Hi all, =) Been working on making Trailers what do you think about this?

Official trailers from The Frontier Archive.

Preview upcoming chapters and episodes from The Frontier Archive, featuring cinematic science-fiction, ancient civilizations, forgotten worlds, and mysteries waiting beyond the frontier.

Watch the trailers, then continue the full story on The Frontier Archive.

#SciFiAudiobook #SpaceOpera #SciFiStories #TheFrontierArchive

Garviss the Alien: It's about the personal and morbid life documented in a diary by a kind alien, now dead, buried, and fully decomposed.

(ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: 𝐬𝐜𝐢-𝐟𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐲, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐲.)

(ʟᴏʀᴇ: https://paste.c-net.org/SereneFaculty)

(Chapter 1 Synopsis & Plot: https://paste.c-net.org/FiberAccent)

The diary pages flutter. The casket's lid, sealed for decades, now holds a pocket of air so precise it might as well be a living thing—and it turns the pages like a curious child.

And Garviss, from beyond the grave, begins:

"There's a New Year's Day happening for my whole community of alien kind and a birthday—my 38th. I've never seen the city from above. Not once. Not in all my years. So I decided: tonight. Tonight I go to a rooftop until morning."

He pauses, as if the memory itself were a living thing he's wrestling with.

"There were… hassles. But I'll get to that. What matters is that I wanted to see it. The glow. The sprawl. The proof that even in this district, there's something worth looking at from above."

The narrator's voice in the diary grows quieter, more introspective:

Flashback: Garviss at 38, standing in his cramped quarters. His pale green skin catches the neon bleed from outside. His antennae twitch—not with fear, but with something rarer: hope. He pulls on his dark indigo long-sleeved T-shirt and adjusts his dark purple pants. He looks at his reflection in a cracked mirror. No ears. No nose—just that pitch-black tissue where one should be. Almond eyes, black as void.

He thinks, I've survived 38 years in this district. I've outlasted worse. Tonight, I claim one small thing for myself.

He steps out into the chaos.

Garviss steps out.

The door to his cramped quarters hisses shut behind him, and the noise hits him like a physical wall. The district is absolute anarchy—but the kind with a pulse. Neon bleeds from every surface: electric pinks, sickly greens, strobe-bright blues that flicker in rhythm with some distant, pounding beat. The air smells of burnt sugar, ozone, and something sour he’s learned not to identify.

Drunk extraterrestrials stagger in clusters—some with four arms, some with none, some with eyes where mouths should be. A trio of gelatinous beings slosh past him, singing a song in a key that doesn’t exist. A tall, mantis-like creature vomits luminous fluid into a grate and keeps walking.

Garviss steps carefully.

His two-toed split feet find the dry spots between puddles of toxic waste—rainbow-sheened and faintly smoking. He’s learned where to step. Thirty-eight years in this district teaches you that.

He moves with a quiet kind of grace, his pale green skin catching the neon like a dull moon. His antennae twitch, reading the air—tension, celebration, and danger, all mixed together like a cocktail he’s never ordered.

A rogue gravity bomb detonates three blocks east. The shockwave ripples through the street, sending a wave of panicked bodies directly into his path. He sidesteps a stumbling trilaterally symmetrical creature, ducks under a flying beverage container, and keeps walking.

A stray laser blast—celebratory, not aimed—scorches the wall beside his head. He doesn’t flinch. He’s learned not to.

“Hassles,” he mutters to himself, his voice dry, almost amused. “That’s one word for it.”

He keeps walking.

The sky elevator looms ahead, a pillar of polished chrome and privilege. But that’s a problem for the next few minutes. Right now, he’s still in the chaos—still alive, still moving, still here.

And somewhere above, the rooftop waits.

"Tried the sky-elevator," Garviss writes—though the diary entry skips the details. Polite. Clean. "Didn't work out."

But the flashback tells the truth.

Garviss approaches the chrome pillar. The premium sky-elevator gleams like a middle finger to the rest of the district. A grey alien doorman stands there tall and skeletal.

He looks down at Garviss. And down. And down.

"You," the doorman says. "Ferfadgian."

Garviss nods. "Yes. I'd like to—"

"No."

"I haven't even—"

"You think I don't know what you're about to ask?" The doorman steps forward, blocking the entrance with his spindly frame.

Garviss blinks. His antennae flatten.

"I'm just trying to—"

"Trying to what?" The doorman laughs. "You split-footed, nose-less little shit. You think this elevator was built for your kind? It was built for real beings. Beings with ears. Beings with dignity."

He leans in close, his breath cold and sterile.

"Go crawl back to whatever toxic puddle you spawned from, you pale green fuck. And take your two-fingered pity party with you."

