Donald, the overlord technician of Beta colony, thought it was a good time to step outside for a smoke. The constellations over Aurelius always disoriented him. He would never get used to it, he thought, as he lit the cannabis tube and took a long, deep drag. The teraforming operation had been going on for two full years, continuously, and yet the air was still only 38% the density of Earth's. The pills helped, supplementing what was lacking. When his job was done, they would no longer be needed, but then it would be time to move on to the next colony farther out. He cursed under his breath; he never got a chance to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Suddenly, the muffled reverberation of alarm bells could be felt through the vinyl-foam body suit. With shock and dismay, he realized he'd lost track of time and strayed too far in his daydreaming under the alien sky to reach the shut-off switch before meltdown. Earlier he had dismantled the automatic, waiting, as usual, for parts from Earth. Too late. An overload was imminent. The exterior building would turn to plasma and collapse. He ran, fast. It was all he could do. But not towards the overheating resonator, but away, away towards the shelter of the bunker on the other side of the twenty-foot berm of rock and dirt.

Tears streamed his cheeks as he listened through the thin atmosphere to the shrill tearing sound of electrons being stripped away from the steel-reinforced melodidium. He knew he'd be fired and have to return to the nightmare called Earth. He ran and cried, wanting to die.

*************

When the electron storm had blown itself out, Donald went looking for his crew. They'd heard the warning and had scampered out through the escape burrows, sliding down the waxed ramp to a secure bunker deep within the planet. There was nothing they could do. They were at the end of their shift and near exhaustion from all the overtime. Get it done! had become a constant refrain from their employers. Well, it sure as hell wasn't going to happen now.

They returned to their shelter and decided to get drunk, always a good idea not in need of much of an excuse. However, complete meltdown and dissolution of the main teraforming factory was a serious occasion. His men tried to console him, joking about their lost lunch pales and the genuine balogna sandwiches and cartons of milk. But it was no use. Donald had to give his report, but not just yet. He'd wait a day or two while he thought up a good lie. His men promised to back it no matter how outrageous.

He sent the encrypted message telling of a meteor crashing into the factory. But, he knew investigators would come and discover the truth. That would take a few days. The nearest planet was Rigelious Three, a mere light month away. He could wait for their arrival and suffer the consequences or,..., run. Take their personal cruiser, kick it into quark-drive, and be on Rigelious in less than a day. He talked it over with his crew, they were his buds, so, he wasn't going to do anything like that without their OK.

He had no family, least ways any he cared about. He was on his own and had to admit being burned-out with the whole teraforming business. Fifteen years was a long time to be spending most of it on deserted planets and moons working his ass off trying to make them livable for miners and the trash that followed along. An occasional scientific outpost would go up, he knew. Astronomy and astrophysics, biology and micro-technologies had their respective frontiers pushed back thanks to him and his men. But he never got any credit for it besides the usual bonuses for getting the job done on time. Then it was off to the next God forsaken place. He was bored and felt unappreciated.

And now this. In spite of his exemplary record, it was a costly mistake. He probably wouldn't get fired over it, but they would most likely downgrade him to a desk back on Earth. The thought made him shudder. He sat alone all night long, brooding over times and places, adventures and near-death experiences, beautiful night skies and strangely quiet landscapes. By daybreak, under the glare of two suns, he'd made up his mind: Run like hell itself was chasing after you.

He hated long good-byes, but he knew he'd never see his men again. They helped stock the cruiser with enough supplies to last six months. He took weapons from their small armory -- a plasma repeater rifle and an electron hand gun complete with over the shoulder holster and plenty of extra laser tubes. They'd never run into any creatures to use them on, but that was not the reason for carrying them. Pirates roamed the ether. In all his years out in the bush, he'd only had one experience with such scum. And proved himself a damn good fighter. He killed two before they got back to their ship, never to return.

Waving to his men, giving them one last long look, he boarded the cruiser and fired up the engines. Quark-drive took time to charge. He sat in the pilot's seat, still thinking about his decision. He was cutting all ties with Earth and the normal routine of men. His employers wouldn't let a ship as valuable as this go easily. They'd be looking for him, the closest place first, he knew. So he studied the star chart as his ship warmed up. Rigelious Three would be his first jump. Couldn't stay long. Where to next? He'd make several jumps, going further and further out into the wasteland, amongst the space of pirates and worse, criminals of all stripes trying to hide from the authorities. Was this wise? He didn't care. He was done with caring. Years of putting up with rudeness and arrogance by those too afraid or inept to do what he'd done, well, that was over. A load left his shoulders along with the past.

A bell went off signifying readiness. He said one last good-bye to his men over the radio, then kicked her into gear. His ship -- the Pentagram. It took but a few seconds for it to get above the gravitational force of Aurelius before the quark-drive could be initiated. Halfway through to Rigelious Three he was captured by pirates. I suppose I could go into a longwinded description of just how he got captured, you know, they pulled up aongside, threatened him with total destruction, then he surrendered and became a captive. They were into selling people. That was their gig; they were pirates and they captured people to sell as slaves. Anyway, Donald became one of those.

Partway to their nearest auction base they in turn were captured by the Ardosian Navy. These folks were from another part of the galaxy that had never even heard of Earth. They were involved in fighting a war with the Valerians who lived on Valeria, where eles would they live? The Ardosians treated Donald and all the other captors of the pirates with the same indifference they treated all suspected ne'er-do-wells. Why else would you wind up a slave? Donald, along with others, were taken before a tribunal of sorts. These were folks who had no real legal education but held their positions simply because they knew somebody higher up the food chain. Donald told his story: he was a survivor of an attack on Beta 13. Everyone was killed save him. Taking a shuttle, he barely escaped with his life. Pirates caught him. Period.

The council wasn't bying it. Something about Donald they suspected. It could've been the plastic pocket protector; no one used those anymore. He confessed to being old school; he even had a sliderule. The council members glanced at one another. They decided to test his mettle and his truth by allowing him to become a member of the elite Purple Invasionary Force [the PIF]. [His other choice was death by wild beasts; the Ardosians considered slavery repugnant and in-ardosian, so that choice wasn't on the table.] Why they decided that is anybody's guess but this is a story about Donald and the things that happen to him, bizarre as they might be. Donald was not ready for this, to say the least. After the first week of training, he thought death might be more desirable. But it was too late. Donald worked his way up the ranks to become a Star Cruiser Captain. I suppose, once again, I could describe all the shit he went through to get there, but this is a story about Donald and we have to get to the good parts.

The Valerians had been waging this war aginst the Ardosians for close to three hundred years, Earth time scale. We need a scale. If we'd of given it in Valerian units, say -- 500 xvduns, nobody would know what the hell we were talking about. The reason to go to war was simplicity itself: the Ardosians claimed a planet in Valerian space, as they saw it. Valerian space extended 5000 parsecs in all directions with their home planet at center. Right on the edge facing Ardosia was this planet, an edge that had never been surveyed by a joint committee. In fact it had been reported by scout vessels that that particular region of space wavered for reasons unknown. That is, it stretched and shrank periodically. The Valerian argument, naturally enough, was based on this: if space can be flexible, so can their measurements.

No one lived on this planet save a few strange species of plant and animal life and, in truth, it had little to no value as far as minerals or any other resources the Valerians held valuable. What it possessed was a religious significance. As the story goes, long ago, really long ago, a being from another galaxy crash-landed there. His call for help went unheeded; too far away, I guess. Over the years he adapted to the flora -- that's plants and such -- and managed by dint of luck, cleverness and pure meanness to survive. During that time, not having anything else to do, he cannibalized parts from his massive ship and built another; it was smaller but, it worked. One day he jammed as much food as he could into the tiny ship and took off, planning to explore the local neighborhood. His charts were still in good order and so was his navigational equipment. Pretty damn lucky, huh?

