The Deep Red Trilogy

 The Deep Red Trilogy is a sci-fi project from the creators of Iron Sky, focusing on an alternate-history space satire where communists have secretly occupied Mars since the 1950s. The trilogy aims to replicate the cult success of Iron Sky, targeting international partners and financing. The films are planned to be shot back-to-back, with releases scheduled for 2029, 2030, and 2031. The project is not set within the Iron Sky universe but is designed with a similar outlandish tone. The first concept art for 'Deep Red' has been released, showcasing the ambitious scale of the project. 

A Giant On The Moon

 Captain Leo Vance floated in the gentle embrace of his sleeping bag, tethered to the wall of the ISS cupola. Below, the Earth was a swirling marble of blues and whites. Above, an infinite black velvet studded with stars. And there, hanging heavy in the viewport, was the Moon—a silent, grey sentinel.

Sleep in microgravity is a strange thing, and Leo’s drifted into a deeper, more anchored slumber than usual. He wasn’t in the station anymore. He was standing, boots planted firmly on a dusty grey plain. The silence was absolute, a physical pressure in his ears. He knew this was the Mare Tranquillitatis. He’d studied it for years. But something was wrong. Or, perhaps, wonderfully right.

A shadow fell over him, long and deep. He turned.

A giant sat on a ridge of crater rim, its back to the sun. It wasn’t a monster; its form was like a mountain given gentle life—a torso of layered basalt, arms of craggy stone, a head that was a single, smoothed boulder. Its eyes were two deep pools of starlight, and when it moved, it was with the slow, tectonic grace of continents adrift.

“Hello, small breather,” a voice said. It didn’t sound in the air, for there was none. It resonated directly in Leo’s bones, a low, grinding hum that felt like the memory of sound. The giant’s starlight eyes were fixed on him.

Leo’s training overrode his dream-logic. “I am Captain Leo Vance of the International Space Station. Identify yourself.” The formality sounded absurd in the vast, quiet dream.

A low, rocky chuckle vibrated through the regolith. “Names are for things that come and go. I am where I have always been. I am the sleeper in the ground, the watcher of the long night.” One massive, stone finger, large as a lunar rover, pointed slowly at the brilliant blue orb hanging in the black sky. “You are from the noisy one. The lively one.”

“Earth,” Leo confirmed, his scientific mind wrestling with the wonder. “You… you live here? How?”

“Live?” The giant considered, the starlight in its eyes dimming and brightening like a pulse. “I am. As the dust is. As the deep cold is. Your kind ‘lives.’ You burn so brightly, so quickly.” It shifted, and a small avalanche of grey dust whispered down its side. “I have watched your little lights appear on my skin. The silent footsteps. The metal bugs.”

“The Apollo landings,” Leo whispered, awestruck. “You saw them?”

“I felt them,” the giant corrected gently. “Taps. Polite, distant taps. Like a pebble dropped on a sleeping giant’s shoulder.” It leaned forward, and Leo felt no fear, only a profound, ancient calm. “You are a different tap. You carry more of the lively one inside you. I can hear its water in you.”

Leo looked down at his own gloved hands, then back at the Earth. “We’re trying to come back. To stay. Is that… would that be an annoyance?” He couldn’t believe he was asking a moon giant for real estate permission.

The giant’s laughter was a friendly, deep tremor that sent puffs of dust jumping around Leo’s boots. “The mountain does not mind the moss. You are welcome to your nests, small breather. But you are so fragile. All that water, all that fire inside you… it is a beautiful, precarious magic.” Its starlight gaze seemed to soften. “Tell the others to step softly. Even a giant enjoys a quiet rest.”

Leo nodded, a profound sense of responsibility settling on him, heavier than any spacesuit. “I will. We will.”

“Good.” The giant began to recede, not by moving, but by becoming more still, more indistinguishable from the landscape. The starlight in its eyes faded to mere reflection. “Do not fear the quiet dark, Captain Leo Vance. It is not empty. It is simply… patient.”

***

A soft chime from a life-support system monitor pulled Leo back. He blinked, the stark white interior of the cupola replacing the monochrome dreamscape. The Moon still hung in his viewport, a magnificent, barren globe.

His crewmate, Maya, floated in, yawning. “You okay, Leo? You’ve been staring at the Moon for ten minutes straight.”

Leo didn’t look away. “Just… thinking.”

“About the Artemis base site selection?”

“About being a guest,” Leo said softly. He finally turned to her, a faint, wondering smile on his face. “We should remember, when we go down there, that we’re visitors. We should step softly.”

Maya raised an eyebrow, amused. “Well, yeah. Sharp regolith and all that. Don’t want to puncture a boot.”

