While doing her rounds as captain of the spaceship, The Glimmingdrift, Alvas checks in with the docking bay to find an unlogged vehicle consisting of eight reindeer and a red sleigh.
The food hall at The Glimmingdrift buzzed with the morning crowd. Travelers from various planets and workers aboard the space station filled the space, their voices and the sound of cutlery blending together. Alvas waited at the Starlight Brew counter, surrounded by the rich smells of coffee and hibiscus. She breathed in, feeling at ease.
Oola, the barista and owner, moved smoothly behind the counter, her eight tentacles working in perfect rhythm. Three steamed milk, two ground fresh leaves, and the other three handled orders on different screens.
“The usual, Captain?” Oola asked, her purple skin shimmering with a friendly iridescent sheen.
“Yes, please, Oola,” Alvas replied. “Got another busy day ahead.”
Alvas tapped her wrist-style networker to the scanner, and a chime confirmed the shinnies transfer. She set down her space-gray ceramic mug, still using the handmade, crooked-lettered “Best Spaceship Captain Mayor Ever” gift from last year’s party.
Before Oola could pour the tea, a wall of crimson fur bumped into Alvas’s shoulder. The impact almost knocked her over, and her orange tail whipped out to steady herself.
“Out of the way!” a deep, gravelly voice grumbled.
Scourge stood over her, a seven-foot minotaur in a black silk cape that hadn’t been brushed in weeks. His red fur was matted in places, and his eyes looked tired and restless.
Behind him, Tim Crotchet hurried to keep up, his mechanical leg whirring as he navigated the crowd.
“Apologies, Scourge,” Alvas said, steadying herself.
The minotaur didn’t acknowledge the Captain. He merely grunted, his gaze fixed on the exit toward the theatre district, Dionysus Circle. “Keep moving, Tim! The Birmingham won’t fill its seats with us standing around.”
Tim cast a quick, apologetic glance back at Alvas. “Sorry, Captain Sunback. He’s just… focused.”
Alvas saw the 10-year-old boy’s shoulders slump as he struggled with the heavy canvas prop-bag. The two vanished into the crowd. Oola poured tea into Alvas’s mug, her tentacles curling in a sign of shared worry.
“He gets worse every time I see him,” Oola whispered. “He used to be the most charming director in the district.”
Alvas took a slow sip of tea, but the warmth didn’t help the cold feeling inside her. She noticed a small, faded scorch mark on her mug. It reminded her of the day three years ago when the original Birmingham Theatre burned. She sighed, feeling the heaviness of the anniversary.
“Today is the third anniversary of the fire at The Birmingham Theatre,” she murmured to Oola.
Oola’s skin dimmed to a somber grayish purple. “Oh, that’s right. Goodness. I still remember seeing the show that turned out to be Bob and Emily’s last. Felt like the whole ship mourned them for weeks.”
“Scourge hasn’t been himself since his partners died,” Alvas said, her voice rough and quiet as her gaze drifted toward the spaceship’s high ceilings. “I still haven’t figured out how the blaze started.”
“Yeah, I feel bad for Tim, losing his parents,” Oola sighed, eyes shifting away. She busied herself with the hot pipes, mumbling a curse under her breath. “Okay, I’d better check my beans. Have a good day, Alvas.”
Alvas raised her mug in thanks. “Yeah, I’d better get back to the Command Center.”
The low, rhythmic thrum of The Glimmingdrift’s ion engines vibrated through the soles of Alvas’s boots as she took the express lift to the station’s bridge.
Her orange scales reflected the elevator’s neon violet light, shining like hammered copper. As she rose, the station looked less like a city and more like a floating jewelry box. She stepped out, her thick tail flicking away from the threshold as the metal doors closed with a soft hiss.
