CLINGING TO MY THRONE

The doomed voyage of the Cassiopeia—though "doomed" is too harsh a description, it was not doomed from the start—was just another tragic tale in the annals of space shuttle disasters. A frigate that was on yet another boring journey to deliver precious cargo, cheese-flavored snacks, the crew was suddenly bombarded by what they called an "unidentified deity." Described in voice memos by multiple witnesses as a "thrusting, starfish-like cloud of light, membrane, and gas," it spoke only in strange tones, which were recorded to the ship's official logs. But, perhaps, the crew of the Cassiopeia had grown greedy, begging the strange creature for more pleasing tones, more tasty beats. Once the vessel split in two, it was mostly over for those on board; the deity was lost to the cosmos while leaving behind its strange frequencies. Cassiopeia Rising, both the artist and the album, was born out of a fundraising effort for the families of those who died onboard. The parent company, Callisto Conglomerate, refused to provide life insurance policies nor pay for the funerals, as it was technically not a "work-related accident." There were lawsuits, of course, but in the end, the album of god-like bleeps and bloops proved to be more successful than bankrupting the shipping company. There was now immortality in the vinyl, which featured the names of all 261 employees and sported an artistic rendering of the deity. None of the singles charted particularly high, but the album overall sold so well that it has become a staple in most, if not all, music collections from Galaxy A to Black Hole Z.