245. So Am I

In darkness, an uneasy terror, too vague for name, lurks on the edge of consciousness that is never present in light. Shadows stand silent, each with a story woven by the threads of imagination and memory, of intent sullen in the wrinkled palms of witches scorned. Corners become pregnant with anticipation; closets the hidden cove of demons, the womb of evil black and cold, working mischief in silence too loud for comfort. Patient is darkness, unhurried and deliberate, as if the hands of destruction held back the gods of time, a cruel warp delicious only to those who delight in fields of fear and paranoia.

Kyra meditated as Von and Em slept the sleep of children tired. Her eyes were closed to matters slight as her mind and heart opened to matters grave and the expanse of hope extended to horizons distant and far. On the edges she watched, like storms of thunder and lightning, appearing only from the corners of awareness too slippery to hold, too ephemeral to ponder, intruders neither wanted nor welcomed but present nonetheless.

Em began to stir with a feline stretch of arms and back, her half-open eyes seeing without comprehending. Kyra opened her eyes as the flower of Em unfolded before her, life awakening, precious life unfolding, and that life would have questions of mind and heart seeking answers of logic and love. “Morning Em.”

Em yawned into her small balled fist. “Morning Kyra. What happened?”

Kyra spoke of what she knew, careful to avoid assumption and speculation for fear needed no breeding ground. She kept her tone steady and assured with inventory of facts as if the organization of details was itself a commodity of value with the power to convert fear into hope. Em listened and asked and Kyra answered and listened and so for minutes upon minutes the exchange continued as Kyra felt as Papa must have felt so many times.

When Em had asked her last question and silence prevailed, she looked lost. Kyra sat and waited for what she knew would come. “Kyra, I’m scared,” said Em, her voice humble before fate like a child not yet overcome with the hubris of age.

Kyra stood and opened her arms. Em folded within as a cold puppy nestles into its mother’s belly and Kyra whispered softly into her ear, “So am I.”

Reading: So Am I




Categories: Story, Kyra, Emy

244. With All Due Respect

John led the way walking two paces ahead of his two visitors, eyes moving absently left and right on the ground below like a metal detector scanning for lost treasure on an obscure beach. Clicks and clacks of shoes on hardwood stood for the hum and beeps of device and John’s mind raced to find that rare coin that would make the interminable walk to his office worthwhile.

He ushered his guests to their respective chairs with a professional courtesy fraught with coldness born of strict adherence to protocol, no more, no less. Like a storm approaching, there was no time for niceties and none would be offered and none given; as the cogs from administration liked to say, nothing personal, just business.

A heavy tension could be heard in the absence of words, the space between language where looks and thoughts caroused with imagination fueled in agenda and fanned with scars past and present. Conversation was not conversation but combat, the fighting of battles unresolved, the posturing for position of battles anticipated. Conversations of this sort were never what they seemed to be. Facts were tools and emotions were disregarded as just so much dross.

John was career military, a frontline warrior. His two visitors, career administration, bureaucrats, looked and sounded and even smelled the part. They spoke in bureaucraticese, a language John found utterly lacking in feel or nuance, using acronyms as if they held significance, and spouting policy as gospel and delegating decisions to a higher authority with a shrug of jaded shoulders that belied callous contempt for the very dialogue. Their uniforms were spit and polished, virtually identical. Hell, they even looked the same, as husband and wife of many years begin to resemble the other. If they had been alien creatures, John would have felt little difference.

“I’ve seen the slate. What’s the update?” asked John.

Bureaucrat #1 answered, “You know what we know,” as if that settled the matter.

“Good, then I request to lead the rescue operation.” John stood up as if the matter was settled, a tit for tat he had no expectation of succeeding, and a bit childish, he thought, to even attempt but the damned bureaucrats always brought out the worst in him.

“I’m afraid sir, there will be no such operation,” responded bureaucrat #2.

John sat back down. “Not an option.”

“Sir with all due respect, this is not your call to make.”

“With all due respect gentlemen, we do not leave our dead behind. And that is assuming, and I use the word with full sarcastic malice, there are no survivors.”

“Sir, you’ve seen the slate. The attacking party destroyed our Vollmonds in the attack upon Bravo. We have been hailing all frequencies non-stop. Nothing. There are no survivors. Even if we launched a recovery mission, which we are not going to do, by the time we got there, there would be nothing to find, I hope I need not remind you of our enemy; and, the end result would only put more of our men at risk for a mission with no reward.”

“Well, so nice of you to state an assumption so clearly and coldly as fact. Have you communicated this information to the families? Have you told them you are abandoning all rescue attempts because there is no communication, that you are assuming no communication means dead and destroyed? Has it not occurred to you that communication links could have been knocked out in the confrontation? That we may very well have men, alive, at this moment, this exact moment gentlemen, perhaps wounded, certainly in distress, waiting on help, expecting help, believing that help is on the way, knowing that the very men who put them in harm’s way, would never abandon them? And while those men are dying, we sip tea.”

“Sir, I assure you, your concerns are known and appreciated and I do admire the depth of your convictions. I can see why your men fight for you with undying loyalty.”

“Damn it, no you don’t. If you did, if you understood, we would not be having this conversation right now, we would not be wasting valuable minutes, but we would be taking action. Hold your hands up?”

The two administrative personnel looked puzzled.

“I said hold your hands up and look at them. Tell me what you see?”

No response.

“I’ll tell you what I see. I see blood, blood on your hands, blood that no amount of time will wash away.”

“Sir, we do appreciate your passion and I must say you do have a flair for the dramatic, but the decision has been made. We are not risking more men, deep into enemy space on what is no more than a wild goose chase.”