His engine was merely the driving force for what really propelled his ship through space, allowing him to cover such vast distances. A crystal similar to Earth quartz but having as center and seed around which it grew a tiny black hole of unknown dimensionality. They were commonplace in his old galaxy, scattered throughout; not so much here. The engine drove a piece of equipment that sent a stream of high-intensity photons in a state of coherence -- phases of different frequencies matching each other congruently -- into the crystal's center. This initiated a cascade effect projecting a holographic image of where he was now and where he wanted to be right next to each other. Imagine folding a sheet of paper with A on one edge and B on the other so that they touched. That's not exactly what's going on here but it's as close as I can come without confusing you too much.

On second thought, let me try this: It didn't amount to warping space like in that Earther movie Star Trek; no, that was fiction. It was more like turning pages of a book while keeping a finger tucked in the one you're reading, skipping to the back, say. Dimensions are like that. If you can arrive at the backbone of the book, then all the pages become accessible. And the center of that crystal was the backbone. There, that's kind of more like it really is.

Where were we? Oh yea, exploring the neighborhood. It wasn't much to look at. Most planets were lifeless or nearly so, microbial life is persistent and seems to be able to take root and flourish under the most extreme of circumstances. What is it with those guys? But beyond that there was little to see: mountain ranges, giant craters, oceans of ammonia and carbon dioxide, steaming basins of sulfuric acid, and vast empty expanses of brown gravelly rock and dust. Gravity varied as did atmosphere. Some were poisonous, others close to his home planet although there was always some crucial ingredient missing. Looking back he couldn't believe his good fortune crashing on a planet whose atmosphere and gravity were very similar to his planet in a completely other galaxy. What are the chances of that?

Eventually he entered the space of Valeria. He saw it was well populated by sentient beings, how civilized he couldn't know. He circled it twice scanning for a good place to set down, a place that appeared to be official where he could talk, hopefully, with leaders. They all look the same, have the same trappings, monuments, huge extravagant buildings, heavy street traffic. But his arrival triggered the alarm of the Planetary Guard who sent fighters up to meet the intruder. He had sufficient weaponry to easily defend himslef if he so chose. One weapon in particular could alter the atomic structure of matter, transmuting the metalic outer hulls to the consistency of wet dough, one choice among many. Instead he allowed himself to be escorted to a landing strip out in a dessert. Surrounded by armed men he opened the door and stepped out trying to look as friendly as possible. He did carry with him, however, a shield pellet, a device affording the bearer the ability to enshroud his personal being with an invisible force field up to ten meters in diameter, impervious to all but the most powerful vaporizers.

Leaders did indeed come to visit, curious and also somewhat fearful. Could this be a messenger from a more powerful race of beings? An emmissary bringing good news or ultimatums? They had to find out; he seemed friendly enough. Through a combination of hand signals and mathematics -- the universal language -- they communicated, not fluently, mind you, but well enough to determine what side of the fence he was on. He knew things -- physics, technology -- that they had no idea of. They were suitably impressed and awed. He was given a comfortable place to stay beside a lake with an armed guard to keep the masses at bey. Leaders from all over Valeria came and went. They learned much and improved their societies immeasurably. But after a year he grew weary of it all and decided to leave for greener pastures. Concern that other planets might learn what he'd taught them and become equally wise and powerful, they chose to restrain him under house arrest. Bad idea.

He showed a great many things of a technical nature to these beings, but not everything. He had a couple of aces up his sleeve. One was a hand-sized cloaking device, undetectable by magnetic resonance imaging scanners. X-rays couldn't see through it either. With that he hoofed it out to where his ship sat, under heavy guard. He crawled underneath to a secret hatch and gained entrance. Wasting little time, he fired it up, testing all systems and prepared to escape. But before he left he commandeered the network of world-wide visual/audio one-way communication devices -- kind of like TVs -- and informed all that he was leaving but one day would return bringing secrets of eternal life. Of course he had no intention of returning to this ignorant hole of a planet, he was just saying that to screw with their heads for putting him under house arrest, but they didn't know. If he could magically escape, then he could do anything.

So, ever afterwards, they wait, one generation after another, wait and hold sacred this icon and the planet in their galaxy he came from. Hence, the war of territorial acquisition.

Let's get back to Donald. Remember Donald? This is his story.

He achieved captaincy of his own cruiser which he renamed Pentagram to honor the ship that brought him to Ardosia. It's bad luck to rename a ship, but he didn't care. He figured he'd make his own luck. The Council of Elders -- they weren't old, some were in their twenties, but that's what they called themselves -- convened twice a week to discuss matters of importance: health care, unemployment, infrastructure, and, oh yes, the neverending war. They concocted a plan, a secret mission for Donald, to test his resolve, devotion and patriotism. He was to go behind the lines, into Valerian territory, and destroy the entire planet of Valeria, killing everyone: men, women, children, dogs, cats, and lay waste all food sources and existing flora -- plants and such, remember? Donald thought this a bit over the top considering it was his first mission and that the entire fleet had been unable to accomplish this after 300 years of open, ruthless warfare and said as much. But the Council was adamant. Conservatives. If he refused he'd face court-marshall, charges of treason and certain, unpleasant death. He didn't have much of a choice.

His crew onboard the cruiser Pentagram were excited and enthusiastic at the great honor bestowed on them by the Elders. Never in their wildest dreams did they imagine such an opportunity. They attributed it to the luck of their new skipper, and praised him mightily. Donald, for his part, wondered at the mental status of his crew. Would it be wise to go into battle with these people? He sat in his cabin brooding, soul-searching, trying to put his finger on where it all went so terribly wrong. He regretted many things not the least of which was changing the name of the ship. Could that be it? he thought.

The mind of Donald worked along a single track: how to stay out of trouble. But trouble lay in wait no matter what avenue he turned down. After thoughtful consideration of all possible action he could take, or not take, he arrived at the final all-purpose conclusion, the one that made most sense: Run like hell itself was chasing after you. This had become his mantra, he thought, feeling slightly amused at himself despite current circumstances.

His little ship, the one he came in seemingly a very long time ago, sat in a hangar at a private field near his home. Every saturday he'd gotten into the habit of going there to attend it: change out old, outdated parts for the latest stuff; check systems for functionality; stock the stores with canned goods and dehydrated fruits and vegetables; and wash the hull. Just a regular guy on a saturday morning, his neighbors thought. But in the back of his mind he wanted this baby ready to go at a moment's notice. It's how he thought.

The day came when he was to embark on his mission. His crew was ecstatic. They spent the previous night in final preparation while drinking copious amounts of alcohol. He spent the same time fitting out his personal craft. When the time came for him to report to the cruiser, he was long gone heading out and away from the battlefield with A tab locked firmly into B slot.

He kept going until he was far away from both Ardosian and Valerian space before slowing down. He never could quite see the difference between the two anyway. They lived to fight. Over nothing, as he saw it.

He traveled an entire month, wanting to get the taste out of his mouth if for no other reason. Taking it easy, eating only when hungry, lazing about, watching videos he stole from the officers' social center. He was feeling pretty good. But, it was not to last.

Three clicks out of Hadron Prime he ran into some difficulty. He was stopped by what looked like Customs Agents; they were dressed that way. But once onboard they pulled down on him. An hour later, all his stores and personal valuables were gone. Out of food, batteries, wine, and such, he found the nearest populated planet and put in. Populated does not translate into civilized. This was one of those wide-open mining and resource gouging expeditions. Half the people here were running from the law; and the other half were either trying to strike it rich for themselves and their families or trying to get away from their families.

