Happy New Year

2008

To all my wonderful blogging friends, I wish you all the very best in the year to come. Peace and Joy to all.

Fan Site Update: The Sex Chapters

The Sex Chapters. All neatly listed and linked by the ever faithful story mistress of hair dark and heart deep. Enjoy.

From Close Your Eyes:

Yul drove the back of her head into the down pillow like a mother in the throes of childbirth. Her wet lower lip trembled as Mairi’s mind eased into her centers of pleasure and pain with intent on pain, with quiet prejudice to push Yul to those dark corners of her sexual soul beyond the horizons of her experience, to places only a Chatelaine could take her. My frailing Janus, Yul thought (screamed) as Mairi entered (violated) her mind, forcing (raping) her way in, beotch slap me into frailing whoredom you Janus forsaken cu--.

Mairi heard it, saw it, felt it from the inside out. Yul spasmed. Mairi pushed deeper, the pain increased. Yul tensed, hard, harder, her muscles straining. Her eyes opened as if to say what the frail. Then Mairi mind slapped her as hard as Rog had ever done with hand while rubbing her warmly lubricated thumb and index fingers together, feeling the thin membrane few had felt and massaging (melting) the pain into pleasure. Yul gasped, relaxed, and gasped again. She was having trouble breathing, a feeling of falling, of being out of control, warmly, embarrassingly, flooded her senses. Her mind raced to comprehend what her body was feeling but she had no frame of reference to describe what Mairi was doing to her now.

“Easy now, my little beotch,” whispered Mairi, unbuttoning her blouse with her free hand, a distinct bluish glow slipping from the valley of her tight and taut amplitude. Yul started to speak but couldn’t. Mairi smiled. +You’ll talk when I’m ready for you to talk. Now let me see that tongue of yours, you know, the one Rog says he can’t live without.+

Mairi took the back of her index finger and ran it over Yul’s upper lip. +Come now, baby, let me see it. Show me that blue spear of pleasure and delight. Wrap it around my finger like a candy cane.+

Yul felt her lips part and her tongue slip between them and around Mairi’s finger. Slithering like the painted snake on her cheek, she licked Mairi’s finger with her long blue tongue.

+You miss him don’t you? You miss feeling his warmth beside you, inside you, like my fingers are now, taking you, in places, in ways you’ve allowed no one else. You want him back, here, with you?+

+Yes.+

+Close your eyes.+

Categories: Story, Mairi, Yul

411. In Warmth

Em nestled to Trev's side, her breath warm as sun across the plain of his chest. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, her ear suctioned upon his nippled bosom, his heart serenading, a private performance, with a rhythmic chorus. Her hair smelled of almond and images of vernal meadows and gushing pregnant springs, laughing and giggling down the mountain side, seemed as real in his mind as the head upon his torso.

Yul rolled to her side and Rog wrapped his stoutness to her conforming backside, tongue in groove, murmuring sighs as signal and standard. White stains of salt lay as evidence of labor exchanged, the warm commerce heeded, and Rog licked away like a tomcat grooming in the warmth of windowed sun. Moan as purr, Yul lifted one leg, and with a rotation of hip, as hand slides into glove, eyes closed, lips pursed and warmness radiated from loin to cheek.

With a wave of her hand, her quarters drew silent and Kyra, in melanic leather sat her melanic chair before the melanic cosmos. Silence sounded, pulsed, with a cold warmth as if the universe was breathing, a parental witness to the play before its stage. Closing her eyes, she let what was be, and as her shoulders dropped so did the baggage of her conscience, and where breathing was labored, lightness flowed. Listening, she heard mother ocean blanket the whey sand of Valla with an azure argosy as scintillating as if the stars themselves were washed ashore (and she marveled at how the sight in her mind was not so unlike the sight before her window). As the breath, wave upon gentle wave reached and enveloped her porcelain toes with the soft warmth of a mother's arms, the sea as rocking chair, melodic like a lullaby. With each slow steady practiced breath, Kyra felt the cacophony of concerns settle as wayward shells burrowing in the sand and the water once cloudy became clear.

410. Sand Dunes at Midnight

Down the metal corridor another door was locked and comm turned off. Yul pushed her head, face down, into her pillow, her back arched like sand dunes at midnight, her arse upward, ripe as low hanging fruit. Words were gone, replaced with moans and grunts through gritted teeth, and lips were wet with the spume of desire impaled. Rog held her hips as one might hold a bull in the chute. Turgid and tumid, tight and taut, muscle hard and aching, pulsing and throbbing, a lance rigid and full disappeared and reappeared as a shadow on the wall and what appeared to be a flag slapped the shadowy facade as if whipped to and fro in a summer squall.