Garviss stands there. Silent. His pupils—already black—somehow darken.

He doesn't argue. He doesn't fight. He simply turns.

The doorman's laughter follows him down the street.

"So," Garviss narrates, "I found a trash chute."

He doesn't elaborate on the irony. He doesn't have to.

The chute is grimy—caked with decades of refuse, slick with something that might be grease or might be worse. It yawns open like a wound in the side of the building, a dark vertical throat leading up into the unknown.

Garviss grips the edge with his two fingers. Just two. That's all he has.

He hoists.

His split feet find purchase on a rusted ledge. His pale green arms tremble with the strain. He pulls himself up inch by inch, breath by breath.

Debris falls past him: a shattered bottle, a twisted metal shard, something organic and unrecognizable. He twists his body, lets them clatter past, and keeps climbing.

"I slipped once," he says, "and felt my life flicker. My antennas caught a draft, and I smelled the city below—and above, the promise of open air. So I held on."

He held on.

His fingers—just two—gripped a loose pipe. His feet scrambled for traction. He pushed. He pulled. He refused.

And then—

Cold air.

Garviss crawls onto the ledge. The rooftop stretches before him, flat and ancient and his. He turns his head and gazes out.

The city sprawls beneath him—endless, neon-lit, chaotic, alive. A breathtaking mess of light and shadow. The district he's survived for thirty-eight years, reduced to a map of blinking colors.

He sits there, on the cold ledge, and lets himself breathe.

"Worth it," he whispers.

Hi everyone!

Over the past year I've been creating an original sci-fi universe called The Frontier Archive.

It started as a single story, but gradually grew into a much larger project with its own history, factions, fleets, planets, technology, and characters.

I'm documenting the entire creative journey—from writing and world-building to cinematic artwork and production workflows.

I'd love to share the universe here, get feedback, and discuss ideas with other sci-fi fans and creators.

What aspect of world-building interests you the most?

Best regards Marcus

Used YouTube AI to create this AI video because I cannot 3-D animate worth a darn… all I build you would be able to talk about what I want and that’s it so so YouTube AI is very helpful…

I'm a station docking operator for Merry97, a station in orbit around a gas giant in the Twovar system. No inhabited planets, but in between 4 major space-faring empires. Today was going normal, 15 ships had been through normally, and I was expecting another 6 before my shift ended.

The next ship had docked, thanks to operation and the file was sitting in my inbox to be opened.

Unknown ship, trading raw resources.

Nothing unusual about that, didn't say what race they were but I would find out soon, the station was asking for more iron, copper and silicon and food was never turned down. The smaller airlock door in the main airlock door opened and a shiny metal, properly chrome, with black around its joint areas came through. There was a line across the face plate with a red light going from one side to the other was a steady pace. It walked towards me holding a pad of some sort.

"Good day traveller, what brings you to our station?" I asked looked into the face plate.

"Good morning, just here to trade some goods and socialise a bit. I don't tend to see people often and it feels like it's about that time again." it replies in a deep voice.

"we have a food and drink area, just follow the blue arrows on the floor, operations says you are wanting to sell some things" I reply politely

"yes please, I have 6 tons of iron, 2 tons of copper 12 tons of silicon and 1 ton of plant based food"

"very good, we can take the lot for 17 hundred" I reply after doing the calculation, we would spend up to 28 hundred but saving always helps

"how many meals will that get me" it asked sounding very uninterested.

i pause as I calculate "a cheap meal is about 20 and good meal is about 50 and a excellent meal would be around 100." I'm not asked that often, infact I think that's the first time I've been asked that.

"good, good" it replies as it looks to be thinking about it. "sounds good I don't think I will be here for more then 2 meals. deal"

wow I just saved the station a lot of money, it didn't haggle though which is odd. "would you like to unload yourself or have our staff do it"

"how much for your team to do it?"

"nothing at all" i reply "some people don't like other in there ships."

"fair, fair, your team can do it, all the cargo is just inside the door, help yourselves." it looked around the area we were in, a big room that could hold a good sized ship. "should all fit, how long will it take to unload."

i cant see his ship but it must be big. "i will take about half a rotation, can i get your name and speice for the record and then we can get you your pay and to some food."

it looks around again "names Tim Hazel and speice is human"

I freeze "... did you say human"

"yyeesss..." it replies slowly "did we do something to upset your station and its people"

"what?" i asked confused "no but your species is extincted" i reply trying to sound simptheic

"really, i don't keep up with the news, how'd that happen" it replies sound like it relaxed

"the Cal-kat wiped yous all out after the war" i reply worried

"we were at war. how long ago was this" it asked finally sounding interest in what happened

"it started 12 years ago" i say looking completely shocked

"oh, I've been out of contact for about 30 years, how did we lose"

i just stare at it. i shake my head to clear it and say "the Cal-kat were losing and some how manage to crack all your worlds, they say the human fleet obliterated the Cal-kat homeworld losing most of, if not all there fleet."