Nobody was going to give him anything and as he had none of the local currency, he had to find work. Mining anything was out of the question as far as he was concerned. By sheer luck, he ran into a few people who understood his rudimentary Ardosian and so with their help soon found employment at a wharehouse loading bags of grain onto large enclosed vehichles -- trucks. It was backbreaking work, but he couldn't expect more given his circumstances as an illiterate outworlder. Most of the folks here were outworlders, in fact, from worlds Donald never imagined existed. He learned to accept the bizarrest of creatures and behaviour. Mining planets draw folks from everywhere.

Before too long Donald fell in with a crowd at the wharehouse who shared his passion for the local liquors. Another passion of theirs was robbing art galleries and selling paintings on the black market. Donald immediately saw a way to speed up his whole operation, so he threw in with them. He imagined it to be a simple affair: break in; grab painting; carry it out to waiting vehicle; drive away. But it didn't turn out that way. They put Donald behind the wheel while they went around the back. He waited, thinking about the supplies he was going to buy with the money. Suddenly alarms went off just as a large military-looking truck drove up beside him. His dreams were dashed, along with the left side of his head.

When he got out of the infirmary, he was let into the general prison population. Justice was exceedingly swift at this little mining colony; they didn't waste time with courts and such paraphenalia. If you were caught doing something illegal, they threw your ass in jail. For how long? He wasn't told. Keep out of trouble, was all. His cellmate was from a planet far to the right of Ardosia, so communicating was tough. His name was unpronounceable by Donald so he called him Bob. It seemed to work. Bob was a different kind of guy who hated just about everything, in particular his present situation. Along with a few others he had concocted an escape plan which he had no bones telling Donald about. He wanted in. Staying here for an indeterminate time was not on his list of ways to spend his life.

Having fashioned darning needles from toothbrushes, the prospective escapees had been busy knitting replicas of prison-guard uniforms from blankets. They looked the same as long as they stayed in the shadows, but were extremely scratchy. One night they set their plan in motion. As their respective doors were about to close, they put a pack of matches in between the locking device and its keeper. Everybody has match books, it's no big deal. When the guards retired to their bunkers for the night, the escapees made their move, quietly leaving their cells to rendezvous at the end of the corridor where the laundry shoot was. They slid down to the waiting pile of bags, then skittered to the drain pipes near the end of the laundry facility one level up, then climbed up a ladder that led to the surface road. Under the watchful eyes of the marksmen manning the guard towers at all corners and the central one above the main gate, wearing their uniforms in the dark of night allowed them to move across the open field to the entrance with impunity. This is as far as their plan went. In actuality, the designers of the plan didn't think they would get this far.

Donald was beside himself; he couldn't believe it. What morons! He quickly took charge and stepped out away from their hiding place and called up to the guards not thirty feet above. He told them they thought they saw some activity at the edge of the trees where the scrubby forest began. And could they open the gate so they could go investigate. A moment later, the rusty iron gate creaked open, just enough for them to squeeze out. They walked purposefully, spread out in a line like they were actually checking things out. Once at the edge of the woods, they ran like hell. The guards, suspecting all was not in order as the escapees/guards had no weapons, opened fire, killing three. Donald and Bob hightailed it, crashing through the dense brush until they got to a dirt road. They stripped off the phony guard uniforms and hoofed it till they came across a settlement tucked neatly on a spacious meadow just past a string of trees lining the roadway. Donald had no idea where they were, of course, but they needed a change of clothes from their prison uniforms. Handily, they found suitable items hanging from a clothesline; they then proceeded back to the road to hitchhike.

Donald knew the name of the town he'd been staying in, but that was about it. They walked in a direction away from where the prison was. Traffic wasn't all that grand. Eventually however a truck rumbled down the road. Donald put his thumb out which Bob quickly pushed down, explaining that here such a gesture was highly insulting. Instead he simply waved him down and asked if he was going to Noevkea, Donald's town. Infrastructure on this boring little planet was minimal; one main road connected everwhere and so this truck driver was either heading in the right direction or not. A fifty-fifty chance of getting it right. As luck would have it, he was. So they piled into the back and hid amongst the bags of grain.

Donald had only one thing on his mind: get to his ship and get the hell out of there. He'd been stuffing it with supplies and scrounging spare parts since he first started working at the grain factory. Grain was a big deal on this planet. In fact, a lot of people thought you could do better farming the lush temperate-zone soil than you could mining. The miners didn't think that, of course. It was mainly farmers who believed you could make more money raising grains: wheat, maze and such. They didn't know; they were farmers.

When they arrived in town, they immediately made their way to Donald'ship. No one of the legal profession knew he had one, so it was unconfiscted and unguarded. It didn't take long to fire it up and get going. He zoomed past the Planetary Guard -- all these planets had Guards -- and shunted her into quark-drive, heading -- outbound. Bob wanted off at the first peopled planet they came to, which suited Donald just fine as his former cellmate was of no use and constantly complained. Bob was as much a pain in the ass out of jail as in.

Only a day out -- an Earth day -- they came across a contender. Donald didn't care how civilized it was or even if it was civilized, Bob wasn't. After eluding the -- yes -- Planetary Guard, he dropped him off near a small village and continued on, not saying much in the way of good-bye except -- take care of yourself, Bob.

After putting several parsecs of space between him and the mining colony, paging across reaches of space, Donald slowed down and got control of himself. He wanted to give his next destination serious thought, so he put the Pentagram on cruise control and sat back. Earth lay on the other side of the galaxy, 50,000 to 70,000 light years away, as the crow flies. Billions of stars and an unkown number of habitable planets lie between. Donald was a long way from home.

After a time, he shut down all engines and simply rocketed straight ahead, being out of reach of major gravimetric disturbances. In the background could be heard the quietest electrical hum as the main computer performed scheduled diagnostic programs on the network itself as well as on life-support, navigation, engineering, quark-drive integrity and other important ship systems. He talked to himself constantly, a habit he'd gotten into over the many years of teraforming service. The planets he worked on were always devoid of life and he would quickly tire of talking with fellow crew members. Playing cards and drinking didn't appeal to him all that much.

He puttered about his ship, that's how he thought of it now. It was no longer a ship he stole from the Corporation. No. It was his home and he set about making it feel that way. He personalized the bridge with cards he received over the years and carried with him everywhere, keepsakes, touchstones of a life. Hanging a copy of the painting Boat Party over the main computer console; building a bookcase from plasticized cartons; stacking his music collection and player within easy reach. He draped his favorite sweater over the back of the pilot chair; hung one of those oriental bamboo landscape paintings, the kind that roll up, next to the door leading to the rest of the ship; wedged a tiny vase -- he liked its shape -- picked up on a vacation trip to Lindarae One, a tiny resort planet near Orion's outer edge, between two weapon-systems displays. Inscribed on it was the insignia of the hotel where he stayed for two glorious weeks.

Donald got into the habit of keeping diaries since he began his teraforming career fifteen long years ago; actually, before that even, when a student. He wrote about the good and the bad. Times of celebration, birthdays, new planets to conquer, crew members, as well as personal relationships, mistakes and regrets, bad decisions, rude treatment tolerated without protest. Stuff, lots of it. But as he aged, he wrote more about going through difficulties, like now, trying to get a handle. Reflections and analysis, thoughts and feelings.

Savoring the quiet and the vast expanse of star-studded emptiness through the viewscreen, sipping coffee and smoking a cannabis tube, he paged through a journal from four years ago. He came across an entry dated when he was working a planet in the Epsilon Eridani system, 10.5 light years from Earth. It was rugged but safer than most, already having something of an atmosphere serving as protection from major space debris.

