph Fink
Could we get something a little bit lighter? Some lighter music here?
- [43:28]
Ellen Marsh
Are you a fan of true crime TV shows?
- [43:31]
Joseph Fink
And what about Unsolved Mysteries, the show that jump started all of our love of true crime?
- [43:35]
Ellen Marsh
I'm Ellen Marsh.
- [43:37]
Joseph Fink
And I'm Joey Taranto and we host
- [43:39]
Ellen Marsh
I Think Not a true crime comedy podcast covering some of the wildest stories from your favorite favorite true crime campy TV shows. All the way to Unsolved Mysteries.
- [43:48]
Joseph Fink
Baby. You will laugh, you will cry. You'll think about true crime in a whole new way. And you'll also ask yourself who gave these people mics?
- [43:56]
Ellen Marsh
New episodes of I Think not are released every Wednesday with bonus episodes out every Thursday on Patreon.
- [44:02]
Joseph Fink
And every Monday you can listen to our True Crime rundown where we go over the top true crime headlines of the week.
- [44:09]
Ellen Marsh
So come and join us wherever you listen to your podcast.
- [44:23]
Alison Belle Buse
These stories were taken from the pages of Lightspeed Magazine, which is edited by John Joseph Adams. The podcast is co produced by Stefan Rudnicki and Allison Belle Buse at Skyboat Media and the stories and podcasts are copyright Tortoise 2026. Post production was by Alex Barton at Face Shift and our music was composed and performed by Jack Kincade. Once again, I am Alison Belle Buse, and I hope these stories gave you something new.
- [44:51]
Narrator/Host
Thank you for listening.
- [45:03]
Story Narrator (Hell is Empty)
Sa.