“Gentlemen, don’t you ever refer to a rescue mission of my men—“

“Sir, need I remind you, you had no right to put those men at risk. Before you start throwing accusations, look in the mirror. We have your logs. You clearly felt that the Hynerians were wrong to pursue that distress signal, when you knew there was no one to rescue. I find it quite interesting that now that the shoe is on the other foot, you seem to have found your morals.”

“Well, you’ve got me there. I’m a hypocrite.” John stood up, leaned over his desk and balling his fist he smacked his wooden desk. “But by God, I’m a hypocrite that will defend his men to the last.”

“Sir—“

“This conversation is over. Get your bureaucratic arses out of my office. Good day gentlemen.”

Categories: Story, John Discovery

243. The Last Memory

The last memory I recall before we were hit, still like a photograph in my mind and as clear as if I were holding it in my hands now, was Von’s peaceful visage looking overblown, as if his entire face had been terribly overexposed. I remember thinking how beautiful he looked in the light, and although I’ve said it before, I feel compelled to say it again, for there are moments, images if you will, that you are certain will remain with you, as vivid as the instant, for all your days; and Von’s peaceful white sublime face is one of them.

The flash could not have lasted for more than a second, and although I felt my body was stuck in slow motion, my mind raced like fire with wind on a dry day. I knew what was happening and I knew Von knew what was happening, and I know this will sound strange, but I simply couldn’t take my eyes off of his expression and there was a part of me that wanted that peace, that acceptance without resistance, I wanted to ascend to a higher plane of existence, and I knew, don’t ask me how, but in just a look I knew Von was in that place and I felt envious.

The sound of impact, for you have to remember Bravo had virtually no defenses, well, how do I say this; we felt the sound as much as heard it. Hynerians like to put things in neat containers with neat labels, this and that as Papa used to say, and so we tend to do the same with sight and sound and touch as if they were separate things. They are not. Every bone in my body rattled, my teeth ached, my elbows stung and my head pounded with a headache from the inside out as if the bats of hell had awoken and wanted out but could not find their way.

I looked at Von and his eyes looked without looking, they looked with the glassy appearance of the dead, with the look of not looking, and if you had told me I was looking at one underwater, one who had given in to the sea, I would not have argued. I saw movement and at first I thought there was someone else on board, that we had been invaded, violated, but then I realized the only thing moving was Emy and Von and myself, and we were moving not of our own volition, but at the whim of sound and light and impact. Like dolls we were tossed about and the very confines of our haven, Bravo’s bridge with edges sharp, threatened us the most and, believe me, the irony of being impaled by my own ship crossed my mind.

From blinding flash to utter darkness, of ship and mind, must have been less than a second or two. How long I was unconscious I could not say. I woke to the familiar coppery metallic taste of blood in my mouth, a pounding pulsating headache and the most eerie quiet you can imagine, which only made the throbbing of my head all the more noticeable. No hum of systems, no shuffling of crew from here to there—nothing. One emergency light shone, flickered as I recall in a rather aggravating way in the upper corner of the bridge and a small amount of light came in from the forward window. Upon that light I spied what I call the lump of Von and the slightly smaller lump of Em.

I pulled myself up, rubbed my temples, to no avail, and looked around through the dim light, trying to find my bearings. With my heart banging in my chest I went through the routine. Whenever you suffer dramatic injury, your body releases such a shot of adrenaline that often you never feel the extent of your own injuries. So I stood up, walked around, stretched and felt for blood until I was sure I was still whole and well, or at least well enough. Then I checked on Von and Em, without waking them, and they both seemed to be, at least outwardly, okay. I didn’t want to wake them until I had a better understanding of what had happened and what could happen and exactly what the condition was of Bravo. I also knew, if they were injured, I couldn’t take care of them, although I would feel the need to do so, and that need would hamper what I could do. As Papa always said, never let what you can’t do interfere with what you can. So they remained in sweet repose.

I walked, rather stiffly, to the central control panel, and through the haze of light and the fog in my mind I began flicking dead switches, over and over again, as if one more flick would magically fix everything. All systems were down. When I say all, I mean, with the exception of temporary auxiliary emergency power, Bravo was for all intents and purposes, dead in the water. If whoever or whatever attacked us wanted to destroy us, not that we could have done much about it before, but if they wanted to take us now, in any way, shape or form, there was nothing we could do. To make matters worse, our sensors were down, so I had no way to determine when the next blow would come, what direction it would come from or even who exactly had or was attacking us.

As you might imagine, with the surge of adrenaline pumping through my system, my first response was defense. Well, we were defenseless, and I rationalized, it was just as well I let Von and Em sleep, for if another blow was coming, what purpose would it serve to wake them. And, just for a moment, for the second time, I envied.

With the passing of each minute, I felt the fear of imminent destruction pass and I relaxed. As I collapsed in the captain’s chair, the familiar warm venusian leather felt oddly cold to my touch and a bolt of lightning shot through my aching body. I jumped up, and quickly perusing the minimal data available from the auxiliary power, realized the threat we faced was of a different order. You see, we had no communication, we had no power, and in a matter of days, we would have no heat and no air.

Categories: Story, Kyra

242. Parallels

Kyra walked down the corridor to the bridge with steps light, steady and deliberate.

John’s carain pulled inside the central courtyard of his estate.

Von and Em were on the bridge, both hunched over the central control panel.

John stepped out and to his left stood Cait and Ariel, who shot out from her mom like a rocket, half running and half skipping, to John’s open arms.

As Kyra approached the control panel, she took note of the red glow illuminating Von’s gray beard.

