Apocrypha

Ten colonists wake on a world that shouldn't exist — forests of silver and violet, cities built by multiple sapient species, and an energy field the ship's AI can only classify as "magic." The locals are beautiful, welcoming, and very eager to form bonds with the newcomers. It would be rude to ask why.

The closest target in the Diaspora — eleven light-years, the easy assignment. The crew called it "the short straw." Then the orbital scan came back, and nobody joked about it again.

Ten thousand years in cryosleep — longer than any human brain was supposed to endure. The planet is hostile, the air barely breathable, and the ground is alive. Three crew members wake up different. One of them is drawing things he hasn't seen yet.

The perfect planet. Breathable air, rich soil, no predators, no threats. Every colonization metric green. The ship's physicist steps onto alien soil and says: "This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and something about it is wrong, and I can't tell you what."

In 2006, a team of free-market economists cryogenically preserved the brain of Milton Friedman. In 2247, someone finally found a use for it. The twelve star systems it was given to manage have never been more prosperous. The audit, however, raises some questions.

The man who invented the index fund made Wall Street's entire business model unnecessary. A love letter and an obituary, told in the language of the only place that truly understood what he did to them.