He'd written that he intended to kill himself after finding out that his Earth-bound fiance had died. It'd taken three months for the message to reach him. He requested time off and spent most of it in his tiny studio looking out in the direction of Sol. The planet was a good third larger than Earth, the horizon bulged out past where his mind had learned to expect it. He needed the familiar as anchor, but could only find it within the confines of the compound, the command station and main teraforming factory. He drank heavily during this time, something he seldom did even on holidays when it was expected.

One night he purposely drank to the point where he was about to pass out, turned on the natural gas burners, all three, then laid down expecting to die. A couple of hours later he awoke feeling dizzy and stupid-headed, a combo of the alcohol and gas, turned the burners off and cleared the air. Since then he hadn't tried suicide, although several times he felt like it. But he did remember that feeling, that head space when he laid down anticipating death, wanting to die. It was peace, easy, no misgivings or anxiety or fear of the unknown. It felt so goddamn ordinary, like he was just laying down to take an afternoon nap.

He tossed the journal onto a chair next to him and went to the galley to get something to eat. While preparing a meal, which amounted to heating up a package of pasta and meatsauce by unzipping a pull-tab on its side, he let the memory come of its own volition:

After his head had cleared he set about trying to do simple tasks. The incident itself, as he thought of it, played through to the past as though nothing special, just another drunk and, oh yes, attempted suicide. But trying to do simple things afterwards, like putting dirty clothes in his laundry bag and making a pot of coffee, he had trouble getting himself in gear. He would begin the acts, then stop, then again start. He sensed himself as though a machine composed of will and meat. The will was the internal engine. He felt he could have laid down and not moved a muscle forever, but he kept pushing and pushing. He poured water into the pot and some coffee in the basket, watched it perk, drank some. He tasted the bitterness of the bean piercing to his soul as though nothing stood in its way. Otherwise, he thought nothing of his closeness to death. It was but a micron away; a mere sidestep. His nerves were bad for a day or two, but only because he didn't care.

He finished eating and went back to the bridge to check on everything. The diagnostic procedure had completed itself, all was in fine shape. He sat back again in the pilot's chair and glanced over at the journal. He'd been doing this for years. At certain questionable times -- and this was definitely one of them -- he'd open a journal at random and read whatever faced him. The proper attitude would present itself. He was on his own; out past the reach of any help. He needed to be invisible to himself. Talking out loud all the time was one thing; schizophrenia, quite another.

It may have been a small corporate flier, but it had state-of-the-art systems and technology. Tracking speed and direction based on last known position put him where he was. Punching a key on the main board at his side: a local 3-dimensional hologram projected onto the empty space in front of him. A tiny icon of his ship hovered at mid-point. Punching another key, names of nearby planets and livable moons with distance-direction vectors showed alongside. He questioned computer for information on the closest, if in the database. He doubted it as he was on the other side of the galaxy from Earth, but it didn't hurt to ask. His corporation -- or rather his former corporation -- had far-reaching plans. Nonetheless, the search came up empty. Half a dozen planets to choose from based on what?

He stood to pace the bridge, glancing out side viewscreens as he passed them. Why had the names of these planets been in the database but not any other pertinent info? The ship was intended for ferrying workers back and forth and to escape in if it came to that. He concluded that the corporation had in fact explored this region, if only by robot ship, and had accidentally included their names in the computer database. Some programmer had perhaps simply copied exploration results from the robot ships onto the entire network at once to save time, and then whoever was in charge of computer oversight on ferry ships had screwed up. To be sure, executive ship computers probably held all pertinent information concerning exploratory missions. It was on a need to know basis, and he and his boys obviously had no need to know. But somebody messed up, leaving the names on.

He decided that if indeed the corporation knew of these planets and were thinking about using them either as bases from which to launch further teraforming expeditions or were planning on teraforming any of them, if needed, they would probably have agents in place, agents who would recognize his ship as one of theirs and send out the word.

He sat back in the pilot's chair and made a decision: Blow off these planets and keep heading out. Why the hell not? See what's over the rainbow, as his mother use to say. His mother used to say a lot of things. Don't take any shit from anybody was one of her pieces of advice. But then, another thing she used to say over the years pulled from her street-wise store of wisdom when he'd complain about his lot in life was: You zigged when you should've zagged. How he missed her. Mom.

He performed a long-range scan of the region ahead, fanning it out at forty-five degrees. As there was nothing in the way he retired to his room for a nap. He was exhausted and only now began to feel it. He set his alarm clock for four hours, got into his pajamas and curled up in bed relishing the solitude and his unemployment. He didn't have to go to work when he woke up -- thank God, he thought -- then quickly nodded off to dreamland.

His ship, unaffected by any major grav drag, continued to rocket along at near light speed. Not exactly quark-drive, but fast enough. Its passage through space left behind the tell-tale signature of particle interference in spite of the engines being shut down. The quantum field constantly interacted with the material of the hull producing neutrino streams in all directions like fourth-of-july flares. As he passed the last planet on his list of named ones, it got the attention of one Flange Lafite, a notorious pirate and rogue of the netherworlds. He hid out in the wastelands to avoid capture by over a dozen worlds interested in killing him, after suitable torture, for crimes against,..., well, against everything decent and valued, including stuff he stole. His automatic observation station high up in the mountains monitored all traffic in his vicinity looking for cops, enemies or lost wayfarers.

Meanwhile, Donald dreamed on. He was in a house of ill-repute on Lindarae One. You know the type. Places where the hard-earned money you've scrimped and saved to buy necessities magically transforms into so much confetti. He picked a woman out of the line-up named Lolanda. What a pretty name, he thought. She was not too tall but had long legs that went all the way up to her ass. And large shapely breasts that stood at attention. Her long curly blue hair draped her shoulders, some falling down her chest, the rest, down her bare, exquisitely tanned creamy back. She had that kind of skin that seems to glow from within, soft and silky, yet firm, resilient, wrinkle-free. Her rich full lips shaped a smile that spoke worlds of promise as she led him down the opulently adorned and carpeted hallway to her room. He could've walked behind her for miles the way she moved her hips if he hadn't been eager to get to her bedroom. Once inside she turned his way, then knelt before him on the thick red rug and reached to undo the sash holding his pantaloons up. He was all smiles with anticipation; the incense intended to evoke the maximum in pheromone production clearly succeeding.

Just then, the proximity alarm reverberated throughout the ship. His dreaming self thought it might be a smoke alarm going off in Lolanda's room, too much incense. A struggle of epic proportions ensued. He really didn't want to leave Lolanda, but grudgingly, in fits and starts, he woke, cursing the gods, throwing off his blanket in disgust. Fully awake now, the loud clanging threatened to break his eardrums. He raced to the bridge to shut it off; momentarily looking out the viewscreen to glare at whatever the hell had the proximity nerve to ruin such a perfectly wonderful dream. Who knows if he'd ever see Lolanda again?

He saw no one and nothing. He scanned the immediate area -- still nothing. Had the alarm misfired? He'd recently performed that diagnostic on all systems, so a false alarm was unlikely. An anomoly. He hated anomolies, he hated anything out of the ordinary -- he was an engineer, unknown factors affecting equipment were a curse. Perhaps a spontaneous burst of quantum fluctuating energies converging in one spot was large enough to set off the alarm, he thought. He hoped that was the case although he had never heard of it before. But he was in uncharted waters and had to accept that anything could happen. He needed to keep an open mind. Leave the land of expectations based on known physics behind.