Alvas stepped onto the bridge, where the amber warmth of the secondary lamps acted as an optical balm, smoothing the jagged memories of the Birmingham fire. High above, the neon light bar bled a rich plum glow across the pearl-white workstations, turning the command center into a lavender sanctuary. The room breathed with the Captain’s intent, with consoles tilted to meet tufted paws, and holographic displays adjusted their heights to accommodate a dozen different anatomies. Seeing the quadratums and technicians operate in seamless harmony sent a surge of heat through her scales.
Alvas squared her shoulders, bolstered by the sight of a crew that flourished within the sanctuary she had rebuilt from The Glimmingdrift’s seedy past and transformed the station into a tourist destination for those with a love for live theatre and performances.
Alvas squared her shoulders, ready to guide everyone through another day.
Five quadratums worked at the main stations. Their cube-shaped bodies have been compared to bright, oversized fuzzy dice, each with a different color. One moss-green quadratum handled communications, while a red one watched the docking bay. A blue quadratum jumped onto a chair that adjusted to its height. These furry beings worked with fineness, their paws moving quickly over the holographic controls.
Alvas knelt down to meet the red quadratum, Vianola, at eye level and asked, “How’s the morning arrivals treating us?”
“Smoothly, Captain,” Vianola chirped. “The passengers on the Starbringer II just finished disembarking.”
Alvas stood and walked to the reinforced window. Below, the docking bay stretched out like a huge warehouse. Dozens of ships, from shiny chrome couriers to bulky ore-haulers and fancy passenger yachts, rested in their cradles, their engines cooling.
She tapped the black rim of her glasses. A soft chime sounded in her ear, and the lenses lit up as the digital display turned on. Her view zoomed in.
“Vianola,” Alvas murmured. “What is that at Bay 15?”
Vianola’s tufted ears flicked. The crimson quadratum spun its chair, paws blurring across a glass interface. “Scanners are clean, Captain. Bay 15 is reserved for the Solar Flare’s arrival in three hours. Currently, it’s just empty deck space.”
Alvas frowned, her pupils narrowing to thin black slits. Through her glasses, she saw more than just empty deck space. A shiny red sleigh sat there, its runners made from wood so dark it looked like frozen midnight. Eight animals with thin legs and branching antlers stood in two neat rows, their brown, rough fur standing out against the bay’s white tiles.
“Raise your seat, Vianola. Use your eyes, not the sensors.”
The chair hummed, lifting the red cube above the consoles. Vianola gasped. Her fur puffed out until she looked like a startled dandelion. “What is that? It’s not reflecting a single photon on the LIDAR. It’s like a hole in the universe.”
“It’s advanced,” Alvas said, her tail giving a sharp, intrigued lash. “Or it’s something else entirely. Keep a lock on my comms.”
Alvas jogged to the elevator, leaving the bridge for the ship’s busy port of entry. She moved with purpose, her tail helping her balance as she turned past three technicians.
“Morning, Kael. Shift’s looking good on the oxygen scrubbers,” she noted, not breaking her stride.
“Thanks, Captain!” the technician called back, startled she’d noticed his specific task.
At Docking Bay 15, the dock manager, Magnolia, had already arrived. Her serpentine half coiled, snake-hair stirring, she tapped furiously at her tablet, brow furrowed.
“Captain, I was just about to call,” Magnolia said, her voice tinged with confusion. “We’re getting these impossible scanner readings from Bay 15. There was no warp-jump signature, no airlock breach. It’s as if something has appeared out of thin air.”
Magnolia’s brow furrowed as she double-checked her tablet for anomalies.
Alvas felt a shiver of anticipation as she walked carefully toward the bay. Even before she saw the sleigh, the air was thick with mystery. The bay smelled of pine and mountain air, scents better suited to the Jade Ribs mountain range on The Green Planet than on a space station.
“What are these creatures?” Alvas asked.
“We’re reindeer,” one of them spoke.
Alvas stepped back. Magnolia straightened her back, her body lengthening by several inches as she braced herself for a fight.