John hugged Ariel like a great coat one size too large, and his bundle of energy put her tiny head on this chest, her ear next to his heart. Cait stood at a distance and then John noticed two figures in the shadows to her right.

Em looked up first and then Von. Without speaking they both stepped aside and Kyra glanced down upon the sea of red, like distant stars, twinkling and winking.

John picked up Ariel and put her on his hip. Cait looked nervous. As he approached she motioned and the two figures stepped into the light, slate in hand, faces somber.

Kyra opened the comm link. There was no response. She looked at Von and he looked back, neither upset nor anxious but rather peaceful, in a resigned sort of way, as if he had opened himself to the hands of fate with complete trust.

John looked at the slate, looked at Cait. She held her arms out and took Ariel. “Go,” she said, strong to the last, resolute in duty. John hesitated and she repeated her order. “Go, for you can’t come back till you go. And I want you back, here, not back there. So go.”

“Options?” asked Kyra.

“If you believe in Janus, pray. If you don’t believe, pray anyway,” said Von. “Either way, do it now.”

Categories: Story, Kyra, Von, Emy, John Discovery, Caitlin, Ariel

241. Von's Journal #2

Von rolled out of bed, scratched his head, more from habit than itch, and prepared a pot of snizzle. With the brew on, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat down at his desk, his quarters as quiet as an abandoned barn in the afternoon. Pulling out his black notebook, he began to jot down ideas, as he always did, in no particular order, with neither rhyme nor reason.

You are one day away, one action, one moment from having no influence.

Life is an opportunity, a gift—not a guarantee, not a given.

Everything matters—every word, every look, every touch, no matter how small, it matters.

Better to be kind than to be right.

Power, authority is never what it appears to be.

Space is not all that different from Silus and those twenty-one day solitary retreats. Where others see the void, the unknown, I see and feel the infinite ocean that gives all, takes all, is all.

There is no escape. No matter where you go, there you are. On Hyneria, one was under the illusion of escape. The illusion that if I don’t like it here, I can go somewhere else, and it will be different there. Don’t like this job, find a new one. Don’t like this town, move. Don’t like this spouse, divorce them or find another. The problem, however, is there is no escape from ourselves. Travel 100 million parsecs and in that place, everything you ever were, everything you are, is right there. In fact, the very idea, the very thought is wrong, false and only leads to pain. Problems are the illusions. To run from an illusion is to believe that a dream is real. The lover in slumber warms not the pillow beside us.

So step one is to see problems as the mist in the dawn—only does it persist until the light of awareness burns away those eidolons of our imagination.

A vessel is only a vessel when it is moving. If it won’t move, if it doesn’t move, is it really a vessel? Or is it simply an idea of a vessel or a former vessel or what could be a vessel. Life moves. Not-life doesn’t.

What does it mean to be the same? If I am different today than I was yesterday, if I am more or less, am I the same? I killed some brain cells last night. I also created some new connections in the plasticity of my mind. Still other electrical connections have faded such that what I knew yesterday, I know not today. So I ask myself, who am I? Or, perhaps, who was Von yesterday and who is Von today and are the two the same?

If I show you a picture of me as a child and I ask who that is, is the anwer—that’s me? If it is me, can you arrange a meeting with that young man? No? He does not exist? Really? Where did he go? Did he die? Who was he? And who am I today, if not the ghost of a thousand former me’s, all forever gone. To be born to the present, I must die to the past and so my whole life is nothing but coming and going, living and dying, forever changing, moment by moment.

When I say I’m here, what does that mean? And if I am here, am I totally here and if not totally, then where is the rest of me and how do I perform this magic act of being here and there at the same time?

Do I see or do I construct?
Do I hear or do I translate?
Do I love or do I judge?

In the spirit of oneness—I should have told Kyra this last night—it is impossible to piss on someone else without pissing on yourself. We all swim in the same pool.

In the flow of love, which is the flow of oneness, life is good and easy and natural. Outside the flow of love, life is painful and hard and filled with the friction of resistance.

We join, we belong for either love or fear. Where there is one we do not find the other, but only love beats within our very fiber. Fear is the intruder.

So what do I love and what do I fear? And how honest is my inventory? Can I eat my list or does it evaporate like cotton candy?

When the slate is blank, what is my default position? Who sets my default position and who can change it?

Note to self: spend more time with my bamthems and flutrices.

The way of no way is the only way to avoid the wrong way; but before one can know the way of no way, one must first master the way of way. Ultimately, the way is both way and no way without being one or the other.

Von placed his pen down and took a deep breath. His snizzle was ready and his mind, well, it was still damn itchy.

Categories: Story, Von, Journal

240. Von's Journal #1

Kyra left in the early hours of the morning and Von was sad to see her go and he thought of Rog and the times they danced the night into the day. Reaching into his desk, he pulled out two small metallic discs, no larger than the tip of a young girl’s finger, and placed them on his head behind his ears. Ambient noise faded away as wet ink vanishes into dry papyrus.

Reaching back into his desk, he retrieved a small black folio and taking pen to paper began to write, not as most do, but in the free flow of one concerned only with letting his snoot induced mind and hand communicate without interference. With the conversation of the night still whirling in his head, words appeared as fast as he could move his tired fingers, punctuation and grammar be damned.

I’m at the age where I have memories and then all I have is memories of memories, and of course, what I muse upon most is the memories that have forever slipped away and I wonder if I am less of me for that loss.

My body moves on its own accord, within its own time. I grow old, my eyes change and here in space there is nothing I can do about it.