“No,” Leo agreed, his gaze drifting back to the serene, grey face outside the window. “You don’t.” And for a moment, in the play of shadows along the terminator line, he could almost imagine the gentle slope of a shoulder, the patient curve of a back, resting for eons under the silent stars.

Elon Musk’s New Priority: A Self-Growing City on the Moon in Under 10 Years

 Elon Musk has long been synonymous with ambitious visions for humanity's future in space, particularly through his company SpaceX. While his ultimate goal has centered on making humanity multi-planetary—starting with Mars—recent developments show a significant strategic pivot toward the Moon. In early 2026, Musk announced that SpaceX is now prioritizing the development of a self-growing, self-sustaining city on the Moon, potentially achievable in less than 10 years.

This shift doesn't abandon Mars but reframes it as a longer-term objective, with lunar efforts taking precedence to secure civilization's future more rapidly.Why the Moon First? Musk's RationaleMusk explained the change in priorities on X (formerly Twitter), highlighting practical advantages over Mars:

• Launch frequency and iteration speed — Missions to the Moon can launch roughly every 10 days, with travel times of about 2 days. In contrast, Mars opportunities align only every 26 months due to planetary positions, with journeys taking around 6 months. This allows far faster testing, learning, and scaling on the Moon.
• Timeline for self-sufficiency — A self-growing lunar city could emerge in under a decade, while a comparable Mars settlement might require 20+ years.
• Civilizational backup — Musk emphasizes the Moon as a faster path to establishing a resilient off-world presence. A catastrophe on Earth could sever supply lines to a distant Mars colony, but a lunar base would be more accessible and iterable.

He reaffirmed that SpaceX's core mission—to extend consciousness and life to the stars—remains unchanged. Mars city construction is still planned to begin in about 5–7 years, and lunar progress could even accelerate Mars efforts through shared technology and revenue.The Role of Starship and NASA's Artemis ProgramAt the heart of these plans is Starship, SpaceX's fully reusable super-heavy launch vehicle. Starship serves dual purposes:

1. As the Human Landing System (HLS) for NASA's Artemis program, which aims to return humans to the Moon sustainably.
2. As the foundation for large-scale lunar cargo and crew transport.

Key upcoming milestones include:

• Orbital propellant transfer demonstrations (targeted around mid-2026).
• An uncrewed lunar landing demonstration (potentially by March–June 2027).
• Crewed lunar landings (aiming for 2028 or later under Artemis III/IV).

These steps build toward frequent, high-volume deliveries to the lunar surface—essential for constructing a growing settlement. Musk has described a future where Starship enables "anyone" to travel to the Moon, making it accessible at scale.Beyond Landing: A Self-Growing Lunar CityMusk envisions more than outposts or temporary bases. The "self-growing city" concept involves using local lunar resources (regolith for construction, polar ice for water/oxygen/fuel) to expand autonomously. This could include:

• Industrial facilities, potentially for producing AI satellites or data centers in low-gravity, vacuum conditions.
• Mass drivers (electromagnetic catapults) to launch payloads cheaply into orbit.
• Integration with xAI initiatives for orbital AI compute, leveraging abundant solar energy.

Challenges remain—such as sourcing carbon and hydrogen for fuel and life support—but Musk asserts the Moon has sufficient resources to bootstrap a civilization.Implications for the FutureThis pivot aligns with geopolitical realities, including U.S. efforts to lead lunar exploration amid competition from other nations. It also ties into broader goals like protecting consciousness from Earth-bound risks while accelerating innovation through rapid lunar cycles.Musk's vision is bold: return to the Moon not just to visit, but to stay, build, and grow—paving the way for Mars and beyond. As he put it, the Moon offers the fastest path to a multi-world future.What do you think—will we see a thriving lunar city by the mid-2030s, or is this another ambitious timeline? The stars (and the Moon) are closer than ever.

Speed of the Future

 

In the year 2147, NASCAR had evolved into a high-stakes intergalactic sport known as "StarRacing." The tracks stretched across planets, moons, and asteroid belts, with racers piloting sleek, AI-enhanced spacecrafts that looked like land-based cars but could accelerate faster than light.

Jax Turner, the reigning champion from Earth, was known for his daring maneuvers and instinctual driving. But this year's race was different. The Grand Galactic Cup would take place on the newly discovered planet Zyphora, a world with treacherous terrain and unpredictable gravitational anomalies.

As Jax prepared his starcraft, the "Meteor Runner," he was approached by Nova, an AI assistant with a personality as sharp as her algorithms. "Jax, the competition is fierce. The Zynthians have developed new tech—quantum slipstreams that can warp space-time for short bursts."

The race started with a thunderous roar, engines blazing. Jax surged forward, weaving through asteroid fields and dodging laser fire from rival racers. Midway, he activated his ship’s quantum slipstream, slipping into a different dimension momentarily to bypass a crushing gravitational vortex.

