 
Lonely Out in Space

A Compilation of Sci-Fi & Fantasy Short Stories

By: M. R. Holman

Published by M. R. Holman at Smashwords

Text copyright © 2015 M. R. Holman

All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents:

The New Colony

Echoing Freedom

A Meeting of the Black Knight and the White Queen

Intergalactic Public Radio

The Snake in the Grass

The Titanic Columns

Junior Ranger Rooney and the Wallabies of Learant XII

A Can of Anana

Ping Pong - or - It's Them That's Wrong

Traveler: Day Two

The LHP (Last Habitable Planet)

Death Touched the Stars

The New Colony

The low murmur of a crowd of scientists, scholars, reporters, and generally intellectual individuals buzzed across a lecture hall like a distant bee hive. A vacant podium stood before them. A man sitting in the front row checked his wrist watch and adjusted his spectacles. His name was Dr. William Marblight and he was the reason that everyone had gathered in the lecture hall. He picked up the papers on which his speech was written and approached the podium. The crowd behind him fell silent at once.

Dr. Marblight relished in the attention he was garnering and struggled not to openly display his glee. He had been waiting for this moment for twenty years. He had worked in a frenzied state for the better part of those twenty years, but it was all coming to a culmination. It was all going to be worth it.

The moment had finally arrived when he would unveil the final incarnation of his grand plan which he promised would revolutionize human society on the relatively recently colonized planet of Mars. After two decades of study he had finally made it to the red planet. He had finally made his way under the terraforming dome which Mars' inhabitants called home. He was finally going to secure his place in human history. He struggled not to stroke his beard, as was his habit. He had dyed it black that morning. He wanted his memory to be impressive.

He placed his speech on the oaken podium and ran his hands across the polished grains. He wanted to remember every detail of his triumph. He looked across the crowd at the skeptics, the awestruck, and the merely curious and did not look down at his speech again. He knew it all by heart. He wanted to see every face in the crowd. He wanted to see their joy and their fear as they discovered whether they would be allowed to stay and become the pinnacle of human culture and society, or if they would be failures destined to return to Earth for the rest of their lives.

"Ladies and gentleman, I welcome you to the beginning of a perfect society."

Raucous applause erupted throughout the lecture hall. A great number of those in the crowd had aided Dr. Marblight, and an even larger segment had been anxiously awaiting the day that his plan would go into motion. The applause continued until he raised a hand in the air, motioning for it to stop. It still took a few moments to die away completely.

"Mars, as many of you know, was named after the Roman god of war. As such, it has thus far lived up to its name. Murder and violence have been the order of the day since Mars was colonized only three decades ago... But why? Why have the citizens of Mars thus far failed to accomplish what they were sent here to do? Why have they let their own selfishness and weakness and temptation mar this fresh start for all of humanity?"

Utter silence gripped the room at each pause of Dr. Marblight's speech. Could he really change the course of a society that seemed overwhelmingly doomed?

"Instead of a blank slate upon which the new history of mankind could be written, Mars' colonization has only been a continuation of Earth's bloody and frankly bewildering history. When Mars' was initially colonized, the desirable colonists were unknown or unattainable variables. Great numbers of living, breathing bodies capable of work were the brunt of those who were sent to establish this planet, because the individuals with high intellect knew better than to come! That is no longer the case. Mars' is now ready for the next generation, the peak of humanity, the New Colony."

Applause echoed against the walls of the lecture hall as Dr. Marblight surveyed his admirers. There was one reporter, however, who remained tacit with his pen and pad in his hands. He maintained a glare that Dr. Marblight had great difficulty ignoring. He reasoned that it did not matter that a few would object to his ideas if the vast majority was in agreement with him. He pressed on.

"Through a series of tests that will assess personality, intellect, physical well-being, sexual virility, and emotional stability that I myself have devised and tested, we will assure that the right colonists remain. The end of violence is here. The end of addiction and thievery and dishonesty has arrived. There will be no halting the advancement of the New Colony. The weeds must be cut so that the fruits of our labor may thrive forever."

While most applauded once more, there seemed to be some dissent at his last remark. Dr. Marblight's eyes locked on the reporter once more. He was pained to see that he was rising from his seat. The applause and whispering died away.

"I don't think it's fair that you get to take a test that you created yourself," the reporter said in a deep, carrying voice. Dr. Marblight was appalled to see that some of the audience agreed with the man. How could they not wrap their minds around his concepts? How could they be so obtuse?

"It was merely the theory and essence of the tests that I designed. Individual questions and testing techniques are procedurally generated for each test taker. There are no two tests that are alike so as not to favor any one person. I assure you, I will be under the same scrutiny as everyone else that wishes to remain here."

"And if you fail, will you leave?" the reporter asked boldly. Some of the crowd shook their heads mutinously, as though it was not only an impossibility, but a treasonous thought to even consider. Others, however, appeared intrigued by the possibility. Did Dr. William Marblight believe so wholeheartedly in his cause that he would not take part in it if he was found unworthy?

"Of course," Dr. Marblight said coldly. "I'll have no choice. As will everyone else. The tests will be administered in one week's time. I advise you not to over-prepare. Stress is taken into account during the tests. Further information regarding test times and locations will be broadcast throughout the week. Thank you all for taking part in my vision."

"Like we have a choice..."

Although Dr. Marblight could not hear the reporter, he read his lips over the applause. He hoped that the reporter would be deported back to Earth. Surely he would. There was no place for that kind of unnecessary revolutionary spirit in the New Colony. Dr. Marblight had seen to that when he developed his societal theory for the planet.

The audience soon began to thin out, leaving only a handful of Dr. Marblight's colleagues in the lecture hall to accompany him. There was a tense silence lingering in the lecture hall after the last of the audience left the room. Dr. Marblight addressed what he assumed they were all thinking.

"I want it to be known amongst you all that in the unlikely event that I do fail the test, that it's true that I must be deported. The plan will go along the same without me. Everything has already been prepared," Dr. Marblight said, looking through his colleagues.

"Sir, we were not even intending for you to take the test yourself... You're too vital to this mission to be sent back to Ea - "

"I must. I believe in this cause and I must be subject to its stipulations," he said with a false air of confidence. The truth was that he feared that he would fail his own test, but it was not a fear that he had acknowledged until the reporter had verbalized it... How dare he humiliate him in front of all those people in his time of glory? In the back of his mind, Dr. Marblight had been fearful of the possibility of his failure ever since he saw the type of human that was passing his demo tests on Earth. He was too old, too slow, too corrupt, and though he hated to acknowledge it, he feared that he was too unintelligent.

"You're all dismissed," he said, collecting his speech from the wooden podium. He watched his colleagues file out of the lecture hall and he sat down on the front row once more. He pulled a small metal flask from the inner pocket of his jacket, opened it, and took a long draught of the amber liquid within. He relished in the burn in his throat and the intoxicating aroma that filled his nostrils. He closed his eyes as the booze entered his bloodstream, allowing it to wash away his worries.

Perhaps it was due to the current population's renewed interest in remaining on the planet, but in the following week there were only seventeen murders under the terraform dome. Dr. Marblight found this news appalling, even though it was several orders of magnitude lower than the typical weekly homicide rate. There was just something about that planet that drove people wild... It did not matter though, he reasoned. They would soon be gone and a new era of peace and enlightenment would remain. Each drink he took over the course of the week quelled his ominous thoughts of failure, but only temporarily.

The day before the test, Dr. Marblight did not drink at all. In fact, he did hardly anything. He had secluded himself in his top-floor room in the research facility he was staying in, and covered his windows with the sheets off of his bed so that he could not be distracted by the distant rust red landscape outside of the terraform dome. He sat on the floor and meditated with earplugs in his ears so that the perpetual gunplay many floors below would not distract him. He rose only for meals and spoke to no one. Before he went to bed he did one-hundred jumping jacks, fifty sit ups, and thirty five pushups. As he laid down to sleep that night, having finally taken the earplugs out and listening to the distant pops of gunfire, he tried to remember the last time he had gone to bed without a drink. He laid awake most of the night.

Dr. Marblight stood in line with the others that were waiting to take his test in a nearly dream-like state. It was being administered in the surrounding buildings as well, and there was an unnatural silence filling the dome. He looked around at the confident and the fearful and tried to ascertain which he was. No one in the line at his test location recognized him. To them, he was just another colonist facing the test.

The test did not take long and the results were presented directly after it was finished. Participants either exited the building jubilantly or in anger or sadness. Anger and sadness occupied the expressions of the vast majority who exited the building. Finally, it came to be Dr. Marblight's turn to take his own test.

He was not entirely sure what to expect as he walked into the plain white room. Each test was different, and its individual questions and tasks were procedurally generated by a computer program on the spot. A long desk at which four test administrators sat was the only object in the otherwise bare room. There were three men and one woman. They were all young, attractive, and generally impressive. If they had not already passed his test, he was sure that they would.

"Good morning, Dr. Marblight," one of the administrators said as he entered the room and stood before them.

"Good morning," he said, standing as straight as possible and making a conscious effort not to touch his beard.

Two of the administrators approached him while the other two sat at the long desk and monitored a computer screen. One of them placed sensors on his temple. The test administrator plucked one of his hairs from his head without asking and returned to the desk. Dr. Marblight was shocked and outraged, but he tried to hide it. Then he began to wonder if he was supposed to hide his anger... What could that be testing? His temper? His emotional stability? Were they going to test his hair for drugs?

The other administrator remained near him. It was the woman. She lingered close to his body, the scent of her perfumed hair wafting from the top of her head into his nostrils as she patiently attempted to open a plastic packaged sensor. When she opened it, she put it in the palm of her hand and slid it under his shirt, placing it over his rapidly beating heart. He thought he saw her smirk as she withdrew her hand and walked back to the desk. Surely that was deliberate and part of the test... Sexual virility? He thought for sure he passed that, if it was indeed that portion of the test. His palms had begun to sweat and he focused on lowering his heart rate and taking rhythmic measured breaths.

"Alright Dr. Marblight, approach the whiteboard behind you and complete the equations written on it. You have two minutes."

Dr. Marblight was confused. He turned around and saw a whiteboard that had certainly not been there moments before. Had he just not noticed it? What was happening? In a panic, he looked for a marker with which he could finish the equations on the board. He could not find one anywhere.

As he looked frantically for a marker he said, "Excuse me, I think you forgot to provide me with a marker." Dr. Marblight turned around just in time to see one of the test administrators raising a throwing knife above his head. The administrator's gaze was locked directly on his heart. Dr. Marblight dove to the ground and heard the knife stick into the whiteboard behind him.

The same administrator that had thrown the knife tossed a marker to the floor in front of Dr. Marblight's violently shaking body. "Finish the equations on the whiteboard," he said emotionlessly. "You have one minute and thirty-five seconds remaining."

He did not understand what was happening. He had certainly not made any provisions for violence during the test. Were they actually trying to hurt him? He picked up the marker and began to work, glancing over his shoulder regularly. The administrator that had thrown the knife kept his hands hidden under the desk.

"Done," Dr. Marblight said as he finished the equations and turned around to face the administrators.

"Well done. Do thirty pushups."

Dr. Marblight dropped to the floor and began to do pushups. He focused on his breathing, and not the tightness in his shoulders. He had tendonitis. While staring determinedly down at his hands, he heard footsteps. He saw a pair of polished black shoes standing on either side of his hands.

"You're fucking pathetic," one of the administrators said above him.

Dr. Marblight chose not to respond. He acted like he had not even heard what they had said. His pushups were slowing in rapidity and he had to strain to complete each one. He saw one of the administrator's shoes lift from the ground and hover above his fingers.

"I could crush them if I wanted to," the administrator said sinisterly. "You'd have to get used to dictating your theories instead of writing them..."

"Thirty," Dr. Marblight grunted through gritted teeth, withdrawing his hands swiftly and shifting his weight to his knees. The administrator turned away without comment and returned to the desk. Dr. Marblight rose to his feet and tried to take deep breaths without panting. He could feel the sensor on his chest move with each beat of his heart.

"You're almost done, Dr. Marblight," said the woman administrator with a soothing, supportive smile. Dr. Marblight felt his muscles relax a bit.

"We just need you to tell us your secret," she said. That relaxation vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His muscles tensed and his mind strained to ascertain what she might be referring to...

"What?" he asked uncertainly between breaths.

"Well, Dr. Marblight, our computer shows that you have a secret. The sensors have detected that you are hiding something in your mind. We need to know what it is."

He thought of ideas he had stolen or not cited in his research and empty whiskey bottles hidden under his bed, but ultimately he landed on the most pressing matter he had hidden from everyone.

"I'm scared that I won't pass this test," he said, looking over the heads of the test administrators.

"Alright, that concludes the test. It'll be a moment for the data to be compiled so that we may interpret it."

Dr. Marblight was traumatized by the test, the test that he himself had laid the foundation for. Was this right? He began to question his own ideals that he had held over his twenty years of research...

"If you'll turn around, we'll project your results on the wall, Dr. Marblight."

He turned around to face the blank white wall beside the whiteboard and the room went dark.

Physical Endurance: Pass - 95th Percentile in Age Range

That was a relief... He had been training for quite some time to get his body in peak physical condition.

Sexual Virility: Pass - Acceptable Reproductive Qualities and Technique

Dr. Marblight afforded himself a brief smirk at this information.

Intelligence: Pass - 99th Percentile in Overall Population

Wow! He was stunned at this information. And to think, that was where he had doubted himself...

Emotional Health: Failure - Incapable of Proper Communication Techniques when Confronted, Threatened, or Afraid.

He felt his heart sink. The knife... The threats as he had done push-ups... Why had he just taken them? Why had he not responded at all?

Final Notes: Displays Known Traits Leading to Dishonesty. Physical Ailment: Tendonitis. Mental Ailments: Alcohol Dependent. Narcissistic. Possibly Suicidal.

"Wait just a moment," Dr. Marblight said, turning around to face the darkened countenances of the test administrators. "I am not alcohol dependent, nor am I dishonest! And suicidal? That is utter nonsense!" he said with outrage. There was clearly some mistake...

"Your own test indicates otherwise, Dr. Marblight," one of the administrators sighed. The lights rose in the room. "It is our final decision, in conjunction with the finite data presented by the computer program and the read-outs from the sensors, that you are unfit to join the Martian society in the New Colony."

Dr. Marblight's ears were ringing. He felt faint and as though his mind was only tenuously associated with his body. He was aware that the group of test administrators were still talking to him, but he could no longer properly hear them. He only nodded when they nodded and accepted a piece of paper they handed him as they opened the door and ushered him out. He jammed the paper into his pocket without folding or looking at it. His eyes met the next test-taker. He dimly registered the shock in their expression as they examined his own.

Faces blurred as he walked past the lines of people waiting to take the test that would determine if they would be staying and joining a revolution in human existence, or if they would be deported to Earth. In a trance-like state, he entered the research facility in which he was staying. Someone greeted him, an academic colleague, but he ignored them and walked straight to the elevator.

Dr. Marblight entered his room and locked the door behind him. Upon retrieving a full bottle of whiskey from his suitcase, he approached the window. He ripped down the bedsheets that he had affixed over the window the night before. There would be no meditating for him tonight.

He took a long draught from his bottle and looked out of the window. He could see red dust blowing in the wind, far beyond the distant edges of the terraform dome they were beneath. He extracted the paper he had been given by the test administrators. It read: Dr. William Marblight - 66% on New Colony Scale - Unacceptable - Earthbound.

He slid open the window he was sitting beside and raised it as high as it would go. He ripped the paper to bits and tossed the remains out into the air, leaning out and watching them drift toward the ground far beneath him as he took another long drink from his bottle.

Dr. Marblight rose to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. He sat on the window ledge and hung his feet over the side. He took another drink and set down the bottle, watching the people walking to and fro below him in the city he would never call home.

"Earthbound..." he said to himself, tasting the whiskey on his breath as he spoke. He began to chuckle in his delirium. Scattered gunshots had begun again. He wondered if his brilliant plan, his system that he had devoted two decades of his life to developing could solve the issues on this rotten planet after all.

"Well, I'm not going back..." he spoke into the Martian air with finality.

A knock on his door broke his disjointed and chaotic reverie.

"Come in," he shouted with a slur in his voice. He relished in the idea of someone walking in and seeing Dr. William Marblight, renowned scientist and supposed savior of Mars, drunkenly sitting on an open window ledge more than one hundred feet in the air.

"I can't. The door is locked..." a muffled female voice said from behind the door. He had forgotten about that... He groaned and fell backward onto the floor, spilling a great deal of his whiskey in the process. He stumbled to the door and opened it. It was one of his academic assistants, Natalia. He had always been quite taken with Natalia, but had never pursued her in fear of damaging his professional reputation. She smiled at him and held up a piece of paper that said 'Certified – 98% on New Colony Scale - Accepted' stamped on it in green letters. She had made the cut. "Well..." she said expectantly, her expression changing to one of bewilderment. "Where is yours?"

Dr. Marblight realized that he had been looking at her hungrily and cast around for an excuse. "Mine is... Where did I put that thing?" he said as he pretended to look around. "I'm sorry, I'm a bit scatterbrained at the moment. Could I offer you a drink to celebrate?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as level and un-slurred as possible.

Natalia looked at him as though he was a stranger. She was frightened. She took a step backward before saying, "I'm afraid I can't right now, Dr. Marblight. I just wanted to stop in and congratulate you..."

"Please, Natalia, stay with me..." he pleaded.

Natalia's expression was inscrutable. She backed out of the room and closed the door, leaving him alone once more. Dr. Marblight retrieved his bottle and sat on the floor with his back against his bed. He shut his eyes tightly and downed the rest of his whiskey before passing out.

Dr. Marblight was still drunk when he awoke several hours later. He shivered, still cradling the empty bottle of whiskey in his hands. He set it down and got up to shut the window, wobbling violently on the spot as he struggled to retain his balance. He looked out over the now darkened Martian city and slammed the window shut, causing it to shatter.

He could not wrap his mind around his situation. There was only one solution that made sense to him, though he realized all the parts to make it work were not there. He would have to stay on Mars. He could not return to Earth after thinking, planning, and working toward his life on Mars for twenty straight years. He did not care what he had to do, he was staying on this planet.

The sound of four consecutive gunshots echoed through the city and into Dr. Marblight's broken window. He was struck with an idea. It was a sinister and vile idea... He did not like where his mind was wandering, but he saw no other options. He realized the hypocrisy of what he was about to do, but in his mind he considered it a necessary evil he would have to partake in to gain his goal of citizenship in the New Colony. If all went according to his plan, he might not even have to hurt his test administrators at all...

Dr. Marblight put on a black sweater, the only article of clothing he owned that even came close to being intimidating, and exited his room. He kept his eyes downcast in the elevator and the lobby. Though he saw some of his academic colleagues in his peripheral vision, he avoided them. It seemed that they were avoiding him as well. Did they already know he had failed? That would complicate matters... He did not take the time to find out. He slid through the rotating door of the building and breathed in the cool night air.

The city that had been erected beneath the terraform dome on Mars felt very similar to an Earth city. There were no cars on the roads, but the roads were painted with the dots and lines that would accompany a road which cars would use. It had been done to create the illusion of normalcy for those who had recently moved from Earth or were visiting the planet. Dr. Marblight thought it was a silly idea. He scoffed at the banality of his surroundings beneath his breath in slurred speech while he wandered.

As he walked further from the research facility, he noticed the people and the environment changing. It was still a city-scape, the terraforming was done on the outskirts of the city, but it was becoming rundown and filthy. How had these people ruined this city in only thirty years? With a constant influx of people arriving to the planet to replace those that were killed or deserted their posts, it seemed that some of them would have taken pride in their city and kept it clean. What was it about this planet that drove humans wild?

He was determined to see his vision of a perfect society come to fruition, to see what surrounded him turn to beauty and efficiency instead of wreck and ruin. All he needed was the right tool, and he had a feeling that he was in the right spot to find it.

"You're lookin' a little blue, pal," a voice said from the shadows. Dr. Marblight looked to his right and saw a young man leaning against a lamp post that had a burnt out bulb in it. The young man was exceptionally skinny.

"I suppose one could say that I am," Dr. Marblight said cautiously.

"You sound like a Green-Back. When did you hit the Rust, eh?"

If Dr. Marblight had not been familiar with Martian slang, this question would have sounded like utter non-sense. The young man was asking if he had come from Earth, and how long he had been on Mars. "Yes, I'm a Green-Back. I've only been on Mars for two weeks."

"I like to find me a fresh Green-Back," the young man said with a malevolent grin. "You can call me Wizard. You holdin' somethin' or what? I buy and sell..."

"Holding?" he asked uncertainly. It was a slang term that he was unfamiliar with.

"Yeah, did you bring anything sweet from the Green 'n' Blue or what? Are you holdin'?" Wizard asked again. It sounded as though he was becoming impatient.

"I'm sorry, no. I'm not holding. I'm looking to buy something," Dr. Marblight said nervously.

"That's good, because I need to liquidate, y'know? Gettin' shipped outta the Rust... What d'you need, old man? I got you. I got everything," Wizard said confidently.

"I need to buy a gun," Dr. Marblight said. Even though it was what he wanted, he felt like a stranger had spoken the words.

Wizard smiled widely. "You're in luck, old man. I only got one left." He looked from left to right and reached into the wide pocket on the front of his hooded sweatshirt and dangled a small black pistol from the handle before returning it to his pocket. "It's the same as the ones the cops use back on Earth. I took it off a Green-Back that bit the rust. You want it or what?"

"Yes. What does it cost?"

"I'll give it to you for two thousand Units since I'm in a good mood," Wizard said, glancing around once more.

"Goodness..." Dr. Marblight said. He did not realize the privilege of intimidation and violence could be so expensive.

"We on or what, Green-Back?" Wizard said aggressively.

"Yes. Yes, we are. Hold on."

With shaking hands, Dr. Marblight opened his wallet and counted out twenty 100 Unit bills. Wizard snatched them from his hand as he finished. With one final grand look around to make sure no one was watching them, Wizard slapped the gun into Dr. Marblight's palms. Dr. Marblight felt as though his stomach had dropped several inches.

"I never wanted to hurt anyone..." Dr. Marblight had said this to himself, but Wizard looked up at him and scowled.

"Listen, I don't give a fuck what you do with your gun. That's on you, man," Wizard said angrily as he turned and walked away.

Dr. Marblight looked down at the gun in his hands. It was small, worn, and exceedingly light. Something did not look right about it though...

"Where are the bullets?" Dr. Marblight asked toward Wizard's retreating back.

"Keep it down, you moron! Have you never bought a gun before?" Wizard asked incredulously. Dr. Marblight, lost for words, was only capable of shaking his head. "You think I'm just gonna stand right next to you and give you a loaded gun after you just handed me two thousand Units? If all Green-Backs are as dumb as you, I'm gonna hate Earth..."

Wizard walked a few more paces away and turned to face the utterly dumbfounded Dr. Marblight. "Here's how it works. I'm gonna slide the clip to you, and then I'm gone, I'm a ghost. You didn't see me, we didn't speak, and you sure as hell didn't buy a gun from me. And if you think of pullin' up on me, just know everyone behind these windows is waiting to send you back to Earth in a tin box," Wizard said holding his arms wide and gesturing to the dark windows in the buildings surrounding them. Whether or not it was true, it was an intimidating and impressive display.

Wizard bent over, placed a clip full of bullets on the sidewalk, and slid it to Dr. Marblight. It came to rest right in front of his feet. By the time he had retrieved it and stood up straight, Wizard was gone.

A distant gunshot caused Dr. Marblight to cringe. He placed the clip into the bottom of the pistol and stowed it away in his pants pocket. He began to walk toward the testing facility, hoping that the administrators were still there.

His stomach and head ached from both the whiskey and his nerves. He took deep breaths and tried to calm himself down and formulate a plan.

"I'm just going to go in. I'm just going to walk right into the testing facility I took my test at," he whispered under his breath, pulling his pants up as they sagged from the weight of the now bullet laden gun. "I'm going to show them the gun, maybe even point it at them, but I'm not going to shoot them. Not unless they won't listen to reason..."

Dr. Marblight repeated his plan under his breath over and over as he walked. He was paying minimal attention to the path he was taking, and eventually he bumped into someone on the otherwise deserted walkway. It was the reporter that had chided him during his speech a week ago.

"Watch it!" the reporter said with a scowl as Dr. Marblight bumped into him. When he looked into his face and realized who it was, however, his expression changed. It changed to one of glee. "Well, well, well! My sources tell me that you put on quite the unexpected performance during your test..."

"What do you mean?" Dr. Marblight asked in a panic. Did people already know he failed? That would drastically change his plans... "What have you heard?"

"I heard," the reporter said with a pause and a grin, apparently relishing the torment he was causing Dr. Marblight. "That a certain renowned social scientist is going to be sent back to Earth. It seems that although he could form the idea of a perfect society, he wasn't quite cut out to actually inhabit it..."

Dr. Marblight could feel his spirit sinking lower than he had even thought possible. He clenched his jaw and flared his nostrils as he glared at the reporter who did not seem the least bit perturbed by his outward display of contempt.

"And judging by the scent emanating from you, it seems that what they said about your little alcohol problem is true too. I'll have to supplement that to my article."

Dr. Marblight seized the reporter around the forearm. "You've written an article about this?" he growled with whiskey sodden breath into the reporter's face. He could see a burgeoning fear begin to grow behind the reporter's light blue eyes.

"Y-yes. I had a puff piece ready to go for when you passed, but I found out you failed and wrote a new piece..." the reporter stammered, struggling to break Dr. Marblight's grip.

"Has it been published yet?" he growled, looking around to see if anyone else was on the street to hear this information. It was still deserted around them. The reporter had broken free of his grip and was stepping away from him. Anger was now etched into his youthful face.

"No, but it will be soon. Everyone is going to know what a failure you are, that you can't even take part in your own fucked up plans," the reporter snarled, continuing to step back from Dr. Marblight.

"I can't let you do this," Dr. Marblight said, stepping toward the still retreating reporter. "Give it to me. Is it on a device? Is it on paper? GIVE IT TO ME!" he screamed. The reporter turned and began to run.

Without thinking and without pausing, Dr. Marblight planted his feet firmly beneath himself and drew his newly purchased weapon from his pocket. He pulled back the slide with slick, sweaty fingers and aimed at the swiftly moving silhouette of the reporter. He pulled the trigger.

A flash briefly occluded his vision and lit up the immediate perimeter of his surroundings. His palm stung from the recoil of the gun and his ears rang. Through the spots lingering in his eyes from the flash, he saw a dark shape lying on the pavement.