When you see the person, you see yourself and if you can see past yourself in that person, you see the past, you see their book and from that book you can feel their future. So few have the ability to change their book one hundreds pages into their life and so they live trapped lives, stuck in a story, in illusions neither seen nor known.

There is the flow of life and that flow is always moving. When we obstruct that flow with resistance or negativity, we create pain. The resistance of standing against the flow of reality—hurts.

Here to empty my cup, of what I know to make room for something else, something more. Here in space, on Bravo, fate itself has both emptied our cup and we, with our concerns and worries and fears have filled it up again because we fear the emptiness, we fear the unknown, we fear the silence, and in space, there is nothing but infinite silence. So we wake up each day and the silence mocks us with the very thing we fear—the emptiness, the void, the blank black slate of the unknown.

Von put his pen down and scratched his head and he thought of Rog and Yul and he thought of connections and then he said under his breath, “frail it,” and poured himself one more shot.

Categories: Story, Von, Journal

239. Connections

Von’s mood seemed to change. He picked up the crystal decanter, a beautiful antique that Kyra made a note to ask him about some day, and slowly poured two more glasses full with amber snoot. Kyra could have sworn she saw his hand shaking ever so slight.

“To answer your question, I call them connections. They define our life, give it meaning. Most of the time, we never think about the web we live in, the thousands of little touches that shape everything we do—that is, until someone or something takes them away. Then,” Von raised his glass in silent salute, “as if someone pulled back the blinders, all is clear and all is both terrifying and serene at the same time.”

Von took a sip without taking his eyes off Kyra. She didn’t move nor did she break eye contact and so he continued. “Back on Hyneria, on-world and in society, everything is connected to everything else. Get sick, you call your doctor and he or she takes care of you. Need a loan, a thousand bankers will vie for your business. Wreak your transport, one call and a tow is there, a second call and a shop repairs. Hungry? Go to a restaurant, pay by cash or credit. Want entertainment, a hundred shows await. Every one and a thousand more is a connection.”

“I can see that,” said Kyra, enthralled with the Papaesque nature of this conversation.

“It goes deeper,” continued Von. “Our systems, our language, our traditions—all of these are connections in their own right. Our nationality, our politics, count them too. And then, there is family. Parents, siblings, relatives. At work, we have colleagues, bosses and subordinates. And when we get home, our pets or even Goldie. Every one of them, again, a connection.”

Kyra took a sip and the lights seemed to dim as if on schedule. Only thing missing was the crashing of the waves and a campfire. “Please continue Von.”

“Well, there is also Hyneria itself. The pungent smell of fresh turned farmland. The salty sea breeze or even just the ground under our feet on a hike in the mountains. More connections. You see, in a way, everything we do, everywhere we go, touches someone or something that literally defines who we are.”

“Very interesting Von, but what does all this have to do with Em’s soulless comment?”

“A lot. On the surface, everything we knew about who we were, who we are, everything that defined our lives, is gone. Think about that for a second. We no longer have firm soil under our feet or fresh air to breath. Get sick, there is no doctor. Want an education, there is no university. Want to get married, neither church nor minister. Support a cause, no political party to join. Bravo breaks down, nowhere to take her. You see, our thousands upon thousands of connections, they’re gone. We still have a few, but the contrast is night and day. Here on Bravo, just the seven or eight of us, well, I suppose it’s kinda like walking to the cliff and looking over the edge and the net that was always there, is gone. I’m only surprised it has taken the better part of a year for anyone to voice this feeling, although I suspect the angst has been present for quite some time.”

“I think you’re right Von. Has been one helluva year with hardly time to catch our breath. Can I ask you a question?”

“Go for it.”

“It’s rather personal so if you don’t want to answer just tell me it’s none of my business.”

“Fair enough?”

“I’m thinking you didn’t just stumble upon this view one day out picking flowers?”

Von tried to smile. “Well, no, I wouldn’t quite put it that way.”

Kyra put her chin on her chest and widened her eyes. “You don’t have to continue if you don’t want. I really don’t mean to pry.”

“No, no, good for the soul to share. As you know, many years ago, I was taken prisoner and tortured at the hands of the Javalinas. Most know of the neural trace they implanted in my brain, long since removed, although that damned ghost of an itch remains, and probably will so until the day my spirit departs to places unknown. But there is another part of the story I’ve not shared.” Von’s complexion changed and his face suddenly appeared drawn and old, the creases of which looked like dry riverbeds as seen from above.

“The greatest torture is passive, not active. Once the neural trace was planted and they had what they wanted, well, I can’t speculate on motive, but the bastards put me in solitary confinement. They took away food and light and space and gave me only enough water to keep me alive and for forty days I endured what no living creature should have to endure at the hands of another. Torture comes in two forms. Brute force is perhaps the crudest and least skillful, although I must say eventually either produces results or kills the prisoner. But there is another form of torture, a form much more sinister, more imaginative, and, if pure hell is the goal, much more effective—solitude.

“You see, brute force, no matter how painful or agonizing actually gives the prisoner something useful. It gives him affirmation, it gives contact, a connection to another living entity, an entity that at least thinks enough of you to torture you, to expend their time and energy on you, and as strange as it may sound, you feel important with each blow, or punch, or slap or beating. Now don’t get me wrong, physical torture will break you and you will curse the day you were ever born, but it doesn’t take everything.

“Solitude of total deprivation, however, is something very, very different. The torture is simple. They put you in a very small box, lock you up, and leave. In effect, they remove every connection you have to virtually everything. I would ask you to stop and think about that for a second, but try as you might, the exercise would be pointless. There are some experiences that simply go pass the ability of the imagination.