Suddenly, Nova detected an anomaly—a sabotage attempt by a Zynthian racer, using a black hole emitter to destabilize opponents' ships. Jax had seconds to react. With a daring twist, he used his ship's adaptive shields to absorb the black hole's pull, then countered with a sharp burst of velocity.

The final lap approached at warp speed. Jax pushed Meteor Runner to its limits, racing through a canyon with walls that shimmered like glass. As he crossed the finish line, he was met with roaring cheers from spectators across the galaxy.

Jax's victory wasn't just about speed. It was about adaptation, innovation, and pushing the boundaries of what was possible—proving that even in the far reaches of space, the spirit of NASCAR lived on in the stars.

The Gilded Bowl

The air above New Pittsburgh tasted of coal-smoke and ozone. Below, in the colossal iron bowl of the *Prometheus Arena*, one hundred thousand voices roared as one, a sound that shook rivets loose from the grandstands. This was Super Bowl LXVIII, but not as any 21st-century soul would remember it. This was the Gilded Bowl.

The New London Imperials, clad in brass-plated armor with crimson silk accents, faced the Philadelphia Furnace-Stokers, their gear forged from blackened steel and glowing with heat from their internal boiler-packs. The ball was not pigskin, but a hand-stitched leather sphere containing a volatile, lighter-than-air gas core. It didn’t spiral; it *hovered*.

“Thirty seconds on the Chrono-Gyro!” boomed the announcer’s voice through copper horns. “Imperials, down by four, at the Furnace-Stokers’ twenty-yard line!”

The Imperials’ quarterback, Captain Alistair Vance, adjusted his bronze-rimmed goggles. His throwing arm wasn’t just strong; it was a pneumatically-assisted masterpiece of polished brass and whirring gears. His target, the swift receiver known as “The Sparrow,” had clockwork-enhanced calves that could unleash a burst of dizzying speed.

Across the line, the Stokers’ defense was a wall of hissing steam and formidable machinery. Their star, a mountain of a man called “Iron” Mike O’Malley, vented a jet of superheated steam from the exhaust ports on his massive shoulder-plates. “He won’t fly past us this time, Vance!” he bellowed.

“Hut! Hut! *HISS!*”

The snap was clean. Vance backpedaled, gears in his leg braces whining. The Stokers’ rush was terrifying—a coordinated eruption of piston-driven leaps and steam-powered lunges. Vance dodged a copper-clad tackle, spun, and saw his primary target swarmed. The Sparrow was double-teamed, ensnared in a net of telescoping brass arms deployed by a Stoker’s defensive harness.

Time slowed. Vance’s augmented eyes scanned the field, lenses clicking and focusing. He saw his tight end, a brute of a man called “The Anvil,” chugging toward the end zone, but a Stoker safety was closing in, the copper coils on his boots sparking with electrical potential for a final leap.

Then Vance saw her. Moira, the team’s *aetherial spotter*, leaning out from her suspended brass crow’s-nest high above the end zone. She wasn’t just watching; she was calculating. With a swift movement, she pulled a lever. A series of polished mirrors along the arena’s rim angled, catching the giant, floating “Glo-Gas” lights and focusing a beam of intense light directly onto the safety’s goggles.

The Stoker cursed, blinded momentarily, and stumbled.

It was the window. A tiny, fleeting chance. But the pocket was collapsing. Iron Mike was upon him, his furnace-red faceplate grinning behind a cloud of steam. Vance had no room, no angle. The conventional throw was impossible.

So he didn’t make one.

As Mike O’Malley lunged, Vance slammed a fist against a release valve on his throwing arm. With a sharp *CLANK-PSSHHH*, the entire forearm assembly, from elbow to fingers, detached at a reinforced joint. Propelled by a controlled burst of compressed air from the severed piston, the disembodied mechanical arm, still cradling the aero-ball, shot forward like a bizarre, guided missile.

The crowd gasped. The arm flew in a low, humming arc, gears spinning freely. The Anvil, seeing the brass limb streaking toward him, turned and braced. He wasn’t catching a ball; he was catching a quarterback’s arm. He snatched it from the air, the ball nestled securely in its metallic fingers, and with a grunt of effort, he planted the entire assembly—hand, ball, and all—onto the polished copper plating of the end zone.

**THUD.**

Silence. Then, the shrill blast of the head referee’s steam-whistle.

**TOUCHDOWN.**

The arena erupted. Confetti—not paper, but thousands of spinning, glittering brass gears—fluttered from the ceiling. The Imperials mobbed The Anvil, who held the disembodied arm aloft like a trophy. On the sideline, Vance was already having a fresh forearm attached by frantic engineers with wrench-spanners.