He approached the reporter's body, the pistol still in his shaking hands. He shuddered as he watched the reporter gasp his final breath and lie still in a pool of dark blood. In the absence of light, it almost appeared black. He had shot the reporter straight through the back of his neck.

Dr. Marblight did not search for the article the young man had written. He found that he no longer cared. He was a monster. He had become the problem he had intended to eradicate from Mars - from human society.

He did not continue toward the testing facility. He would not confront the test administrators. Mars was the place for him to stay, he knew that there was no going back to Earth for him, but he also knew that there was no place for him in the society he had planned. He turned around, gun still in hand, and began to walk back the way he had come.

He saw Wizard leaning against his burnt out lamppost again. "Was that you I just heard?" he called out through the darkness, apparently eyeing the gun still being held in Dr. Marblight's hand. "How'd it work? Get the job done?"

Dr. Marblight ignored him. He walked on and on in a horrified trance at what he had done and what he had become. Those that encountered him gave him a wide berth or ran past when they saw him and what he held in his hand. His finger was still on the trigger and the hammer was still cocked back.

Eventually, the city gave way to trees and grass and crops. He had reached where the terraforming actually took place beneath the dome. This section of the dome had been established centuries previous in order to provide a breathable atmosphere. He took no joy in what he had waited his entire life to experience. He did not bask in the grassy fields he passed, or sit beneath the giant oak trees, or wander the vast fields of wheat and barley. He only continued down the solitary path, his eyes glued to the horizon on the portion of dome that met the Martian ground.

Artificial rain poured from above, replenishing the crops and plants and soaking Dr. Marblight. The water mingled with the sweat from his brow and stung his eyes before rolling down his arms and off the tip of the barrel of his pistol. The edge of the dome was in sight. The sky outside of it was pitch black.

A single security guard stood at the end of the walkway at the edge of the dome. A series of chambers led away from the dome like a tunnel. They connected the dome to the outside, to the unprotected and unchanged surface of Mars. The security guard rose from his stool at Dr. Marblight's approach.

"I think you're lost, sir," the guard called out when Dr. Marblight was still a fair distance away. As he neared, the security guard drew a taser from his belt. "Put down your weapon!" he shouted.

"No," Dr. Marblight said, his voice cracking. His mouth was very dry. He raised his gun and pointed it at the security guard. "You put down yours." The security guard dropped his taser to the ground. Dr. Marblight kept his gun pointed at the man as he walked closer.

"Open the first chamber," he said in a raspy voice.

"What?" the security guard asked in bewilderment. His eyes traveled from the barrel of the gun to Dr. Marblight's face repeatedly.

"I said to open the first chamber. After I've entered it, I want you to seal it and then open the second chamber. I want you to repeat this process until I've exited the dome. Do you understand?"

The security guard shook his head in confusion. "I - I can't say that I do, sir. You don't have a spacesuit... You'll suffocate out there! Besides, there's a dust-storm..."

"I don't need a spacesuit for what I'm doing. I've already killed a man tonight. I don't want to kill you too. Just open the chamber and do as I say," Dr. Marblight said in a hollow voice. He watched as the security guard opened the first chamber. As he entered it, he felt as though his mind was no longer attached to his body. He felt as though he was watching the final scene of a film from behind his own eyes as the chamber shut behind him and the next opened, and then the next. In the third chamber he could hear the dust storm raging outside.

As he stood in the final chamber, surrounded by absolute darkness and the howl of the Martian winds, he felt as though he had detached from reality. The final door opened and Dr. Marblight could feel the chill of the heavy winds against his soaked skin. The sensation was dull and felt as though he was feeling it through a thick woolen jacket. The wind roared but it sounded as though he was hearing it from a distance. As he stepped into the complete and utter darkness of the Martian dust storm, he did not feel the dust and sand bounce off of his face and sting his skin. He exhaled his last breath of oxygen and began to walk forward.

The gun slipped from his fingers and he solemnly breathed the dust-filled carbon dioxide atmosphere. At some point, he dimly registered that his knees had made contact with the ground below. He collapsed and his body began to be covered with the blowing dust until it was completely buried. He had done it. Though he had failed his test and become the problem he was trying to eradicate, he would be staying on Mars after all. There would no deportation of Dr. William Marblight.
Echoing Freedom

A crowd of men and women jostled each other and argued in between taking swigs of pure alcohol. They were standing in front of a gigantic screen displaying a pack of motorcycles tearing across a desert plain. Two men were having a hushed conversation on a balcony above the din as they watched the screen. They were the Masters of Ceremonies in the illegal gambling parlor.

"She's gonna clear it."

"No, she's fuckin' not. Give me twenty against."

"You're dreamin'... Look at her! Give me fifty on."

One hundred miles away, a young woman named Kendra was tucked tightly over the tank of a rusted motorcycle. A trail of dust rose from her tires. It was the same trail of dust that was being displayed on that far away screen.

"She might as well be ridin' a damn dinosaur... there's no way that ancient chunk of metal is going to clear the jump."

It was true that her motorcycle was quite outdated when compared to the others she was racing against. It was outdated by several millennia in fact. It had been an advanced piece of machinery in its time on Earth, the planet it had been purchased from by a historical vehicle collector and affluent slave owner named Percy. On Echo, however, it was by far the oldest and least technologically advanced machine involved in the illegal races held on the planet.

"How did she even get permission to race that hunk of junk? She's one of Percy's right? I know that has to be one of his bikes... It must have cost him a fortune."

"Have you seen Kendra? I bet she gets anything she asks for from old man Percy."

Kendra had indeed done some things she was not proud of in order to use this unique motorcycle for this race, but it was not the particular biological diversion that the Masters of Ceremonies were now fantasizing about. What she had done was necessary for her means, however bloody it had been. She was willing to do whatever it took to fulfill her goal.

"Pssht... She's a slave! It doesn't matter how fuckin' pretty she is. If you want something from a slave, you take it. That's it. It's not supposed to work the other way around."

"Whatever, man. Hush up, they're coming to the jump."

A crowd of carbon-fiber bodied and advanced-plastic bound motorcycles glided along the desert sand in relative silence, their electric motors propelling them ever closer to the main jump in the race. Kendra lagged behind although her engine roared like a lion. She was only at half-throttle and she did not yet want to reveal how much speed the bike had on tap for when she would need it. She did not want to lay all her cards on the table until the proper moment. A pack of drones surrounded the enslaved racers to broadcast the race and prevent potential escapes.

"Why is it so damn loud?"

"Huh?"

"Are you fuckin' deaf? Kendra's bike... Why's it so damn loud?"

"You haven't heard? It runs on booze! She modified it herself apparently... Straight booze, can you believe it?" one of the Masters said to the other as he raised his own glass and swilled some of its contents.

"I guess me and that bike have somethin' in common then..."

"You ought to watch the pre-race sometime... That bike you called a dinosaur earlier? Back on Earth, it actually ran on dinosaur fuel..."

"What do you mean it ran on dinosaur fuel? That sounds like some shit the announcers made up to pass time before the race."

"That's what they ran their vehicles on! Old liquefied dinosaurs and plants... They'd dredge it up from the ground and the sea, boil it down or something, and then put it in their vehicles as fuel."

"That's preposterous. It's a wonder our ancestors ever got off that backwater planet..."

"Well they did. Can't say they'll ever be as civilized as we are though," one of the Masters of Ceremonies said as he watched the illegal slave race while drinking pure grain alcohol on the otherwise deserted planet.

The first racer hit the jump and began to sail through the air on his motorcycle. Kendra raised her left hand shakily from her handlebars and quickly rubbed the dust away from the lenses of her goggles as she watched him fly through the air in the distance. More bikes were flying through the air far in front of her. She stopped watching them, focusing only on the stretch of sand immediately in front of her. Though her engine wailed she hardly noticed it. All she was aware of was the steady rise and fall of her chest against the steel tank of the motorcycle and the continuous whistling of air through her helmet. It sounded like one long, perpetual owl hoot.

A drone appeared directly in front of her, filming her face and broadcasting her back to the betting screens. She waved her left arm, motioning for it to move. The amount of influence a small amount of motion like that had at high speed was astonishing. She swerved in the sand, and released the throttle until her course was righted again. The drone had stayed on course, however, and was no longer in front of her.

"Did you see that? There's no way she finishes this race. She can hardly even steer that thing."

"Huh? Oh, I barely even noticed. Geez, she even looks sexy in that helmet and goggles..."

"She won't be lookin' sexy after she wrecks that heap."

"Get the drone back on her, I want to see this."

"Alright, but I'll get her from the side this time."

Kendra was now the last racer that had not yet hit the jump. She could hear the sixteen propellers of the drone flying nearby directly to her right, but she did not turn to look at it. This jump, and the moments immediately after, would require her full attention. She raised her chest off the tank and sat straight up as she mounted the earthen ramp. The wind felt as though it was punching and pushing her torso. It was a perturbing sensation, but not nearly as bad as the sensation of nose-diving into the canyon she was now sailing above would have been.

She had jumped over this canyon on a motorcycle many times before but it was a sensation that she could never get used to. She glanced at the river snaking its way through the gorge a thousand or so feet below her. On occasions she had half-heartedly hoped that she would not make the jump and would finally come to rest at the bottom of the canyon, but that was not her hope on this day. It appeared, by the plume of smoke rising from the ground far beneath her, that it had been another slave-racer's fate.

The lip of the canyon fast approached. She was going to make it, but her worries were far from ceasing. The motorcycle she was on had no rear suspension. If she did not land properly the rear half of the bike could snap cleanly in two, or she could bounce right off of the bike from the impact. The ground was below her now and both of her wheels met the sand at the same time. Although it was the best case scenario, the jolt still caused her to raise a full foot from her seat. The rear of the bike held together, but the front suspension springs bottomed out, sending a jolt through the handlebars that caused an intense stinging sensation in the palms of her hands.

She wanted to take her hands off of the handlebars, feeling that only a moments rest would give her some relief, but it was out of the question. She deftly dodged several slaves that had not landed the jump properly. She tried not to notice who was down. Kendra did not want to be attached to anything on this rotten planet. She exited the enormous cloud of dust at the end of the jump, shifted the bike into high gear, and pinned back the throttle once more, still far behind the leaders of the race. One hundred miles away in the betting room, some cheered and some groaned and cursed when they saw Kendra exit the dust cloud safely on the other side of the jump.

"I told you she'd clear it. You can transfer my fifty Units whenever you please."

"Fine. You were right about the jump, but there's no way she wins this one. Her streak ends today, I'm telling you."

"I agree that there is very little logic in her choice of that bike... Why would she choose that? And where is Percy? It's strange enough that he'd miss one of his slaves' race, but especially when they're racing one of his supposedly "priceless" bikes."

"Who cares where he is? That guy is a jerk."

That "jerk" was dead. He lied face up, eyes open wide in shock, on his bed orbiting Echo. He had a bullet in his head that Kendra had put there the night before the race. A number of his remaining slaves waited on the coast of a sea only a few miles away from the race area, though no one was yet aware of that. They all waited hopefully with bated breath for their savior Kendra as they idled in a jump-ship waiting to enter orbit. They were under strict orders from Kendra to leave if she was not there by 14:22. She had seven minutes to reach them.

The landscape around them was changing. The land had begun to slope downward toward the sea they were nearing. In the distance, Kendra could see the thin strip of trees that stood between the desert and the ocean where her escape ship and her comrades lied in wait. She glanced at Percy's stolen wristwatch which she had strung around the handlebars. She had six minutes remaining. It was time to go full out.

Kendra reached into her jacket and retrieved the small pistol she had used to kill her owner, Percy. There was one drone that had a weapon mounted to it. There always was. That was the one she needed to take out first. The one that was trailing her did not have a weapon attached. She put the gun between her legs on the leather seat, returned her left hand to the handlebars, and twisted the throttle back as far as it would go.

"Was that a gun?" one of the Masters of Ceremonies said in a panic. The group below them seemed to have noticed it as well.

"Where the hell did she get a gun?"

The bike was surprisingly fast, but it was still not catching up to the group of motorcycles that were leading the race and the drones that followed them. Luckily, she had secretly prepared a few modifications to the bike in the weeks before. She kicked the muffler attached to the end of her exhaust pipe and it fell off, tumbling through the sand. She did the same to the air filter. The motorcycle now screamed like a banshee as it lurched forward at astonishing speed.

"What the fuck is happening?"

"No. I don't like this at all. Shut 'em down. Shut the bikes down!"

"Put the drone trailing her on autopilot and get the enforcer drone onto her."

One of the Masters of Ceremonies extracted a remote control from his pocket and jabbed the lone button on it. Every single one of the motorcycles' engines stopped immediately... except for Kendra's. She had the only bike without a single computerized component on it. There was no controlling her anymore.

"Son of a bitch..."

"I've got twenty on her escaping."

"You fool! If you're betting for her you have to let me shoot at her with the drone. Give me that damn controller!"

As the Masters of Ceremonies fought over the controller that powered the enforcer drone, it continued to speed directly at Kendra. She could see it coming at her. It grew steadily in size as she sped toward it and it sped toward her. She picked up the pistol from between her legs with her left hand and tried to steady the sights on the ever-growing drone as she struggled to keep the speeding bike on course as well.

Kendra fired. The sound of the gun hardly even registered over the roaring motorcycle. She missed. It was only the second time she had ever shot a gun, and it was incredibly difficult under the circumstances because she was right handed and riding well over one hundred... She did not know what she was doing over a hundred units of, but the little hand on the dial was pointing to one hundred and five.

She fired over and over, hoping that she did not hit any of the slaves who were now stuck on the racetrack by their disabled motorcycles. The recoil of the pistol made her wrist ache, but she fired repeatedly at the speeding aerial machine. Soon, the trigger clicked but there were no more bullets left. She tossed the gun to the ground and prepared to collide with the enforcer drone. Why was it still not shooting at her? Little did she know that it was set on auto-pilot and that two ridiculous men were still fighting over its controller one hundred miles away.

Kendra threw her weight to one side of the bike, trying to dodge the drone. She did, for the most part. One of its sixteen propellers made contact with her thick leather racing jacket just above her elbow. The millisecond of contact was enough to knock the drone to the ground, utterly destroying its flight mechanisms. The drone had still done some damage to Kendra, however. The brief contact with the razor sharp propeller had cut right through the leather jacket and gashed her arm deeply. She was unaware of this, only having felt pressure of a graze against the machine as it passed her. Kendra was too focused on keeping the bike vertical to notice the blood rushing down the arm of her jacket.

The motorcycle wobbled from side to side as she attempted to correct its course after her evasive maneuver from the drone. She felt only spare moments of control as the rear tire drifted in and out of the line of motion, threatening to deposit her forcefully into the sand if she should err in the slightest direction.

The two foolish men panted in the betting room, one holding the enforcer drone's controller victoriously. He switched the giant screen to the feed that the enforcer drone had been broadcasting. The camera was still broadcasting from the now stationary drone. It was pointed directly at Echo's sun above them. The crowd of men and women who had been spectating the race below the two men started booing and shouting as the ultra-bright light of their sun shone through on the screen, overly illuminating the room that had been pleasantly dim only moments before. Threats and thrown drinks cascaded over the balcony, pelting the two Masters of Ceremonies in the betting room.

"Switch it back before they riot!"

"No! We've got to shoot that bitch. We'll never hear the end of it from Percy if his favorite slave escapes!"

"The enforcer is gone, you lackwit! Change it!" one of the Masters screamed, punching the other in the face. He dropped the controller, and the screen began to follow Kendra once more.

The spectator drones had caught up with Kendra and were surrounding her. Every direction she looked, there was a camera hovering and pointing directly into her face. She lowered her chest down to the tank of the motorcycle once more, trying to make herself as flat as possible. She felt her speed gain as she did this.

A red gleam caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. Flecks of blood flew from the sleeve of her gashed arm and splattered across her goggles. She wiped the blood away quickly, willing herself not to hyperventilate. Just the sight of her blood made her dizzy.

The ground leveled and Kendra had an idea. She took both hands off of the handlebars and unzipped her jacket. In one fluid motion it was off. She grasped it with both hands and threw it over her head, catching three of the drones that were behind her. As she grasped the handlebars she glanced over her shoulder and watched the machines tumble to the ground, trapped in her jacket. There were only two left.

"This is a disgrace to the sport of slave-racing," one of the Masters said as the giant screen went blank until they switched to another feed. The Masters of Ceremonies were standing side by side once more, their disagreement apparently forgotten. The crowd of gamblers below them were losing their few remaining semblances of civility. In fact, their silhouettes were rustling and bobbing in the darkness like a vat of boiling tar while their screams and yells combined into a malevolent harmony.

Kendra glanced at Percy's wristwatch. She had a little over three minutes remaining. She was nearing the thin forest that formed the border between the beach and the desert along the coasts of Echo. The forest was only a few hundred yards wide, but it would be difficult to navigate through it quickly on this motorcycle. She had never ridden on anything other than sand, but now it was time to change that. Kendra leaned to her left, approaching the forest at a forty-five degree angle. She slowed as she neared it, shifting down through the gears and causing the engine to howl as she looked for the perfect spot for entry.

"Where the hell is she going?"

"It looks like she's going into the... Damnit!"

The drone they were watching her through smacked into the side of a small tree and fell to the ground, its propellers digging into the marshy earth. There was only one drone remaining.

Navigating through the dense trees and slick undergrowth of the forest came naturally to Kendra. Her main worry was slowing down too fast and being chopped to bits by the drone. She was determinedly not looking at her left arm, afraid of what she might see. The air was cool against her arm and she realized it must still be bleeding profusely.

"Let me fly it!"

"No fuckin' way! You've been drinkin' since you rolled out of bed. Leave it on autopilot!"

"Autopilot isn't fast enough, it's going to lose her! Are you gonna be the one to tell Percy that his best racer and his prettiest slave fucking escaped? Because if so, by all means, leave it on the damn autopilot."

"I'm gettin' sick of your domineering bullshit!" he said as he handed over the controller. The smooth flight path wobbled violently but it got closer to Kendra. The audience of gamblers below quieted down a bit. They were holding their heads and looking away from the screen. Others were on the verge of getting sick due to the turbulent nature of the flight that was being broadcast.

Kendra glanced over her shoulder at the drone. Why was it flying so strangely? And why was it so close? She had to lie flat against the bike as it flew right past her. A hundred miles away, the Master of Ceremonies that was flying the drone vomited over the balcony into the crowd below. A full on riot ensued in the gambling parlor.

The final drone crashed into the mossy ground and Kendra swerved around it. She could smell the beach. She had one minute remaining.

The trees thinned and Kendra took a right onto the sandy beach. It was different than the desert sand, but still more familiar than the forest. She turned the throttle as far back as it would go and held on tight.

She could see the jump-ship in the distance. It was far away, but she thought she could make it. Her eyes began to droop as she moved ever faster across the flat beach. Lazily, she looked over at her left arm. From her fingertips to her elbow, her arm looked like a bloody steak that had been left in the sun all day. Fresh droplets of blood continued to pass across the crease of her elbow to its point and disappear into the wind behind her.

"NO!" Kendra grunted to herself, bringing her mind back her senses. Her eyes were wide again and her mind was focused. The ship was getting closer. Could they see her? Would they wait? She had instructed them not to...

The motorcycle's engine began to falter. At first it sounded like a hiccup every now and then. Soon, the hiccup became a cough. The motorcycle began to slow. She knew the problem. In her time experimenting with the machine before the race, she had discovered that the carburetor, the primitive fuel delivery system, would sometimes get its components stuck. She rapped the side of it with her knuckles like she was knocking on a door.

That did it. The bike backfired, shooting flames out of the exhaust pipes and onto the sand as the sound of freedom echoed across the dunes. She gasped and sped forward faster than ever. It was an immense chore to even hold on. Her breaths became short and labored. Her vision swam. Her left arm was numb and she was only vaguely aware of her location in relation to the ship. She looked for the wristwatch on the handlebars and dimly registered that she could no longer see. She let go of the throttle and rolled.

At some point she hit the ground. She knew that it had happened but she did not feel it, at least not in the normal sense. Kendra lied still in the sand for a moment, but then realized she had begun to move again. Her helmet had slid down over her goggles and she could not see anything. She tried to feel the ground, to pat her hands against the sand to see if she was still sliding, but her hands could not find a solid object. Was she flying? Was she floating? Was this death? In her impaired state she did not know or care. She did not know if she still had time or if time even existed anymore.

Her body stopped moving abruptly. She was lying flat on her back. Kendra extended the fingers on her right hand and felt cool metal. All that she could imagine was that she had somehow found her way back to her motorcycle. She tried to grip the handlebars but all that she could feel was flat. A motor roared to life and she experienced the same sensation she had felt when the bike took off across the beach.

Kendra gasped and opened her eyes wide. Through the dust, moss, and sand flecked across her goggles she saw a crowd of slaves standing above her. They were Percy's other slaves, the slaves she had freed.

"You made it just in time."

"We carried you in."

"Thank you..."

She tried to sit up but her whole body ached. Several of her fellow former slaves helped her to her feet. She raised her bloodstained left arm as best as she could and beckoned to the porthole window. They walked her to it. Kendra lifted her right hand, lowered her goggles to her neck, and watched Echo become an increasingly tiny yellow and blue dot in the otherwise endless expanse of space.
A Meeting of the Black Knight and the White Queen

The hum of an air cleaner was the only sound in the dimly lit recreation room aboard the men's portion of a spaceship bound for a distant water-laden planet. A man sat alone in a nearly trancelike state, staring at a chess board on the table before him as an endless expanse of stars spilled across the porthole window beside him.

A neatly folded stack of papers sat beside the chess board. At once, the man's trance broke and he looked at his watch and then stared at the open doorway expectantly. He glanced at his watch again, and then again as he had not actually acknowledged the time on the first two attempts. It had been two hours and ten minutes since the last move had been made on the board, and he knew he would only have to wait one more minute for the next. For reassurance, he checked his watch once more before resting his hands on his lap, his fingers twisting and his palms sweating.

A small, round, automated vacuum cleaner glided through the doorway. A neatly folded piece of paper was taped to the top of it and the man grinned momentarily before stifling his glee, hiding his joy from no one but himself. He leaned down and snatched the paper from the top of the tiny robot. The man's heart was pummeling his ribs as he fumbled to open the letter as the robotic vacuum cleaner zipped around the room.

The note began:

Knight E3 to take Queen. Check

"Smart move," he whispered to himself. He moved the pieces on the board and carried on reading the note.

'You think you're pretty slick, don't you Black Knight? Well, I think I've got you this time. You never do fail to surprise me though... So I guess we'll see, won't we?

I think I'd have gone crazy on this ship if it wasn't for you and our game. I don't know why they could not prolong our hibernation cycles so that we could have a companion in our sections during our watch duties... I guess it really is all about money on this expedition.

But... Then again, if I did have a companion in my section I might have never responded to an invitation to a chess game taped to the top of the ship's automated vacuum cleaner. It's that kind of creativity that keeps me guessing in our game.

I look forward to the day when we reach our destination, when I can meet you, finally, in person. I'm sure that I'll know who you are the moment I see you. I just wish it wasn't so far away. Even with the stints of prolonged suspended animation, the time seems to just drag on and on and on. You've been a spark in the otherwise dark and dull time that has been my three month watch.'

The warm feelings began to fade. He became worried. He re-read the line several times before flipping the note over and continuing, hoping that whatever was written there might quell the ominous chill that had sunk to the very core of his being.

'It's with a heavy heart that I tell you that this will be my last move in the game. My watch of the female sector ends today and I re-enter suspended animation for three hundred and sixty days. I hope dearly that our watches will coincide again when I am awake. I'm sorry that I did not tell you sooner. I could hardly bare to think about it.

Until we meet in orbit,

The White Queen'

The man's shoulders slowly sunk to their lowest possible point and he leaned across the table, placing his head in his hands as he read the final line of the note.

'P.S. I think there is only one move left for you on the board. Do you see it?'

He let the words wash over him. He looked up and they seemed to be burned into his eyes. She had neglected to tell him that her watch was ending. He, however, had neglected to tell her that he was assigned to be the watchman of his sector for the entire mission. There would be no prolonged sleep for him. For him, there would be only three hundred and sixty more torturous days of loneliness until she was awake again. She was the only one that had answered his notes on this mission. He was selected as watchman for his mental fortitude in loneliness simulations, but he discovered over the course of the mission that they were flawed – no one could possibly be prepared for a mission like this.

He stood up with no real plan of what to do next, and realizing this, he sat down again and put his head into his hands. He stood back up and walked to the book shelf in the recreation room, browsed the shelves for roughly a tenth of a second and then returned to the table. He looked down at the board, but there was no real reason to. He knew every piece on the board. He could either go to the white queen with his black knight, taking the queen but leaving his king vulnerable, thus ending the game, or he could move his king behind the black knight, saving him, but only briefly.

He turned to the porthole and gazed into the pinpricks of light shining against the utterly black backdrop of space and put his head against the window. Although it was very thick, it was still chilled by the absolute cold of space. The stars outside of the window were what had drawn him to this mission. He had studied them on earth, surrounded by people, and wished only to be with the stars. Now he was here, and he wanted only to be with another person – the White Queen.

Which move had she been referring to? There were clearly two moves left. Two moves with very different outcomes. One move was immediate and violent, in relative terms, and the other move simply delayed the inevitable...

He walked to the doorway with purpose but halted immediately when he was framed by the metal beams that made up the opening into the room. "One move..." he said to himself over and over. He had realized, of late, that there was a possibility that he was reading too far into her notes. He feared that his mental state had become unstable as he had been deprived of actual human contact for years now. Had he been reading too much into her notes? Had he been reading too far into their relationship? He wondered if it was appropriate to call it a relationship at all... They merely exchanged notes secretly and played chess remotely...

As he stood in the doorway, teetering on the verge of making a mission and even life altering decision, he hesitated and retreated to the table. He had to be sure before he made his move, but he also had to act quickly. There was no way of knowing how much time remained...

He picked up a letter at random and skimmed through it in a daze. It did not matter, he knew every letter, every word, and every pen stroke as well as he knew each position of each chess piece on the board that the notes laid next to.

Certain words within the notes they had exchanged struck him especially hard in this moment. He had considered, and at times even suspected, that they had been cues or suggestions. Before now, he had resigned that it was his own damnable hope that had led him to these conclusions, but now it was though he was reading them in new light, like he was seeing them clearly for the first time -

'The white queen isn't going anywhere as long as the black knight is on the board...'

He threw the note aside and picked up another.

'...only a little longer until...'