“Slowly, you feel a dismantling. You see, before they put you in the hole, they tell you things, plant seeds. They tell you you will never see another living soul again, nor will you ever see light, or taste food, or read, or walk, or stand upright. They tell you they already have everything they need from you such that not even your torturers have need or desire of you anymore.

“They strip from you the most basic need of significance, the need to matter—to someone, even if that someone is just the person who beats you every day. They sever every living connection to everyone and everything and in this state one of three things happens and they happen rather quickly, although at the time it did not seem that way nor even now does it seem as short a time as I have come to learn it was.

“First, most prisoners give up and die. Second, most of those that don’t die go insane. But there are a few, not many, who manage somehow to come out the other side. I would like to tell you I did it on my own, but the credit goes to my training, the very training Zeke instilled in me. You see, in solitary confinement, you are forced to see your face before you had a face and when you see that, the stark terror cannot be put into words. That terror, however, is a mistress and she will take you one of two ways. If you try to hold on to the external connections that defined who you thought you were, she will take you under the veil of insanity. If, however, you are able to let go of those illusions, to allow the current to take you out to sea and trust that although the shore is receding that this is the only way home, then and only then will she take you to places you never imagined existed.

“My dear Kyra, I do not know how to tell you what it is like to go within, but I can tell you this, when you release yourself into the flow of the mistress and you taste your own tongue and swim in your own blood, you enter a non-conceptual world, a world without words, or sights or sounds, a world where there is nothing to be connected and at first you don’t understand, but quickly you feel, I suppose as fish do underwater, but you come to understand the reason there is nothing to be connected, nothing to be in relationship with is, well, how do I say this, hell, here it is, there is just a oneness and that oneness is full and complete. Now don’t ask me no questions because I can’t give you any answers."

Kyra sat stunned and even if she did have a question she wasn’t at all sure her tongue was willing to move.

“Getting back to your original query on soullessness and my answer about connections I hope you see there are three basic positions. First is where we live without the awareness of the conceptual web of relationships that some call society or civilization, although I feel both definitions miss the mark. This is where most live their lives, unaware, unthinking, caught in a fantasy world that literally exists only in their own heads, and, I suppose, what is most sad, is most of those never even realize their whole life is nothing but a dream. Second is where Em is at the moment, although I would hazard a guess she is only vaguely aware that all is not as it is or should be. Em is in that space between unawareness and awareness and I can tell you, that is a most uncomfortable place to be, very close to being lost, of feeling dispossessed. It is, however, the first step to the third stage or position, the position of oneness in which the illusion of separation disappears.”

Kyra sat for a long time and so did Von and neither said anything. Then slowly a smile emerged from Kyra’s face and she stood up, emptied her glass and slammed it down on the table. “Von, you are one righteous dude. Now do right by this Hynerian and pour us both another.”

And so he did, and the two drank into the night such as Kyra had never partaken before. She missed her Papa, but Von was doing a damn fine imitation and that was just alright with her.

Categories: Story, Kyra, Von

238. Feeling Lost

“Hey Von, got a minute?” asked Kyra, poking her head into his open quarters.

Von looked over his silver reading glasses like a professor taking the measure of his response to a student’s silly question. “Would be my pleasure. Come on in.” (responding in his sonorous baritone)

Kyra entered on tiptoes, quiet as a patron arriving late for the opera, and Von returned to polishing his twin las pistol with strokes sharp and practiced. Moving cloth whip tight, his detail complete with the focus of a soldier consumed in contemplation of imminent battle. Kyra watched, absorbed in the mediation of his routine, of hand on metal, of mind in flow. Von’s breathing flowed with the steady ease of a light rain as his hands moved faster and faster, cloth transparent with blur as the mirror-like finish of his las seemed as polished as possible. Yet, still he polished and she understood the exercise was not for the polishing of metal as much as the polishing of mind.

Without taking her eyes off his aged hands Kyra gingerly broke the spell. “I just had an interesting conversation with Em.” Von continued to work, not looking up. “She never ceases to surprise me.” Von smiled. Kyra pulled her cheeks up as if to reveal words hidden. “She agrees with the others.” Kyra paused again. Von held his las up to the light aligning his sight with the shinning shaft of retribution as he liked to call his instrument of righteous reprieve. “She feels we are chasing ghosts, our own, that we are unnecessarily placing ourselves in harm’s way, or as she so poetically stated, sailing into the darkness of our own souls.”

Von looked up, thumb under chin and index finger tapping his dry pursed lips as if lost in thought before uttering, “Hmmm.” Then he returned to work.

“If this is not a good time I can come back later,” said Kyra, somewhat annoyed that Von seemed to be preoccupied.

“Now is as good a time as any. If you have a question Kyra, ask, and with what little wisdom remains in my itchy skull, I shall endeavor to answer.”

“Fair enough. Em also mentioned a feeling of soullessness and sterility, here in space. I have to admit Von, I feel it too, which only heightens my concern with regard to this mission. What was once clear is now cloudy. On the one hand I feel drawn to the signal and on the other, well, I can’t get the echo out of my head, an emptiness I suppose, that somehow there are more important things. My Janus Von, do you realize I chose this mission over Yul? Do you realize she may not be alive when we return? When Em threw out that soullessness bit, and I know she didn’t mean it the way I’m taking it, well, I just wonder if I haven’t lost my way, that I haven’t misplaced my priorities.” Kyra paused and looked down at the ground.

“Please continue,” said Von.

“Have I become a cold-hearted selfish bitch?” Before Von could answer she added, “Yul could be dying right now, right now Von, and all I gave her were words. I said all the right things. But, well, you know. There are words and there are actions and right now I’m feeling like a huge hypocrite. The mighty Kyra, always talking about love, about relationship. Do you understand what I am asking?”