A loud thud on the hull startled him. Fear and adrenaline raced, charging his nervous system, readying his muscles, focusing his brain. Not relying on instruments now, he ran around the ship looking out at every viewport. There were a lot of them. The ship was designed to carry up to ten crew members, two to a stateroom, plus engineering aft and below the main deck had its series of separate viewports. The galley and infirmary were centralized so had none. Nothing. Whatever it was had almost purposely chosen a place out of sight. He went to the port-side airlock, the side the sound seemed to come from, and made certain it was secure. Could a tiny meteor had caused such a loud noise? He was traveling pretty fast; a collision with anything larger than a grain of sand would be formidable.

Back on the bridge the radio abruptly crackled. A voice, or what sounded like a voice, spoke in a strange tongue. It was a language he didn't know but the tone was unmistakable -- he was being threatened. Instinctively he went to his weapons cache and grabbed the electron handgun. The plasma rifle might do more harm than good in these close quarters; he could accidentally blow a hole in the hull, but he took it with him anyway and laid it on the fold-out table in front of his navigation computer. The strange voice had ceased so he waited, standing in the center of the bridge.

He wiped sweat from his brow and tried to compose himself. Could the corporation had caught up with him, out here in the middle of nowhere? Waiting for conditions to deteriorate was not his style; he'd built his reputation and pay grade based on being proactive. It wasn't his fault the plant on Aurelius had melted down to pure plasma; he'd been waiting for parts from Earth to fix the automatic shut-down switch. It was an accident, plain and simple. He regretted it, but shit happens.

He spoke into the radio transceiver using the customary hailing message, and waited. The voice returned but this time in his own language. It demanded he open the air-lock or be blown to smitherines. The voice didn't say smitherines but that's how he interpreted it.

"Who are you and what do you want?" he replied.

"My name is of no concern to you. You are traveling through my space and must pay a toll. If you want to live, open your air-lock on the starboard side or I will be forced to destroy your ship."

Could he do that? The hull was an alloy of titanium and designer carbon for the most part, with a few inert elements thrown in to tweek it just right. Mechanically, the atomic lattice arrangements were set in perfectly ordered sheaths like an onion, then fused into one whole solid chunk with him at the center. It was lightweight but impregnable to all radiation frequencies; they simply had no entrance points.

He had no intention of allowing this intruder to enter. He doubted he represented legitimate authority; he'd already been duped once by people masquerading as customs agents. Regaining his footing, he said, "Fuck you, asshole." And waited, clutching the handgun firmly with determination to use it without hesitation.

Suddenly the main display screen came to life revealing a bruised and scarred face, little hair on his acorn-shaped head and a short mishappened beard that did little to hide the scar across the left side of his chin, or what passed for a chin. The man smiled sardonically and seemed to be looking right at Donald, eyeball to eyeball. Donald almost shot the screen in response, then thought better of it. Get a grip, he told himself.

"Dear sir," the man said all too sweetly, "I assume you are the captain of this vessel. As such, you have a responsibility to your crew to save their lives. I mean you no harm."

"You threatened to destroy my ship. And you just said I had a duty to my crew to save their lives. So how the hell can you say you mean us no harm? Sounds like harm to me."

The smile continued. "Well, you are responsible. And my threat, a test merely, nothing more. You see, we've had pirates and criminals come through here looking for prey to pounce on. I thought perhaps you might be one of those. But I can see now you are not of that stripe. Where is your bridge crew? Do you always man the bridge alone?"

Donald was astonished. He can see in here, see me. How is that possible? Recovering nicely, trying to act like it was a common occurrence, he said, "Only one is necessary when running on the open sea. We are fully automated -- state-of-the-art -- with everything, including weaponry." He was bluffing, of course. It was a ferry boat; it had no weaponry. At least not the kind that fired from the ship itself; it wasn't military issue, just a corporate puddle-jumper. He also didn't have a clue as to this guy's weaponry, but he was guessing it wasn't corporate. In another part of the galaxy, who knows what they know? Maybe the hull isn't as impervious as he believed.

As though reading his mind, the screen went blank. Momentarily the air next to him shimmered, followed by what appeared to be a holographic image of the man, in full, standing next to him but a few feet away. He studied the bridge, looking at everything in swift succession, then back to Donald. "I like your ship. Very neat and orderly." He stepped closer and said very directly, "By now members of your crew should be here. I suspect therefore you are alone. Is that true?"

Donald knew that to fire on this image would be meaningless; he'd probably destroy what was behind him -- the nav-computer. He was up against something unfamiliar, to say the least. Brains. His ship could carry a minimum of ten passengers as well as a bridge, galley and engineering crew. So yea, if nobody else had bothered to show by now, he probably was alone. Squeezing the handgun, he asked, "How the hell did you do that? Project a hologram right through my hull?"

"Simple technology which I acquired over the years. As far as getting through your hull goes, there are forces in the universe of which you apparently have no knowledge. How would you escape from a three-dimensional enclosure?"

"I'd bribe the guards or tunnel out," was Donald's reply.

The man attempted a chuckle, it looked like it hurt. "Yes, but if you had access to the fourth dimension it would be easy. I ask you again, are you alone?"

"Yes, I'm alone. I took this ship from the people I used to work for; far, far away from here. I'm searching for a planet to rest on and maybe move into." Why he had chosen to be so honest he wasn't sure; but this man seemed to be holding all the cards, so what the hell. Besides, his instincts told him he might be impressed by an act of larceny -- a kindred spirit, a brother. He obviously wasn't the gentleman he pretended to be. But even if he was, Donald had dealt with corporate lawyers who could talk a bird out of a tree but who would also cut your balls off for a piece of chocolate.

The man smiled more painfully at this confession, revealing even deeper scars and wrinkles. How old is this guy? thought Donald. And what is he all about? He's not a rep from some government; he threatened to destroy my ship, no questions asked. I can't trust him, but what am I to do?

"You wish to find a place to rest, temporarily. Or perhaps move in. I have the perfect place. I invite you to visit, as my guest. It is only a short distance away, but getting further and further at this speed. Consider it."

"Why can't I see your ship? Is it that tiny?"

The man laughed briefly. "No. It's rendered invisible by a device I discovered on a passing ship, long, long ago. The captain was kind enough to,..., trade for it."

"But my proximity alarm, it detected it."

"I didn't say it was immaterial, only invisible. God Almighty." Lafite closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead momentarily. "Perhaps you too have something to trade for the secret? Let's discuss it over food, at my humble estate. What do you say? Rest? As my guest."

This guy didn't exactly inspire trust, thought Donald, but so damn few people did anymore. He may or may not be treated like a guest once in his clutches, but he felt the intruder had the upper hand and until he could figure out just what to do, where he stood in relation to this strange creature, he might as well play along. But surrendering his ship was not an option, of that he was most certain. He'd rather die.

"What's your name," Donald asked, wanting to appear conciliatory if not totally convinced.

"Flange Lafite, at your service. And yours?"

"Donald."

"That is all? Donald?

"Yea, that's all. I was left on the doorstep of a convent back on my home planet with a note pinned to my blanket with that name on it."

"Convent"?

"You don't want to know."

Flange deactivated the invisibility device, gave Donald the coordinates of his chateau and followed him in. Why didn't he lead? wondered Donald; that would be customary. He considered making a run for it. Kicking Pentagram into quark-drive, entering hyperspace and eluding Flange. But, he was curious. Besides, he was invited to dinner; how often did that happen? A full-fledged homecooked meal would be almost worth dying for.

While enroute he jury-rigged a self-destruct mechanism into the computer's mainframe that would fry all connectors, reformat the hard-drive and make all the bells and whistles go off simultaneously initiating a cascade of field-collapses resulting in the quark-coil exploding, consequently vaporizing a good portion of the planet, at least all life on the surface within 300 kilometers of the blast center. He could trigger it with a small remote control device, something like a TV remote, only smaller, you know. It wouldn't help him any and in fact would trap him on the planet if it didn't actually kill him; but he thought it was a cool idea and sometimes that's all that matters, especially when you don't have any other plan going. At least Flange wouldn't get his ship, that was some satisfaction.