His hands shook violently as he reached down for another letter.

'...won't you...'

Ringing filled his ears, punctuated only by the metronome of his beating heart and each ragged breath that forced its way down his constricting throat.

'...please!'

The man was on his knees, though he had no recollection of lowering himself. His hands were flat against the floor on either side of the final note.

'Until we meet...'

He was gone. He was out of the recreation room. He was walking down the dimly lit hallway. His boots echoed off of the bare metal walls that surrounded him, but it did not register with him. He accidentally kicked the tiny vacuum cleaner, courier of his messages, and deliverer of his only escape from loneliness. He walked up a flight of narrow steps, then he walked up another.

An entranceway lay before him, framed in orange light. It was the entrance to the female sector of the ship. It was completely sealed, aside from a small slot in which the automated vacuum cleaner could zoom in and out between the male and female sectors. He alone could open the door, but had been trained never to do so unless there were life threatening emergencies taking place in that sector. A computer chip embedded beneath the skin in his wrist held the "key" to get in.

He weighed his options as though he was making a move on the chess board. He still had his hand on the piece as stood at the door. There was no going back if he crossed through the doorway. Even now, the cameras aboard the ship were streaming information back to Earth at the speed of light, and if he pressed his wrist to the locking mechanism, a special alert would be sent to ground control. When they paired the video with the alert, ground control would interpret the act as a compromise to their mission. Another cadet would be awoken and briefed, and he would forcefully detain the man for the entirety of the mission. He would likely be arrested when they reached Earth again. In that moment, he decided that that was a small price to pay. He approached the door and placed his wrist against a small, shiny metal box. The lock clicked and the orange light framing the door went out. He walked through the door, his hand was off the board.

The women's sector was set up just like the men's. The only difference, aside from being occupied by women instead of men, was an indeterminable scent that subtly floated upon the air and greeted his senses like a warm embrace. It brought to his mind a vague, hazy memory of walking into his warm, ancestral home on a cold autumn evening long ago. It smelled like comfort and safety. It smelled like satisfaction. It was something he never thought he would need when he had it, and something he had not realized he had been missing until this very moment.

The man tried to put his hands in his pockets, but he did not have any pockets. He had not had pockets for the entirety of the mission. He passed the dormitories where the bodies of the rest of the female crew rested in suspended animation. Across the hall from that was the bathroom, and to the right of that was the recreation room.

If she, the White Queen, was still awake, if he was not too late, she would be there. He ran his hand over his shaved head, took a deep breath, and walked into the women's recreation room. It was identical to the one he had left only moments ago in the men's sector, down to the arrangement of the pieces on the chess board and the stack of notes beside it. There was, however, no one there – there was no White Queen.

He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. He wondered for a moment if he would pass out. He did not, however, so he walked to the chess board. He looked down at his own handwriting facing up from the notes on the table. He made his final move on the White Queen's chess board and then toppled his own king.

He picked up the white queen from the board and held it up in front of his face. Its silhouette was gilded with stars in the porthole behind it. He picked up the black knight and held it beside the queen. He was so engrossed with the pieces in his hand, lost in thought of what he had just done, what he had sacrificed, and above all – what he had missed, that he did not notice the young woman that was now standing next to him.

"You shouldn't have come," she said, causing him to fumble the pieces in his hands before composing himself and turning to look at her. Her voice was like cool water, startling at first contact but then refreshing and worthy of the yearning that can only be brought on by thirst. She too had a shaved head, but he remembered during their training on earth that she once had long, dark hair. She was gorgeous. She smiled weakly, as though it pained her to do so as she looked from his face down to the chess pieces in his hands.

"I know," he spoke down toward his hands after what felt like a long time. "But I," he paused, his eyes burning, and his throat aching as though it was collapsing in on itself. "But this was the only move that made sense to me."

She was looking directly into his face when he looked back up. Her eyes were green. They were probably the only instances of the color green on the whole ship, the only time he had seen the color since they had left Earth. In that instant, he was transported to tree covered hills and windswept fields, ivy covered columns and coastal seas before she blinked and he was once again in a capsule floating through space, struggling to make sense of the lifetime of beauty and tranquility he had experienced in that one moment.

She did not reply, but she reached out and touched his shoulder. Her hand lingered there for a moment before sliding down his arm and grasping his hand that still held the chess pieces.

"I have to go now," she said, her voice quavering. "You understand that, right? And you... you have to go too."

He nodded slowly, looking down at their joined hands. "May I come with you?" The eagerness in his voice made him feel childish.

"You know that's impossible," she said sadly, frowning as she squeezed his hand.

His throat felt tight again, and he was sure that he would not be able to form a word, let alone a coherent response, if he even had one to give. He compromised by squeezing back against her hand. She began to walk, maintaining her grip on his hand and leading him out of the recreation room and down the hall to the dormitories. It was lined with closed off pods which contained the female astronauts that were in suspended animation – the computer and chemical regulated serenity and absence of being that she would soon enter, and that he would likely be entered into involuntarily when he returned to the men's sector. She took her place in the only unoccupied pod.

She sat down on the bed and he lowered himself to his knees so that they were at eye level with each other. She began to fiddle with the tubes and needles and the knobs and buttons all protruding from a display by the bed.

"What do you think will happen to you? Once they find out..." she asked as she laid back onto her pillow.

He thought of the electronic signals that were speeding to earth from the cameras in the ship and wondered if they had reached the ground control yet. "Hard to say," he replied, although he was quite sure what would happen when he returned to the men's sector.

She looked at him thoughtfully, a reluctant tear rolling down her cheek. "Just tell them that you had to get a glimpse of the girl who beat you at your own game," she said with a mixture of playfulness and anxiety.

A chuckle broke through his strained throat. "How about another game soon?" he asked. She nodded and he released her hand, leaving the black knight piece in it as her eyes began to glaze and her eyelids began to sink.

"So long, Black Knight," she said warily as the pod door lowered. He lingered for a moment, until the pod was completely shut, thinking about what was coming next. He stood up and walked out of the dormitory as another pod door began to open. Hastily, he walked along the hallway until he reached the doorway. He locked it once more by passing his wrist across the locking mechanism and then made his way down the stairs and into the men's recreation room.

It was, of course, just how he left it. The signals relaying the events that had just taken place had not yet reached Earth, and even once they had, he would have to wait until they made a response before anything else would happen.

He sat down at the table, his hands oddly steady. He placed the white queen piece he had taken from the women's chess set and placed it before him on the table. He changed the pieces on his chess board to reflect the moves he had made on the White Queen's board and toppled his own king once again. He interlocked the fingers of each hand and placed his chin upon them, gazing down at the white queen piece.

The man drifted in and out of lucid thought over the next hour or so, his mind passing between instances of staring at the chess piece sitting before him, and fantasies of he and the White Queen untethered from the rigid structure of the mission and unbound from the titanium walls of the spacecraft.

And the green... The green of her eyes was burned into his own. The green comforted him in the knowledge of its existence and tantalized and tortured him with thoughts of when or if he would see it again. It was not just the color of her eyes, but the life behind them. Her eyes had that special vibrance that colored the Earth from space and sustained every living thing \- in whose absence life would be robbed of its very breath and sustenance...

As he sat there, feeling as though he could wither and die, the sound of footsteps and the hum of an electric screen powering on broke his reverie. He was once again aware of his situation and surroundings as two cadets stood in the doorway and a ground control member glared through the screen.

"Cadets, if the perpetrator is not where he can see and hear me, I ask that you apprehend him and bring him before me before any further steps are taken," the man on the screen said, his brows furrowing into the rims of his glasses. The two cadets, looking thoroughly startled and confused, as well as extremely tired, glared at the man sitting at the table. They looked tense but they did not approach him.

After enough time had passed that ground control could safely assume that the man had been captured and put in front of the screen, the ground control member began speaking again. "We don't know why you've done what you've done, but be aware that it will not happen again and it will not go unpunished. Unfortunately, as we discussed our options of what to do with you, we came to the conclusion that you cannot be forcefully sedated and placed into suspended animation as was protocol. We lacked the oversight of providing an extra set of key chips or emergency preparedness codes to the other cadets. We, of course, thought there was no need to due to your stellar training and mental fortitude. It is clear now that we were mistaken. Officer Mi- "

"Black Knight," the man said in a raised voice over the ground control member when he spoke his real name. The ground control member could, of course, not yet hear this and continued on unphased. The two cadets seemed to grow even more uneasy at this proclamation.

"... though you are now stripped of your official titles and await formal jurisdiction, you will be placed in confinement in the holding area for the duration of the mission, while the other cadets serve as watchman unless your key or codes are needed. I would like to add that the expense of air, food, and water involved in keeping multiple men awake has robbed the mission of critical time it needed at its destination. You've not only failed yourself and your crew, but you've failed humanity," the man paused and bit his lip, looking as though he could not even fathom the situation he was being presented. "Cadets, place him in the cargo holding area, and secure it as best as possible. Report back when finished for further instruction."

The screen went blank and the man could feel the tension in the room rising. The cadets continued to linger in the doorway, but finally, one spoke. "Why have you done this?"

"I had my reasons," he said calmly, rising to his feet. "Reasons that will likely make themselves evident to you shortly, now that you hold my former position."

"You were trained for this, Officer – "

"Black Knight," the man said forcefully, cutting across the cadet as he was about to speak his real name. "Black Knight is my name."

The cadet shook his head angrily. "Regardless of who you think you are now, you were trained for this position..."

The Black Knight laughed at the lieutenant's naivety, and responded, "I hope that after you have experienced what I have, that you may convince ground control to rethink my punishments. No training could prepare a person for this... Not the way they arranged this mission. And it is absurd to think that any training of any kind could part kindred souls." The cadets appeared to be exceedingly confused. "I suppose ground control didn't mention that last part. Of course not... How could they know? And would they even care? Ha! We weren't ready for this and you certainly aren't either."

The cadets, although still quite perplexed, began to approach him. The Black Knight did not struggle. He picked up the white queen chess piece, the notes, and his pen, and held them in his hand as he walked with them to the cargo holding area. The cadets commanded him to remove boxes of supplies, tanks, space suits, and other items out of the holding unit and into the hallway. It was roughly eight feet by eight feet in area, with a ceiling so low that he could not stand straight up without hunching forward. When he had finished, they ushered him inside one last time and closed a clear window that divided the makeshift cell from the hallway. They left him at once to receive the information regarding their new assignments.

"Good luck," he called at their retreating backs. "You'll need it," he added under his breath. Seconds passed, and then minutes and hours as the full weight of his situation crashed upon him. He had years ahead of him in this tiny storage cell if the orders did not change.

The automated vacuum cleaner zipped down the hallway, dodging the new obstacles that had been placed in its way, and entered the crack between the floor and the clear divider on the cell. The Black Knight watched it quickly pass through the cell and realized that he did not have to wait years for his freedom. He only had to wait until the White Queen was awake once again, until her notes would once again appear taped to the top of the small automated vacuum cleaner that was exiting his cell to clean the rest of the ship. He traced a smudgy chess board onto the wall with his fingers, fantasizing about a moment three hundred and sixty days from then when he could make his first move and when he would see the first words she would write to him.

The Black Knight placed his pen, his notes, and the white queen chess piece down beside him. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal wall of the cell and closed his eyes. The White Queen's emerald green eyes appeared in his mind at once, and he was with her again in a moment that lasted forever in a boundless green expanse.
Intergalactic Public Radio

This segment of Intergalactic Public Radio was transcribed for your reading pleasure by Susan Transiberian, I.P.R. Intern in Perpetua.

(Brief Musical Opening)

Prerecorded - This segment of Intergalactic Public Radio is sponsored by: Fleetwood's Low Gravity Metal Mining Incorporated - The Low Gravity Metal Miners You Can Trust.

Victor - Greetings and welcome to Intergalactic Public Radio, the only station in the galaxy that broadcasts from spiral to spiral of the Milky Way through transmission speeding amplification. I, of course, am the host of the IPR segment, Today's Look at Today, Victor L. Wave. Our top story finds Supreme Galactic Czar Percy Cocoro under scrutiny once again as he has arrived for a week long stay at Deer Planet. As most of our listeners know, Deer Planet is inhabited solely by deer. He has billed this journey as a 'peace-keeping diplomatic mission', causing many political critics to once again examine Czar Cocoro's long questioned mental capacities. Here is a clip from Supreme Galactic Czar Percy Cocoro's opening address to the deer of deer planet.

Recording of Czar Cocoro - (Hoof and grass chewing noises abound) My fellow deer, it is an honor and a privilege to be among you all today. Too long, it has been, that you, our horn and hoof clad brothers and sisters have gone unrepresented throughout the galaxy. - Pause - Oh... uh, no applause... Alright, anyways, errr, right. I would like to formally announce that two deer representatives will be selected to represent your planet in the Galactic Governance Squad. - One person clapping - (Heavy sigh) So, if you'd all write in your nominations, we will be having elections at the end of this week.

Victor - We'll stop the clip there. Our sources have informed us that as of now, the deer have not nominated anydeer to be representatives in the Galactic Governance Squad. There has, however, been one write-in nomination for Percy Cocoro. (Heavy sigh) We'd like to know what you, our loyal listeners, have to say about Czar Cocoro's alleged diplomatic mission to Deer Planet. Give us a call and tell us what you think... Alright, the boards are lighting up. Caller, you're on the air.

Caller 1 - Squeeeeeeee tzorrrrrvoppp. Pwentrorrrr tweeee.

Victor - Caller, let me stop you there. Can you please activate your translation module?

Caller 1 - Pwah!?

Victor - Your... Your translation module. It has to be set to the outgoing position. Your language is not in our system.

Caller 1 - Squeee pwah!?

\- Dial Tone -

Victor - Alright, next caller please. \- Click - Hello, you're on the air.

Caller 2 - (Clearing throat and speaking in falsetto) I, er, uh, Czar Cocoro is doing a good thing. A great thing in fact!

Victor - Oh goodness.

Caller 2 - I'm quite sure that the majority of the voting citizens of the galaxy will agree, darling. I, for one, am glad that the deer of Deer Planet will finally have representatives in the Galactic Governance Squad. And, if for some reason they don't nominate anyone else, I'm certain that Czar Cocoro will do an outstanding job representing their planet.

Victor - Czar Cocoro, I know that's you.

Caller 2 - (Clears throat) Well, heh, I certainly am flattered to be compared to his supremeness...

Victor - Czar, you legally could not even represent Deer Planet. You weren't born there...

Caller 2 - Yes, I, he was!

Victor - Sir, I'm quite sure that you weren't born on Deer Planet.

Caller 2 - But of course he was!

Victor - Only deer live there!

Caller 2 - Well that's... simply conjecture. Besides, it isn't the point. The point is that Supreme Galactic Czar Percy Cocoro is further exemplifying his capacity for strategic thought and diplomatic grace! Any other opinion would clearly be treasonous.

Victor - (Long pause and deep sigh) Alright. Thank you Czar Cocoro.

Caller 2 - You're quite welcome. Wait, no!

\- Dial Tone -

Victor - We're going to take a brief commercial break, followed by the IPR Weekly Spotlight. Stay tuned!

Narrator - Opening this Friday in select theaters across the galaxy, a coming of age story that is as relatable as it is long: Brembo the Farm Lizard.

Young Brembo - When I grow up, I want to explore the universe!

Brembo's Father - Brembo, you can't... You have to stay and help your lizard family tend the dust crops for the rest of your life.

Narrator - The difficulty of choices...

Brembo's Mother - Brembo, no! You can't go! You can't leave us like this!

Brembo - I'm sorry, ma! There's a whole universe out there! A lizard like me has gotta see it.

Narrator - Life lessons...

Masked Stranger - Welcome to Sketchoria. Would you like to exchange your Lizard Coins for Sketch Dollars? They can be used anywhere in the galaxy...

Brembo - Sure! I'll go ahead and exchange them all. What a kind stranger... And such a neat face-mask!

Narrator - The pain of discrimination...

Angry Landlord - No lizards allowed!

Brembo - Please let me stay, I beg you. I was swindled out of all my money and I'm cold and hungry.

Angry Landlord - I said 'no lizards' and I meant 'no lizards'! You lizard types are all the same... (Door slams)

Brembo - I should have never left the farm...

Narrator - Love...

Amorphous Blue Blob with Feathers - The galaxy will never accept our love, Brembo. We're too different!

Brembo - I don't care that you're an amorphous blue blob with feathers, I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

Amorphous Blue Blob with Feathers - You make me the happiest.... thing.... in the universe, Brembo!

Narrator - And other situations....

Sergeant Mason of the United Galactic Special Forces Battalion - Brembo, nooooooo!

(Loud explosions)

Narrator - Brembo, the Farm Lizard...

Victor - Welcome back to Intergalactic Public Radio. I know I speak for the whole station when I say that we simply can't wait to see Brembo the Farm Lizard. There is absolutely no other way I'd choose to spend seven hours on a Friday. On to our Weekly Spotlight... We've been getting a lot of transmissions from listeners saying they are very excited about this week's topic. This week's topic on the IPR Weekly Spotlight is the Wool-Ball squad of Pppleion's District Eleven. Wool-Ball, as many of you already know, is a game in which teams compete against each other to shear a flock of sheep, amass the freshly cut wool into a ball, and push it up a steep hill. What few enthusiasts of wool-ball know, is that it once was not a game at all. We have with us today, Pppleion's District Eleven wool-ball squad historian, Tusk Pinkton, to discus the origins of the sport.

Tusk - It's a pleasure to be on IPR, but I mus correct you. It's pronounced P-p-leon. The third 'P' is silent.

Victor - Ah, my apologies.

Tusk - Well, wool-ball started right there on Pppleion. Some of the districts like to take credit for founding the sport, but in actuality, Pppleion wasn't even divided into districts at the inception of wool-ball. Wool-Ball did, in fact, cause the splitting of Pppleion into eighteen different districts, however. After teams formed, the towns in which they formed had to close off due to the fierce wool-ball rivalries that formed.

Victor - Wow. Interesting and enlightening. So wool-ball is taken quite seriously on Pppleion?

Tusk - Heh... Yes, Victor. It's taken quite seriously. It was briefly outlawed eight centuries ago, resulting in a coup staged by the district thirteen wool-ball team. Thank goodness for their act of heroism. District thirteen is now a bunch of wonkydunchers though, of course...

Susan the Perpetual Intern - Sorry to interrupt, but we're getting in a lot of calls... and threats... from district thirteen of Pppleion. They are demanding to speak to -

Victor - Susan, this is not a call in segment.

Tusk - And it's pronounced P-p-leon. The third 'P' is silent.

Victor - I'm sorry for the interruption. Please, do go on.

Tusk - Right, where was I... Oh, yes. The origins of wool-ball. You see, wool-ball began over a millennium ago. The residents of Diakololombo, now known as the Sky District, offered the villagers at the foot of their mountain ski resorts and beyond a handsome fee in return for the first fifteen burloughs of wool delivered to the ski resort atop the highest mountain at the beginning of the Brutally Cold Season.

Victor - For our listeners that are unfamiliar with Pppleionic units of measurement, could you describe the size of one burlough of wool?

Tusk - Hmmm... One burlough of wool is roughly equivalent to a standard four door aqueous transportation orb.

Victor - Oooh! Pretty big.

Tusk - Yes, quite! In the beginning, each of the eighteen villages took part in the shearing of the sheep and the balling up of the wool into burloughs, but when it finally came time to push the wool balls up the mountain, they realized that not every village would get to sell all of their wool, so the race was on!

Victor - Wow. Truly fascinating. Now, I was under the impression that games of wool-ball can get violent. Is this accurate?

Tusk - Oh, yes. It is very violent. The matches themselves are violent, the spectators are violent... In fact, Pppleion is usually in a state of war due to wool-ball.

Victor - Interesting... Tell me about your district.

Tusk - Ah, yes! District eleven... It's located on a desert plane. Our sheep have evolved the unique property of reflective wool which keeps them cool while the sun is shining and warms them when the cool breezes blow. It's no wonder why our wool is prized above all others in the Sky District.

Susan the Perpetual Intern - Victor, we're being flooded with calls from Pppleion, I'm getting scared. They're saying they're warming up their jump-ships to -

Victor - Susan, dear, it's pronounced P-p-leon. The third 'P' is silent. Besides, like I told you earlier, this is not a call-in segment.

Susan the Perpetual Intern - But sir -

Tusk - And since we have the fastest shearers, the quickest and strongest pushers, and the finest wool, it's no wonder that district eleven is the best wool-ball district in all of Pppleion.

(Loud angry pounding on door)

Victor - Uhhhhh, let's go to a quick commercial break. Susan!

(Sound of splintering wood and screams cut off abruptly by generic jingle music)

Singers - If your ship won't fly, don't sit and sigh! Call 881-3833-49-777777-X12-4B-9Q-11-MR-49 today!

Salvatorius - Hi! I'm Salvatorius, owner and operator of Salvatorius' Reasonably Priced Space-ship Repair and Replacement Parts Emporium. We have everything you need to repair or upgrade your: Jump-ships! Intergalactic Cruisers! Sport Ships! Vintage Aluminum Bodied Cruisers! And MORE! Don't wait until you're floating in the endless void of space to fix your ship! Come see me, Salvatorius, at Salvatorius' Reasonably Priced Space-Ship Repair and Replacement Parts Emporium, today! Don't forget to tell 'em Salvatorius sent ya!

Singers - If your ship won't fly, don't sit and sigh! Call 881-3833-49-777777-X12-4B-9Q-11-MR-49 today!

Victor - ...and they were so fast! It was incredible. I'm lucky to be alive, really, it was -

Susan the Perpetual Intern - You're on the air Victor.

Victor - Ah, so I am. Welcome back, listeners. I regret to inform you that our Weekly Spotlight segment will be cut short this week, as our guest was just forcibly rolled inside a ball of wool by several members of Pppleion's district five wool-ball team. Such teamwork... I, for one, can't wait to watch this Sunday's wool-ball match. This concludes today's segment of Today's Look at Today. This is Victor L. Wave, signing off! Would you like to make salutations, Susan? Susan...? Ah, it appears that Susan is updating her resume again. Ha! Bless her. Stay tuned for an inspiring documentary on the All Percussion Trillion Piece Band of Overkillion, on the upcoming segment 'Space Jazz with Space Chaz'. Thanks again for tuning in. Good-bye!

(Brief Musical Outro)
The Snake in the Grass

Black turned to grey as a man blearily opened his eyes. It was extremely difficult for him to focus on anything, but it appeared that he was in a jail cell. He had no memory of how he had come to be there. His head throbbed as though it had been split in two. He raised a shaking hand to touch it but paused when he saw how shockingly pale his skin was. He touched the top of his head and felt a spasm of pain course right down the middle of his skull. His neck was cool, and upon feeling it he recoiled at the sight of his own scarlet blood streaking his pallid hands. He was bleeding from the ears. Something was very wrong.

He began to think frantically, trying to recall any information about why he was here and what had happened. It seemed, however, that he could not remember anything at all.

"Date..." he whispered to himself. "What is the date?" He considered the question for a moment, but even thought was painful. He could feel each beat of his heart in his throbbing head.

"More importantly, what is my name?... C. There's definitely a C..."

The man stopped whispering to himself. He could hear the heavy footsteps of boots against a metal grate. Someone was coming.

"Hello? Can you please help me? I think I've sustained a head injury. I'm having trouble remembering anything..." the man called out toward the bars of his cell. The footsteps continued to grow closer, but whoever it was made no indication that they had heard him speak. In his blurred vision, he saw what appeared to be a woman carrying a clipboard. She walked directly past his cell without looking up.

"Hello? Can you please come back?" the man asked. Her footsteps continued to go in the opposite direction despite his pleas. What was happening?

He tried to stand up but found that his whole body ached, particularly his heels. He compromised by leaning forward onto his hands and knees, slowly crawling toward the bars of his cell. The man collapsed as he reached the bars, lying face down against the cool metallic floor of his cell. He passed out.

After an indeterminate amount of time, he awoke. A parade of boots marched past his cell only inches away from his face.

"Somebody, please. I've been very badly injured. I think I have a concussion or something. I shouldn't just be locked up like this," he called out, his voice echoing off the metal walls. The sound of footsteps thinned and disappeared as their progress continued without halting.

His vision was still somewhat blurred, but edges were becoming more finite. The outline of the pool of blood that had dripped from his mouth as he slept made itself readily evident as he raised his head from the floor. He pressed a hand to his ears and found that they were no longer bleeding. He was glad of that.

With great effort, he sat up. He felt lightheaded immediately, and scooted back against the wall. Sitting up on his own was still too taxing.

The hall beyond his cell was now silent aside from the buzzing of a light fixture mounted in the ceiling. He tried to look at the light fixture but it made his head ache. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

Sometime later, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and opened his eyes. He did not call out to them or speak, but simply watched. His vision was continuously getting sharper. There were a man and a woman wearing white coats and carrying clipboards. A woman wearing a dark, forest green uniform was following them with her hand to her mouth. She appeared to be crying. She looked incredibly familiar.

"Hey!" he called to the woman. "Come back! I have to know what's happening. I shouldn't be treated like this. I know you..."

The group continued to walk. The woman continued to cry. None of them, however, gave the slightest acknowledgement to the man slumped against the wall of the cell they strode past.

That woman's forest green uniform appeared to be the same as what he was wearing. Hers had been in a far better state. Rips, frays, and bloodstains covered his own uniform. He rubbed the wrinkles flat and felt something on his chest. Aha! His name! His name was stitched right there on his chest. Captain Tomlinson. That must have been why he was thinking it started with a C...

"Captain Tomlinson... Captain Tomlinson..." he repeated his name over and over. It just did not feel right coming off of his lips. "Captain... Tom? That feels better... I think."

So his name was Captain Tom. Unless he was wearing someone else's uniform, which he conceded was a very real possibility. If he was Captain Tom, what had he been a captain of?

"Captain Tom... Captain Tom..." he said the name continuously, hoping not to lose the one piece of information he had as his head leaned against the cool metal walls and he fell asleep once more.

When Captain Tom awoke, he found himself wearing a clean uniform. Who had changed his clothes? Why had they not woken him? Captain Tom was angry that someone had finally interacted with him but had done it in secret for some reason. How had they even pulled off that feat? Admittedly, he was in a sorry state at the moment, but he could hardly imagine being undressed and redressed without even waking up.

His vision had returned to normal, or what he assumed was normal. His head ached, but it was minor compared to what he had felt before. Captain Tom leaned forward from the wall experimentally. He did not feel faint. He laid his hands flat against the floor and began to crawl toward the bars of his cell. His body was in much less pain than it had been before. He took a deep breath and stood up.