“Well—“

“Because I don’t.”

“We may need some snoot for this one,” suggested Von.

“I’ve been telling myself I had no choice. As soon as I heard that tape, I told John the same thing. I had to go. Papa always told me not to make decisions in the firestorm of emotion. I did. And then, well, is it just stubborn pride that is blinding me, keeping me from seeing the bigger picture, from recognizing what it seems the rest of the crew already knows? I mean, when I asked Em why she was here, you know what she told me?” Kyra’s eyes began to water.

“What did she say?”

“She told me she was here for me, for love, but for me, even though she thought, like the others, I was wrong, she came because of relationship, her relationship with me, because she felt, she knew I was wrong and that I was going to need someone as soon as I discovered that fact. Can you believe that? You know, she tried to tell me she was here because of the wanderlust in her blood, but I know better. She is here, with me, because I’ve lost my way. Now you tell me, who should be leading this crew?”

“Can I say something?”

“I’m sorry Von. I feel like I’m answering my own questions and the truth is coming down on me like a house of cards. What did you want to say?”

“I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”

“How so?”

“I’ve heard the tape. And although it would be nice to be by Yul’s side, she is in the best hands available. We have a mission--a Hynerian vessel has sent a distress call.”

“They’re lost Von. You heard what John said. The signal is old and Trev did not dispute that point.”

“Let me ask you a question. Could John be wrong or that he let his desire for you to return with him cloud his judgment? Is it possible, their technology has simply got it wrong? And for Trev, the boy hardly knows how to shave much less interpret distress transmissions.”

“What are you saying Von?”

“Life is frailing gray. There is no right or wrong, no fault or blame in this situation. We must act on the best available information. I will say this. If you had stayed with Yul, had not followed up on this distress call, I can say without any doubt, the ghosts of which Em speaks would have haunted you till the day you die. We have a window to act, and we are acting as any Hynerian would. Simply put yourself in the shoes of that crew. Would you want a potential rescue party to assume you were lost? Or would you want them to make every possible effort, regardless of the odds, regardless of what some alien technology told them about your condition? And Kyra, if we find survivors,” Von smiled, “do you understand where I’m going with this?”

Kyra wiped her eyes. “I do Von. Thank you. I think I’ll have that snoot now.”

“Why not,” smiled Von.” He poured two glasses and handed one to Kyra. “Now as for the soullessness of space, I feel it too, but it has nothing to do with space.”

“Really,” said Kyra, taking a sip of the amber liqueur. “Pray tell then.”

“Connections, my dear. That feeling has everything to do with connections.”

Categories: Story, Kyra, Von

237. Like a Calf

“Rog, put me down right now,” demanded Yul, her tiny fists protesting without merit upon his back, her waist wrapped over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

“Oh, I’m going to put you down alright. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over that one.”

“Rog, don’t you dare. Rog? Rog! What the frack do you think you’re doing?

Rog swung Yul off his shoulders and onto his knees. “Only what I should have done a long time ago.” His left hand grabbed the back of her hair as his right hand came down hard on the rounded cheeks of her upturned arse. Yul yelped, somewhat shocked he actually spanked her. “That was for tonight.” A second “pop” echoed in the air. “And that one is for tomorrow since I know you are bound to do something to piss me off.”

Raising his hand a third time, he snapped his fingers and music (Sweet Child O’ Mine—or the Rog equivalent) begin to play with a beat that set his legs in motion. Bobbin his head he smacked her firm bottom a third time with just a little something extra.

“You bastard,” yelled Yul. A few smacks was one thing and perhaps she deserved them but he was enjoying himself just a little too much now. Taking a deep breath, she chomped down on his calf and he let out a yelp of his own, relaxing his grip just enough for Yul to break free.

Their apartment was small with few places to run. Her breathing rapid with sweat streaking down her face, she backed into a corner. Rog closed in, equally as out of breath and wet with effort. Yul bent her knees like a cat preparing to pounce. “You think you're Hynerian enough to take me Mr. Sneak up from behind baggy pants?”

Rog tried to keep a straight face but the out of the blue baggy pants comment was too much. “Hynerian enough? Hynerian enough,” he responded nodding his head with a grin like one in control. “You’re bout to find out Ms I’m the emotional center of the universe.”

“Oh you bastard, you know that is a cheap . . . .” Yul stopped mid-sentence and her eyes got big as Rog, with his signature grin, pulled a coil of rope from behind his back. “Don’t you even think it,” Yul responded, lowering her voice and enunciating each word slowly and distinctly in part to indicate her seriousness and in part to buy a little time.

“Oh, ain’t no thinking bout it. I’m gonna rope you like a dirty cowhand ropes a calf at the end of a long day.” Rog twirled the rope in his leathery right hand, a display to indicate this wouldn’t be his first time. “Now baby, you can resist all you want or accept what you got coming. Makes no difference to me, but if I might make a suggestion, I think you might enjoy this just a tad bit more if you just go along.”

Yul relaxed her shoulders like one resigned to their fate. “Suppose you got me there.” And then Rog made the mistake she was looking for—he relaxed in accord. Later he would say he never saw the roundhouse kick to his temple that knocked him out cold but Yul knew otherwise. He saw it. He just couldn’t do anything to stop it, but that would be their little secret. A Hynerian’s ego needed massaging after all.

Twenty minutes later:

Rog was buck-naked and spread eagle on the bed, his wrists and ankles securely tied to the four corners of the bed. Blinking his eyes as if to gain focus he sheepishly managed to say, “Baby, you know I didn’t mean it,” as he tried to deliver his best boyish grin, which was about the only defense he had at his disposal.