Staring out the viewscreen at the rapidly nearing planet, he kicked back in the pilot's chair and fired up a cannabis tube; he wanted to be at his best on their arrival. As he sat getting stoned, the semblance of a plan began to emerge.

Flange Lafit's chateau was more like a castle, in fact it was a castle, like the kind you see in the Swiss Alps back on Earth. Coming in low from the direction of the sun, the area around it looked empty of neighbors. Four main turrets surrounded a compound of sixteen buildings, not counting the main house with its many wings. In back spread an extensive garden with a long narrow pond running its length down the middle. Off to one side a landing field with several outbuildings could clearly be seen. That's where they set down.

The entire compound was over four hundred years old. His parents left it to him about a hundred and eighty years ago. You see, this planet where he grew up, where his species is from, takes ten of our years to make one trip around its sun. Evolution is very local. So, from our age determination factors, Flange is only about forty.

Several people came out to greet them. Donald couldn't help but notice that some of the larger greeters had weapons of some sort strapped over their shoulders. Friends of his, he thought. Wearing his holster'd gun, he entered the airlock chamber and closed the inside portal, then pushed the button to open the outside one. Down three steps and he was on the tarmac looking around for Flange, the only familiar face he knew. His elbow was grabbed from behind, Flange said, "Come this way, my friend," as he let go to escort Donald.

The view was breathtaking, to be understated. High jagged Ranges went off in every direction, streaming glaciers down to the valleys of rivers carrying away icebergs of every size and shape. A muffled roar could be heard far off, Donald stopped to see a great calving of ice slowly falling into a river; such mass inconceivable. They entered the compound through a side gate and then up a few steps passed ivy-covered stone walls to a pair of bronze-hinged doors of unknowable weight. Geometric patterns and designs of fanciful creatures were carved on their darkwood surface. The instant Donald stepped across the threshold, he became warm, the outside temperature hovering around freezing, he guessed. One broad set of carpeted stairs led up to a wide hallway. Paintings, sculptures, tables, high-backed chairs could be seen going off into the distance, a plush well-patterned azure rug covered the floor from wall to wall, absorbing all sound.

From a side room appears an entourage of beautiful women, adorned in colorful clothing of the finest material. One at the lead followed closely by three others. She has eyes only for Flange. Smiling she says, "You've brought a guest."

"Yes, my love. A wayfarer lost and alone. You know the type."

She gives him the onceover, then says, "He needs a bath." Whereupon she and her train make an about-face and return to whatever they were doing.

Flange says, "My wife. She is the kindest and most well mannered of women. However, she loves her solitude. It's an irony I've learned to deal with. Come this way. You can take a bath and get into some clean clothes."

Donald is led into a sumptuous sitting/bedroom with a view overlooking the bowl of mountains. The window is open a crack, just enough to smell the sweet air and hear the sound of birds, or what passes for birds on this bizarre planet. As he bathed, he couldn't help but feel a strangeness about the atmosphere. It wasn't that the surroundings seemed to come from another time and place -- Camelot came to mind -- but that it made him feel invigorated in a most uncommon way, as though his body held no mass but was instead composed of pure light. He dressed in the clothes laid out for him on the four-poster bed -- smooth colorful silk-like material that warmed his body against the slight mountain chill. He was even given a hat which he disdained.

As though on cue, a servant appeared at his door inviting him to dinner. He was escorted to a splendidly lit and huge dining room complete with tapestries, print rugs displaying a mosaic of various animals and flowers, a long table covered with various plates and bowls of the most interesting looking food items, and bedecked with candelabras spaced about six feet or so apart. In the head high-backed chair sat Flange, next to him on his right was his wife. Only a few others were present spaced at various distances down both sides of the table. He was offered the chair to the immediate left of Flange who, aware the choices were no doubt unknown to Donald, had a servant fill his plate as he pointed and suggested.

The flavors and textures were indeed alien but evoked emotions he didn't know he posessed. What he imagined was the meat dish tatsed like chicken, of course, to his untutored palete. He didn't realize how hungry he'd become having only what he considered fast-food to munch on, so he ate in silence while Flange and his wife conversed in soft tones with the other guests, an occasional chuckle reverberating through the group.

Donald, being of a more or less cynical bent, couldn't help but think of himself as being fattened for the kill, like a calf or turkey. But he pushed the thought out of his mind, not wishing to spoil an otherwise extremely enjoyable experience. Momentarily, quiet music could be heard coming from the rear of the hall, string and wind instruments confluing in perfect harmony, sending rivulets of pleasure up and down his spine. If he was indeed being fattened for the kill, he thought, this was not a bad way to go.

After dessert of the most scrumptious chocolate pudding -- that's the best he could do to describe it -- the servants cleared the table, except for wine glasses and the candles, of course. The other guests excused themselves and ambled off along with the musicians, leaving him alone with Flange and his wife. It all seemed like a fairy-tale to Donald. Never in his life, growing up middle class, had he experienced such splendor. It couldn't possibly last.

Flange looked at him and said, "You're probably tired, Donald. And, I might say, a bit overwlelmed."

Donald only nodded in the affirmative, then took a sip of wine.

Flange clapped his hands and his escort appeared. "Germaine will take you back to your room, Donald. Sleep well. Tomorrow I'll give you a tour and we can discuss matters." He smiled as Donald and his personal servant left. His wife even smiled, kind of.

His head was abuzz as he lay between the sheets of an unknown yet soothing material. As his bedroom faced the garden, a warm scented air floated in through the slightly open window. It wasn't long before Donald was fast asleep. But visions of sugarplums didn't exactly dance in his head. He found himself on a battlefield. It wasn't just any battlefield either, not like the kind we're used to imagining. He was surrounded by dark clouds; flashes of distant lightning could be seen. Sword-wielding men-things of enormous size wearing only shreds of clothing fought furiously with beasts baring savage teeth and long claws. Curiously, there was no sound to any of this.

He watched from a great distance, but in the blink of an eye, found himself in the midst of it, a sword in his hand and wearing clothes from an ancient Earth period, say, the Roman. A beast noticed him and approached menacingly. It reached for him with a mighty clawed hand of sorts. He jumped to the side and ran underneath its bulk, slicing its calf as he did so. The beast turned and bent over him. He jabbed upward sticking his sword into its throat a few inches. As it clutched the wound he sliced again at its calf forcing it to fall backward, barely missing a sidestepping Donald. He then jumped onto its chest and, holding the hilt with both hands, drove the sword into its heart. Blood poured forth through the wound and gurgled from its throat. Still, there was no sound. He scrambled down and quickly took in his surroundings, waiting for the next attack, but no one was there, the cloud-field was empty, the battle over, apparently.

He walked to the edge of the clouds and looked down. Far below he made out a village or town, well lit-up; it was nightfall. Somehow, a momentary touch of vertigo perhaps, he lost his footing and tumbled head over heals towards the ground, still clutching the sword.

A voice called to him, "Master Donald, Lord Flange requests your presence at breakfast. Your bath has been drawn; Mellanie will accompany you."

Donald woke with a start, sweat beading his body. He looked towards the direction of the voice to see a woman dressed in sheer tight-fitting white robes, her long black hair curling over her shoulders. Her eyes, green like jade. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. While never taking his eyes off her, unable to do otherwise, he slowly sat up on the bedside. She bowed her head and said in the sweetest of voices, "Master Donald, please come. It is my duty to bathe you."