His feet felt heavy. He assumed that it was from lack of walking for however long he had been in this cell. His heels still hurt much worse than anything else, although it was now a dull ache rather than a sharp pain.

Captain Tom put his hands around the bars of his cell with the intention of peering through the gaps in the bars. He was startled to find that the cell door swung open at his touch. Did he dare leave? He must have been in that cell for some reason... But why was it unlocked?

He stuck his head out of the doorway and looked to his right. There was a long hallway dotted with several cells. Judging by the lights, no other cells were occupied. At the far end of the hall was an intersection that split the hall in two.

To his left, he was shocked to see grass. He realized that he had not seen grass in a very long time, but exactly how long it had been, he was unsure. Captain Tom was relieved to discover that he remembered what it was at all. He looked at the ceiling above him. It disappeared in a clean line directly over where the grass began and the metallic grated walkway ended. He stepped out of his cell and walked to the left, into the grass.

It was twilight in a small clearing. Beyond the grass were dense trees encircling the field he was now standing in. Captain Tom cautiously walked to the center of the clearing. The air was still and filled with the sound of chirping crickets. He closed his eyes and relished in the cool, fresh air. When he opened his eyes, he tilted his head back and looked at the stars. The stars...

"I'm a starship captain..." he spoke into the cool night air. The weight of the realization crashed over him, but the rush of enlightenment was short lived. He heard whispering behind him.

"You used to be," the voice whispered. He spun around, looking frantically from side to side, but he saw no one. His head was beginning to ache again.

"What do you mean?" Captain Tom asked the open air.

"You used to be a lot of things, Tom..."

Captain Tom realized that the voice was coming from near his feet. He looked down and saw a ten foot long black snake looking up at him from the grass. It was as thick as a baseball bat and had its mouth open wide as it glared at him with its soulless eyes. He was not afraid of it, and in fact it felt familiar... "I suspected your involvement in all of this," he said to the snake in a harsh, sharp tone. The words shocked him as they exited his mouth. He had not consciously chosen to speak them and had no firm idea what he even meant by them. As Captain Tom opened his mouth to speak again, someone grabbed him around the elbow and pulled him away from the snake.

"Don't," the person said, marching him through the clearing, toward the trees. "Don't even acknowledge it..." It was Captain Tom's father.

"Dad?" Captain Tom asked, bewildered.

"We can talk in a minute. We need to build a fire. Help me look for wood," his father said as he walked into the trees.

Captain Tom walked gingerly through the trees. His heels were bothering him again. When they each had an armful of wood, they deposited it a few yards away from the line of trees and his father began to start the fire. His father sat down on the grass as the flames grew and took a deep breath. Captain Tom did the same.

"What are you doing here, dad?" Captain Tom asked over the crackling fire.

"Well, son, we've been worried... Your mother and I, I mean."

"Why is that?" Captain Tom asked. He was trying to remember the last time he had even spoken to his parents. He had a feeling that it had been a very long time indeed.

His father hesitated, lingering on the task of poking the logs with a stick before he answered. "We know what happened on your ship."

"What do you mean? What happened on my ship?" Captain Tom asked in a rush.

His father shook his head as though his son's questions had only confirmed his worries. "There was an accident. Well, there was actually a series of, uh, unfortunate... Listen, son, can we not talk about this right now? It's been so long since I've seen you, I'd just like to sit with you by the fire for a while."

As Captain Tom and his father sat in silence beside the fire, he tried in vain to remember the accident, or accidents. What had happened? It must have been bad for word to have gotten all the way to his parents on Earth.... Captain Tom watched the flickering flames cast shadows across his father's face. He looked young, younger even than Captain Tom.

"Wait," said Captain Tom. A sudden realization, an uncovered memory, left him feeling heavy, as though he could sink right into the dirt beneath them. "Didn't you... aren't you... dead?"

His father glanced at him quickly and returned his gaze to the fire. "Of course I am. I've been dead since you were a little boy. You know that, Tommy."

Captain Tom furrowed his brow in concentration. He did it so hard that the top of his head began to radiate with pain once more. He winced and raised his hand to the top of his head, patting it gingerly.

"Pretty bad, huh?" his father asked.

"Am I also... I mean, well... Am I dead?" Captain Tom asked, his mouth dry and his body shaking slightly, despite the heat from the fire.

"No, Tommy," his father said reassuringly. "But you're lucky you're not. You've been foolish, I'm not afraid to say it."

"If I'm not dead, then what's happening right now? Am I sleeping? Dreaming?" Captain Tom asked.

"Well, you're not sleeping. It's hard to say, really," his father said noncommittally as he lied on his back and stared up at the stars. "Remember when we used to do this, Tom? When we used to just sit out and look up at the stars? I was so proud when you went to space. So proud that you got to see all those stars up close. I know you were proud too."

No matter what his father said, Captain Tom felt like his father was talking to him as though he was dead too. He chose not to reply, but lied down on the grass as well. It felt good to rest again. For a long time, the two of them said nothing. As he looked up at the innumerable stars above, his mind emptied. That is, until he heard a slither through the grass surrounding them.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Tommy?"

"I think the snake is back."

"I told you to ignore it! Not to even acknowledge it!" his father said angrily, sitting up and glaring at his son. He was furious.

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it if it keeps coming around..." Captain Tom said in frustration.

His father sighed deeply and his face slackened. He looked away from his son and appeared for a moment as though he was embarrassed by his outburst. "That snake has been bothering you for a while now, hasn't it?"

Although Captain Tom had no finite memories of it, he knew it to be true. "Yes."

After a long pause, his father said, "I wish there was something I could say or do to help you. I think it's time you get back now, son."

"Back?" Captain Tom asked confusedly, sitting up.

His father pointed over the fire, across the clearing to the hallway that led to his cell. It was quite odd viewing it from this side. It appeared as a hallway leading right through the trees. Captain Tom did not want to leave, but he knew that his father was right. He rose to his feet, wincing at the pain in his heels. A tear was rolling down his father's cheek.

Captain Tom lingered for a moment but could not summon a goodbye. He strode across the grass and entered the hallway. The noise of the crickets and the smell and sounds of the crackling fire faded away and was replaced by his echoing footsteps across the grated walkway. He soon came upon his cell. It was dark now, darker than before. He paid the cell little mind, however. A name placard was hung on the wall beside the bars. It simply read 'Tomlinson'. A piece of tape covered where it had read 'Captain', occluding it from view. He thought of what the snake had whispered. "Used to be... Used to be a lot of things, Tom."

His head and his heels throbbed as he continuously tried to piece together what had happened. An accident, or several, had occurred. They had apparently been severe enough to lose him his captaincy. And if he was not dead or dreaming, how had he just spoken to his long-deceased father?

Captain Tom turned from his cell and began walking further down the hall. He could not return to his confinement just yet. He needed more answers.

Someone was approaching him. It was a man wearing a white coat over his forest green uniform. He looked down at a clipboard as he walked and mumbled to himself. Captain Tom, still unsure of where he was or if it was even real at all, did not know what to expect as the man neared him.

His worries were unfounded. The man walked directly past him as he stood by his cell. He never even looked up from his clipboard. Captain Tom had stood frozen in place until he had passed and then began to walk toward the end of the hall where it split into two directions.

As he neared the end of the hall and contemplated which split to take, another man appeared. He assumed that it was his imagination, but it looked exactly the same as the last person he had seen. Captain Tom walked confidently as the man approached. He too was looking down at his clipboard. When he was a few feet away from Captain Tom, he did not pass him by unnoticed as the last man had. He gripped him forcefully around the elbow and got within three inches of his face.

"Don't," he said simply.

"Don't do what?" Captain Tom said in a shaking voice as he tried to step back. The grip around his elbow kept him in place.

"Don't go down the hall. You don't need to see what's down there. Not yet." He released Captain Tom's elbow and began to walk away from him, his eyes glued to his clipboard once again. His head ached as he turned and watched the man walk away.

The grassy clearing at the opposite end of the hall was gone. It had been replaced by what appeared to be a massive balcony beneath a starry sky. Captain Tom hesitated. Did he really want to go? He wondered if his current mental state could even handle any more cryptic interactions. He decided, finally, that given that his only other option was returning to his cell, that he should go to the balcony.

As he peered into his darkened cell as he walked past, he noticed that there was something in it. Lingering in the shadows was the long black snake. Its forked tongue extruded from its viperous mouth and tasted the air. It did not rise or speak this time, only watched. Captain Tom had a vivid vision of sprinting away from the cell toward the balcony. He turned away from the cell and continued toward the end of the hall.

As the hall ended, it was revealed that the balcony was not simply beneath a star laden sky. It was beneath a gargantuan window. He neared the edge of the balcony and looked over it. A great number of people wearing green uniforms, fifty at least, went about their business below. The balcony must have been sixty feet from the floor which the people walked to and fro beneath him. As Captain Tom looked around him, he realized where he was. This was his ship. This was the starship he had been captain of.

He felt an odd, ominous energy as he stood with his hands upon the rail of the balcony. His heart sank and he felt an unexplained sadness fill the very core of his being. He took his hands away from the rail. Something bad had happened here. His head throbbed as he looked up from the floor far beneath him.

A woman leaned with her back against the railing, surveying Captain Tom. She looked away as he met her eyes. She was the woman he had seen crying earlier. He was certain that he knew her. Captain Tom approached the woman. She was determinedly looking away from him and even turned all the way around as he neared her.

"Excuse me?" he said to the woman's back. "I'm sorry, I know this sounds crazy, but I think I know you."

She turned around to face him and he smiled. He was not sure why he did this, but it was his first instinct upon seeing her face. When she saw this she sneered at him with rage etched into every line of her face and profound sadness filling her eyes. "Don't," she said.

"Don't what?" he asked exasperatedly. He was growing quite tired of people saying that to him.

"Don't smile at me," she snarled. She looked away from him, focusing on the people walking below them. Captain Tom leaned over the balcony railing so that he could read the name patch sewn onto her uniform. Before he could read it, she grabbed him forcefully around the elbow as he leaned over the rail.

"Please, don't!" Her eyes were full of tears once again as she faced Captain Tom. He had the distinct impression that crying was extremely unusual for her. Her expression looked as though she was daring him to acknowledge the tears slowly tumbling down her cheeks. He looked down at her name patch. It read 'Captain Helena'.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you," Captain Tom said, confusion filling his voice. "I was just leaning over so that I could read your name patch." She did not respond. She only released her grip from his elbow and wiped the tears from her face. "Are you the captain now?" he asked her.

"Interim Captain, yes," she responded with apparent difficulty, her voice shaking though her eyes were now dry. "You probably know me better as 'Lieutenant Helena'."

The name did it. Lieutenant Helena had been his second in command. They had spent a great deal of time together over the years and had been quite fond of each other. Captain Tom felt that that was no longer the case.

"Can you please tell me what happened?" Captain Tom pleaded. "I'm confused and my head feels like it was cleaved in two, and my heels - "

Captain Tom stopped abruptly. Helena had begun to cry again. He reached out to console her, but it was as though she was getting farther away. He tried over and over to touch her hand, but she did not seem to notice the phenomenon that was occurring. At last, she wiped away her tears and grasped his hand. It felt as though they were touching each other through thick leather gloves. There was a distance in her touch that was difficult for Captain Tom to fathom.

"You haven't been yourself for a very long time, Tom," she said softly.

"I can believe that. I hardly even know who I am."

"Well, as you changed, so did your commands aboard the ship. At first I thought it was just Starship Delirium... that it would go away in time or when we reached the next port, but it never did. You got wilder and wilder and no one would listen to me when I suggested that you should be mentally evaluated... They knew I was ambitious. I think that they assumed I wanted your position for myself. You were paranoid, Tom. Some paranoia is acceptable for a captain of a starship, it comes with the job, but this... This was different. You kept referring to a 'snake in the grass'..."

Captain Tom had a vivid mental image of the snake he had seen in the grassy clearing and in his cell. How it had glared at him. How it had followed him. How it had spoken to him. How he knew the snake...

"You sent a battalion on an absurd mission to defend the ship against a long-shot threat. The possibilities of you being wrong were astronomical, but you swung your weight and sent them anyways. You told us you knew something that we didn't, that you had seen and even spoken to the threat."

Captain Tom closed his eyes. "What happened?" he asked after a moment, fearing the worst.

When he opened his eyes, Helena was looking down at the people walking below the balcony. Her eyes were out of focus as she nodded her head forward. "They all died."

Captain Tom released Helena's hand. He put his elbows against the rail and leaned over. As he laid eyes on each individual below, they disappeared.

"When I heard what had happened, I ordered that you be taken to the brig. I was devastated due to the tragedy, but I knew you would finally get the help you so desperately needed."

Captain Tom's eyes filled to the brim as the last person below them vanished when his gaze fell upon them. The vast promenade below them was now completely still and silent.

Helena gripped him around the elbow as she continued. "I told them not to tell you... I told them to just take you to the brig, but the guards were furious. When one of them told you what had happened," she paused, wiping her eyes with her free hand and taking a deep shuddering breath. "You broke free. You broke free in the hall leading to the brig. You ran to this balcony, and..." Helena stopped speaking. Her grief seemed to be beyond tears now. Her gaze shifted away from Captain Tom. Though she was looking at nothing in particular, it was clear that she was seeing a great deal. "And you jumped... Right here.... Right in front of me. This is where you tried to take your own life."

A tear fell from Captain Tom's eye and he watched it fall through the air and splatter on the floor far beneath them. His heels throbbed as he rocked his weight onto them, unable to look over the edge any longer. Helena, apparently satisfied that he would not jump again, released her grip from around his elbow. For a long time, the two of them stood in silence, looking out at the deserted promenade of the starship.

"My heels..." Captain Tom said as the pain resonated up his legs.

"You landed on your feet and then crumpled to the ground like a shattering glass bottle. I'll never forget it." Her gaze had not shifted. It was obvious that she reliving the moment. Captain Tom wondered how many times she had watched him leap from the balcony since it had happened.

"It's a shame what happened, but it's over. Your treatment is already working wonders for you," Helena said, taking his hand once again. Her apparent reverie was broken and her focus was on Captain Tom once more.

"How can you tell?" he asked, perplexed.

"I've seen the treatment. I've spoken to the doctors... Besides, your voice, your eyes, your general appearance... You seem like the Captain Tom I knew, not the one who doomed that battalion and leapt from this balcony, but the one that led thousands and captained a prosperous starship throughout our galaxy. The one who was my role model and my hero from the day I boarded this starship."

"I wish I could remember that..." Captain Tom said, looking away from her. His throat had begun to constrict and burn as he tried to withhold and bury his sadness and regret.

"You will... In time. Come with me," Helena said, releasing his hand.

She began to walk toward the corridor that housed his cell. They paused when they reached the cell that displayed his name on the placard. The snake sat coiled around itself on the floor. Its neck rose from the center of the coil and surveyed Captain Tom as he approached. It gazed at him and tasted the air before lowering lazily back into its coil.

"It was that real to you?" she asked in bewilderment, not taking her eyes from the now slumbering snake.

"I'm afraid that it was..." he replied. "Let's go. Don't even acknowledge it."

As they neared the end of the hall, the man with the clipboard appeared. Captain Tom read the name Dr. Mitchell on his white coat. Dr. Mitchell looked up from his clipboard and eyed Captain Tom suspiciously before turning to Helena.

"Are you sure it's time, Captain Helena?" the man in the white coat asked.

"It's time. He's ready. He hasn't made peace yet, but he's on well on his way."

"And the snake?" the doctor asked, making a note on his clipboard.

"Confined and dying," Helena said.

"Good, good. You have a valuable ally in Captain Helena, Mr. Tomlinson."

"I'm rediscovering that," Captain Tom said, puzzled.

"This way," Dr. Mitchell said, extending his arm to indicate the passage leading to the right.

Helena and Captain Tom walked down the hallway, past a row of vacant rooms. They were in the hospital section of the starship. They reached a room that had two guards posted on either side of the door and Helena paused. Neither of the guards acknowledged Tom or Helena.

"I can't go in with you," Helena said.

"What? Why not?" he asked her in a pleading tone.

"Because it's time for me to go. Besides, I'm already in there," she said, nodding at the gap between the hulking bodies of the guards. It was true. Captain Helena stood at the bedside of a person whose head and legs were heavily bandaged. It was Captain Tom's body.

Captain Tom looked from the Helena standing beside him, to the Helena in the hospital room standing beside his unconscious body. They were identical.

"Wait, if I'm there, then why did I wake up in the brig? And why am I also here? I'm still very confused as to the nature of our current forms..." Captain Tom said hesitantly as he peered between the guards.

"I can't help you there, Tom," Helena said with the ghost of a grin on her face. "Listen to me," she said as she gripped her hand around his elbow. As she did so, Captain Tom saw one of the doctors insert a needle into the vein at the bend of his elbow on his unconscious body. "Just focus on getting well, alright? Things are going to be OK. I'm on your side in this." She released his elbow as the doctor in the hospital room withdrew the needle from his arm.

"What is going to happen to me? If I recover, I mean?" Captain Tom asked nervously.

"You're going to recover. You just need time. And when you recover, there will be a trial. Don't be scared. Like I said, I'm on your side. After the trial, if you so choose, I'd like to keep you on staff in an advisor capacity. But your captaincy is over, Tom. For good. Do you understand?"

Captain Tom nodded his head in acknowledgement and reached for Helena's hand. He saw as he did so, that the Helena in the hospital room had taken his bandaged hand in her own. He squeezed gently and saw his fingers struggle in the next room while Helena looked down at him.

"I'm sorry... About all of this." Captain Tom said as he released Helena's hand.

"Don't apologize for what others ignored until it was too late. Get well, Tom," she said, turning to leave him at the hospital door.

"Wait," he called out, looking from Helena's retreating back to his motionless form on the hospital bed. He had one final question. "What do I.... I mean, when will I... which isn't to say him, or me, rather," he said in utter confusion as he motioned from himself to his body lying on the hospital bed. "What happens to..." He did not want to say 'me' since 'me' could also refer to the body lying in the other room. He compromised by pointing at his chest.

Helena looked as though she was trying not to laugh. "When it's time for you to go, you'll go. And then you'll be gone. And then you'll just be Tom again. Only Tom."

Captain Tom nodded although he was not sure that he completely understood. He resigned to the fact that he either would in time, or he would not at all. Before he entered the room, he looked back to Captain Helena one more time, but she was gone. Captain Tom entered the room and sat by his body, willing himself to heal mentally and physically as he felt the pressure of Helena's hand holding his own across the room.

"The physical recovery is going to take a while, but we've almost completely isolated his mental issue... It should just be another moment or two before he wakes," the doctor said to Helena. A moment passed and Captain Tom faded away from his seat by his own body. Tom stirred on his hospital bed and his eyes opened. He stared blearily at Helena. He looked down at their joined hands and silently rejoiced. He no longer felt distance in the touch of his ally. The snake in the grass was gone for good.
The Titanic Columns

A gargantuan tower loomed beneath a perpetually grey and raining sky. The structure swayed minutely despite the absence of wind. It had been erected long before recorded history.

A group of titans and titanesses, fathers and mothers of the gods who followed them, were sentenced to forever serve as the columns which held up the thick slabs of marble which constituted each floor of the tower. Their names and supposed misdeeds are lost to any but themselves, and they do not speak of them any longer. Most of them do not speak at all anymore.

All day, every day, the titans stood with quavering legs and aching arms as they held up the marble floors. The titanic columns that made up the base were forced to find new footholds every few minutes because of the muddy ground beneath their feet. This caused the tower to be in constant motion.

The titans could never rest. They spent every moment supporting the floors and shifting their balance in order to keep the structure upright. Some of them no longer even remembered why they were doing this. It was all they knew anymore.

There was one titaness, however, that decided in a moment of enlightenment that there must be something more to their existence. Her name was Abyssi.

Abyssi no longer remembered her own name, nor did any of the other titans or titanesses that shared the tower with her. She helped to support the third floor of seventeen. For the first time in more than one thousand years, she opened her mouth to speak.

She closed her mouth almost as soon as she had opened it. She struggled to remember how to properly initiate conversation. The best she could come up with was...

"Greetings," she said in a raspy voice toward the nearest titan. Her arms quaked as her diaphragm belted out the word. She felt the tower shift almost imperceptibly as she spoke.

The titan leaned his head forward and turned it slowly to face her. For several minutes, the titan stared right through her. Then, in an instant, it seemed that his eyes were able to focus on her. He took a deep breath and said, "Hello."

They both had to shift their feet several inches as the tower pitched a moment later. It took Abyssi a few minutes to recover her train of thought.

"How are you?" she asked the titan.

He chuckled. The titan equivalent of a chuckle sounded something like massive boulders sliding over one another and tumbling across the ground.

"How can one be?" he asked. "In a situation like this..."

The titan stood near the edge of the structure, and Abyssi near the center. She could see the never-ending rain fall past his shaking, immensely muscular body.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "But for the first time in a long time, longer than I even remember, I began to think and wonder..."

Thunder rolled across the barren plain in which their tower stood and vibrated the marble beneath their feet.

"What did you think of?" the titan asked as he readjusted his hands. Abyssi could see that the other titans on their level had turned to stare at them. "And what did you wonder?"

Abyssi considered the question for a moment. It was a long moment. Their perception of time was very warped.

She thought of the best way to describe what she had been thinking of and how to convey her moment of enlightenment to the titan. She decided that she would need to guide him through her thought process, one that she had not even been aware that she had been experiencing until very recently.

"Think of nothing," Abyssi grunted, shifting her feet to retain her balance as the tower leaned in her direction. "Clear your mind completely."

The titan chuckled again. "Done," he said simply.

"No," Abyssi said patiently. "Really try."

The titan sighed and then fell silent. She allowed him several hours before she spoke again.

"You may think you are succeeding, but our minds are constantly at work. One may think of nothing, but soon thoughts will creep and whisper. They are like smoke in the dark, rising slowly and nearly invisibly toward the ether, but rising nonetheless," Abyssi said.

The titan grunted noncommittally.

"Your mind can be devoid of conscious thought for a while, but eventually something bridges the gap and enters. A trickle turns to a flood and soon what you thought was nothing is a teeming vortex," Abyssi said.

"Hmm," the titan said pensively.

"One thought leads to another and you make connections and after a while you don't even remember how you reached the conclusions you've arrived at..." Abyssi said, flexing her left arm so that she could withdraw her right hand long enough to crack her knuckles.

"I don't mean to be rude," the titan said. "And I enjoy the break from the silence, but is there a point to this?"

"For years, maybe even centuries," Abyssi groaned over the claps of thunder. "I have been in such a state. It was not until hours ago that I realized that for all of this time, I have been wondering why we are still here..."

Lightning flashed behind the titan, casting a brief but sharply relieved shadow of his silhouette across the marble floor. Abyssi noticed that the other titans and titanesses on their level expressed looks of confusion at her last statement.

"What do you mean?" another titaness asked. "We're here because we are being punished..."

"But it's been so long - " Abyssi began before the titan stopped her.

"Our sentence is to last forever," the titan said dejectedly. "I don't remember much, but I do remember that."

"We once thought that we would rule forever," Abyssi said. "I remember that."

"But that clearly did not work out," the other titaness said as her knees wobbled for a moment.

"I was getting to that," Abyssi said quickly. "Is there any reason to believe that things worked out better for the gods that followed us? Is there any reason to believe that our children who overthrew us still rule?"

Her proclamation was met with a stunned silence. It was clear that they were all trying to ascertain just how long they had been supporting this structure. It was extremely difficult for them to focus as the majority of their concentration had to be devoted to retaining their balance.

"What if the gods who sentenced us to an eternity of torturous and banal servitude no longer hold the power keep us at this task? What if we can leave?" Abyssi spoke slowly.

Tension rent the air. Even the atmosphere outside of the tower seemed to have been hushed by the mutinous thoughts that the titans and titanesses of the third floor were now having.

"How could we know?" the titan asked, looking back and forth from Abyssi to the landscape that stretched beyond their tower.

"I'm not sure that we can know for certain... But if we're wrong, even a fight against the gods would be better than another day of supporting this tower," Abyssi proclaimed boldly.

Her words were met with excitement and enthusiasm. The titans and titanesses on her level looked to hear eagerly.

"I'm going to climb to the top of the tower," Abyssi said in a moment of inspiration. "To see what's out there in the distance and to ask the other titans' opinions."

The titan to which she had initiated conversation slowly began to walk toward her, taking great care in choosing his steps and quickly moving his hands to retain support of the marble above their heads. He stopped when he was halfway between where Abyssi stood and the spot that he had just abandoned.

"We'll take the weight you leave behind," the titan grunted as Abyssi lowered both of her arms for the first time since the tower had been erected. "But I ask that you please hurry."

Abyssi stretched her arms wide and strode to the edge of the third floor. She leaned out, and looked up. The rain poured down over her face and she relished in its coolness as it washed away millennia of sweat and grime from her once beautiful visage.

Her limbs tingled in the absence of the tons of marble she was used to holding up at all times. She felt capable of anything, and as she leapt for the edge of the floor above, she decided that it must be true.

The tower leaned and bobbed following her leap. The titans and titanesses on the fourth floor looked over at her.

"We heard," one of them said to her as they quivered under the weight of the tower. "We heard what you said below. We passed word to the levels above. Go - quickly! "

Abyssi leapt over and over. The slick edges of the marble floors were of no concern to her. Her powerful fingers penetrated the marble with ease when she caught the edges.

Finally, she reached the last level. With a quick jump, she stood atop the tower. She was the first ever to do so.

The rain fell in sheets and caused a mirroring effect on the smooth marble top of the tower, reflecting the grey clouds above. Flatlands comprising of muck and mud stretched as far as the titaness could see. She saw no indication of anyone or anything around the tower.

The tower shifted beneath her feet. She turned her body in order to regain balance and saw a distant speck floating over the horizon.

Abyssi froze, struck with fear as she watched the speck soar through the air, flying straight for the tower. Had the gods found out what she had done? Did they know that the tower's titans were planning an escape?

An eagle circled above the tower three times, descending as it made each pass. The great predator stretched its wings wide as it lit right beside Abyssi.

Cold amber eyes looked past the hooked beak of the bird. It stretched out its leg - a frayed piece of paper was tied to it with a thin leather strap.

Abyssi, utterly bewildered, lowered herself to her knees and pulled on the leather strap. The knot slid free with ease and she pulled the piece of paper from the scaly leg of the eagle. It sat beside her patiently as she read the note.