In the luxury box, the League Commissioner, Lord Reginald Thorne, puffed on his cigar, its smoke mingling with the arena’s haze. He nodded to the industrial baron beside him. “See, Phineas? Innovation. That’s what sells tickets and stokes boilers. A quarterback who literally gives his right arm to win.”

On the field, as the extra-point—a tricky kick requiring a precise adjustment of the ball’s internal gas valve to sail through the uprights—was good, Captain Vance flexed his new, still-stiff fingers. He looked at the celebrating Sparrow, at the beaming Moira descending from her perch, and at the gleaming scoreboard that now read: IMPERIALS 24, FURNACE-STOKERS 23.

He smiled, the taste of victory as sharp and metallic as the air itself. It wasn’t just a game. It was the future, won one audacious, mechanical piece at a time. The Gilded Bowl was theirs.

Last Circle on Kesh

 

The storm-lashed ruins of the ancient Sith temple on Kesh had become an open grave. Eighty-three combatants had been dropped from orbit in escape pods exactly seven hours earlier. The orbital platform above had already narrowed the allowable zone three times. Now only a single shrinking circle of violet lightning remained—barely two kilometers across.Vana Torm, former Imperial Shadow Guard, crouched behind a toppled obsidian pillar. Her electrostaff hummed at the lowest setting, just enough to keep the rainwater from shorting the weapon. Across the broken plaza she could see three others still alive:

• A Mandalorian in scorched silver-and-black beskar, rocket boots smoking from overuse.
• A Mirialan Nightsister whose green tattoos glowed faintly whenever she moved her fingers through the air, weaving something dark and patient.
• A young human scavenger boy—no older than seventeen—clutching a cracked purple lightsaber that clearly did not belong to him.

The boy was shaking. Not from cold.Vana’s comm bead crackled once. A synthetic voice from the platform overhead:“Final perimeter established. Ninety seconds until lethal-zone contraction. The last combatant receives freedom and two million Republic credits. Begin.”No fanfare. No music. Just the sudden scream of wind as the lightning wall tightened another fifty meters.The Mandalorian moved first—predictable. A whipcord launcher snapped toward the Nightsister. She didn’t dodge. Instead she raised one hand and the durasteel cable simply stopped mid-flight, writhing like a living thing before snapping back at double speed. It wrapped the Mandalorian’s throat. He triggered his flamethrower in panic; orange fire painted the rain in hissing steam.The Nightsister smiled thinly and yanked.Beskar met obsidian at speed. The helmet cracked like an egg. The body didn’t get up.Now two remained who mattered.The boy looked at Vana across thirty meters of broken statues. His knuckles were white around the stolen saber hilt. The blade flickered erratically—unstable crystal, poor kyber alignment. He was going to die holding someone else’s destiny.Vana stood slowly, letting him see her. No sudden moves. She thumbed her electrostaff off completely.“You’re not a killer,” she called over the storm. “And that blade is already killing you. Feel it? The feedback tremor in your elbows?”The boy’s lip trembled. “I didn’t ask for this.”“None of us did.” Vana took one deliberate step forward. “But only one walks off this rock.”Lightning flashed. For a heartbeat the entire ruined plaza turned violet-white.The boy lunged.He was fast—faster than she expected. The purple blade hissed toward her chest in a sloppy but powerful overhand strike. Vana didn’t ignite her weapon. Instead she stepped inside the arc, left palm slapping the boy’s wrist upward while her right drove a precise knuckle strike into the soft place beneath his sternum.He folded like cheap flimsi. The lightsaber spun out of his hand and skittered across wet stone, still burning.Vana caught him before he hit the ground. She lowered him gently, one knee in the pooling rainwater.“I’m sorry,” the boy gasped. Blood flecked his lips. The stolen saber had bitten him somewhere deep on the way down.“I know,” Vana said.She reached across him and picked up the fallen lightsaber. The moment her fingers closed around the hilt the blade steadied—violet turning clean, angry crimson.Of course. It had been waiting for someone who understood how to carry guilt.Above them the lightning wall hissed inward, now only steps away.Vana pressed two fingers to the boy’s throat. Pulse gone.She stood. Looked up at the invisible judges orbiting far overhead.“I claim the bounty,” she said, voice flat. “And I’m keeping the saber.”Silence for three heartbeats.Then the synthetic voice returned:“Combatant Vana Torm. Victor. Transponder beacon activated. Extraction shuttle inbound. Congratulations.”The lightning wall froze—then reversed, peeling back like burning film.Vana clipped the crimson blade to her belt beside the silent electrostaff. She looked down at the boy one last time.“You lasted longer than most,” she told the body. “That’s something.”Rain continued to fall on the dead temple as the extraction lights finally broke through the storm clouds—cold, white, and indifferent.She walked toward them without looking back.Eighty-three had fallen.
One walked away.
And the galaxy, as always, didn’t care which name was attached to the statistic.