“They speak,” Alvas whispered, her orange tail curling into a tight, defensive coil.
“They speak,” a smaller reindeer at the back mimicked, its tone a perfect, mocking mirror of Alvas’s voice.
“Identify your commanding officer,” Magnolia commanded, her voice like grinding stone. “Who brought you onto this station?”
The lead reindeer, a stag with a broad chest and moss-covered antlers, shook its head. The silver bells on his harness chimed.
“He goes by many names,” the stag said, a hint of a tease in its dark eyes.
“Like Father Christmas,” another reindeer shouted with a sparkle.
“Or Saint Nicholas,” another said.
“Or Kris Kringle,” another added.
“But for the sake of your manifest,” the lead stag said, “you can call him Santa Claus.”
“Santa Claus?” Alvas repeated. The name felt odd as she said it.
Magnolia’s snake-hair hissed, the tiny heads swaying as if trying to pick a scent. “I’ve heard stories about Santa Claus, Captain. He’s an Earth deity who would monitor the moral behavior of the youth and reward the ‘good’ ones with toys.” She flicked a tongue out. “I know some humans who still leave him dairy and baked goods as an offering around this time of year, but he’s just a folklore figure.”
Alvas adjusted her glasses. “A folk hero with stealth tech and the ability to travel between distant worlds? That sounds unlikely, even for us.”
“He’s no myth,” the lead stag said, his voice echoing like a cathedral bell. “Here’s here at the request of a child who wrote him a letter. This child didn’t ask for toys or shinnies. He asked Santa to help his guardian find his heart again after they both lost everyone in a fire.”
Alvas’s brow furrowed. “Wait… Are you talking about Tim and Scourge?”
The stag lowered his head slightly, conveying a sense of solemnity.
“I am,” the reindeer said, his eyes dark and mournful. “Tim Crotchet wrote to Santa, pleading, ‘Please, Santa, bring back the uncle who used to make me laugh. Bring back his smile.’”
Magnolia stepped forward, her serpentine lower half coiling into a thoughtful spiral. Her snake-hair retreated into a tight, quiet knot. “I remember when the Crotchets were the stars of that stage. Scourge wasn’t just their business partner. Those three were inseparable.”
“I still hear the screams from that night,” Alvas whispered, the flames of the old Birmingham Theatre replaying in her mind. “This was my first year in command. I built Dionysus Circle out of the literal ashes of that fire, yet the mystery of the blaze still pricks at my conscience.”
“Scourge pulled the boy from the wreckage,” the stag said, his dark eyes reflecting the bay’s white lights. “But the man who emerged from the smoke was a stranger. He left his spirit behind with his friends.”
“He’s been distant ever since,” Alvas said. “I’ve seen him go from a creative artist to someone closed off, and I never knew the reason.”
“Tim just wants his ‘Uncle Scourge’ back,” another reindeer added.
“Okay, so what does this Santa look like?” Alvas asked, her skepticism clashing with the weight of the stag’s words. “If he wants to help, then you can count me in, too.”
One of the reindeer at the back stepped forward, her silver bells jingling. “He’s no illusion. He’s a human who wears red from head to toe.”
“With a fluffy white trim, that doesn’t make him look slim,” another added with a mischievous spark in his eyes.
“With a little round belly that shakes like a bowl of jelly,” a third finished with a rhythmic giggle.
Magnolia rubbed her temples, her snakes hanging down in frustration. “So now we’re searching for a chubby, well-dressed legend who shakes when he laughs. My security numbers are going to be a mess.”
“Magnolia, keep an eye on the sleigh,” Alvas said, already turning toward the exit. “I’m going to Dionysus Circle. If this Santa is real, and he’s here to perform open-heart surgery on Scourge’s personality, he’s going to need help.”
The Daily Art Desk travel guide once famously noted, “Visiting The Glimmingdrift without catching a show at Dionysus Circle is like attending a cosmic supernova without sunglasses: technically possible, but you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting your mistake.”