The paper was extremely worn and seemed to have been incredibly old. It read:

'Greetings, I hope that this letter will eventually find its way to you all. I know that due to the circumstances of your punishment that it could be difficult for you to retrieve it, but I expect that as time drags on, that it will someday reach you. The gods who banished you are no longer in power. I too was once sentenced to an eternity of suffering, but now I walk free as a titan should. The gods remain but they cannot keep you in peril as they once could. Topple the tower and walk free once more. - Prometheus.'

The name was vaguely familiar to Abyssi, but she could not remember why. That was hardly the most pressing piece of information that she had received though. The letter continued thus:

'P. S. - If you have any questions, ask the eagle. I taught it to speak. We spent a great deal of time together.'

Abyssi looked from the letter in her hand to the eagle that sat beside her.

"You can speak?" she asked it.

"I can," the eagle said in a piercing caw.

"Why have you not belayed this information to us sooner?" she asked incredulously.

"I was unaware of the contents of the letter," the eagle said. "I was instructed by Prometheus to alight upon this tower daily until I was sought out."

Abyssi had a vague inclination that Prometheus was an intelligent titan and that he likely could have found a better solution to delivering news than this, but she tried not to dwell on that.

"The gods are really gone?" she asked the bird.

"Not gone," it said simply, ruffling its feathers. "But they are not in the same capacity of power that they were in when they suffered you all to this fate. They remain, but they remain as you do..."

"So Zeus... Poseidon...?" she asked, still utterly confused.

"Still around, but not powerful," the eagle reiterated. "They each have planets named after them, despite their lack of power on the very planet that they once called home."

"Poseidon has a planet named after him?" Abyssi asked in amusement, recalling vague memories of the god. "Is he god of that planet as well?"

"Listen, I don't know how it works there," the eagle said exasperatedly, staring her down with its piercing amber eyes. "I've never been to that planet so I can't say for certain. I doubt it, though. It was the humans who named the planets after the gods."

Abyssi released a sharp cackle of laughter. The gods had not faired any better than the titans!

But then she became very suspicious. She recalled how the gods were tricksters, even in their youth... Could this be a trick? Could this be a gambit devised by the gods?

Abyssi reread the letter several times before addressing the eagle again.

"If this titan, Prometheus, was also sentenced to an eternity of torture, how did he escape to discover this information?" she asked.

The eagle took a deep breath and sighed, which kind of sounded like a whistle through its little nostrils. It paused, as if trying to think of the best way to spin its tale, and then began to speak.

"Prometheus was condemned to be bound to a stone at the top of a mountain," the eagle began, looking away from Abyssi's face and staring off into the distant rain clouds. "That, however, was not the worst part of his punishment. Every day, I would fly to the top of the mountain which Prometheus was chained, and would peck at his gut until his liver was exposed. I would rip and tear and eat away at his liver until night fell and then I would fly away. Prometheus, being immortal, as you are, would regenerate his liver and skin each night and the whole process would perpetuate itself. This went on for a very, very long time..."

"Alright," Abyssi said slowly emotionlessly, wiping her rain sodden hair from her face. "But how did he escape? And how did he convince you, his tormentor, to deliver a message to us?"

"I was getting to that," the eagle said dejectedly. "A great hero, a young man named Heracles as he was known in our native tongue, killed me and freed him in the process."

Abyssi thought she had found a flaw in the eagle's story...

"How can you deliver a message to us if you were killed by this Heracles?" she asked with both suspicion and grave triumph.

The eagle simply sighed again.

"I, too, am immortal. The gods would not have sent any eagle to peck away at Prometheus' liver day after day... Just as the titan Prometheus regenerated his organs night after night, I recovered from the wounds born to my avian body by Heracles."

Abyssi furrowed her brow. Something still just did not seem right...

"How did Prometheus persuade you to deliver a message to us?" she asked skeptically. "It sounds to me as if you two would be enemies..."

The eagle now looked as though it pitied Abyssi. At least, that is what she thought. It was difficult to ascertain an eagle's facial expressions.

"It is difficult to spend day after day with someone and not form a bond of some sort," the eagle said. Although the tower below it shifted, it remained calm and still. "Prometheus taught me to speak. He likes to teach skills to lesser beings... He knows that knowledge is best when spread widely... Anyways, he and I found each other shortly after he was freed and I agreed to deliver his message. There were no hard feelings about the whole 'pecking at his liver day after day' thing. He knew that I was sentenced to a fate just the same as he was... And just the same as you and your fellow tower-mates are."

Abyssi rose to her feet. She was convinced.

"Where do we go?" she asked the bird, looking across the muddy landscape.

"Well, that's complicated," the eagle said as it hobbled to the edge of the tower and looked over. "You're not quite in the same, uh, area as you used to inhabit..."

"Well?" Abyssi asked.

"Just walk," the eagle said, stretching its wings and preparing for flight. "Just go. You're titans. When you shake the cobwebs from your minds, I'm sure you'll be able to find your way to an existence that suits you. Prometheus did..."

The eagle took flight. It flapped its giant wings and began to soar through the rain laden air. Abyssi watched until it was a distant speck that disappeared across the horizon.

Abyssi remembered the titans and titanesses below her. She approached the edge of the tower and lowered herself down. She swung into the seventeenth floor.

"Our punishment ends now," she cried with authority to the cowering bodies of the titans and titanesses that had strained to uphold the marble floors of their tower for thousands of years.

She stretched her own arms above her head and aided them in holding up the marble. She looked at each one of the titans. Fear and uncertainty was etched upon every face. It seemed that memories of their pasts were being recalled, along with memories of their relative sojourn as nothing more than columns in a tower of ignominious shame and pain. They listened attentively.

"We walk this floor to the edge and then we pitch it with all of our might," she said heroically.

The titans and titanesses strode with great care across the floor beneath them. The tower swayed violently as the whole of the seventeenth floor moved in unison toward the edge of the structure.

Finally, the floor began to tip after they got near enough to the edge.

"NOW!" Abyssi cried.

The titans and titanesses collectively heaved the tipping slab of marble with thousands of years of accumulated strength. It soared through the air and crumbled into the sodden earth below.

"To the next!" she cried. The level full of titans descended upon the one below it, jubilant in their triumph and relieved of the weight from upon their shoulders and arms.

Level after level, the marble soared and crumbled far beneath them. Each one rejoiced as the burden was lifted, and each rushed to help the next until they reached the final level, the ground floor.

The titans at the bottom of the tower were the biggest and strongest of them all. They wore the most sullen expressions and had mud caked well past their knees. They resembled little other than hollow-eyed work horses until the very moment that their burden was lifted.

Several hundred titans, united for the first time since their fall from power, huddled in the depression left from the tower's weight. They glared at one another, trying to piece together their relation and histories. They tried to fathom what they had been through and what they must have done to have been sentenced to such a fate in the first place. It had been so very long ago...

The crowd turned to Abyssi, their newly assumed leader.

"What do we do now?" a titan asked.

"Whatever we want," Abyssi said as pools of rainwater collected around her feet.

Through the whoops and hurrahs of the surrounding titans, she recalled a vague sense of nostalgia. She felt as though she had spoken those words before...

She had. It was the same proclamation she had made to the group standing around her many thousands of years ago. It was the proclamation that had led to their decline, their banishment, and their punishment.

The titans and titanesses did not remember this, however. They struck off at once to make up for thousands of years of lost time.
Junior Ranger Rooney and the Wallabies of Learant XII

The air was alive with the sound of exotic bird-like creatures and the scent of a lush, overgrown forest which was as vibrant from above as it was from below. Streams and rivers crisscrossed the land, culminating in vast deltas that fed into distant seas. This was all far removed from a clearing in which a concrete visitor's center sat alone beside a massive spacecraft landing pad. Mounted on top of the visitors center was an enormous satellite dish with gigantic block letters painted on its concave surface reading: Welcome To Learant XII Galaxial Planetary Park - Population: Six.

The planet Learant XII had been set aside as a galaxial planetary park several centuries previous due to the planet's pristine natural beauty and its complete and utter lack of profitable commodities. It was located in a seldom visited sector of the Milky Way galaxy. The visitor's center and the spacecraft landing pad were the only permanent structures on the whole planet. A small number of park rangers, five to be specific, were spaced throughout the planet to patrol, maintain the integrity of the park, and aid visitors. There were currently no visitors.

Generic jazz music played softly over the intercom in the visitor's center, echoing off the stone walls and hallways throughout the building. A twenty-two year old woman sat at the lobby's receptionist desk and doodled idly on a pad of paper. Her name was Rooney. She was the sixth and final permanent resident of Learant XII Galaxial Park.

Rooney brushed her dark red hair away from her face as she continued to draw. She was shading the tail of a creature that resembled a wallaby. It was, by pure coincidence, called a wallaby on this planet as well. The wallaby usually made an appearance outside of the front window of the visitor's center, but had been absent all day. This was odd, because she had left half of a sandwich outside for a wallaby who she had named Wallace. Wallace was still reticent to let Rooney touch him but he always gladly accepted her sandwiches.

The park rangers would likely be upset if they knew that Rooney had been feeding the wildlife, but she did not care much anymore. Besides, the park rangers rarely visited the visitor's center. In fact, it had been well over a month since any of them had stopped by. This suited Rooney. The park rangers had proven to be a miserable lot.

Rooney had found her way to this job at this planetary park under strange circumstances. She had feverishly applied to almost every planetary park in the galaxy during her final academic year. Most had not even bothered to contact her back. Some, she later discovered, had been destroyed, abandoned, or had never existed in the first place. A few had the decency to contact her and tell her that she would not be interviewed for a position. Learant XII Galaxial Park, however, had offered her a job outright, without even an interview... She should have known from her previous experience in trying to get a ranger job that this was a red flag.

They told her that after only two years as a "Junior Park Ranger" that she would be a full Planetary Park Ranger. They neglected to tell her that "Junior Park Ranger" actually meant visitor center receptionist. But with no other prospects other than bagging galactic groceries or becoming a layabout, like so many of her fellow classmates who had gotten the generic degree of 'Galactic Studies', she decided to try to make a go of it.

There was not much information about Learant XII available to those who lived outside of it. After it had been established that there was very little value aside from its aesthetic beauty, interest in exploring and charting the land and discovering and studying the multitudes of unique flora and fauna on the planet had been lost by the vast majority of the population of the Milky Way galaxy. There was a whole galaxy full of unique flora and fauna, and it was located much closer to most of the residents of the galaxy. Frankly, it was all a bit overwhelming to begin with. Dedicated park goers did occasionally find their way to Learant XII, however, so it needed Park Rangers.

Before Rooney had arrived, a sign on a stick that said 'WELCOME' with an arrow pointing to a stack of pamphlets about the park had done her job. She kept the sign hidden beneath her desk in case she ever wanted to go for a stroll out in the wilderness or take a quick nap for an hour or two. Some may think her job sounded dull, and it was, but it suited her well. She liked the freedom to let her mind wander all day long. She could read, she could throw rocks at things, she could wander around the forests, and she could draw wallabies without even the slightest chance of being reprimanded for not working at all times.

Movement caught the corner of Rooney's eye and she looked up from her drawing. It was Wallace. He was happily munching on the sandwich with his tiny wallaby paws. Rooney examined him, trying not to move too quickly and scare him away so that she could finish her drawing. He did not seem as skittish today. He glared at her through the window with his beady black eyes, his jaw moving up and down and side to side as it chewed and ground the sandwich.

Her drawing was complete. She held it at arm's length and examined it thoughtfully, looking from the real specimen to the artistic rendering and back. Wallace had sat down on the wide concrete steps of the visitor center, resting on his long muscular tail. Today could be the day, she thought...

Rooney quietly stood up from her desk, drawing still in hand, and walked to the transparent doors of the visitor center. She opened the door as slowly as possible. Wallace glanced back at her, but was too engrossed with his sandwich to give her much thought. He turned around almost instantly and continued eating. Rooney sat two steps behind him and watched.

Small muscles in the back of Wallace's head flexed as he took each bite, causing his ears to wiggle minutely. Rooney moved forward one step. The wallaby seemed to be on alert now, but it continued to sit still and eat.

"Hello," Rooney said to the wallaby. She was not sure why she said this. She had never spoken to the wildlife before.

Wallace turned his neck to face Rooney and nervously said, "Hello."

Rooney's eyes grew wide and the wallaby slowly turned its neck to continue eating. Why had no one told her that the wallabies could talk? Could they talk? Had she lost her mind from being cooped up in that visitor center for three months?

"You can talk?" she asked Wallace in disbelief.

It did not turn around again, but lowered the sandwich. Once it had finished chewing it said, "Greetings."

"Why have you never spoken before?" Rooney asked angrily, walking down the steps to face the wallaby head on. It stood up as though preparing to flee and she took a step back, realizing she should not have used such an angry tone.

"Good afternoon..." Wallace said, eyeing her apprehensively.

"What a polite wallaby..." Rooney whispered under her breath to herself. Wallace's ears pricked up when she whispered. "I drew a picture of you," Rooney said to him, holding up the drawing she had so recently completed of the wallaby.

Wallace gulped down the final bite of the sandwich and examined the picture. "Thank you," he said graciously.

Rooney could not believe this. "You... You're welcome..." she said, flabbergasted. The two of them stood in silence for several long moments. Rooney could think of nothing else to say, and Wallace seemed to have gone tacit as well. He began to bounce minutely on his legs, as though preparing to depart.

"Wait!" she exclaimed, thinking desperately of something to say to the talking wallaby before it departed. "Do you want to keep it?" she said, holding out the drawing.

Wallace hesitated. Cautiously, his small furry face etched with mistrust, he approached the outstretched drawing. It was the closest he had ever come to Rooney. He leaned forward slowly and sniffed the paper. Seemingly uninterested, he withdrew his nose and stepped backward before turning around.

"No, don't go!" Rooney called out as he began to hop away.

"Good day," the wallaby shouted as it jumped off of the last step and gamboled across the clearing and into the forest.

Rooney stood upon the concrete steps, staring at the spot in which Wallace had disappeared into the forest. She walked back into the visitor center in shock, as one does when an animal previously unknown to possess the capability of speech converses with them, and returned to her desk. She placed the wallaby drawing upon the desktop and picked up the radio handset which was used to communicate with the park rangers and nearby planets and space stations. It had been almost perpetually silent since she had arrived, aside from the rare transmissions which announced visitors' arrivals.

She hesitated before pressing the button that would open communication between herself and the rangers. Should she really tell them? She was not entirely sure that it had even happened... She did not want them to think that she was cracking up. She considered this for several minutes, finally coming to the conclusion that it was real and had actually happened. She could not have imagined that. If she had, the conversation would have gone better...

Her hands shaking, she raised the handset to her mouth and pressed a button on the side. "Hello? Can anyone read me? Over."

There was silence, punctuated by the occasional pop of static. After twenty or thirty seconds, someone finally replied. "This is ranger Sal reading you.... Who am I speaking to? Over."

"This is Rooney," she said, relieved that she got a response. Sal was one of the park rangers that she had not yet met. "The Junior Ranger. Over."

"Oh, hello. I was not aware that we had a Junior Ranger. Over."

"Well, you do. Over," she said snarkily.

"Uh huh... What do you need? Over," Sal said, sounding a bit annoyed at her tone. She realized that it was likely warranted.

"I, uh, have a question about the wildlife. Over," she said, trying to think of the proper way to tell her superiors that she had just had a conversation with a wallaby.

"Wildlife, you say? Over," a different voice chimed in. The channel was open to all of the planetary park rangers on Learant XII.

"Yes... Who is this? Over," she said as she closed her eyes and put her forehead into her free hand. She had preferred that only one ranger would hear this.

"This is Ranger Wallace. Over." She had not met this ranger either, and had no idea that one of them shared the same name that she had given the wallaby she was about to discuss with them. She decided not to bring up its name if possible.

"Alright then... Well, you see, I was outside watching a wallaby eat a sandwich, and - "

"Where did the aforementioned wallaby get a sandwich? Over," Ranger Sal said, cutting across Rooney.

"Hmmm it's hard to say..." she lied. "Anyways, it was eating the sandwich, and I sat down behind it and said hello. The strange thing was..." She paused and gulped hard, her hands shaking again. "It said hello back to me."

Her statement was met with a cold, stony silence that lasted the better part of a minute.

"Is that the end of your transmission? You didn't say over. Over," Ranger Wallace said after some time.

Rooney rolled her eyes. That was hardly the most pressing issue at hand, she thought. "Sorry I'm not in the habit of making radio transmissions. I'm also not in the habit of being spoken to by wallabies, so I think you can understand why I had a momentary lapse in radio etiquette. Over."

"I'm not sure that I understand the situation. Over," Ranger Wallace said in a confused tone.

Rooney was taken aback. What was so hard to understand about the situation? She talked to a wallaby and it talked back to her. Why were they not shocked, or at least intrigued at this information?

"The situation," Rooney said, taking a deep breath and trying her best to be patient and civil. "Is that the wallabies can speak! They can converse! They are sentient and have the capability of speech! Am I going crazy? This seems like big news.... Over."

"Ohhh. Over," several of the rangers said in unison, as though they had collectively understood what Rooney was saying at once.

"No, I think you're mistaken, Junior Ranger," Ranger Sal concluded.

"I'm quite sure that the wallaby spoke to me. I'm absolutely certain of it. Over," Rooney said in a panicked rush. She was beginning to doubt herself. Had it really spoken? Was she cracking up?

"I don't doubt that it spoke to you," Ranger Sal said patiently. "What you're mistaken about is their conversational abilities. Over."

"But - ," Rooney began before being abruptly interrupted.

"The wallabies can talk, but they can't hold a conversation. They can only speak in polite pleasantries. Over," Ranger Sal said with finality.

Rooney sat in bewildered silence as she revisited her conversation with Wallace the wallaby.

"What exactly did the wallaby say to you? Over," Ranger Wallace said after a few silent moments.

"It... it said 'hello', 'greetings', 'good afternoon', 'thank you', and 'good day'.... Over."

"See... only polite pleasantries. That's all they can say. Well, technically that's not all they can say. They can also say, 'how do you do?', 'good evening', 'have a lovely day', and 'salutations'. Over," Ranger Wallace said, as though he was conducting an educational seminar.

"The wallabies in the southern hemisphere can say 'howdy'! Over," one of the rangers that had not identified themselves chimed in excitedly. There was a rush of excited sounds followed by the word 'over' as the rangers received this new piece of wallaby information.

"But... but everything the wallaby said seemed to fit into our conversation... Over."

"That's the thing about pleasantries. It seems like something is being said while nothing is really being said at all. Over," said Ranger Sal.

"And it wasn't a conversation. It was you talking at a wallaby. Over," Ranger Sal added. Rooney thought this addition was quite unnecessary.

"Alright... thanks guys. Over."

"Over and out," the rangers that had responded said at once. The radio remained quiet after that, aside from a few buzzes and the occasional pop of static.

Rooney put down the radio handset and picked up her drawing of Wallace the wallaby. What a strange creature... She drew a speech bubble coming from his mouth that said 'Good day!' and pinned the drawing up on a cork board beside her desk.

How had everyone neglected to tell her that the wallabies could talk? It seemed to her like that would be a talking point... She wondered what else there was to discover on this planet... For the first time since she had arrived, she was excited about the prospect of becoming a full Planetary Park Ranger at the end of her time as Junior Ranger.

Rooney stood up. The generic jazz music continued to play softly throughout the building, combining with the echoes of her boots as she walked toward the front door of the visitor center once more. She walked onto the concrete steps, her nostrils greeted by the fresh scent of the surrounding forest.

"Hello!" she shouted toward the surrounding trees.

"Greetings!"

"Hello!"

"How do you do?"

"Good afternoon!"

A chorus of wallaby pleasantries issued from beyond the clearing surrounding the visitor center. She thought she even heard a distant 'Howdy!'. Smiling and taking solace in the fact that she could do that whenever she wanted to now, Rooney returned to the receptionist desk in the visitor center and daydreamed of the day she would become a Planetary Park Ranger.
A Can of Anana

The halls of the Iron Island were alive with sound and activity. The Iron Island was a strange little space port and freighter dock located near the center of the Milky Way galaxy. Uniformed workers bustled to and fro, and ship captains and various travelers, traders, and vacationers from all over the galaxy wandered the halls as they waited to re-board their ships that were tethered to the space port. There was one employee of the Iron Island, however, who sat idly at a small table beneath a porthole facing a rather desolate portion of space. His name was Clark and today was his day off of work.

Clark scrolled mindlessly through page after page of nonsense and drivel on the display of the electronic tablet that was inlaid into the tabletop. He hated the mandatory days he had to take off from work. He never knew what to do with his free time.

Clark was a re-fueler on the Iron Island. His job basically consisted of recharging enormous batteries or replenishing anti-matter stores on the spaceships and freighters that docked at the Iron Island. He was essentially a stellar gas station attendant, but the job kept him busy and that's what he wanted.

He sighed and put down his tablet. He raised out of his seat so that he could look out of the porthole. He saw a group of his colleagues slowly pulling an enormously thick cord toward a small space-ship.

"Clark..."

Clark looked away from the window. A man wearing a spacesuit, minus the helmet which he held in his hand, stood surveying him from a few feet away. It was his supervisor, Corporal Anderson. He was tall, muscular, and had black hair peppered with grey. If he was not so incredibly dumb he would have been an impressive and intimidating man.

"Yes sir?" Clark said timidly.

"It's your day off," Corporal Anderson said with finality, looking past Clark at his own reflection in the porthole window and adjusting his necktie which was barely visible beneath his spacesuit.

"I know, sir..."

"We've talked about this, Craig," Corporal Anderson said, glancing at Clark between adjusting his necktie and adjusting his hair.

"It's Clark, sir." Clark was unphased by his supervisor's lapse in memory. Corporal Anderson had an extremely short attention span, and if the matter did not directly involve him, he was unlikely to remember anything.

"Right. Well, you shouldn't be hanging around the freight dock on your day off. You have the whole space port to do... whatever it is you like to do..." Corporal Anderson finished with a sigh. He had finally finished adjusting himself.

"Yes, sir. I'll go sit somewhere else," Clark said, rising from his seat.

"That's a good lad," Corporal Anderson said at once, turning away from Clark and marching down the hall, pausing at another porthole to check his reflection before disappearing from sight.

Clark began to walk with no real destination in mind. He blended in with the travelers as he walked the halls of the Iron Island, content to be in motion once more. A great number of the crowd he had joined were filing into one of the many bars aboard the ship. Clark paused in front of the bar for a moment and considered getting irresponsibly drunk to pass the time. He ultimately decided against it. The space sailors were generally far too annoying once they had a few drinks.

Now that he thought about it, he was actually quite thirsty. Beer and booze would not satisfy this particular thirst, however. He needed something sweeter. It always seemed that he was surrounded by vending machines on this ship until he needed one. This was one of those moments. He knew for certain that there was one two floors above him though.

Clark set off at once for the stairs. He deftly moved through the crowd of travelers milling through the halls. He was well versed in navigating through the throngs of strangers that plagued his home every time he had a day off. He was not afforded a passing glance from any of his fellow employees as he walked since he was out of uniform. That was fine with him. He preferred to keep to himself.

As he walked, he began to wonder why the Iron Island did not have any elevators. It would have certainly made sense for the structure to have them. The section he was currently inside had ten stories with only stairs connecting them.

Clark knew that the Iron Island was the final space-bound structure designed by celebrated Astro-Architect Hans McSchtruckt. How could such a notable astro-architect forget something as rudimentary and utilitarian as an elevator on a space port? It was rumored among the shipmates that Hans McSchtruckt had gone mad as he planned the Iron Island, and that was the cause of the lack of elevators and the admittedly insane floor layouts.

The Iron Island was a peculiar space port. Though quite large in size, it was a small structure when compared to its more modern counterparts. It had been constructed soon after hyper-travel and intergalactic trade became widespread in the Milky Way galaxy, and as such, it was quite a dated facility by modern standards. It was avoided by those travelers and traders that were in a hurry, due to its outdated facilities and confusing layout, but it was adored by the more eccentric space travelers for its uniqueness. It was this old-space charm that brought many of the traders and travelers to the Iron Island when they could just as easily stop at any number of relatively nearby space ports.

Clark's reverie of Hans McSchtruckt and the Iron Island's peculiar layout was cut short by the appearance of large letters reading 'Out of Order' flashing on the display of the vending machine. He sighed heavily as he looked at the machine. The words 'Out of Order' burned into his eyes as he surveyed the hundreds of cans of sodas behind the semi-transparent screen on the vending machine. Clark, in his frustration and thirst, smacked the side of the machine. It yielded no results other than the attention of a nearby janitor.

"Hey now, no need to be impatient, young man," the ancient looking janitor said as he leaned forward against his broom handle and surveyed Clark. A great deal of white beard hung from his face, and he wore a baseball cap that said 'Iron Island' on it. The baseball hat looked as though it alone was several decades older than Clark.

"Sorry, I'm just really thirsty and I walked up two floors to use this vending machine. I don't understand why there aren't any damn elevators on this space port," Clark said as he shook his head.

The janitor appeared to be restraining himself from laughing at Clark. "Yeah, that's just too bad isn't it? Probably took you a whole extra minute, huh?"

Clark rolled his eyes at the janitor's sarcastic remark. "Can you tell me where a functioning vending machine is?"

"Of course I can. There's one in the swimming pool locker room on the seventh floor of the aft section of the ship," the janitor said, looking into the air as though he was examining a map that only he could see.

"Really? That's the closest vending machine?" Clark asked in revulsion.

"No, that's the closest functioning vending machine. That's what you asked for, right? If you want another non-functioning one, you can walk right down this hall," the janitor said, pulling a hand away from his broom handle and pointing directly over Clark's shoulder.

Clark opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the janitor answered the question he was preparing to ask. "It's the only other functioning vending machine on the space port right now, young man. The rest are down for their yearly maintenance update. They'll be back up in an hour or so."

"A whole hour?" Clark asked in shock.

"That's right."

"Just my luck..." Clark said, shaking his head and glaring at the vending machine. He was on the verge of just sitting down and waiting for the machine to come back on.

"A little walking won't hurt you. Get on down there. I think you'll find what you're looking for there. Besides, the journey is half of the adventure!"

"If you say so..." Clark turned to leave.

"Need some change, young man?" the janitor called toward Clark's retreating shoulders.

"Change?" Clark asked, utterly perplexed by the offer. Every vending machine on the space port was operated by electronic Units. Coin operated machines had not been used in years.

"For the vending machine... Do you need any change?" the janitor asked again, lifting his bearded chin in the air so that he could see Clark from beneath the tilting brim of his baseball cap.