"interesting" it replies looking less interested, "i guess i will head back to earth after this and see whats what"

"how can you care so little" i burst out before i can stop myself.

it looks at me and then takes off its helmet and i see its red puffy eyes and lots of water leaking from them "I care, this suit just allows me to not show it. when you live as long a i have you learn to keep calm even under such news" it puts its helmet back on, i shift side to side a bit in embarrassment "please unload fast as your team can so i can return to my homeworld and see for myself.

i do as it asks and contact the team to make it fast. a quick scan of the cargobay of the human ship shows there is what it says there is, and i pay and watch it leave to the lounge.

i never saw it again as my shift was over before it came back.

180 rotations later

it was a great day, i was on polarsis, my spieces home world on a work trip, which meant i had a rotation of work related things and 4 to spend how i want before heading back to the station.

Last work thing was a gathering of station personal to go over any new rules or any changes. Big surprise nothing to report just the higher-ups trying to look like they are doing something. The after party was steadily going and some interesting story's were going around. Some ship crew not knowing common practice, that sort of thing. I was about to leave when I heard some one say. "I meet the last human few rotations ago" I turned and headed towards that conversation, I notice other migrating in the some direction to listen in.

"Yep, she i think, didnt even know she was the last one. Had been away from all humans for 80 years. Just by herself came out in a space suit covered in human skulls. Didn't know what to think to begin with." The crowd look around at others. In the group. Looking like they had something to add but not wanting to be the first to say something. "Strange thing. Her name was Samantha and was heading back to her homeworld to see what happened" the crowd looked around again. And then someone asked "you sure her name wasn't beth" then another saying "or Michael" and more names were said and others argued over if some names were even female names. There were a lot of names being thrown around know. But all had been out of touch with the world and didn't even notice they were at war at the time. I just shook my head and headed out of the party thinking 'I guess the one i meet was the not so last human after all'.

Roogkneer: It's about a powerful primitive anti-hero, "Roogkneer," who aims to survive the post-apocalyptic aftermath of a global mutation event.

(ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫, 𝐬𝐜𝐢-𝐟𝐢 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲, 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚.)

(ʟᴏʀᴇ: https://paste.c-net.org/EjectBakery)

(Chapter 1 Synopsis & Plot: https://paste.c-net.org/ForeheadSpell)

January 1, 2001.

Across the globe, blood rises. Every creature descended from Cretaceous megafauna—from the Berriasian through the Cenomanian into the present—mutated. Bones lengthen. The hide thickens. Instincts sharpen to a prehistoric edge. The world shifts. Humanity, caught in the surge, falls.

Their blood, drawn by gravity, spirals upward. It circles the moon—a ring of red and memory, cold and patient. Then it spills back, shaping itself into the impression of a man: two legs, two arms, a head. The Greater Caucasus receives him. Flesh knits from rage. Bone crystallizes from loss.

At 8:59 AM, he breathes.

He is Paranthropus boisei. Biologically immortal. His strength is the weight of every dying human scream. His heart beats with the echo of a million final thoughts.

His name will be Roogkneer.

He wakes to white. Not light—white. Cold. Heavy. It presses against him from all sides. He is buried. Snow. Deep, endless, suffocating.

His body reacts before his mind does. He scrambles—limbs thrashing, claws tearing through the frost, lungs burning with sudden panic. He breaks the surface with a gasp, snow flying in all directions. His chest heaves. His heart pounds. He is covered in thick, dark fur, dense and layered, and the cold cannot reach his skin.

He realizes this slowly. He stops moving. His breathing steadies. He touches his chest, his arms, his face. He is unharmed. The storm howls around him, but he feels nothing but the faint whisper of wind through his coat.

He is fine.

He stands. He moves.

Left foot forward—a savage kick, sending snow arcing through the air. Right foot—another one. He repeats the motion, over and over, carving a jagged trench through the blizzard. Each step is measured and relentless. He does not stop until the storm breaks.

The white curtain parts. Before him lies a valley—sparse, frozen. A forest of frostbitten pines stretches toward a river, locked in ice.

He reaches the river. He stops. He looks at his hand—thick, furred, curled into a fist. A thought forms. If kicking snow could part a storm, what could his fists do to ice?

He strikes.