Yul, wearing only her devilishly wicked smile, crawled on top of Rog, tucking her knees firmly on either side of his broad chest. Slowly bending over from the waist, she let her nipples graze his chest, glowing hard and blue with the evidence of her intent. “Just relax and enjoy it baby,” purred Yul as she licked his left lobe, delighting in throwing his own words back at him. “That is the advice you had for me, isn’t darlin’?”

Before Rog could respond, she slid her lips from his ear to his mouth without losing contact, making sure he felt the deliberateness of her warm breath on his cheek. As her lips found his, Rog closed his eyes and relaxed. Gently, Yul suckled his lower lip between hers, letting her tongue dance back and forth from side to side before sucking his pink flesh between hers, pulling him inside her warmness, past the gates of mastication (ed note: I’ve just been dying to get that word into the story somehow :-D).

Rog’s whole body sank into the bed as if dead weight, such the power Yul could exert with the skill of a kiss. Then she bit down, hard, drawing blood while simultaneously grabbing his male Hynerian-ness with the warm agent of manipulation, otherwise known as her right hand. To have Rog tied down was one thing. To have him roped like the calf he thought her to be, literally tied down with teeth to lip and hand to vulnerable-ness, well, that was just too delicious a proposition for Yul to pass up. Her boy was going to find out what it was like to be taken, with or without his consent, but to be taken without recourse, to be taken in every way, however she wanted, at the pace that communicated complete and utter control.

Without releasing her right hand grip from behind, Yul sat upright on his chest. She playfully licked her blue spear-like tongue over the wet redness of Rog’s essence, an essence she wanted it to be clear, she had taken, not that he had given. Watching his eyes, Yul moved her left hand to her left erect nipple, and with index finger and thumb, begin to pinch and twist and pull as if to say, the pleasure tonight my sweet, is going to be all mine and you are going to witness every single slow purposeful delight.

With a dreamy lost in pleasure smile, Yul rolled her tongue over her red wet lips again. “My, oh, my, my sweet baby. You taste so warm tonight.”

Rog tried to pull free, but the ropes only cut deeper into his flesh and he wondered where she had learned to rope like this. Seeing his effort, and for good measure, Yul allowed her agent of manipulation to slide down his hardening instrument to the twin provocateurs of potential future Roggies. “Relax baby. I promise this is not going to hurt, unless,” and she tightened her grip, “that’s the way you want it?”

“Well,” choked Rog, still smarting from his bleeding lip, “I suppose discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Oh shut the frail up,” shot back Yul as she pulled out a shinny chrome knife, hesitating just an instant before cutting the ropes with a lust in her eye Rog hadn’t seen in sometime. “And frail me into next week. Give me that future you think we have.”

As Rog rubbed his wrist, Yul pulled back and popped his tight and taut arse with a crack like lightning. “Now!”

Categories: Story, Rog, Yul

236. Future Credits

Rog and Yul walked from store to store, hand in hand. The City of Hope had almost anything one could want. John had given them a credit slate with more value than they could spend in a year, and, John had laughed, spend that and I'll give you two more; and so they walked and they looked and Yul’s excitement grew dimmer by the hour.

“We can buy anything we want. What do you think?” asked Rog, trying to lift her mood with his own. Yul was unusually quiet. She looked lost. “What’s wrong baby? What did I say?”

“You know what shopping is?” asked Yul, tears filling her big eyes.

Rog pulled her in tight. “I don’t know baby, tell me.”

“It’s a future.”

Rog pulled her tighter, not sure what to say to that.

“Look around. See all these people? Look at their faces, their eyes. They have a future. I saw it in my grandmother.”

“What did you see baby?”

“When she was near the end, she lost all desire to go shopping. My mother couldn’t pull her out of the house or interest her in anything. She just didn’t care anymore. Material things mattered not the least to her and you know what? She was never that way.”

“Baby, don’t talk that way. You have a future. We have a future.”

Yul shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me. Help me understand. Make me understand.”

“I don’t feel it. Or perhaps I do. I do feel the emptiness. I feel it like an endless gray day. Nothing but gray, everywhere I look. There's just nothing there.”

“Baby, I’ve told you, we are going to beat this thing.”

“It’s not just that," said Yul, her voice trailing away as her eyes looked down and to the right. Her shoulders drooping with the lifelessness of a puppet put away.

Rog was starting to get exasperated. “Then what is it?” A tone rising in his voice he quickly regretted.

Yul either didn't hear or didn't care. “Don’t you feel it? Our life. What is it Rog? Is this home? Are we going to stay here? And if not here, where? Bravo? Is that our home? Look at all this stuff. Do you really want any of it?” queried Yul, her eyes boring a hole right through Rog.

“Well, . . .”

Yul stomped off. “Call me when you get it.”

Rog stood as a boulder in a sea of people as Yul disappeared in the crowd. “Damn, what the hell was that?”

Categories: Story, Rog, Yul

235. Outtake #1: Sailing to the Sun

One week later.

Bravo slipped through the silent blackness of space as if pulled by the invisible hands of fate or, as Kyra solemnly mused, like Papa’s river carrying them forth; to the next bend or the fall was not theirs to know. Only Emy had joined Kyra and Von. One week removed from departure, one week to contact, the ship had never felt so quiet or so spacious.

“How are we doing Em?” asked Kyra, watching with pride as Em stood watch over the control panel, her sea legs planted firmly in command. Kyra only imagined this was how her father must have stood.