"No. I think I've got it covered," Clark said with a smirk.

The janitor resumed his sweeping while humming a shrill and disagreeable tune. Clark turned around and walked back down the flight of stairs he had just climbed to reach the non-functioning vending machine. Clark had never spent much time in the aft section of the space port, and had certainly never been to the swimming pool on the seventh floor. In fact, he hardly ever left the freight dock area if he could help it.

"What kind of lunatic would put a swimming pool on the seventh floor of a building anyways?" Clark mumbled to himself as he walked down a second flight of stairs, re-entering the freight docking area he had so recently vacated. He paused in front of a great illuminated map that was mounted on the wall. The aft section of the space port was at the opposite end of where he was now. It seemed he had multiple route options, each of which was rather labyrinthine in nature. Only two of these routes could be walked without a full space suit and he did not have access to his own unless he was working. One route would require him to crawl through a large glass tube inexplicably mounted on the ceiling of the cafeteria like a hamster. The other would require him to walk a little bit further, but retain his dignity in the process. He opted for the route that would allow him to retain his dignity.

There were small pamphlet sized maps of the ship in a tray beneath the enormous glowing map that was mounted on the wall. He took one and set off at once for his destination. His mouth was growing dry. Clark longed for the moment when he would receive his sweet, sweet prize of a soda. He walked the halls absentmindedly as he fantasized about what variety of soda he would buy when he finally came upon the vending machine. His fantasy was brought to an abrupt halt as he met a brick wall blocking the passage he was supposed to be taking.

Clark thought that this was strange. Not only was it strange because the brick wall was not marked on the map he was now fervently staring at in his hands, but because there were no other brick walls on the ship. The walls were generally made of either aluminum or highly sophisticated clear glasses and plastics.

A bronze placard was mounted in the very center of the brick wall. Clark approached it, leaning in close to read what it said:

'Brick was, quite literally, one of the most important building blocks of early human architecture. Its weight and brittle nature make it unsuitable for use on space-structures, unfortunately, but I urge you to take a moment to appreciate its aesthetic beauty and its place in architectural history. For without the archaic, man would have never known the astral. - Hans McSchtruckt'

Before Clark could take a moment to appreciate the aesthetic beauty of the brick wall, as instructed by the placard, he was struck in the forehead by a shipmate's forehead. They had walked directly through the brick wall. It was a hologram.

"Dammit, Clark! Why are you sitting there and ogling the hologram like some kind of tourist?" The shipmate's name was Darcy and the only thing shorter than her temper was her patience.

"I'm sorry, Darcy. I had never seen this brick wall hologram so I was reading the placard, and - "

"It doesn't matter... I've got to go, Clark," Darcy said as she continued to rub her aching forehead.

Clark held a hand to his own forehead as he watched her retreat down the hallway. As he did so, another person walked into him through the hologram, causing him to stumble. It seemed that he was one of the few living beings on board the ship that was unaware of the brick wall hologram. He muttered a brief apology before walking directly through the apparently solid brick wall.

On the other side of the brick wall he walked about ten paces so that he would be out of the way of anyone else walking through the hologram. He continued to massage his forehead with one hand as he examined the map held in his other. He was now out of the freight dock and in the main deck area of the space port. He was roughly a third of the way to his destination.

Clark folded the map and began to walk again. This area of the ship was not nearly as crowded as the docking areas. In fact, he encountered no one else as he wandered down the hall he was in. There had been small shops and restaurants at the beginning of the hall, but now it was nothing other than a stretch of walkway. The area of the hallway that lied before his was not even illuminated. Motion sensors brought light to each section as he strode toward them. His solitary footsteps echoed off of the aluminum walls, accompanied only by the sound of the buzzing light fixtures overhead.

Eventually, the hallway ended. Or at least it appeared to. Clark approached a nondescript aluminum barrier at the end of the hallway. It appeared the same as every other section of wall he had passed in this particular hallway, aside from a bronze placard mounted in the center of it. Clark smirked, thinking of the brick wall hologram he had encountered beforehand. He walked toward the wall with purpose and confidence, and bounced off of it and onto the floor.

Clutching his nose, he stood up and examined the wall. It was not a hologram. Cursing the illogical layout of the Iron Island under his breath, he read the placard on the wall:

'Aluminum is a wondrous material that has seen many uses over the millennia in which it has been utilized. The aluminum that was pounded flat to form the walls and walkways of this ship was not always a hall or a walkway. Aluminum may live many lives through the process of recycling. These walls may have once been a weapon, a bicycle, a chair, or even a can of my favorite drink - Anana Soda. This wall is not a hologram. Please do not attempt to walk through it. - Hans McSchtruckt'

Clark was forced to resign to the fact that it was his own fault for walking into this wall. He should have read the placard first. He was no longer upset that he had done so, however. He was far too fixated by the allusion to Anana Soda. It was also Clark's favorite drink, though he had not had it since he had been an employee on the Iron Island. Aluminum cans were no longer used for sodas, and Anana Soda was apparently not sold in this part of the galaxy. It was a pineapple flavored soda made from real sugar and real pineapple all the way from Earth. He could almost feel the cool aluminum can in his hand and almost taste the sweet pineapple on his lips.

Clark smiled to himself as he reminisced about Anana Soda. Even the advertisements for the drink sprung to the forefront of his mind: 'A Can of Anana - It's a Mouthful!'. That was the tag-line that would be said after the characters in the commercial would try to say 'I need change for a can of Anana!' without getting tongue tied.

He shook his head, scattering the thoughts of the bygone unattainable soda and refocusing on his task. What had he done wrong? He extricated his map and looked down at it. He had misread the map. He was supposed to cut through a little luggage shop he had passed when he first entered the hallway. Clark turned around and began to walk back the way he had came.

The luggage shop was located about fifty feet from the hologram brick wall. It was deserted aside from one employee who dozed behind the counter. Her elbows rested on the counter top and her chin rested in her hands as she breathed slowly and rhythmically. Clark tiptoed through the entrance of the store, trying not to wake the person behind the counter, but a bell sounded when he entered. She woke with a start.

"Luggage," she said groggily, blinking quickly and appearing embarrassed. "Welcome to Luggage Planet, the one stop luggage shop for all your space travel needs. How may I help you?"

"I'm actually just cutting through on the way to the swimming pool. Sorry to wake you..." Clark said to the woman. She closed her eyes and fell asleep almost instantly after he said this. It was actually quite incredible. It was like she had just flipped a switch that alternated her mind between being asleep and awake.

As Clark exited the other side of the luggage shop, a bell sounded again. He looked over his shoulder and saw her wake and say 'Welcome to Luggage Planet, the one stop luggage shop for all your space travel needs. How may I help you?' all over again as she looked around in confusion at the empty store. Clark restrained himself from laughing as he continued down the hallway he had just entered.

A spiral staircase made of black metal stood in the center of the wide hallway. It was this staircase that would take him to the seventh floor. As he approached the staircase in the otherwise abandoned hall, he saw that a bronze placard hung from it. He stopped and read it to avoid any unwanted surprises. It read:

'Ironically, this is the only instance of Iron aboard the Iron Island. Iron revolutionized human history in too many ways to list on a small bronze placard. Watch your step! - Hans McSchtruckt'

Clark had never realized that there was no other iron on the Iron Island aside from this staircase. In fact he had never given the matter any thought before. He began to wonder why it had even been called the 'Iron Island' in the first place. He was quickly realizing just how little he knew about his surroundings. He stepped onto the staircase, and as he did so it began to spin upwards through the hole in the ceiling like a gargantuan motorized corkscrew. He held on tightly to the cool iron handrail, fighting to maintain his balance. He had not been ready for the sudden movement of the staircase, having not been aware that it was even capable of movement.

Large illuminated numbers indicated each level of the space port as the staircase rose silently through each story. Clark prepared to step off of the staircase as it neared a landing with a giant number seven radiating green electric light. As soon as he took a foot off of the staircase, it stopped moving abruptly. He fell forward, unprepared for the motion to stop, and landed in a heap onto the landing of the seventh floor in front of a family of vacationers wearing matching floral printed shirts. The children laughed openly as the parents attempted to hush them in some foreign language that Clark had never heard. The family stepped around him and disappeared down the spiral staircase that was now spinning in the opposite direction.

Clark rose to his feet and dusted off his clothes with a sigh. He had to admit that he enjoyed seeing more of the ship than he had ever seen before, even though it had been odd and at times painful. What he enjoyed even more was the fact that he was nearing his prize. An ice cold soda would soon be his.

Now that the foreign floral shirt wearing family had disappeared down the rotating spiral staircase, he was alone once more. He stood in the middle of the open floor and consulted his map. The seventh floor was the recreation floor. There was a deserted gym and a deserted basketball court. Ping pong tables lined the periphery of the room, their paddles and balls sitting still and silent on the tabletops. A regulation sized croquet field with real grass sat beneath a great number of bright lights. There were no walls separating these rooms and courts and diversions, so it was rather confusing where one stopped and the other began.

The pool was located at the opposite end of the floor. It was the only section of the seventh floor that had its own room, and though it was not marked on the map, he assumed that the pool's locker room must be attached to the pool room. Clark folded the map and looked across the vast hall that was the entire seventh floor. In the distance he could see the word 'POOL' illuminated in bright blue letters. He could even smell the chlorinated water. A smile stretched across his face as he began to walk.

His feet sank into the grass of the croquet field. He had not felt real grass beneath his feet in over a decade. He paused and bent down, running his fingers between the blades of grass. The sensation of the grass passing over his open palms paired with the scent of the pool made him think once more of Anana Soda. He was reminded at once of a cacophony of vague but dear memories of his youth, of sitting by pools on hot summer days and drinking an ice cold Anana while the hum of lawn mowers rent the air. It was a simple happiness he had not recalled in a very long time.

Clark rose from the grass and cut across a basketball court. He tried, unsuccessfully, to sink a few goals before continuing at a steady pace through the rest of the floor. He arrived at the double doors beneath the illuminated 'POOL' sign and pushed them open. He was greeted by a blast of chlorine scented air and a wave of confusion as he glanced across the pool room. There was a metallic deck that stretched from the doorway to the edge of the pool, and then there was wall to wall water aside from a small deck at the opposite end of the pool. Behind this deck was a door labeled 'Pool Locker Room'.

Clark looked from the deserted pool to his map and back again. There seemed to be no way to get to the locker room aside from swimming to it through the pool, but that could not be...

What was the use of a pool locker room if the user had to swim to get to it? If someone wanted to keep their clothes and valuables in the locker room, they would have to swim with them held over their heads...

Thirst, paired with the desire to culminate his journey, drove Clark to begin to do just that. He approached the edge of the pool and began to take off his clothes.

Before he could fully disrobe, and, in fact, before he could take off more than one of his shoes, he slipped into the pool. The metal deck was slick with unseen condensation. His curses against Hans McSchtruckt and his bizarre floor layouts echoed off the tile walls of the pool room as he swam toward his goal. Though the opposite edge had not appeared far away as he had stood on the deck, he found that it was quite taxing to swim to it.

Finally, he reached the opposite end of the pool. He pulled himself onto the deck and panted as his clothes dripped a steady stream of water onto the floor. When he caught his breath he stood up and approached the locker room door. At first he thought it was locked and was prepared to scream in frustration, but the handle proved to only be stiff.

If Clark thought that the rest of the ship was outdated, it was nothing compared to the pool locker room. Stale, musty air met his nostrils and he began to wonder if it had even been used since the Iron Island began operation. A giant egg shaped machine, plated with chrome and dubbed the 'Dry-O-Matic' stood directly by the door. As he stood in front of it and examined the machine, a motion sensor must have been tripped. The Dry-O-Matic began to open.

"Step inside or place clothes or items you wish to be dried within the Dry-O-Matic. Thanks for choosing Dry-O-Matic for your drying needs," an automated female voice said as the machine opened.

Clark was reticent to step inside the old machine, but he desperately wanted his clothes to be dried. He compromised by stripping himself bare and tossing in his clothes. The Dry-O-Matic slowly closed as he did so. A sound that resembled what he imagined a muffled tornado must sound like began to issue from the giant chrome shaped egg. A minute or so later, it opened and his clothes were warm and dry once more. He put them on in a rush, pleasantly surprised at the efficiency and expedience of the old machine, then continued to walk about the locker room.

Towels were folded and placed in each of the open lockers along with a pamphlet of pool safety rules and features of the swimming complex. Apparently there was some sort of "conveyance" that could transport pool-goers across the pool to the locker room, but it was only mentioned in passing. No indication was given as to how it was operated, or even what it was. Clark folded the faded pamphlet and placed it back in a locker. It cracked and split in half as he did so.

He turned from the first row of lockers and began to search for the vending machine. He saw it through the rows of remaining lockers at the very end of the room. It shone like a beacon, beckoning him forward to end his journey in victory.

Clark breathed a contented sigh as he approached the vintage vending machine. He saw the gleaming cans of soda behind the glass and studied each. There were many that he had never seen before, and the ones he was familiar with were in strange, nostalgia inducing packaging. Clark's breath caught in his chest as he saw slanted red lettering climbing up a bright yellow aluminum can... It was a can of Anana Soda.

He could hardly believe it. Could it really be? Was he delirious from the swim and the stale air of the locker room? No, it couldn't be. It was there. It was really there.

Clark fumbled for the tiny computer screen bound to his wrist and prodded it. He prepared to transfer Units to the machine in order to receive his trophy of Anana. There was a problem though. His computer was detecting no vending machine. He waved the screen over the machine, he stepped back a few paces from the machine, he even climbed on top of the machine, but for nothing. What was happening?

He climbed down and studied the antique vending machine. A small chrome slot that read 'Units' in calligraphic writing was mounted above the physical buttons for selecting the sodas. Clark groaned and banged his forehead onto the machine. That was why the janitor had asked if he needed change...

Clark put his hand in his pockets, searching for coins, but he knew it was for naught. He had not had a physical Unit coin in his pockets in many years. He thought he would never need one again... He began to walk between the rows of lockers, searching in vain for a Unit coin, but he saw none. He even got on his hands and knees and crawled on the floor, but for nothing.

In desperation, he pulled up the Contact screen on his tiny wrist-computer and scrolled through the names, thinking desperately of a co-worker who might possess and be willing to lend him a Unit coin. Darcy would likely be far too busy or angry, or maybe both, to lend him a coin... He pushed the name Dawin. His hall-mate was friendly enough, perhaps he would lend him a coin.

"Kind of busy here, Clark. What's up?" Dawin's voice came through the screen a few moments after Clark had pressed his name.

"Sorry to bother you, but could I borrow a Unit?" he asked hopefully.

"A Unit? Geez, Clark... You should really keep an eye on your finances if you need to borrow a single Unit... But sure, I'll transfer one to you."

"Wait, no. Sorry, I mis-spoke. I need a physical Unit coin." Clark's request was met with silence. "Hello?"

"Did you say you need a physical Unit or was there a transfer error?"

"No, you heard right..."

"Clark, why in this great galaxy would you need a physical Unit? Just use an electronic Unit like everyone else," Dawin said in exasperation.

"You don't understand, Dawin. I need change for a can of Anaba - I mean a can of Anana!"

His transmission was met with silence once more.

"Clark... you really crack up on your off days, don't you? Why are you re-enacting old Earth commercials? Surely you could find something more productive to do."

Clark smacked his forehead with his palm in frustration, but then he laughed. He had not realized that he had inadvertently recreated the Anana Soda commercial. When he had stopped laughing, he asked, "Well do you know anyone that might have some change?"

"Darcy has some. I saw them last time I had dinner at her bunk. I've got to go, Clark. Don't go crazy, please."

His computer went silent. Clark would not try to contact Darcy under normal circumstances, but finding a can of Anana was not a normal circumstance. He scrolled to her name and pressed it.

"What, Clark?" she answered almost immediately. He could tell that he was already running out of time with her.

"I need a physical Unit coin, do you have one?"

Her tone changed immediately. "You collect them too?" she asked with interest.

"Well, no... I need one to buy a can of Anana."

"What? I'm not giving you part of my collection so that you can buy a nasty old can of Earth soda," she said angrily.

"Could I buy one from you?" he asked hopefully. He was getting desperate. His eyes locked on the can of Anana resting behind the glass in the vending machine. He almost felt as though it was mocking him.

"No. I only trade with other collectors. I don't sell them."

"Why not?" Clark asked exasperatedly.

"Because I think they'll be rare and valuable one day," she said with a sigh.

"Oh, come on, Darcy. It's just a single Unit coin," Clark pleaded.

"The fact that you're having to beg for one only proves my point that they're becoming rare and valuable."

"Well reasoned..." Clark conceded.

"I've got to go, Clark. I have some very busy things to be impatient about."

She was gone. What options remained? There was the janitor, of course. He had even offered to give him change when he had first set off for his journey to the vending machine... The problem was that the janitor could be anywhere on the ship by now. Clark could call him, but he did not know his name. Would anyone know his name? Surely someone knew the janitor's name...

Clark scrolled up through his contacts until he reached Corporal Anderson. He pressed his name and waited.

"Who is this?" Corporal Anderson asked. This was perplexing as every crew member's name and photo was auto-programmed into everyone else's wrist computer.

"Clark, sir. One of your re-fuelers."

"Uh huh. What do you need?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I need the name of the janitor with the white beard and the baseball hat. Do you know his name?" Clark asked hopefully.

"Of course I don't. Get back to work, Claude."

"It's Clark, sir. And today is my off day."

"Right... Well get back to not working, Clark," Corporal Anderson said confusedly.

"I already am, sir," Clark said with a deep sigh.

"That's a good lad." The transmission cut off abruptly.

Clark abandoned hope of easily finding a Unit coin, and marched to the locker room door with his shoulders hunched. He did not even try to spare his clothing this time, he just stepped directly into the pool and began to swim, wondering where the janitor might be as he pulled himself forward through the water. He marveled at how only thirty minutes or so previous, he had begrudged the thought of walking two stories for a soda. Now he had walked the entirety of the ship, swam two laps in an Olympic sized swimming pool, and was willing to do it all over again.

He arose from the pool and onto the deck, his clothes sopping wet. He left a trail of water behind him as he exited the pool room. He could hear that someone was shooting the basketball on the distant court but he could not yet see who it was. Whoever they were, they seemed to be quite skilled. They did not miss a single basket as long as Clark watched them. As he approached near enough to see the court clearly, he could hardly believe his eyes.

The decrepit old janitor stood next to his mop and water bucket, dribbling the basketball before shooting it into the goal. "Hello there, young man," the janitor called across the court. "I see that you found the pool."

"I did," Clark said. His shoes squeaked with each step he took. The janitor passed him the ball and he tried to shoot it into the goal but it shot out of his slippery hands and bounced across the wooden boards beneath their feet. "I was actually coming to look for you. I needed that change you offered after all."

"I thought that might be the case," the janitor said as he leaned his weight onto his mop handle.

"I was going to look you up in the directory and call you but I realized I didn't know your name... What is your name, if you don't mind my asking?" Clark said somewhat awkwardly.

The janitor smiled. "Hans, is my name. Hans McSchtruckt."

Clark eyed the elderly janitor with suspicion. Could he really be the famed former architect Hans McSchtruckt, or was he just a crazy old man? But a crazy old man is exactly what everyone said Hans McSchtruckt had become...

"If you're Hans McSchtruckt, why didn't I know? Why doesn't everyone know? It seems like something that would be common knowledge, if the galaxy-known architect that designed the very space port he was in was also the janitor there..."

"Well, no one has ever asked my name before," Hans said simply as he adjusted his baseball cap.

"Alright... But why are you a janitor?" Clark asked pointedly.

Hans McSchtruckt put his hand in his pocket and extracted a gleaming silver coin. He flipped it through the air with his thumb and Clark caught it. It was one Unit. "We'll talk about it over a can of Anatta, I mean... Anana. Shall we?"

Hans began to walk, abandoning his mop and bucket. Clark followed. "I'll mop up this water later," Hans said, glancing back at the trail that Clark had left across the seventh floor. He was embarrassed by the mess he had made, but Hans seemed unphased and even content at the prospect of more mopping.

As they opened the pool room doors, Clark began to mentally prepare himself to swim across the pool again. Hans, however, approached a metal wheel that was mounted right beside the doorway. Hans turned the wheel and a creaking noise filled the room and echoed off the tiles upon the walls. A gondola began to slowly descend from the ceiling on ropes. Hans grinned at the dumbfounded look upon Clark's face.

Hans extracted a long wooden pole from the gondola and climbed inside. He held it steady against the metal dock as Clark entered the boat and sat down. Hans then lifted the pole and dipped it into the water, pushing it against the bottom of the pool and causing them to glide across the surface of the pool. They reached the opposite side with a jolt that caused Clark to tumble forward. Hans helped him to his feet and they each exited the gondola.

"Why don't you dry off? I'll wait," Hans said, motioning to the Dry-O-Matic.

This time, confident in its functional abilities and provided peace of mind by knowing that someone was aware that he was in the machine, Clark entered the Dry-O-Matic. The rush of air over his body was exhilarating and the roar nearly deafening. He emerged a minute or so later fully dry. The pair of them walked to the end of the locker room and approached the vending machine.

"After you," Hans said, gesturing to the vending machine. Clark dropped the Unit into the slot and pressed the Anana Soda button. He heard the long forgotten sound of an aluminum can dropping through the machine and coming to a rest in an opening near the bottom. He bent down and retrieved the prize of his journey as Hans retrieved an Anana of his own. He turned for the exit of the locker room and Clark followed.

"I thought you were going to tell me why you became the janitor of your own space port?" Clark asked.

"I am, but I'd rather not do so in this musty locker room." Clark had to agree that this was a salient point. He followed the old man to the dock of the pool. He placed his can of Anana on the metallic surface of the dock, took off his shoes, rolled up his pants legs, and dipped his feet in the water while sitting on the edge of the dock. Clark did the same.

He pulled the tab of his can and relished the sound that he had not heard in such a long time as it reverberated off the walls. He took a big gulp of his Anana Soda and closed his eyes in ecstasy. It had definitely been worth the trouble.

"I designed a great number of things, young man. I've walked through my palaces, stood at the top of my buildings, and watched Earth disappear in the distance from the portholes of ships and space ports of my design. I could not enjoy those moments, though. I was far too busy. When I was not busy designing, checking and re-checking designs, and meeting with investors, fans, other designers, and so on, I was too caught up with the inconsequential goings-on of the mile-a-minute lifestyle to enjoy any of it." Hans paused for a moment and drank a long draught of Anana before continuing.

"As I sat in my office one day, barricaded within so that I could try to design the space port we now sit in, I drank a can of Anana and looked out of my window at the nearly innumerable tiny humans far below me as they all rushed to their jobs and tasks. It was then that I decided I wanted to slow down and enjoy. I designed this space port so that others may slow down and enjoy their own being. That is why there are no elevators. It's also why the floor plan is, admittedly, rather insane. I wanted others to realize how inconsequential the vast majority of their rushing was. The seconds they saved through grueling haste were squandered on inconsequential matters they did not even want to do in the first place. I knew that was the case because it was my case as well..."

Clark thought back to before he had started his quest to find the vending machine, how he had sat idly and only wanted to work again, to have his mind occupied for him by repetitive labor. He now thought of his winding adventure through the Iron Island, how through relative frustration and ardor and amusement he had arrived at his goal. He thought of how for the first time in recent memory he felt fulfilled.

He realized as he sat beside Hans McSchtruckt, that the architect had not gone mad in the process of designing the Iron Island. He had been enlightened. He was not robbing people of time, he was affording them an experience of being. He was a genius.

"When I came to survey my work, my masterpiece, I walked the halls and realized that it was all I had hoped it would become. It was scoffed at and scorned by critics and impatient workhorses. They claimed I was mad and that I had lost my touch, and maybe they were right. Maybe I was no longer fit to design for the modern space-goer... It was this realization that caused me to pick up a broom and don a cap and beard. I disappeared in plain sight into my own ship and never left, satisfied with a profession that allowed my mind to wander and the joy of seeing the passengers that understood my vision. I must admit that I gained a fair amount of satisfaction from watching the frustration of some of the passengers too," Hans said with a chuckle.

"Well," Hans said before tipping back his can and draining it. "I need to finish my mopping before the boards warp on the basketball court. I'm sure you have a busy day ahead of you as well," he said with a wink.

The pair of them rose to their feet and re-entered the gondola. Hans poled it across the surface of the pool, and when they reached the other side he re-attached its ropes and raised it into the ceiling. They walked side by side in silence, aside from the sound of their footsteps. When they reached Hans McSchtruckt's mop and bucket, Clark spoke.

"I won't tell anyone... Who you are, I mean."

Hans smiled and reached into his pocket. He extricated another Unit coin and flipped it to Clark. "For your next day off," he said, turning away and beginning to hum his shrill and disagreeable tune as he dipped his mop in his bucket.

Clark left the architect turned janitor in the basketball court as he finished his can of Anana. He extricated the map from his pocket, glanced at it for a moment, and then threw it away with his empty can of soda. He walked through the space port, unaware of where he was or where he was going with no particular end goal in mind. For the first time since his employment on the Iron Island, he was glad that he had a day off.
Ping Pong – or – It's Them That's Wrong

A gleaming oblong starship reflected the innumerable stars surrounding it as it hung idly against the near-infinite backdrop of space. The ship was named Star Harness 211, but most of the crew was not fond of this name and simply referred to it as the Energy Lasso, or just the Lasso for short.

The Lasso's current mission was almost complete. A massive spherical structure was printing and assembling itself around a dying star - a white dwarf. This structure would gather the energy being emitted by the relatively small star and transmit it to the now uninhabited solar system that surrounded it. Once the structure was complete, the Lasso and its crew would refill their energy supplies from the star and continue to the next white dwarf to start the process all over again, leaving the new power source for a third party mining operation that stripped uninhabitable planets of their ancient resources.

After the processes were set in motion and automated by the crew, they had little to do but wait until the sequences were completed. Some read books or watched television or movies. Some gathered in the pubs or diners that were located here and there throughout the gargantuan ship and conversed or played cards as they drank beer. Some stared into the abyss of space and became so overwhelmed with their minuscule size and insignificance that they were in a delirious stupor known as Starship Delirium for much of the mission. Others, such as sixty year old Corporal Riley St. Riley, played ping pong.

"Nineteen serving zero," Corporal Riley said with a malevolent grin as he smacked the small plastic ball with such speed that he caused the Private he was playing against to dive backwards from the ping pong table in an effort to spare what remained of their dignity. The effort was futile, the game was over and Corporal Riley was, as usual, victorious.