Twelve independent performance venues formed this sprawling district, the largest and most popular sector of the space station. Travelers from various planets were queuing to see the next show, huddled in groups discussing the performance they had just watched, or trying to get an autograph.
Ignoring the buskers, dancers, prompters, and hordes of visitors, the urgency of her mission pushed her through the crowds.
She scanned the sea of faces, searching for a human clad in crimson. The station’s security scanners failed to register anyone matching that description. If the reindeer and sleigh remained ghosts to the sensors, the pilot likely shared the same stealth properties. Alvas shifted her focus, tasking the system to locate Scourge instead. The minotaur had last been flagged in the center courtyard, aggressively promoting his newest tragedy.
Alvas carved a path through the throng gathered around the director. Scourge commanded the space, a seven-foot-tall mountain of bright red fur stuffed into a velvet three-piece suit. A silky black cape draped over his broad shoulders, twitching as he gestured from atop a mini-stage.
“The next performance of A Disastrous Carol commences in precisely one hour!” Scourge bellowed, his voice a deep, theatrical rumble. “There’s only a handful of seats remaining! Get your tickets at The Birmingham Theatre!”
The crowd cheered as the director left his platform. Behind the big minotaur, a small boy hurried to keep up. Tim Crotchet’s mechanical leg made a strained, steady sound as he handed out flyers. Scourge didn’t look back, just gave an order and made his way back to his theatre.
Alvas moved to follow, but a sudden collision with a soft, velvet-clad mass halted her progress.
“Excuse me,” Alvas began, her orange tail twitching in surprise. She looked up, and her breath hitched. “Wait. You’re Santa Claus?”
“Ho, ho, ho!” The laughter bubbled from deep within the man’s chest, causing his belly to tremble like a bowl of jelly. “Indeed, I am, Alvas.”
The captain blinked. “How do you know my name?”
“I keep a very thorough list of everyone, especially those with hearts as gold as yours.”
“But I—”
“You’re here to assist in helping young Tim, aren’t you?” Santa asked, his eyes twinkling with a kindness that felt ancient.
“The reindeer told me about the letter,” Alvas replied, finding her footing. “They said you’re here to help Scourge and Tim, but what can you do, and how do you even know all of this?”
Santa chuckled and reached for his red cap. He took it off and put his hand inside. Somehow, his arm went much deeper than the hat should allow, reminding Alvas of her own gear with its roomy pockets. He pulled out a glowing crystal orb.
“The truth resides within this glass,” Santa said, offering the sphere.
Alvas grasped the crystal. Warmth seeped into her palms as a soft hum resonated through her scales. As she peered into the depths, a sequence of light and sound flooded her vision.
The glass revealed a younger, laughing Scourge—his crimson fur vibrant and his eyes bright—sharing a meal with Bob and Emily Crotchet. The trio looked inseparable, their faces lit by the glow of a shared dream. A younger Tim came running, jumping on Scourge’s lap. They all shared a laugh.
Then came the fire. The vision showed the terrifying chaos of the stage accident at The Birmingham during Alvas’s first year in command. A specialized “stellar-flare” prop meant to simulate a supernova suffered a freak containment breach. The ionized gas didn’t just burn. The substance reacted with the stage’s localized gravity field, creating a hungry, blue-hot inferno that defied standard physics.
Alvas watched the tragedy unfold with agonizing clarity, finally seeing why the ship’s safety systems had failed. The automated suppression sensors had been placed in “Performance Bypass Mode,” a standard theatrical setting designed to prevent the fire-foam from ruining expensive shows during the use of stage fog. By the time the central computer recognized the ionized signature as a lethal threat and overrode the bypass, the blue flames had already devoured the structural supports.