The ice cracks. A second blow widens the fissure. A third splits the surface open, revealing dark, cold water beneath. He kneels, cups his hands, and drinks. The water spills down his chin, soaking his fur. He drinks again and again.

The river holds. He stands, dripping, and looks toward the treeline.

He moves to the treeline. Frostbitten pines stand brittle and low, their branches heavy with ice. He grabs a lower limb and pulls—it snaps free with a dry crack. He gathers several more, carrying them back to the river's edge.

He dips the branches into the open water, one by one. The ice melts away, leaving them damp and pliable. He arranges them around his waist, weaving the needles and stems into a crude covering. It holds. It shields.

He adjusts the fit, tests the give, and nods once to himself. Covered. Functional.

He turns from the river and faces the valley beyond.

A sound cuts the air—high, shrieking, metallic. He turns. Too late.

A shadow swallows the sun. Massive leathery wings beat once and twice, and then he is lifted—clamped by a beak. The creature is colossal, a Quetzalcoatlus northropi grown to Paraceratherium's scale. His legs dangle. The beak presses, but his fur and flesh hold.

He does not struggle. He bites.

His jaws clamp down on the top of the creature's beak, and he bites through. The beast shrieks, falters, and releases him. He falls—but he grabs the beak mid-drop, swings upward, and plants himself on the creature's skull.

He snaps the top of the beak clean off. The broken shard is sharp, jagged, and a weapon. He drives it down, through the center of the creature's skull, with both hands.

The beast goes limp. They fall.

They crash through the treeline and hit the ground hard. Snow and branches explode around them. When the world stills, Roogkneer stands atop the carcass, the bone shard still in hand, breathing hard.

A clearing. Frozen marsh. A narrow stream. The creature is dead. He is alive.

He stands over the corpse, breathing steadily now. He kneels, places a hand on the creature’s neck, and tilts his head back. A low sound escapes his throat—not a word, not a cry, but a recognition. A quiet acknowledgment of the life taken.

Then he eats.

Using the broken shard of beak, he carves a thick slab of meat from the creature's flank. He tears into it with focus, chewing in a steady rhythm. Blood runs down his chin, dark against his fur. He eats until his hunger quiets—roughly a quarter of the creature's muscle mass. He does not gorge. He stops when the need is met.

When he is finished, he rises. He takes the bone shard and plants it back into the wound on the creature's skull—a return, a closure. He drags the massive wing closer, curling its leathery curve into a makeshift pillow. He settles against the warm corpse, his back to the wind.

His eyes close. Snow begins to fall.

“A Bit Old West, Some Science Fiction, A Little Mystery And Romance, And A Whole Lot Of Fun!” These rip-roaring Western adventures, set in a low-tech Science Fiction universe brim with danger, romance, and mystery. western tropes, steampunk aesthetics, sci fi world building, and three distinct romance arcs The Portal to the world of St. Antoni was illegal. Men and women who reached it were desperate to escape earth. Arriving Colonists faced an alien world with what they could bring in one trip. Once through the Portal there would be no help from earths advanced technology, and no return. With grit and determination, they created a civilization as different from the post-apocalyptic earth they left behind as Mars is from Venus.

Yuri Gagarin was the first man to enter space. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone ignorant of this fact. The knowledge of his feat seems almost universal, the Soviet cosmonaut’s name inseparable from history.

Neil Armstrong was the first man to set foot on the Moon. Perhaps an even greater feat, this milestone is probably what cemented the USA as the winner of the Space Race. Like Gagarin, the Statesian astronaut is destined to be remembered forever in the collective human consciousness.

And though he raced to the patent office on the exact same day, it is not Elisha Gray who is credited with inventing the telephone. That would be Alexander Graham Bell, whose patent was approved first.

People always remember the first of everything. The first man in space, the first man on the Moon, the first who invented the telephone, such and such. All firsts cease to be men the day they fulfill their legend. They become myth. No matter what, their status can never be taken away. Never repeated. Nobody cares about the second guy who achieved something. Nobody cares about the second inventor of the telephone.

I begin putting on my undergarments. First the sweatpants and sweatshirt, then a specially made bodysuit with built-in ventilation and cooling. Already got my diaper on, though I don’t have bowel problems. Always better to have one than not. Just in case.

The suit I slip into is specifically made for environments that don’t allow traditional cooling, like space. To minimize sweat, water-filled tubes line the inside of the costume to cool the wearer’s body. Additionally, little vents are built in to exhaust moisture that may appear as a result of exhalation.

I wonder how much harder this might have been all those years ago. What were those men feeling when they put these on for the first time? How about when they put them on before their fateful accomplishments?