"Just transfer those five Units I won whenever you get the chance," Corporal Riley shouted at the retreating back of the fuming Private. He was now left alone in the recreation room of the ship. He spun the paddle in his right hand as he walked across the room to retrieve the ping pong ball. He bent over and picked it up as it continued to bounce off the grubby metal floor of the recreation room.

Corporal Riley stood up straight, rolling the ping pong ball between his fingers as he looked around the vacant recreation room. It had been empty quite often recently, but that had not always been the case. The decline in attendance had coincided with Corporal Riley's winning streak during this mission, but he had not noticed that this was the case. The problem lied more in Corporal Riley's insufferable attitude rather than the winning streak itself.

He tossed the ball in the air and smacked it against the wall a few times. Even he had trouble defending his serve. After a few minutes he lost interest and placed the ping pong paddle in a drawer in the recreation room. He was about to place the ping pong ball in the drawer as well, but paused and put it in the pocket of his pants instead.

Corporal Riley walked to the exit of the recreation room. The door slid open at his approach and he entered a dimly lit hallway lined with portholes. On one side, the portholes faced out into open space - an ocean of blackness stretching as far as the eye could see. On the other side, they faced the rest of the Lasso. He stopped at one of the portholes and looked at the magnificent ship, trying to imagine where his next ping pong victim might be. The sound of boots padding their way down the hall and echoing off the metal walls wrenched him from his silent reverie and he turned around.

"Fancy a game of ping pong?" he asked before he had even turned completely around to see who he was asking. It was one of the young engineers of the energy harnessing machine. Her brows were furrowed and her eyes merely glanced up from her clipboard as she walked past. She was apparently lost in thought or calculations. She did not even seem to register that a question had been asked until she had neared the end of the hall, when she turned around and briefly muttered, "No thanks, Corporal Riley..."

She exited the hallway, leaving him alone once again. He sighed deeply. Was there no one left on this ship who would face him? Were they cowards? It was only a game of ping pong...

He walked to the end of the hall and turned right, traveling deeper into the ship. The pub would certainly hold an opponent. Alcohol was his ally when it came to finding a willing or unwitting participant. He did not even want to play for Units right now, he just wanted a game.

The pub was not unruly, but compared to the silent halls he had just vacated it seemed very loud indeed. He was hailed by no one as he walked into the room. In fact, no one seemed to notice him at all. He approached the crowded bar and waited for an opening. At last, someone left with a tall mug of beer in each hand, leaving a space for him to squeeze into.

"What'll it be, Riley?" the bartender asked in a monotone voice after glancing at him most briefly.

"Just a beer, please." As he waited for his beer, he looked around the room. He had played against, and defeated, almost everyone that he recognized there. He could see, or at least he suspected, that several of them were knowingly avoiding his gaze. Others, he thought, were peering at him through their peripheral vision. Why were they so annoyed at him? It was their own fault that they had lost against him...

Corporal Riley's beer was delivered and he took a sip. He remained at the bar, not wishing to sit alone at one of the tables lining the walls of the pub. The man next to him was a stranger. He looked vaguely familiar, but he and Corporal Riley had never spoken to each other. Like most, this man was likely only on the Lasso for one or two missions. Corporal Riley had been on the ship much, much longer. The man stared at the small glass of whiskey in his hand and remained quite motionless.

"Want to play a game of ping pong?" Corporal Riley asked the man. He turned slowly from his glass of whiskey. His eyes were bloodshot.

"No," the man answered. His voice sounded like a frog's croak.

"What's the matter? Afraid you'll lose?" Corporal Riley asked with a smirk. The man glared at him for a moment, downed the rest of his whiskey, and rose from his seat without saying anything at all. He exited the pub.

What was wrong with everyone on this ship, Corporal Riley wondered? The open spot at the bar beside him that the man had vacated remained empty. The pub was just as busy, if not more so, than when he had arrived, but no one seemed to want to take the open spot. Corporal Riley finished his beer in a few quick gulps and pulled the ping pong ball from his pocket. He dropped it a few inches above the top of the bar and let it bounce against his palm.

"Another beer, Riley?" the bartender asked gruffly, watching him dropping the ball on his bar top.

"No, no..." Corporal Riley said absentmindedly, focusing on the feeling of the tiny ball thumping against the palm of his hand.

"Then you need to leave. It's getting busy and the bar is for paying customers," the bartender said sharply as he took Corporal Riley's empty mug of beer from in front of him.

Corporal Riley did not argue. He rose solemnly from his bar stool and walked to the exit. There were no opponents there. There might not even be any left on the Lasso at all, he reflected sadly. He slumped down the hall with his hands in his pockets, one hand clasping the ping pong ball. He reached a bench that was welded into the metal wall and sat down. It was across from a giant porthole that faced the energy harnessing apparatus that was being assembled around the white dwarf star. In the weeks before, this window had been heavily shaded to protect the eyes and skin of the Lasso's crew, but now that the apparatus was nearing completion the shading was no longer necessary. A great white shell of material now hid the star from view.

The shell looked remarkably like the ping pong ball he now held at arm's length, right beside the distant energy sapping apparatus in the window. He dropped the ball to the ground and stood up, retracing his steps back to the recreation room where he had left his backpack. He could hear the ball bouncing behind him, each impact spaced far apart at first but then increasing in frequency as it ran out of energy. He turned down the hall and could no longer hear the bouncing ping pong ball at all.

Maybe he needed to find a new game, he thought. He had, after all, been rather rude to his victims. He realized as he referred to them as 'victims' in his mind that he was the problem. It was only a game. It was supposed to be fun for both parties...

As he neared the recreation room, he heard a sound that simultaneously excited him and caused his heart to sink. Someone was playing ping pong. Should he try to join, even though milliseconds previous he had considered giving it up forever? He thought, proudly, that he could challenge both players to play against him. That would make it appear fair. He knew he would still win anyways. As he prepared to enter the room, he heard the two players begin to speak.

"I'm so glad old man Riley finally cleared out of here so we could actually play."

"Heh, yeah. The guy acts like ping pong is his calling."

"Well his calling certainly isn't cleaning... How did a janitor even make corporal? I can't remember the last time any crew member took him seriously."

"Eh, he's not all bad." Corporal Riley's heart lifted a bit. The conversation had cut him deeply, but at least he had something of an ally. He had heard conversations like this before. "I mean, aside from the ping pong thing he's not so bad. He's been on this ship the better part of forty years, I'm told. Could you imagine being on the same ship for forty years and only making corporal? Ping pong is the only thing he - "

Corporal Riley turned around. He completely abandoned his idea of challenging the two of them to a game, and even forgot that he had gone there to retrieve his backpack in the first place. His steps were rapid, and faces he passed were blurred in his periphery as he kept his gaze downcast, watching his boots take step after step over the polished metal floor. The floor he himself had polished earlier that day.

Before he knew it, he had reached his bunk. He laid down on his half-made bed and stared at the bottom of a bookshelf that hung above his pillow. The figure of a ping pong paddle was scratched into the metal. It was the one thing he was good at on this ship. It was the one thing that had made him feel somewhat equal to the brilliant minds that he had been surrounded with every day for four decades.

Soon, they would be leaving this star and the rest of the crew would be preoccupied for a while. Many would leave the Lasso for good. He wondered if every starship was like this...

"It's them that's wrong. It's all them," Corporal Riley St. Riley said into his pillow, clenching his eyes shut and thinking blissfully of the mission's end and the day that the new crew would enter and he would have fresh opponents, just as he had every mission for the past forty years.
Traveler: Day Two

A Brief Preface to Traveler: The following story is taken from a full-length novel that I am currently in the process of finishing. Although the greater story has taken many forms in the time I have been working on it, this opening chapter has remained virtually the same. I've been working on this story for a great deal of time, and could not wait to share at least the beginning any longer. I hope that you enjoy it, and that you will stay tuned for the full story when it is released!

A light fog hung closely over a vast field somewhere in the south eastern United States. The sun was beginning to set behind a group of trees at which three giraffes were foraging for leaves. It was a strange but beautiful sight and Travis Smiley hated everything about it. Of course, Travis Smiley never went by his given name anymore. To the few and far between wanderers and criminals he had introduced himself to over the last four years he had been known as Traveler. It seemed that no one went by their real name anymore. There was no reason to.

Traveler was on vacation. He was in the process of attempting to recreate a story in a book that he had read about an old man that caught a swordfish by himself. Traveler had not had any formal education, but his mother had insisted that he learn to read, and he had done a lot of it. This particular book was his favorite, and he carried a worn out copy of it everywhere he went. He felt that he would soon appreciate it even more. He missed being able to read his other books whenever he wanted, but he had abandoned them when he had left his mother's cabin, his former and only home, for the last time. They would have been far too heavy to bring along on his indeterminable wanderings.

He was on the second day of this particular vacation. The term vacation, in this context, should be interpreted loosely. Jobs no longer existed, at least not in the traditional sense, so taking a vacation was a bit of a foreign concept among those who remained. Before this trip, he had seen a deserted Grand Canyon and the deserted Rocky Mountains; deserted Las Vegas and the deserted Golden Gate Bridge - nothing between these former glories of nature and human engineering but the occasional lunatic, vast fields full of formerly domesticated crops turning wild, and exotic and domestic animals living in unchecked chaos.

His time had been spent almost entirely by himself in the four years since his mother had passed away. He saw other people occasionally, but most of them were best when avoided. Traveler would roll the dice, so to speak, every once in a while and chance an encounter with another person. An acute understanding of body language from a distance was a necessity for survival. Violence and deceit were the order of the day for the majority of the people that were left.

Villages had formed here and there. Entire cities too, Traveler had been told. He had never seen one though and he preferred to avoid the villages. The only person he felt he could really trust anymore was himself. When he did come in contact with a Survivor, the encounter was usually nothing more than an exchange of the Survivors' motto: "Stay above ground."

Some took the motto literally. There were rumors of evil cults that inhabited the sewers of metropolitan areas. Traveler interpreted the motto in a figurative sense, a playful way of saying "Stay alive in this hell-hole as long as possible."

Traveler had hoped to put more distance between himself and these giraffes which, in his opinion, had no business running wild in this part of the world, but there were only a few minutes of sunlight remaining and his dirt bike did not have a headlight. He was annoyed that he had to stop here but there was no time to feel bad for himself. If he was going to be stuck in this cotton field with these giraffes and who-knows-what-else he would need to spend the remaining moments of precious sunlight to start a fire.

He put the kickstand of his dirt bike down and lifted his leg over the bike as he surveyed his surroundings. The three giraffes were at the nearest cluster of trees. Although giraffes were generally peaceful creatures, Traveler decided to give them a wide berth. Even from where he was standing he could see the massive muscles in the legs of the tall beasts. They could dent his skull as easily as they could swat a fly.

The exotic animals had quickly grown in numbers since they had been released from the zoos following the Great Infection. Several decades of unchecked reproduction in an area where there were no natural predators and slow ill-suited prey had resulted in a boom of lions, tigers, and all manner of other creature that did not originally call the area home.

Traveler let the strap of his bolt action rifle slip off his shoulder and he leaned the gun against his bike. He resolved to leave the shotgun too. He would not be able to carry it as well as the firewood and he had a pistol on his belt if he should need it. After a brisk walk to and from the trees, Traveler returned with an armful of sticks and some decently sized logs. He thought that the giraffes were now aware that they were sharing the cotton field with him but they did not seem to be alarmed and he did not encounter any other animals. He was grateful of that.

He arranged the smaller sticks he had gathered into a pyramid-like shape over the larger logs. He had intentionally neglected gathering kindling as he had so much of it in his backpack. He unzipped the backpack and several hundred thousand dollars in crisp, wrapped, one hundred dollar bills tumbled to the ground. The twilight was quickly fading into total darkness as Traveler stuffed a small fortune into the gaps between the sticks and struck his next to last match, touching it to the corner of one of the hundred dollar bills. He smiled for the first time in days as he watched the flames spread from bill to bill, stick to stick and finally to the logs which would keep him warm through the night.

Darkness had completely fallen on the scene by the time that Traveler was reaching into his backpack again, this time shuffling stacks of money out of his way to retrieve a can of baked beans. He examined the can by the firelight and discovered that the beans' expiration date had passed. This was not too alarming though. Most canned goods were either past or reaching the ends of their shelf life but at this point they were still safe enough to stomach.

Traveler pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt and jabbed a slit into the top of the can and placed it by the fire. He leaned against the dirt bike, resting his back and neck against the warm machine. It felt great to relax his exhausted body, but Traveler could not extricate the horrifying events that had occurred that day from his mind. As he stared into the fire, waiting for his expired beans to be warm enough to be palatable, he sunk into the fresh memory and relived the most stressful day of his life.

Today had been a hellish reminder of the world that Traveler now lived in. It had started normal enough- or as normal as days could be now. He had awoken in an abandoned house by the highway on the outskirts of a town in what he thought was Arkansas. It had yielded shelter and the comfort of a bed as well as a few bottles of water that had been stowed in the corner of a cupboard. The shelves were devoid of canned food. Someone else must have cleaned it out at some point before he had arrived.

Traveler resigned himself to packing the water bottles into his backpack along with the bag of beef jerky he had been eeking out a pitiful existence on for the last few days before making his way to the living room. He had pushed his dirt bike inside and it was parked in front of the silent, blank television. He had found the dirt bike the previous day and had been ecstatic to find that it both had gasoline, and would start.

He had a rifle and a shotgun slung over each of his shoulders and each gun banged into the back of his knees as he approached the front door of the house and opened it. He returned to the dirt bike and pushed it outside into a hot and cloudless day. The sun was at its highest point in the sky by the time Traveler reached the edge of town. He dismounted from his dirt bike and leaned it up against the side of a small brick building. He would search the town on foot.

Traveler had high hopes of finding more clean water and maybe even some food hidden away in this little town. Whether it be canned food or live game, Traveler didn't care at this point, but he usually preferred the instant satisfaction and ease of transport of canned food. Canned food was getting harder and harder to find but hunting was easy enough though. The wildlife was thriving even though the human life was not.

Other humans were becoming an increasingly rare sight. This had not always been the case, but a short era of hard living had eliminated many. Those that were left were the strongest, smartest, and most cunning. That's not to say that all that were left were bad or inherently evil, but one had to wonder why they were still alive, and what they might have had to do to survive...

It was this consideration that stopped Traveler in his tracks and sent adrenaline coursing through his body as he spotted a group of people in the distance. He did not have to wonder about the nature of their survival in this harsh excuse for a civilization. When he saw what accompanied the group his heart nearly stopped. At first he had thought, and even hoped, that four enormous dogs were with the four people roughly a hundred yards away. There was something off about them though. Their movements were different. It took Traveler a moment to place that the movements of the animals were catlike.

Down the road from where Traveler stood were three women and one man, each holding one of three lionesses or a lion by heavy chains around their necks. He had a feeling that this encounter may be more sinister than an exchange of the motto, "Stay above ground."

Although Traveler and the eclectic group of man and beast were separated by a fairly significant distance, he assumed that the beasts could be upon him in moments if their masters should encourage them too. He had a feeling it would not take much encouragement either. As though this thought had drifted from his mind to those of the gang and their beastly cohorts, they looked in his direction for the first time.

Traveler was unsure how long they stood there idle, assessing the situation, but after a few moments his mind began working so fast that his thoughts seemed to be tripping over each other...

He whispered aloud as he thought, "There are four bullets in the rifle, three shells in the shotgun, and ten rounds in the pistol. I think that's right? Is there only three in the rifle? Oh, Lord... So that would make fifteen shots overall and I would have to switch between the-,"

His train of thought was derailed as four chains fell to the road and a pride of lions began bounding toward him. It took him a moment to react, but somehow through the waves of shock Traveler turned on his heels and began to run. In his panic he did not even consider shooting. His only thought was of shelter because he knew he would never be able to outrun these animals.

He wove from the middle of the street to the sidewalk and, chancing a glance over his shoulder, was astonished to see how much ground the female lions had covered. The male was following closely behind them. Having less time than he anticipated he lunged for the first door that he came to, hoping with all that was in him that it would be unlocked. It was.

Traveler flung himself inside, slammed the door, and spun the lock over the door's handle. A bell over the door rang wildly from the force of him slamming it. Once inside, Traveler realized what a horrible building this was to be taking shelter in. The door was made of glass. In fact, the entire front wall of the building was made of glass. If the lions didn't know how to break through the glass the people certainly would. He decided that his only choice now was to find an interior room and try to barricade himself inside of it.

He turned from the door to see a counter with a hall leading off from one side across the room. He took two or three steps toward the hall before he tripped over a velvet rope and hit the floor face first. His shotgun was flung from the strap around his shoulder and went off with an ear ringing BANG when it collided with the marble floor. The shotgun fired a wad of pellets directly at the front windows of the building...

But the sound of shattering glass never came. Through his ringing ears he heard the pellets bouncing off the walls and onto the floor. Dizzy, and watching the blood pour from his nose and mouth onto the marble floor, Traveler realized he was inside a bank.

Traveler rested his throbbing face against the cool marble for a moment before trying to press himself up from the floor. About halfway up his trembling arms failed him and he collapsed back onto the floor in a coughing fit. The running had irritated his asthma. From his curled position on the ground, clutching his chest, Traveler saw four lions eyeing him hungrily through the giant window of bullet proof glass.

He stayed on the floor for a few moments, curled in a ball, trying to catch his breath and relax his lungs in hopes of willing them to end the coughing fit. This process was made all the more difficult when being stared at by a small pride of lions. Traveler briefly thought of how absurd the situation was. It was like a reverse-zoo. He was the attraction. The lions were impolite zoo-goers. Their noses were pressed right up against the glass. One of the female lions was even standing on her hind legs with her forepaws against the window.

Traveler straightened his body and rolled onto his stomach before pressing himself up from the ground with shuddering arms and picking up his shotgun. Although continuing into the bank to hide was in his best interest, Traveler walked to the glass in spite of himself. The lions were beautiful and terrifying. He was transfixed by the lioness which had her paws pressed against the glass. She was taller than him on her hind legs. She was massive. They all were massive.

The lioness was making a rumbling noise somewhere between a purr and a growl. It was the kind of sound that stirs the innate senses and emotions that all humans possess but rarely have experienced since becoming civilized. The sound was like venom dripping into his veins, leaving his body paralyzed and his mind vacant of anything but fear.

Traveler's feet felt light as though they were willing him to run but he was rooted to the spot staring at the lioness' black claws flexed against the window. The giant chain leash was dangling between the lioness' forelegs down to the ground. Traveler looked from the chain to the collar around its neck, and finally to the beast's face. When they made eye contact the lioness roared, he was sure, just as loudly as the gunshot that had happened moments before.

The roar caught Traveler off guard and he stumbled backwards over the velvet rope again. At least this time he didn't land on his face...

He sat there on his aching tailbone, clutching his shotgun as tightly as he could in his shaking hands. He closed his eyes and took shallow breaths in an effort to stave off the coughs which were threatening to overcome him once again.

When he opened his eyes the scene had changed. There were now four people accompanying the lions. How could he have forgotten the people? The three women each walked to a lioness and took its chain in their hands. The man accompanying them, however, did not pick up the chain of the male lion. He stood to the right of the rest of the group and glared at Traveler through the front door.

They were an interesting group, to say the least. Even without the lions they would have been an interesting group. They did not have shirts on, for one thing. They wore bulletproof vests in place of them. Two of the women were tall and muscular, one with short blond hair and the other with long, curly dark hair. They were much bigger than Traveler and looked to be more physically fit than he had ever been in his entire life.

The last woman was rather frail. She looked quite out of place amongst the group. Traveler could not imagine her being able to control a lion when it looked as if a strong gust of wind could blow her away at any moment. Her bulletproof vest did not fit snugly against her body as the others did and she looked much younger, probably around Traveler's age. Even from where Traveler was standing he could see the green glints of her vibrant eyes.

The man accompanying them was not physically large, but he had this presence about him which made up for his unimpressive stature. He possessed a domineering aura which clearly singled him out as the alpha male of their group. His arms were heavily scarred, as was his face. One of his eyes appeared to be glass. Earning dominance amongst lions must not be easy. He had a whip in his right hand which trailed along the ground behind him and out of view behind the door.

For a moment they all just stood there staring at Traveler. He was, after all, the main attraction of this strange zoo they had created. Then the man walked deliberately to the door and tried to open it. Traveler, who was still sitting upright on the ground, sprang to his feet as the man on the other side of the glass began to rattle the locked door and grunt in frustration.

It really was locked well. Traveler let out a wheezy sigh of relief. The lions however were becoming upset due to their leader's anger and began to roar. The man's arm became a blur as he cracked the whip in his hand, instantly silencing the lions as they lowered their heads in submission. The man's attention snapped back to Traveler as soon as he had silenced his pride. Traveler had to endure a few seconds of the man's intense gaze before he spoke.

"I thought you must have done yourself in when I heard the gunshot," the man said with a surprisingly gentle but authoritative voice. "I'm glad you haven't. It would have been quite unnecessary as we mean you no injury if you cooperate with us."

He paused for a moment as though waiting for Traveler to reply. When he didn't, the man continued, "I am called Circus, and this is my pride," he said gesturing to the group of lions and women by his side. "We require your firearms. Give us your guns and we will be on our way", Circus said with a smile which reached neither his real nor fake eye.

Traveler had trouble taking all of this in. He was still dizzy from the coughing fit and from falling directly on his face. Even so, giving up his only means of protection to some guy called "Circus" who had just set a pride of lions on him did not seem like a good idea.

Traveler wiped the blood from his face. A fresh drop slipped from the end of his nose to the barrel of the shotgun in his hand. He watched as his blood trickled to the end of the barrel and came to rest around the bead.

What a shitty way to start a vacation...

He decided that he did not want to lose any more blood, or anything else, to this group and shook his head. The way he saw it, as long as he stayed in this locked bank, behind this bullet proof glass, he was going to be alright. These goons couldn't wait here forever.

"We could wait here forever, you know," chuckled Circus, as though he had just read Traveler's mind. "I've encountered people like you. You know how to survive out in the wild but you're young and you've never killed a man. You've avoided it, probably costing you food and shelter in the past. I don't think you are going to start now. You made that clear when you ran instead of shot. Is this accurate, my boy?"

Traveler did not answer him. It was eerily accurate but he could not let them know that. He could not let them break him.

"You still with us, kid?" asked Circus after a few silent moments. "You can either cooperate with us, or you can stick around inside this bank until you get nice and delirious with hunger and thirst. By then I suppose my pride will be hungry too." This time there was a genuine smile on Circus' face. He sunk his gnarled fingers into the mane of the male lion and patted it on the head.

Traveler thought vaguely of how his best case scenario that day had been finding expired canned food, or roasting and eating an opossum or some other creature before sleeping in an abandoned house or on the cold hard ground. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to just give away his only hope of survival and bow to death...

But he had survived this nightmare for his whole life, and he had wandered for four years. Now that he had an actual purpose he could not just give up.... He turned from the pride and began to walk toward the interior of the bank.

"NO!" cried Circus in exasperation. "Look at me." Traveler had turned around and looked back at him without even realizing what he was doing. The authority in Circus' voice was astonishingly persuasive. "Come to the door, open it, and give me your guns," he said while gazing piercingly into Traveler's eyes.

"This is easy," said Circus with the air of one trying to explain a simple concept to a simple person.

When Traveler broke eye contact with Circus, the scene around him had changed. The pride was smaller. The frail woman and her not-so-frail lion were gone. How could he have overlooked the possibility that there could be another entrance into this bank, an entrance that a lioness and its master were likely searching for at that very moment?

He could not wait any longer. Circus began laughing raucously as Traveler felt the color draining from his face. He should have never have stuck around to watch these lions or hear out these maniacs in the first place but had been glued to the scene due to his own damnable curiosity.

Traveler turned from the giant window once again and began to make his way to the hallway across the room. After regaining his composure from almost tripping over the velvet rope for a third time, Traveler moved briskly toward the hallway next to the counters.

The sunlight pouring in through the front of the bank did not reach far into the hallway. Through the darkness, Traveler could see that the marble floor broke away into a staircase several feet in. He made his way blindly up the staircase until nearly mis-stepping when he reached the top. It was completely dark up there. He reached out his arms and took short steps until he felt cold metal against his fingertips.

"Matches!"

He had a whole book of matches in his pocket. He reached into his pocket which was vacant of anything but the book of paper matches he had taken from the floor of an abandoned bar a few nights previous. He struck one. The flame was small but the light was overwhelming in the inky blackness at the top of the staircase.

The metal that he had felt moments ago dully reflected the light from the match in its polished surface. It was a vault door. Traveler moved the halfway burnt match to the edge of the vault door, discovering that it was open. It was at this moment that Traveler heard the bell over the front door to the bank chiming, announcing that new visitors had entered its premises.

The match had burnt all the way down to his fingertips and he dropped it with a gasp. He did not know what to do next. Before him was a bank vault which, while likely saving him from the lions, might or might not leave him locked inside to suffocate or starve in its dark confines. Behind him was the staircase which the gang and their pride of lions would shortly find him standing at the top of if he did not go into the vault.

Didn't they know he had places to be? He was on vacation for crying out loud...

He slung the shotgun over his shoulder. It only had two shots left. He unslung the rifle and pressed it tightly to his shoulder, pointing it at the bottom of the stairs. It was pitch black again without the light from the match. All he could see was the silhouette of his rifle barrel against the soft light reflecting from the floor at the bottom of the staircase.

What was taking them so long? The rifle was heavy. His arms were already growing tired. He was starting to get psyched out. Circus had been right, Traveler had never shot a person before...

A cough sputtered from his lips as a shadow began to obscure the only lit area he could see. He couldn't think. In a panic he pulled the trigger.

How could he have forgotten to cock the rifle? The fingers on his left hand fumbled for the bolt of the gun and pulled it back. The bolt pulled right out of the back of the rifle. He had not let go of the trigger when he pulled the bolt back, inadvertently engaging the release mechanism of the antique rifle.

He couldn't breathe. He tried to push the bolt back into the rifle but it was too dark and his hands were not steady enough. The bolt slipped out of his hands and onto the ground. Traveler threw the now useless rifle down at his feet. He could hear the rumbling sound the lions made drifting up towards him. He drew the pistol from his belt and pulled the slide back to put a bullet in the chamber. It took several attempts because his sweaty hands could not grip the smooth metal well.

The crack of Circus' whip sent a dark shape bounding up the stairs to where Traveler stood. He fired, each shot briefly illuminating the scene.

BANG! A long muscular body covered in tan fur.