Scourge didn’t hesitate. The minotaur dove into the heart of the blue heat, his silk cape igniting as he shielded a wailing Tim. He emerged as a charred, broken version of himself, the boy clutched to his chest, just as the ceiling of the Birmingham collapsed into a mountain of slag.
The montage shifted through a somber funeral and the slow, painful years that followed. Alvas watched Scourge’s kindness wither. He transformed into a bitter, distant shell of a man who looked at Tim not as a nephew to love, but as a living reminder of the friends he couldn’t pull from the disaster.
The crystal faded. Alvas stood in the busy street of Dionysus Circle, her chest aching. She felt empty inside, letting her tail slouch on the floor.
“Oh my,” she whispered, her voice thick with the weight of the vision.
Santa tucked the orb back into the impossible depths of his hat. “Will you help me?”
“Yes,” Alvas said, her resolve hardening. “But Scourge is… I don’t know where to begin or what to say to him to make any of this right or better.”
Santa rubbed his snowy beard in thought. “A writer’s dilemma, then. If words fail, perhaps we should show him. How are your acting skills?”
Scourge’s director’s suite was more like a graveyard for costumes than a living space. Outfits and props filled most of the room, stuffed into drawers and spilling from cabinets in a mess that would frustrate any organizer. Tim had spent three years trying to make sense of the system, but it never got easier. Scourge, though, always seemed able to pull out the exact piece he needed, as if he could force the mess to obey him.
Tim huddled on a makeshift chair composed of discarded velvet capes while Scourge reclined in a plush leather seat, focused entirely on a “lucky” pre-show sandwich. Without looking, Scourge tore off the dry crusts and flicked the scraps toward the corner. Tim caught the bread before the floor could claim the morsels, devouring the dry edges with a practiced, hollow hunger.
Three gentle knocks vibrated against the heavy oak door. Scourge didn’t move, merely waving a massive, fur-covered hand toward the entrance. Tim complied, limping on his whirring mechanical leg to pull the door open.
The lush, red-velvet hallway stood empty. No patrons, no stagehands, no ghosts.
“Who stands there?” Scourge barked, his voice dripping with theatrical annoyance.
“No one, Uncle Scourge,” Tim whispered, clicking the latch shut.
As soon as the door locked, the room exploded into chaos. Every drawer opened at once, and a swirl of polyester, silk, and old wool filled the air. Scourge yelled as his lucky sandwich was caught in the mess, while Tim stood frozen by the door. The air grew cold. The clothes spun faster, then dropped to the floor, revealing Alvas dressed in a bright green robe with a wreath of pinecones and lights on her head.
“I am the Ghost of Christmas,” Alvas proclaimed, packed with a magical punch that vibrated through the floorboards.
“Wait… How… Who?” Scourge stammered, his hands trembling as he retreated into his chair.
Tim smiled. He knew.
“I know the man you once were,” Ghost Alvas thundered, the drawers rattled with her message.
A pile of clothes rose, transforming into a miniature stage. Fabric puppets acted out a scene from three years ago, showing a younger Scourge diving into the flames, pulling a tiny, soot-covered Tim to safety.
“You’ve spent years being distant from the boy, Scourge, thinking that if you kept your heart away, you wouldn’t get hurt again,” Alvas whispered. “You’ve been saving every shiny to send him away, calling your plan a ‘better life,’ but all he ever wanted was his uncle to be there. Remember the bedtime story about wizards you used to tell him? That was his favorite. It’s the laughter from those stories that he really misses.”
Scourge dropped to his knees, his massive frame shaking. “I thought… I thought I was a curse. I thought if I sent him far enough away from my failures, he’d be safe.”
“What happened back then was a freak accident,” Alvas said.
“No!” Scourge shouted. “It was my fault.”
“It was no one’s fault,” Alvas said with a hushed, forgiving tone. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t the Captain’s fault. It was no one’s fault…”
“But—”
Scourge tried to speak, but Alvas raised her hand. The clothes started to swirl around the room again, softer this time, like ghosts dancing around.