After the bath -- this is a family story -- Donald joined Flange on the veranda off the east-wing, a small garden of varied-colored flowers surrounded by a low rock wall lay just in front and down a couple of steps. A small lilly-covered pond lay in its center. They had a wide view of the bowl of mountains and further into glacier-covered spires of singular peaks, raw and craggy. As they ate what appeared to Donald as duck eggs, sausage and toast, with coffee, Flange talked of a trade: the technology supporting Don's quark-drive in exchange for Flange's cloaking device. Where Donald was heading, Flange advised that he most assuredly would need it. Lafit already had a drive that was capable of crossing vast distances in a very short time, but it never hurt to have an alternate propulsion system. Donald didn't hesitate -- what did he care? They clinked glasses of what might have been champagne on Earth, and the deal was done.

Donald stayed on for another three days while technicians installed the cloaking device, living a fantasy life in this parallel Camelot. As well, he was probably as clean as he'd ever been, taking baths morning and night. The dream persisted, however, picking up where it left off each time: He fell from the clouds and landed unhurt, miraculously, on the outskirts of the village, sword still firmly in hand. Sheathing it, he walked into the town, down one narrow street after another, not knowing where he was going but feeling more and more a sense of the familiar with each step. He came into a rough square centered by a large fountain, a well-spring, where the villagers got their water, he surmised. Sitting on its wall, wondering what to do next, letting matters unfold on their own, suggested itself as the wisest choice. After all, he certainly seemed to be caught up in events beyond his control. A leaf floating on the stream.

In due time town-folk began to appear from the many side streets, bent on retrieving water and socializing in what was obviously the main square. Surprisingly, not a one payed any attention to him, as though he were invisible. His attire alone was outrageous compared to their humdrum colorless peasant clothes, so it wasn't like he blended into the crowd. Out of the blue an older woman carrying a jug that seemed too heavy for her diminutive frame turned to him and, looking directly into his eyes, asked, "Where have you been? It's ten years or more since you left to follow your heart you said. So passionate, so certain and serious. So headstrong. We've all gotten on with our lives and forgotten you. But,..., I never could, Jason. I knew you'd come back some day. Tired of adventuring, living for the moment only, loving no one. It's a lonely life, Jason. Eventually, it gets to you, wears you down, saddens."

She paused to take him all in. Then asked, "Are you back for good now?"

She placed her jug on the wall and stared at him, waiting. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember you. Were we once friends?"

Her brows raised dramatically. "Friends," she said, hurt clearly in her tone, soon followed by umbrage expanding to full-blown anger. "What the hell do you mean -- friend?" As she grabbed the jug with both hands, Donald backed up instinctively. "I oughta smash this over your head, you son of a bitch. I stopped hearing from you years ago and now you show up without any notice dressed the way you are with a sword strapped to your waist and you ask, 'were we once friends'? Have you taken leave of your senses?"

The crowd turned to him and stared, anger in their faces. "We elected you headman and I was your chief assistant. You abandoned us all at a moment's notice. Not even that; you just pulled up roots and left us. With Jabal and his henchmen on the loose. We've been paying tribute to him all these years after you left. No wonder no one wants to bother recognizing you, you despicable traitor, coward. How could you do this to us? You stood up to him; he feared you."

Just then a swirl of dust filled the square, people shouted and ran in all directions. Horses clattered in, the riders dressed in rough leather bearing swords and lances. One in particular jumped off his horse and approached quickly. "I see you've returned Sir Jason. But it's too late. We own this town now and there's nothing you can do about it."

Without thinking, Donald/Jason drew his sword as did Jabal and they immediately fell into battle. Donald was amazed at his own skill, honed after years of such fighting, apparently. Jabal's men jumped to the ground and surrounded the pair. It was a fight like no other they had ever seen. Donald weaved and drove on, feinted and twirled, slashed and sliced Jabal once, twice on the arms. Finally, with one last thrust, he drove his sword through Jabal's midsection, holding it there for moments while he stared bitterly at his advesary. Then pulling it free, Jabal fell painfully to the ground, a pool of blood quickly soiling the brown earth. Stunned silence followed. Jabal's men lept to their saddles and rode off in a hurry, never looking back.

Slowly, the towns-folk returned in dribs and drabs, shocked amazement and relief clearly showing on their faces. "All hail Jason the headman; he has returned." They shouted hurrahs and spoke praise at his fighting skill, closely surrounding him and slapping his back. His former assistant hugged and kissed him, mumbling apologies and offering sexual favors to prove her appreciation. Donald sheathed his sword and hugged her back; she wasn't all that bad looking.

But in a blink of an eye, it all vanished and he was once again lost in the clouds, staring down at the town he only moments before had been standing in the midst of. What the hell is going on, he wondered. Jason? A tiny bell tinkled in the distance; Donald awoke with a start, once again covered in sweat. Mellanie stood at the entranceway to his room; it was time for his morning bath. He felt a little crazy; the dream so real, he could still feel the weight of the sword and his muscles ached from all the combat. The smells of the earth, the water from the spring and that of the people, especially his assistant, filled his nostrils.

At breakfast with Flange he couldn't help but tell him about the dreams he had the past two nights. They were so vivid and real. Flange took it all in, not interrupting once. When Donald finished, Flange softly said, "On my planet the dream world is real. What you're experiencing is another part of you acting out through people who once lived. Time is but a shadow. Jason the headman actually existed a few centuries ago, in a village near here down in the lowlands. Now, of course, it's a thriving city of art and commerce. But back then it was beset by marauders and barbarian hoards and bandits. This man, Jason, had come to that village from another world. He possessed inordinate strength and fighting ability; plus the power to orb from one place to another, even unto the clouds where strange, angry beasts dwelled. They are no more but then they roamed the high reaches doing battle with others like Jason."

He paused to break bread and sip the morning drink. "You are most fortunate his spirit chose you to relive those times. Spirits of this world occupy the living when they sleep. The Dreamworld exists in truth on another plane of being; it is not purely a creation of the subconscious mind. As I said, you are most fortunate because now Jason will ever be with you no matter where you roam. There must have been an affinity."

Flange gazed out onto the vast bowl of jagged mountains and said, "Perhaps your adventurous spirit awakens fully, a kindred spirit to match his own irresistible urges. He abandoned his people. Regret and guilt must drive him, but being dead, there was nothing he could do about it. Until you came along. I, personally, have never shared his ghostly life; he never chose me. Why, I can't say; I've done more than my share of adventuring." He smiled broadly at this, not mentioning the pirating he'd done. "Perhaps there's something about you he finds compelling, intriguing. Your innocence? I don't know; but, as I said, you're lucky, he'll be with you now and may prove helpful when needed. Adventuring is still in his heart.

"Speaking of which, indirectly, your ship is almost ready. I'll see that it's provisioned with food and spare parts. Tomorrow, if you wish, you may go. If you decide to, tonight we'll have a send-off party the likes of which you've not seen."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Flange. I am most appreciative of all your help and care, truly." Donald laughed. "Great Zeus, I'm beginning to sound like you." They both laughed as they finished their breakfast and talked of other things. Mostly Flange spoke of his experiences in the nearby celestial realm, offering tips and information concerning what he might run into and where to avoid. Donald took it all to heart and memory. He had a good memory.

"Getting back to,..., Jason. I'm a little freaked out about it. I mean, the dream, it seemed real. I was in a sword fight and could've gotten killed, to me, as far as I could see. Is he going to come with me? And, when I dream, will I no longer have ordinary dreams of my own? I mean, I usually have a very active dream-life; I don't really want some stranger from long ago from another planet taking over my dreamworld."