BANG! Its mouth was open. Its eyes were glowing.

BANG! A vivid splash of red and a display of fear and confusion of such that Traveler had never encountered or imagined possible.

BANG! The lioness had not advanced any further.

BANG! The beast was slumped against the wall, its tan-gold chest stained crimson.

Bright spots temporarily burned into his eyes from the flashes of his gunfire were all that Traveler could see. Through the intense ringing in his ears he could hear the lioness' lifeless body sliding down the stairs, making a dull thud on each step.

A chorus of screaming women rose from downstairs, briefly harmonizing with the ringing in his ears. Circus' voice boomed above the cries but his words were unintelligible. The lions joined in, roaring with outrage either at the loss of their comrade or at the loss of any semblance of order amongst their strange pride. They became a sickening septet, wailing their washed out opera of rage to ears that could no longer hear them.

Traveler didn't need to hear them properly to get the full effect. The sound waves reverberated up the staircase, off the vault door, into his skin, and down to his bones. He felt like a tuning fork.

Something had changed. The chilling tones had shifted from outrage and disbelief to panic and terror. It was a different kind of chaos. The screaming had grown even louder and was being punctuated by the repeated cracking of Circus' whip.

Traveler, having made no conscious decision to do so, had turned around with his hands outstretched in the darkness feeling for the door of the vault. The barrel of the pistol which was still in his right hand made contact with the metal door first. With his left hand he felt for the opening between the wall and pried the incredibly heavy door open just far enough to slip inside. He squeezed through, running his hand across the smooth metal on the inside of the vault door, feeling for something which he could hold to close the door. A bar running vertically up the vault door provided barely sufficient surface area for gripping, allowing him to slowly pull the door closed, shutting out the already muffled sounds of terror and agony completely.

The ringing in his ears was nearly overwhelming, magnified by the complete silence and pulsating with each beat of his heart. It was the only thing that ensured him that he had not detached from reality into some dark limbo.

The air in the vault was still and the darkness pressed against his eyes as though it was weighted. It was strange to think that one story below his dark, silent, steel reinforced asylum was a room flooded with light, sound, and horror.

Traveler could not get the image of the lioness' look of fear when he shot her out of his mind. He could not imagine doing that to a human, no matter how evil they were.

But, he had shot at the first sign of movement coming up the stairs. It could just as easily have been a person...

He felt pity for the gang, and what he assumed was happening to them at that moment, despite the fact that they had attempted to commit him to the same end. He was not really sure what to do with himself. He looked around but it did not do much good given the complete and utter lack of light. Considering that the gang downstairs had their hands full at the moment, Traveler put his pistol back into the holster on his belt and struck a match.

The contents of the vault would have been much more exciting had it still been valuable, but being surrounded by ceiling-high stacks of money still had a certain awe inspiring effect. This could have lasted him several lifetimes before things had gotten so strange...

He turned around to examine the door. There was no way of knowing whether or not it had locked without trying to open it, and he did not want to attempt that just yet. He leaned in close to examine where the door met the wall and reached his match-free hand out to touch the cool, polished steel. Something, he could feel, had collided with the other side of the vault door.

He dropped the match and drew his pistol, pointing it at the door. The vault went dark again. Traveler stood there, his pistol pointed at the door, unable to see or hear. Slowly, a light was beginning to rise in the vault. The silhouette of a human was beginning to show clearly in front of him but he could not bring himself to pull the trigger.

How could he have been so stupid?

The silhouette was of himself, outlined in orange light and reflected in the metal door. A fire had begun at his feet. Hundreds of dollars had started to burn at the spot where he had dropped his match. A feverish few seconds of stomping left the fire smoldering, but filling the enclosed area in smoke. One lungful of smoke sent Traveler's asthma over the edge. He collapsed onto several strangers' life savings and passed out cold.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed while he was unconscious. He figured it had been a decent amount of time though because his ears had completely stopped ringing. The acrid smell of burning cash still hung heavily in the pitch black vault. It was so silent that he could hear his heart beating. It was all that he could hear.

Rolling over onto his hands and knees, he began to crawl toward the vault door, reaching out with one hand to feel for it. He paused when he felt the cool metal against his hand, straining his ears and attempting to feel any vibrations through the door. There was nothing. He leaned in closer and pressed his ear against the door.

Nothing.

But what had collided against the door earlier? Had he imagined it?

He wondered what would be on the other side of the door, providing he could get it open. He struck another match and once again saw himself reflected in the shiny metal door. He looked like hell. There was still dried blood all over his face from tripping when he entered the bank and fresher blood on his lips which he suspected was from his most recent coughing fit. Accompanying the blood was a light layer of dirt and grime glistening with sweat. He had seldom looked or felt worse.

An experimental nudge against the door informed him that it had not locked. Traveler exhaled a brief sigh of relief before remembering that he was far from being safe. Assuming that the lions had indeed mauled their masters, they could still be in the bank.

The match was burning down near the tips of his fingers and he shook it vigorously, making absolutely sure it was extinguished before dropping it on the vault floor and lighting another. With his match-free hand he drew his pistol and pressed the barrel against the vault door, pushing it open. There was nothing or no one visible in the small orb of light cast by the match. He took a cautious step out of the vault. The air was deathly still. He took another step and his foot met something solid. It was the rifle he had dropped and accidentally disassembled in his panic to defend himself. He slipped his pistol back into its holster and reached down to pick up the rifle.

The match he was holding went out when he bent over but he already had the rifle in his hand and was able to sling it over his shoulder in the dark. The rifle was useless without the bolt though, so Traveler struck another match to search for it.

Almost as soon as he struck the match, a glint of metal appeared on the ground several feet from where he stood. He reached down to pick up the bolt, but when he did he discovered something puzzling.

The bolt was wet. It was not water, it was too sticky. It was not gun oil, it was too thick. Traveler raised the bolt to eye level and examined it in the match-light. It was red, splattered with blood. A shudder passed so violently through his body that he dropped the bolt again.

He had suspected that the pride of lions had turned on their masters when he heard the chaotic shift in the tones coming from downstairs before he entered the vault, but he was in no way prepared for actually seeing the damage that had been done. The bolt had landed by what appeared to be a length of rope. Upon closer inspection it turned out to be the end of a whip. It was Circus' whip. He followed the curling and looping lengths of leather trailing behind where he stood until he saw the handle of the whip, still being held in the lifeless hands of Circus.

The body lay directly to the left of the vault door. Traveler had walked right by it in the dark. Its throat was gone. The glass eye set in Circus' face stared emotionlessly at Traveler, reflecting the last glint of light from his match as it went out.

He was going to be sick. He tried to control the wheezing and will himself not to throw up or pass out again. His mouth was filling with saliva and his eyes were watering but he somehow staved off the waves of pressure in his gut. Unwilling to light another match and illuminate the grisly scene again, Traveler turned around and slowly made his way toward the dull reflection on the marble floor at the bottom of the stairs. After every step he paused for a moment and listened for movement downstairs, but none came.

Although he had not heard any sounds of movement, he lowered the shotgun from the sling around his shoulder and worked a shell into the chamber as quietly as he could before taking the last step from the stairs to the marble floor. Even though the shotgun had proven itself to be a bit unpredictable earlier, he still thought it would serve him better than the pistol had. Five shots for one lion...

The body of the lion he had shot earlier lay before him where the hall met the rest of the bank. It really was a beautiful creature. It was terrifying, even in death, but beautiful.

Even though he knew it was dead and could no longer hurt him, it still made him very uncomfortable. He leaned over the dead body of the lioness, careful not to touch it, held his breath, and peered around the corner into the main area of the bank. Momentary relief swept over him as he discovered that there were no lions crouching around the corner waiting to pounce on him and there were no insane lion tamers creeping just out of sight.

But where had they gone? Had Circus and the lioness been the only casualties in the battle of the bank?

A dark mass that he spotted lying by the front window suggested otherwise. Cautiously, Traveler approached the body lying on the floor and felt the waves of sickness threatening to overtake him once more. Upon first examining the body, he thought it had been one of the two larger women, decapitated and armless. He certainly could not see a head above the neck of the bullet proof vest, or arms out the side, but he was puzzled as to why there was no blood. He was even more puzzled, and horrified, to see the thick vest rising and falling, implying a working set of lungs were still operating within it.

A knot had grown in his own chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. His eyes had begun to water involuntarily from sadness, fear, stress, confusion, or one of the many other feelings and senses he was experiencing. He walked around the body and looked into the neck opening of the vest.

The knot in his chest loosened. He could breathe again. The frail girl that had been with the group had pulled her head and arms into the vest that was far too large for her. She was unconscious though, Traveler suspected, from being batted around by the lions as she took refuge in her vest. Unless they, or their bodies, were hiding somewhere in the bank, the other two women must have escaped.

Traveler pulled the girl's vest down to her shoulders. She was quite beautiful, regardless of the purple bruises developing along her cheek and jawbones. He lifted one of her eyelids and her pupil retracted.

Good, he thought.

He wanted her vest. He had been the nice guy long enough and she had been instrumental in the plot to kill him. He was going to take it. The vest had straps up the side which fastened with Velcro. The loud scccrrtch of the Velcro echoed off the stone walls of the bank and the girl's eyes jerked behind their closed lids. She was bare-chested under the vest.

He dropped the vest back over her chest. He felt ashamed until he reminded himself that she had tried to kill him. This time he picked up the vest and held on to it. There was a backpack lying beside her which he opened to discover two cans of baked beans. He picked up one but left the other. He couldn't be that cold to her despite what she had done.

"Sorry," said Traveler in a voice he had long since lost the habit of using.

Rising from her side, he decided to quickly sweep through the bank to see there was anything else he could take. He pressed the shotgun back to his shoulder as he neared the counter. Feeling more courageous than he had when he had first re-entered the main area of the bank, he spared no time before looking around the edge of the waist high counter. There was nobody there. Down a hallway, not visible from the front of the bank, he saw another door standing open. He decided to lock it so that no one or nothing would be able to get in to the girl while she was unconscious.

On his way back from locking the door he stopped at the counter at a work area a bank teller would have occupied years ago. There was a bowl of peppermints and lollipops that he emptied into his backpack. There were also pads of paper and pens that he grabbed, for reasons he was not entirely sure of, and put in his backpack. The writing on the side of the pen, advertising the bank, confirmed that he was indeed in Arkansas. Now it was time to get out of this awful bank.

The sling of his rifle was already beginning to dig into his shoulder. He decided the rifle would be the best defense should he run into the remaining lions or their former masters out in the open. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder and lowered the rifle.

Something was wrong with it though. It didn't look right. He had never picked the bolt back up again after seeing Circus' body...

He closed his eyes in frustration. The last thing he wanted to do at that moment was go back up the stairs and look for his bolt around Circus' mauled body. It was almost like Circus was still trying to take his guns from him beyond the grave.

However, if his vacation were to continue he would need the rifle. He needed the vacation to continue. This event had been a harsh reminder of the life he was trying to escape for a while. He didn't like this life. He wasn't suited for it.

The top of the staircase was as dark as ever. He looked down directly at the floor as he struck a match. There it was - the end of the braided leather whip...

He carefully traced the whip with his eyes until he saw the metallic and dark red splattered bolt lying amongst the rope-like curls. A drop of sweat from his forehead extinguished his match. He closed his eyes in frustration once more but it made no difference in the dark.

The matchbook was almost empty but he struck another to save himself from feeling around. He picked up the bolt but before turning to leave he was struck by an idea. Considering how few matches he had left and how fast the money in the vault had caught fire, he decided to put some in his bag so he could conserve his matches the next time he needed to start a fire.

There was something immensely satisfying about shoving handfuls of money into a backpack. It did not even matter that it was technically worthless. Now he could go. He could finally go. He had read in his books that going to the bank was an annoying chore, but this was ridiculous.

He reached the bottom of the stairs to find the frail girl standing across the bank and staring confusedly at him. Maybe it was the sunlight reflecting off her light brown hair or the emerald gleam of her green eyes, or maybe it was the fact that she was naked from the waist up, but Traveler had completely forgotten any past injustices she had visited upon him and was sure that she could have anything that she asked of him. However, she remained silent.

He took a painful gulp and approached the door by which the girl was standing. He was very aware of the way he walked and that he had not bathed in recent memory. They were within an arm's reach of each other before Traveler stopped. He had trouble meeting her eyes so he just pushed the bulletproof vest into her arms, muttered, "Stay above ground," and turned away.

What a fool.

He pushed the bolt into place on the rifle and worked the action, placing a bullet into the chamber before turning the safety on and opening the door. He stuck his head out and looked each way down the street but saw nothing. Reaching back, he turned the lock on the bank's door and pulled it shut, causing the bell above it to ring. Traveler stepped out into the world.

He looked back through the glass. If she had been confused before he gave her the vest back, she was utterly bewildered now. He didn't know what to say or if he should say anything at all so he didn't. He was bad at goodbyes, and realizing how much of a sucker he was for a pretty face, he decided to get out of there immediately.

There was still about an hour of sunlight remaining and he needed to find somewhere safe to spend the night. Eyes and ears strained for the slightest sound or movement, Traveler began to make his way down the street toward where he had parked his dirtbike. Exciting thoughts of speeding out of this town were racing through his mind.

The hair on the back of his neck was prickling as he reached his dirt bike. He wasn't sure if it was lion or human, but he felt like he was being watched. He turned around and surveyed the street but saw nothing. This did little to assuage his fears. As he was turning back to the bike he saw movement in the upper peripherals of his vision and looked to the rooftops.

There they were. The two other women had escaped completely unharmed, it seemed, to a rooftop. They were staring down at him.

Traveler didn't draw his rifle, but rested his hand against the strap holding it to his shoulder. They looked at each other for a few tense seconds before he turned to the bike. He mounted it and pulled the kick-starter lever out.

"You're no better than us, you know," a deep, but feminine voice called down to Traveler.

He brought down all his weight on the bike's kick-starter over and over, trying to ignore her.

KUH-THUMP

"You may not be a cold blooded killer but your actions still cost lives today."

KUH-THUMP

"Now I suppose you can go on to kill again, now that you have a taste for it."

KUH-THUMP THUMP

"In the end,"

KUH-THUMP THUMP THUMP

"You're just one of us."

KUH-THUMP THUMP

"You're just another criminal."

KUH-THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP

The engine sputtered to life and then began rumbling like the lions he was so desperate to leave behind. He turned the throttle with difficulty due to his sweaty hands. He wanted to yell back at them, to tell them that he'd never be like them, but in taking a deep breath to do so he felt his lungs burning and decided not to. He dropped the shifter into first gear and took off heading east.

A bubbling sound roused Traveler from his troubled revelry. His stolen, expired, baked beans were ready. He slid the blade of his knife under the can and slowly eased it away from the fire to cool for a moment. He added several slits around the top of the can with his knife and pried it open, stirring the contents with a piece of beef jerky he had pulled from his backpack.

He didn't really have what one may call "good days" anymore. Today, however...

'Today sucked.'

He scribbled down the two words onto the tablet he had taken from the bank before downing the rest of the can of beans in a few gulps. He took a sip of water and then popped a peppermint into his mouth and leaned back against the bike again. Above the two words he wrote: Vacation - Day 2. He threw the pad back into the backpack.

He was exhausted but didn't know if he would ever be able to drift off to sleep after everything he had seen that day. The gruesome images cropped to the forefront of his consciousness every time he closed his eyes. The haunting words of the gang and the rumbling and roaring of the lions reverberated off the inner walls of his skull. He thought of his trip and how in the morning he would be back on the bike heading for the coast. This helped a bit.

A coyote's howl sounded somewhere in the distance but was ended prematurely by the sound of a hoof against bone. Maybe having the giraffes around wasn't so bad after all, he thought. Traveler turned on his side and fell asleep.
The LHP (Last Habitable Planet)

The hair on the back of a young man's neck stood on end as a distant war-cry of a thousand or more voices pierced the air. His rapid breaths fogged his glasses, but he could not see that through the tears in his eyes.

The tears were not from the pain of the tooth that had just cracked when he clenched his jaw shut involuntarily, but from the mix of a hundred different emotions that could only be summoned by the sound he had just heard. It was the same sound that had accompanied the demise of every other member of his battalion.

The planet he was on was small and rather plain. There were mountain ranges and oceans and deserts and so on, but in the grand scheme of things in the universe, it was a boring planet worthy of little note.

The one facet of the small little planet that set it apart from all of the rest was that it was the last one left that could sustain life.

The universe was well within its dotage. Most of the stars had burned out and their accompanying planets were either destroyed or turned to cold, dark masses floating through space.

The planet that the young man now found himself on was known by all that remained in the universe as the LHP (Last Habitable Planet). He had spent his entire life traveling there, along with a great number of others on an enormous starship. In fact, several generations had passed aboard that same starship, but his was the one that had to take up the fight when they finally reached the LHP.

His civilization was among the first to reach the LHP, though they were quite certain that others would shortly follow. There was, of course, the race of beings that were now attacking the young man as well. They had arrived shortly after he landed.

The starship that had brought the young man to the LHP was docked more than a lightyear away and was cloaked to the best of its abilities. It hid all that remained of his species' population, along with more than one hundred years of drinking water.

A small jump-ship had brought himself and the recently living members of his battalion to the planet. Their mission was supposed to be a quick one, but that had not been the case.

Despite all of the technology aboard their jump-ship, there was one particular portion of the mission that could be trusted to none but a human - they were to poison every drop of water on the LHP.

Inside of the backpack of the cowering and shaking young man was a small plastic bag - no bigger than a football. Inside of the bag was a series of powders, gases, and liquids that when mixed together would form a poisoning agent that would render the water on the LHP unsustainable for life for ninety-nine years.

The packet of poison, ironically named LifeBlood, had passed from hand to hand as each carrier was killed in action while making their way to the sea on the LHP. Its purpose was to wipe out any civilization that tried to settle the LHP. While other beings had prepared their ships solely for war, the humans were trying to play the long game. They wanted to wait out the fighting over the planet, make it inhospitable for anyone anything else, and then come in and settle when the heat was finally off.

The young man was sitting with his back to a boulder that jutted from a sloping sand dune. He could see a vast expanse of blue in the distance through his watery eyes. He was only a few hundred yards away from the ocean - his mission's goal.

He tossed the pulse-rifle that he had been clutching in his hands with a death grip unceremoniously into the sand. It had done him no good thus far anyways and there were far too many enemies to fight off by himself. Besides, he owed his survival to the fact that he did not use the rifle. He was a runner, not a fighter.

The sound of the advancing army was growing louder. He slung his backpack off of his shoulders and retrieved the LifeBlood. Even all of its separate components looked sinister as they glistened in their little pods within the bag.

The full weight of what he held in his hands hit him for the first time. Every single member of the army that was searching for him would die if he made it to the ocean with the LifeBlood. Every single member of that army's family would die. Every being in the universe aside from those that waited anxiously on his water-laden starship would perish if he made it to the shore, squeezed the bag, and released its contents into the foaming surf.

He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes on his tattered, tan sleeve. The pitch of the army's war-cry had changed. It sounded as though they had reached the dunes. He did not have much time left.

Could he really do this? Could he destroy the futures of entire civilizations?

Entire histories and cultures would be gone. Thousands if not millions of years of advancement would be snuffed out in a moment if he reached the sea.

And for what? To live out the remaining years before the LHP's star burnt out on this strange, last resort planet? To wait with bated breath for one hundred years while each race and civilization that traveled to the planet in hopes of survival, in hopes of prolonging their irresistible urge to duplicate and lengthen their existences died of dehydration or poisoning?

The young man's shoulders slumped against the boulder and he rested the LifeBlood in his lap, looking out at the sea. He could smell the water on the breeze. It was the first time he had ever experienced such a sensation.

But what if he did not deliver the LifeBlood to the ocean? What would happen then?

Would the fate of the universe be any different? Not likely, he thought.

No matter what he did, the future of life in the universe seemed utterly dark and depressing. It was now just a race against the universe's clock that was ticking its way ever nearer to the final death knell when it would strike its last and even the LHP would no longer be habitable.

He could not wait any longer, the cries were nearing. What would he do?

Would he doom all, or save his own civilization?

The young man thought of his time on the starship, of young children that were not yet burdened with the full concept of their conditions. He thought of his comrades who gave their lives without a second thought. Why was he having such trouble with this? No one else seemed to...

Finally, he rose to his feet. He was going to do it. There was no time left for thinking. If his fellow soldiers were willing to do it, why should he not?

He ran. He tucked the LifeBlood under his arm and tried not to think of all of the lives he would soon be responsible for ending as he ran faster than he ever had in his life.

Great strides assisted by the forces of gravity carried him down the side of the dune to the flattened beach. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw the first of the pursuing army's members cresting the ridge.

Pulses and beams and projectiles rained down in the sand surrounding him. There was no escaping the killing, there was no escaping death. No matter what happened, that was the one inevitability. The LHP was where civility came to breathe its last.

He thought as he ran, in between long breaths and the sound of his scurrying feet shifting the sand, did every civilization react the same when they discovered their time was coming to a close?

Did some accept their fate? Or did all of them spring to action to wring out the very last instances of life before it all was over?

He could hear the waves crashing against the shore. A beam caught his sleeve and singed his elbow, causing him to wince and lose rhythm of his breathing.

For a moment, he faltered. He regained his composure when he realized the amount of assault that he was receiving.

'Squeeze the LifeBlood package ONLY when inside immediate area of water source. Rip open the seam, release the contents, and depart IMMEDIATELY.'

The young man was well aware of the instructions on the packaging. They were burned into his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the words - his only goal.

He knew that escaping back to the starship would not be an option. It likely had never been an option. The army would surely execute him if the poison did not kill him first. It was supposed to work fast and spread through the water even faster...

Thirty feet - he squeezed the package. He felt it froth and vibrate as the separate components met in the bag.

Twenty feet - he began to tear the seam, his gut seemed to have dropped from his body as he considered one last time if what he was doing was right, or if 'right' even existed here and now.

Ten feet - ocean spray splattered against his face. He took the LifeBlood in his right hand and prepared to chuck it into the sea.

A lead projectile caught him squarely between the shoulders. The force of the impact killed the young man instantly and caused his body to slide across the sand, the LifeBlood still clutched in his right hand.

The army paused on the dune behind him. They watched as the young man's lifeless body was caught by a wave and carried to the sea. What they thought was their victory was their ultimate demise. They could not see the LifeBlood spreading instantly and invisibly to the horizon.

In moments, every molecule of water would be contaminated. It would remain contaminated for ninety-nine years. Until then, the Last Habitable Planet would not live up to its name.
Death Touched the Stars

Death was walking up the side of a mountain. It was a rare moment that it could take its time, and it relished in the opportunity to do something as simple as walking.

As much as it grieved and embarrassed Death, it looked and behaved an awful lot like the Grim Reaper that was often used to portray it. It seemed that those who were near their end but cheated Death had gotten a good enough glimpse of it to form an accurate image.

It had no time to dwell on that at the moment, however. It had more pressing matters to attend to.

One of the few remaining humans on Earth had climbed a mountain in search of food. They would, unfortunately, be unsuccessful.

Death found the mountain climber huddled beside a jagged rock, shaking from the cold. He was exceedingly skinny.

"I was wondering if you'd show," the mountaineer said. It was clear that he was delirious. His eyes could hardly focus on the cloaked figure that approached him.

Death did not speak to the man. Although it was acquainted with every being that had passed from life, it had not spoken to any of them. It made short work of the mountaineer, gathering the man's life into his cloak. Death turned back.

It would have to visit those that camped at the foot of the mountain as well. They had been depending on the man to bring them back food.

The sun-starched Earth that passed beneath the hem of its cloak had once been green with healthy grass. It had once been trod upon and chewed by animals, but Death had put a stop to that.

It took no joy in its duties, but it took no sorrow either. It had a position to fulfill in order to retain the balance of the universe, and it performed its position well.

The camp at the bottom of the mountain occupied Death for only moments. It had to be elsewhere.

In a flick of its cloak, it was on the opposite end of the galaxy. An uprising was taking place and a dictator had only moments left before their mega-planet fell into another's hands. Death ensured that that happened.

It had returned to Earth less than a second later. Its time there was coming to a close for good. It would only have to return there a few more times before it moved on forever - on to other planets and galaxies that still bustled with life and required its services.

It walked through towering skyscrapers and across deserts accompanied by nothing other than howling winds and blowing debris. Earth had been a peculiar little planet. Death's services were called upon elsewhere but they could wait for a moment while it took in the last moments it would be there.

With one final look around the formerly blue and green planet Earth, Death gathered the last vestiges of life into its cloak, leaving Earth completely devoid for the first time in billions of years - leaving it the way it would remain from that point on.

For a time, Death was busy. It bounced around from planet to planet around the galaxy and beyond, fulfilling its duties. Time was nearly meaningless to the being that was the absence of being.

Eventually, Death became called upon far less often. Life did not remain in the universe at that time, at least not life in a cellular form.

Death traipsed through the universe. Its utterly black form was swollen with the life it had gathered during its long career.

A star, red and bulging, exploded at Death's touch. Others would collapse in upon themselves and become black holes. It gathered their energies into its cloak and placed it alongside the life it had collected.

On and on, time after time... Death moved from star to star, extinguishing all light and warmth from the universe and stowing it away in its ever stretching cloak.

Death moved slowly toward the last shining star in all of the universe, its cloak stretched tightly. It longed for rest. Time was finally catching up to Death itself.

With one quavering hand, Death reached out and touched the final star and watched it begin its final sequences as the cloak absorbed its energy.

Though it took millions of years to complete the sequence, Death's skewed perception of time thought it to be only seconds.

Death ceased to be as its cloak burst forth, scattering energy and matter and the life it had captured since the beginning of time in all directions across a renewed universe. The cycle was complete and could begin once more.

Remnants of Death's cloak were flung far apart. Slowly, they would make their way back together, but Death would not be called upon again for a very long time.

A brief note to the reader:

I just want to take a moment to thank you for taking the time to read my book. I wholeheartedly hope that you enjoyed it! Stay tuned for more books and stories in the not-too-distant future.

About the author:

M. R. Holman was born in a place some time ago. He eats and breathes and does things aside from writing from time to time, but a good chunk of his time is devoted solely to writing stories. He hopes to one day have a tiny house on a large piece of land, preferably with a pond in which a canoe can be placed. Beers will then be placed within the canoe and drank at leisure, if all goes according to plan.

Other titles by M. R. Holman:

Starship Delirium

Horror in the Hallway

The Leak

The Humdrum Lives of Cryptids, Monsters, and Villains