“Tim, tell him what your heart desires,” Alvas said, pointing to the boy.
“I-I want my Uncle Scourge back,” Tim said, bursting into tears. “I missed how you would tell me stories before bed. I missed how you snuck me treats. I missed you.”
Upon speaking his truth, the clothes in the room collapsed into a harmless heap, including the outfit Ghost Alvas wore as she disappeared, too.
Scourge remained on the floor for a long moment before looking up at Tim. The bitterness in the minotaur’s eyes had vanished, replaced by a raw, watery clarity. He reached out a massive hand, not to flick away, but to beckon the boy forward.
“Tim,” Scourge croaked. “I’ve been saving everything I earned to get you off this station, to the best performing arts school on The Green Planet. I thought I was doing you a favor by being a ghost myself.” He paused for a beat. “I was wrong.”
Tim didn’t wait. He threw his arms around the minotaur’s thick neck, burying his face in the crimson fur. “I don’t want to be somewhere else, Uncle. I just want you to include me again. I want to help and learn from you.”
Scourge squeezed back, his broad shoulders heaving. “As you wish.”
He let go of Tim and looked him in the eyes. “For now on, no more tragedies. Only comedies going forward!”
Out in the hallway, Alvas emerged from a twirl of snow as she stood before Santa.
Her orange tail moved in a slow, happy rhythm. “I’m not sure how we managed that miracle.”
“Just some Christmas magic,” Santa said with a wink as his belly shook in jelly-like fashion. “I believe our work here is done.”
Alvas looked at the man in red. “Not sure how I’m going to log what happened today.”
She pondered for a moment, touched by the magical unfolding of events.
Santa chuckled. “Some things aren’t meant for logs, Captain.”
As the air around Santa began to sparkle with a fine, silver frost, the man vanished in a blink.
Alvas’s networker on her wrist vibrated, and a 3D hologram of Magnolia popped up.
“Captain! The reindeer! They just… they’re gone!”
“Don’t worry, Magnolia,” Alvas said, a smile warming her scales. “Everything is fine.”
“But how did he do it?” Magnolia’s voice crackled with confusion. “No fuel, no engines, no flight plan!”
Alvas looked one last time at the spot where the man in red had stood.
A notification from Vianola chimed. She tapped ‘Answer,’ putting both of them on the screen.
“Captain, I just got a report about an invasive, illegal plant on board,” Vianola reported.
Alvas chuckled. “Never a dull moment.”
A Rescue Request to Santa was inspired by the following writing prompt: “As captain of the city-sized space shuttle, you get a notification that a ship has just entered your landing bay, but when you go to check, all you find are 9 reindeer attached to a sleigh.”
I thought this prompt would be a fun way to kick off my December short stories. It took me some time to build the world for this spaceship city, but I had fun, and I may come back to this space station to tell more stories here. In my universe, this story takes place after Who Killed the Toymaker Aboard Starbringer?, as The Glimmingdrift was where Detective Psychon was heading to for work. This also places the story at the same time as Script Thief, as the detective is working on his case while Alvas is helping Santa.
Update for December 2025. As I’m revisiting my older works, I spent this holiday season giving this one a significant rewrite. I expanded upon the world aboard the spaceship, introducing Scourge and Tim earlier in the story as I changed their backstory away from Scourge having bought Tim to work as an assistant to Scourge, being his guardian, after Tim’s parents and his best friends died in a tragic accident. I felt this past pack had more punch and made for a better progression arc for everyone. I also realized that in the original version, after Santa scared Scourge into freeing Tim, Scourge went unpunished. Then, to give Alvas more personal motivation and relevance, I connected the theatre fire to her and had Santa use magic to make her the Ghost of Christmas Past, rather than puppeting clothes to be the ghost. Overall, I’m much happier with the story!
I hope you enjoy this fun holiday story. Maybe someone will read it to their kids?