"Well, Donald, it works like this. You may not like it and I probably should've warned you but I had no idea he would be drawn to you so. It doesn't happen to everyone who stays here. If he does choose to leave with you, he'll find a home in your psyche where he'll stay, observing even while you're awake. And if the time arises when you may need his help, his abilities will meld into you on the physical plane. I'm sorry but it's too late to do anything about it. The closer he identifies with you, the less you'll notice his presence. In your dreams, I mean. Once away from here, from this planet, the life he lived when alive will end.

"It's not a bad thing, Donald, truly. You could do far worse than have a man like Jason on your side, so to speak."

Donald considered this but had nothing more to say about it. He was flabergasted into silence, in other words. Donald was not a fighter, except for that one time he fought back against a few pirates long ago. But he was finding out about himself. How he escaped from Ardosia and avoided their war. Then again how he escaped from prison, got back to his ship and left that God-forsaken planet. So he knew he was good at escaping situations he deemed unpleasant. He was not unresourceful. So combined with Jason's skill, perhaps it was a good thing after all.

It would take some getting used to, however, having a spirit from another time and place living in him. Would they eventually be able to communicate? He talked enough to himself when alone, now maybe he'd have someone else to talk to. Was that crazy? Could he keep him separate? Was he to become a hybrid with two distinct personalities, or would they somehow fuse as one, what Jason knew of the world and life slowly becoming part of his mind? it remained to be seen, he supposed. He decided not to worry about it; after all, Flange said it couldn't be helped and now it was simply too late. Very casual, he thought. Maybe he should treat it that way as well. On the other hand: would Jason get him into trouble he'd rather avoid? It made him wonder just who, if anyone, Flange had intertwined into his psyche. Probably a whole host of people by now, no doubt.

After breakfast, Donald wandered down to his ship to see what progress was being made on the cloaking device. The technicians were setting up a control station on the bridge and informed him it would be completed by the end of the day when they would perform testing. Donald felt he was in the way and, at any rate, was of no help. He decided to spend some time in the expansive garden at the rear of the main house. He found a bench complete with cushions adjacent the pond; he needed to think.

A servant approached and asked if he wanted anything to drink. He asked for tea; she went away. He smelled the flowers and listened to the pond as it mysteriously moved back and forth. Staring at the water, he too felt as though he were moving back and forth. He had chosen a path that now seemed to galvanize his awareness that indeed he had cut all bonds with his former life. He was a loner; in another part of the galaxy; in uncharted waters, at least to him. He had always had trouble with his confidence. An overbearing mother and an absent father, and not many realtives concerned, a few. That's why he left earth and got into teraforming. Engineering a pile of rock and toxic atmosphere into something livable for people, for animals, for plants and trees from Earth. One after the other, further out he'd go with the completeion of each project, and even then he'd leave before it was fully developed. He and his crew were the frontiersmen, the rougher side of the coin. He loved it, most of the time. And now he needed to pool on that well of proof.

The servant returned with the tea, then went away, quietly, like a cool breeze. Watching her walk away, he whispered to himself, I could stay here. But how many more dreams could he take? And, he was a guest only, expected to leave eventually. He sipped the flavorable tea, stimulated by its warmth if nothing else. He focused, like he used to do when he saw a problem in the machinery, zeroing in on the finest detail. Donald was pragmatic, if nothing else. He worked out the nuts and bolts in his head as he sat by the moving pond sipping tea. And it wasn't just the mechanics of it, he wanted to feel it, in the middle of his solar plexus: this is the right thing to do.

He got up and, carrying his tea, started to stroll around the garden, purposefully studying each and every flower and greenery. Remarkable, he thought, how similar to Earth. Am I just seeing it that way, on this magical world, or is that how it really is? The edges and surfaces of the flowers seemed to radiate a vividness of genuine intelligence, as though given the capacity, they could talk, the colors so bright and lush; the bark of the tiny fruit tree seemed more like skin in its aliveness. Am I going to die? he thought. Nature appears so much more vital and meaningful when you're about to face serious danger. Is that what I'm doing? Or is it just the intensity of this place, this planet and its weird dreamwold filled with spirits that can invade and take over your soul. Suddenly his personality became vitally important to him. He couldn't even be sure he knew it. Will it be overwritten like a bad program?

He should probably ask Flange about it. But, what would he say? Something like: It depends on how weak your personality is, compared to Jason's. "I guess we'll find out," he said to the moving pond, lilly-pads crowding around his knees like children seeking candy or a pat on the head.

He finished the last of his tea and decided to take a nap; he had a long day in store tomorrow when he heads out to sea and needed to be as rested as possible. If he dreamt and went on another Jason adventure, he might find time to discuss the situation; it deeply concerned him; too much uncertainty. It was the kind of anxiety he didn't need and could do without. Maybe he'd tell this Jason character to back off and stay home.

But rest would not come for Donald. He tossed and turned, too nervous before the big day; his stomach was tied in knots. Giving up on sleep, he went back down to his ship, at least where he thought he left it. When he got to the exact location, he banged his head on the invisible hull and jumped back. "Great Zeus," he said out loud, amazed and filled with wonder. "This is terrific. An invisible ship. No more worrying about Planetary Guards."

Presently his ship materialized before his eyes. It shimmered back and forth briefly, then as though released from a great restraint, settled into solidity. The chief technician bounded down the steps smiling at Donald. "Well, master Donald, what do you think? There's a few bugs caused by the interface between the asymmetric technologies, but my men are patching in a control relay to adapt the protocols for a seamless fit. A few minutes only and she'll be ready to go. I'll show you how to use it this afternoon; as well I left a user's manual on the table next to the main bridge controls."

Donald's eyes glazed over momentarily. The chief engineer smiled and said softly, "There's pictures and diagrams in it. It's a cinch, practically turns itself on and off." As he passed Donald, he mumbled, "Starved," rubbing a hand over his belly, and away he went. Donald was beside himself with joy, the kind he used to feel on Christmas mornings when a kid. He didn't even care about Jason anymore. He could come along or not, somehow it would all work out. Confidence filled him; he was ready for the big show.

He meandered over to the castle library for the first time since arriving. He'd thought it a waste of time as the books and manuscripts were no doubt in languages of which he had no knowledge. But it completed his tour so he had to at least visit for awhile; besides, it would be a quiet place to reflect and prepare himself. He wondered the stacks nostalgically, memories of his innocent university days on Earth flooding his mind. On impulse he grabbed an imposing-looking book off a shelf and carried it to a nearby table. The high-backed chairs were more comfortable than they appeared. Strangely, he mused, no one else was there; but it was a nice day and he had no idea how many more like it there would be this time of year, whatever time of year it was.

He lay the tome down carefully. Opening it at random he was amazed to find it was in his native tongue. It was an historical work set hundreds of years ago. After a few pages he came across the name of Jason; another coincidence perhaps, but he was less surprised than he should have been. He was getting used to it; things just seemed to work out that way here, he reflected. He read of Jason's exploits when a young man and up through his untimely demise at the hand of a superior swordsman, name of Fengle Lafite. Lafite, he thought in mild alarm; isn't that Flange's surname? Should I ask him about it? Probably not, he concluded quickly. Sure Flange would know, but there had to be some reason why he kept it secret.

He retraced his steps and replaced the heavy book, then pulled another off the shelf across from it. It too included stories chronicling Jason's life. Was this too somehow a magical occurrence? Would he discover that all the books contained stories and references to Jason? He read feverishly, not noticing others entering the library. By the time he finished absorbing the details of Jason's life, the room was half-filled with people. Suddenly exhausted, he wandered outside looking for a place to lay down. He thought of going to the ship for a lesson, but the garden called instead and before long he was lying on a plush section of grass fast asleep.

to be continued...