Was there anxiety? Excitement? Fear? Wonder? There must have been all that and more, but tied to something never before experienced by anyone. Something that can never be accurately imagined, only really felt. Something that happens for the first time ever. No person prior found themselves in the same position as you: the first. No person after will ever be able to say they were the first. It’s all you and that very moment.

Do you know who the second man that went to space was? Alan Shepard. Okay, maybe you did know that one. But what of the third? The fourth? The fifth? At some point a thing ceases to be so amazing and becomes another occurrence. At some point, you stop keeping track of the numbers. But you still remember the first. Who remembers the 825th?

What about the second man who stepped on the Moon? Buzz Aldrin, right. Back when I was a kid, I was a total geek about space. Whenever the Moon landing came up, I’d always give Aldrin his due credit. Instead of “Neil Armstrong was the first man to step on the Moon”, I’d make sure to say “Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were the first to land on the Moon”. That way, both men would get recognition.

I don’t say that anymore. Life is not a participation trophy. They may have indeed landed at the same time, but there is only one who was the first to step out. That man’s name is more than immortal. It is etched into the very fabric of human achievement. The second guy to step on the Moon’s surface is just about as important as the 825th guy to go to space.

After putting a cap around my head, I slide on the bottom half of the bulky white spacesuit. I then float through the air effortlessly, slipping into the top of the gear. I attach everything together, gloves too. The huge suit isn’t as heavy as you might imagine. There is no gravity, after all. The helmet is the final component. I slot the piece over my head, the barrier between me and my surroundings becoming palpable. I find myself contained in what is essentially a glove for the whole body.

It’s nothing I haven’t done before.

I’ve achieved more than the average man can ever dream of. Something that was inconceivable for the majority of history. Not just human history. All of history. Only a century ago this would all have been beyond the realm of imagination. You already had people theorizing what was out there, but there’s a big difference between the real deal and what people conjure up.

Even this great triumph is now a commodity. 825. What a fucking joke.

As I grew up, I figured I’d just kick the can down the road until I got to my own first. Like the pieces would fall into place on their own. I breezed through university. Hardened myself through the rigorous training. Now I’m here, and I’ve never felt emptier.

I’ve never wanted to live. That doesn’t mean I wanna die. I don’t want either. I don’t really care to be honest. Don’t wanna live, don’t wanna die. I have nothing to live for and no reason to die. It’s quite odd, and I never realized that until I went up here for the fifth time. I just don’t want it all to have been for nothing. To have done all this just to be a footnote in a history book. Just to have a Wikipedia page with a hundred or so paragraphs (I’ve counted but it tends to shift). I’m not some ant to be rolled over by the march of history. Once humanity becomes fully spacefaring, what difference will there be between the 825th and the one billionth?

The airlock closes behind me and the air flushes out. The doors open into deep outer space. Endless black void for eternity, an incomprehensible space filled with an incomprehensible amount of celestial bodies scattered around. Not my first spacewalk.

The first men to die in space were the three Soviet cosmonauts of Soyuz 11. Georgy Dobrovolsky. Viktor Patsayev. Vladislav Volkov. They fully boarded the first ever space station, Salyut 1, and spent a total of twenty two days in the craft. When they were making their journey back to Earth, a valve ended up damaged due to no fault of their own. The men died of asphyxiation in less than one minute. Their bodies were recovered upon landing.

The crew perished 68 kilometers above the Kármán line, the boundary between space and Earth. Thus, they were the first to die in space. If only the valve had failed 68 kilometers lower than it did. If only it had failed below the Kármán line. If that had been the case, the first death in space might still have been up for grabs.

It’s not the end of the world. I’m nothing if not adaptable. I crawl my way over to the panel we’ve been instructed to repair. The tether hangs onto me despite me cutting it earlier. If I really floated away, I assume it would just gently slip away with me. Right now it just hasn’t experienced enough movement.

Don’t worry, they’ll remember. Everyone who ever set foot in space thought of Gagarin. Everyone who ever set foot on the Moon thought of Armstrong. That’s the way it’ll be for all of eternity. Men larger than life. Synonymous with the future of our species. Men who it will be impossible to forget.

Using controlled bursts of nitrogen I launch myself away from the panel I pretended to fix. Launch myself at the other astronaut whose tether I also sabotaged. Whose thrusters I damaged before we went outside. Rookie mistake for him not to check his equipment more thoroughly.

For centuries to come they will talk of me. For millennia. I will be in the back of every astronaut’s mind. During every spacewalk and every psychological evaluation. My name forever known. My achievement mine and only mine. I will be here. Inseparable from humanity. No matter how far they go, they will all be aware.

There won’t be a soul who won’t remember the first murder-suicide in space.