Since its announcement, the theory had been reduced to the delusions of a once-great man.
The data was there, but discredited. Some even accused it of being doctored. Had it not been for the famous man behind it, they’d never have given him the stage.
Even the most credible scientists of the time could not add enough validity to his claim to drive it forward.
The man at the center was astrophysicist Terrance Vance. He was the man who cracked the enigma of the heliosphere. The man who contributed more to space exploration in his twenty-year career than all before him.
No one else had done so much in so little time.
Vance, as he was called, was a prodigy. And not one of those socially awkward geniuses that can’t chew gum and walk but can recite pi to some far-out decimal. No, he was charming.
His charm made him famous.
His brain made him a millionaire.
His humanity captivated the world.
So when he walked on stage in front of a room of the brightest and most renowned minds in the world and said sentient flames were moving through space and headed towards Earth—people didn’t laugh.
The Wyrd Interlude:
In a strange cosmos where starlight hides secret life cycles, a brilliant mind tries to warn us. Behind every distant glow, transformations unfold beyond our understanding. Here, we peer at distant brilliance, never suspecting what stirs beneath its patient glow. This—is Wyrd Fiction.
If it had been anyone else—truly anyone else at all—their career would have been over.
But Vance had the clout.
“It’s a swarm,” he said and displayed data and microwave images overhead. “We’ve been looking at stars incorrectly from the start.”
He paused. “Stars burn—die—implode. That’s their life,” he said, pacing as he caught his breath. “But we failed to comprehend what ‘life’ truly means.” He wagged a finger. “The perspective is wrong. Imagine a caterpillar to a butterfly—the simple transformation. Static stars are the first stage of its purpose.”
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
Vance acknowledged it. “Hear me… A star is an egg.”
And the whispers turned to full chatter.
Vance spoke over them. “It builds energy over billions of years and then recedes—and boom!” He exploded his fingers to demonstrate. “All that stored energy propels the swarm into space—where it can—where it does—sustain for light years. The gravity of solar systems and planets pull the swarm in. Its evolution is beyond what we can understand. What sustains this life form—their prey, all matter—does its work for them. The swarm pinballs through the cosmos, burning and devouring everything it can.”
“If we do nothing,” Vance said, voice steady, “in centuries—perhaps sooner—this planet becomes their fuel, another stop in their endless feeding.”
The room was silent.
“I know it’s a lot, so I’ll pause here to let you all digest.”
A young student stood up in the front row. He raised his hand, and Vance pointed at him and nodded yes.
“My name’s Jackson, Mr. Vance.”
“Jackson, thanks for coming out. Go ahead.”
“Mr. Vance,” the student said. He looked away, trying to find the courage to speak. “Fire cannot survive in space. There’s no oxygen.”
The crowd laughed. Not outright, but pockets of chuckling spread.
Vance smiled. “True. Very true Jackson. Fire, as we know it, needs oxygen. But I believe there are different forms of fire. Fire that feeds on elements we cannot see.”
The room leaned forward.
“Dark matter,” Vance said.
Within 24 hours, Vance’s reputation was ruined. Most headlines depicted him as a mad scientist. Others said he needed mental treatment. People were quick to write it off as sci-fi delusions of a man desperate to discover the next big thing.
Over the following months, as the world moved on and Vance faded from the headlines, his absence became just another footnote in a cosmos of forgotten theories. Eventually, Vance disappeared altogether.
No notes. No travel records. The last person to see him was a barista, who recalled his unkempt, overgrown beard and the smell of stale alcohol on his breath. He ordered a cappuccino but was gone by the time the drink was ready. Security footage shows him standing next to the counter playing with a lighter. He didn’t match the barista’s account; while scruffy, he wasn’t untidy and his gait appeared steady. He snapped the lighter on. And off. His eyes were mesmerized by the flames. On. And off. And then he left.
Two years passed before he was seen again.
A mining ship over Titan picked up a distress call. Upon investigation, they found a remote station with a hermit inside.
It was Vance. He had run out of food. As they brought him on board he was silent. He didn’t look like a hermit or a mad scientist. He was clean shaven. Hair trimmed. He looked at them with steady eyes and carried himself with a quiet assurance, as if the ridicule had only hardened his resolve.
“Good news,” he said.
And the crew listened.
“We can stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“The swarm,” he said. “Well—not stop it, that’d be impossible. But by igniting a chain of controlled plasma fields at the edge of the solar system, we can steer it away, guide its hunger elsewhere.”
Vance held a big smile.
The crew looked around, stunned. Most remembered his name and face, but only half vaguely recalled what he had been famous for.
“I figured it out.” Vance was joyous. “We’ll all be okay. We get to survive.”
“Okay,” a crewman said. “Well, good job then.”
“Thank you,” Vance said. “Nice ship you have. What’s it called?”
“Icarus,” the crewman said.
Vance took a deep breath. “Not sure if that’s a good omen or a bad one.” He smirked. “Let’s go with good.”
The Wyrd Curtain:
When even the greatest minds face laughter and scorn, truth can vanish in the noise. Yet here, a discredited man returns with quiet solutions, steering distant threats away. We survive—barely wiser, old doubts intact. Another trial ends, and now we linger, aware that beyond each solved mystery lie countless shells waiting to crack—and Wyrd Worlds yet await.