“All systems green. Not a problem in sight,” sighed Em as if disappointed. “I suppose now we just sit and wait. You know, there is something sterile about space travel, something lacking,” Em searched for the right word . . . .

“Something soulless?” offered Kyra.

“Yes, soulless. Do you feel it too?”

“More so since we departed. No offense, but Bravo just doesn’t seem the same without Rog and Yul and Trev and Mairi. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure Kyra. Anything. And by the way, no offense taken. I feel it too.”

“Do you agree with the others?”

“In what way?”

“Do you think this mission is imprudent? Foolhardy? Misguided?”

“Yes, I do.”

Somewhat surprised Kyra sat up. “Really?”

“In a way, yes.”

Kyra searched Em’s face. She was not joking. “Care to explain?”

“I’ve already told you why I’m here.”

“No, not that. I meant why you agree.”

“Oh, well, my father always said we sail to the sun, not from it, which I suppose was his way of saying we move forward, not back. I do understand the desire and need to pursue this signal, but I believe all we will find is answers for our ghosts, not for us, and I think the bigger question is, why are they still haunting us? Or to phrase it another way, why do we still allow them to haunt us?”

“But you don’t agree?”

“Agree or not agree is not how I would frame the question. I think the question is more, as you might say, one of love.” Em smiled.

“Love?” Kyra smiled back, the kind of smile that said you have my attention now.

“I love you Kyra and so I am here—for you. The mission, I believe is sailing into the void, it doesn’t move us forward. But I’m not here for the mission, for missions will come and go, as will this one. I’m here because, as my father also used to like to say—often, the relationship trumps the circumstance. This mission is important to you and so it is important to me. I’m here to honor you, to serve you. The mission matters little.”

Em paused and Kyra allowed the silence. Em began again. “Now, having said that, I do believe as long as we are haunted, as long as we live in that darkness, then I believe we must seek the light and so I like to see this mission as a ghost busting exercise. What we find on that vessel will matter little in comparison to what we find in the dark reaches of our soul, that place that compels us forward.”

Kyra just sat, her jaw slightly open and her eyes a little wider than normal. “Em, I don’t know what to say.”

“No need to say anything. The look in your eyes right now has given me more than a library of words. On the open water, miles from nowhere, my father would hug me tight; tell me he loved me as he whispered, as fathers do, that without each other we had nothing. As I said a week ago, I am thankful you welcomed me on this mission, welcomed me to travel with you and Von. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure Em.”

Em’s eyes widened and a sparkle seemed to appear. “Did you see that performance Trev gave?”

Kyra busted out, tears of laughter blurred the corners of her sight. Wiping her eyes and catching her breath she said, “Yes, Em. Yes I did.”

“And?”

“And what?” teased Krya.

“Whhhaaaat did you think?”

“I think we saw a side of Trev none of us had ever seen before.”

Em’s eyes drifted away. “I’m sailing to the sun Kyra.”

[ed note: this chapter is the first of what I am calling an "outtake," which is to say, I'm not really sure I like what is said and how it is said enough that it makes the official story, but it has enough redeeming value to be included. So, with that said, enjoy.]

Categories: Story, Kyra, Emy, Outtake

234. Love Is

The night rolled on with each member of the crew taking their turn. Trev, perhaps most of all, shocked everyone with his performance. His golden honeyed voice reached angelic proportions and some wondered why he ever considered medicine. Em seemed lost in her own world as Trev performed, with eyes only for dreams and possibilities.

Last to perform was Kyra. Taking the mike and standing center stage words flowed, or so it seemed, not from the lips but from the pounding in her chest and she looked over the crew toward Von working the bar, yet, as Von would later say, her eyes did not meet his. There are words and music and song but what Kyra performed eclipsed them all. Her eyes shone and her skin appeared to glow and with each movement of arm, with each step of foot, one felt the love and heat of a long simmering volcano erupting in sheer power and beauty that words alone failed to justify. So without further ado, I present to you, Kyra.

you look at me
and I go with you
and it's eternal, this moment
the sun is shining
life is laughing
my heart opens up
I want to give it to you
I want to carry you
I want to love you
for love has remained
didn't ask
is simply there
there's no running away
that's obvious to me

you and I that's quite surely
like a wonderful deep rapture
of the very special kind
and we have a right to
keep meeting again and again
to keep looking at each other
when the big wide world calls
I'll surely go with you

love doesn't want
love doesn't fight
love doesn't become
love is
love doesn't seek
love doesn't ask
love is like you are

good night my marvelous one
and I'd still like to express my gratitude
what you did
what you said
it certainly wasn't easy for you
you think of me in complete love
and what you see only moves forward
you're courageous
you're smart
and I'll always be there for you
that I know for sure

you and I we're like children
who love each other the way they are
who don't lie and don't ask
when there's nothing to ask
we are two and we are one
and we see things clearly
and when one of us must go
we are still always there

we are there, we are there, we are there
we are there, we are there, we are there

love doesn't want
love doesn't fight
love doesn't become
love is
love doesn't seek
love doesn't ask
love feels like you are

love should not
love doesn't fight
love doesn't become
love is
love doesn't seek
love doesn't ask
love is like you are

like you are
like you are
love is like you are
love like you are
love is like you are
love is like you are
love like you are
love is like you are
like you are
like you are

Above Von’s head glowed a bright red orb, pulsing with energy. No one saw it, save Kyra and many, many years later, when the subject of that night surfaced in an interview, a smile and a glow appeared on misty eyes that I swore looked pass me if not over me. I put down my pen and I smiled back, and for just an instant felt I knew what was witnessed by the crew so many years ago. Liebe ist.



Categories: Story, Kyra, Karaoke