Yul grabbed the headboard, her arms spread as wings, as if to open her lungs, as if to open herself. Her bellowed breathing gulped air, driven by the furnace between her firm legs and with eyes half shut, watched, dreamlike, as the rhythmic dance of light and shadow seemed orchestrated, punctuated, hammered and pounded like primal drums before feast victorious.

Lifting her chest, the curve of her back deepened, and where the round of her moons shone in the soft light, the labor of Rog's domestication glistened as raindrops on wax. Steady and strong as a steam engine ascending under load, Rog worked his painful lust into hers with the vigor of a ranch hand roping calves before the coming storm. Her hips seemed small in his hands and his grip would leave its mark in the days to come, but passion knows neither consequence nor accounting. Past and future were held at bay on the alter of now, and with each thrust, with each pull and push, as rotation met rotation, slap greeted slap, and desire released nature's clear oil, heated with the friction of feral craving, his lubed piston, from glistening velvet head to oak rooted base, remained firm in purpose, intent willful, result encouraged.

409. Kiss My Eyes Shut

Bravo's restoration continued, although what was being improved or fixed was hard to tell. Trev, unshod, stood before the floor length window in Em's quarters, chest smooth and bare. Two years in space, and for all the cold quiet blackness, standing before the cosmos, as if standing before a gigantic movie screen, never ceased to humble or stir a childlike wonder at the beauty and vastness of it all. Even the most agnostic could not help but pause as nature presented its case of clockwork precision. The argument was old but the sight before the giant windows in each of Bravo's personal quarters, was not academic lecture, not inebriated barroom debate nor pulpit oration. The sight was, and remained, nothing short of a mind frail, as new with each viewing as fresh laid eggs in the rustic dawn.

Trev crossed his arms, his back (skin taut over lean muscle in fluent shapes of light and shadow) to the bed of repose behind him. Em slept on her side, one long leg, slightly bent, exposed from sheet as a dress with a deep cut, her breathing steady in the way contentment and happiness would breathe if they could. Her olivaceous skin, butter smooth with youth, as if the wind of the open seas had smoothed every edge with the master pottery hands of a loving mother nature, caring for a heart pure. Her hair lay like fine silk across her nude shoulder, her head nestled on pillow warm looking all the much like a mother bird sitting on her nest.

Trev turned, his shadow upon her sleeping frame. She looked like heaven. He took one step toward the bed and she moved as if to make room, the curve of her breast soft as the pillows, warm as her heart, called forth a cocoon of times long ago and promises to come. He stopped, caught between the view behind to match the view before as, with eyes closed and flickering with dreams, Em released a jugal rising sigh. Trev watched the bed as a man in the desert watches a shimmering oasis, and what should have been easy, became very hard.

Em stirred and with eyes still closed, stretched her arms as sheet on mountain sought the gravity of valley, natural as sunrise over forest verdant. The scent of almond waifed as a finger, inviting in words not spoken, a body hard to her bosom. Time could wait. Life was moments. This was a moment. She smiled. Trev moved as if beauty itself were pulling him forward. His mind intoxicated of chemistry, potent in ways distillers of snoot dreamed to replicate. The bed was still warm, the sheets still soft, and the light from the window, muted as winter morn, wrapped the pair in a lace of starlight. As if mare to stud, one set of arms opened and the other slid into fit, as boot to stirrup, as partners neither too long nor too short. And where lips were soft, they drew wet as the ambassadors of language bowed and curtsied in a dance known from before the time of leisure and abundance. Movements of grace flowed from mind to hand, from heart to finger, and where stress once aboded, the doors were thrown open and tension released.

Em ran her fingers through Trev's hair, her thumbs massaging his temples, her agile digits pulling him closer. Chest pressed chest and a warmth passed from flesh to flesh as two hearts became closer than the muscle and bone separating them. Running her hands over his brow, she kissed his eyes shut, licking the rise of his cheek, tasting what was once not hers. He arched his back as legs spread, his chest broad, her breath warm. From the nightstand, his comm blinked. The ship could have been on fire and he could not have cared less. Without losing his balance, he reached over, turned the comm off and in a single fluid motion, rolled Em onto her back, his head seeking to give what had been given, her mind whirling in the heaviness of her warm pouty lust.

408. Thoughts Misc: I

ed note: this is the first chapter (hopefully of many) I'm calling "Thoughts Misc" or "The Laziness of a Writer." Take your pick. Below, in no order are recent misc thoughts I've had with regard to The Story. Some may or may not happen. Some have happened in my mind, but will never be written, and so, for me, live as part of The Story and as such, perhaps, should be known to the reader. Likewise, from a literary point of view, I want to do something different, to follow no written rule of writing, and explore a path The Story has not seen. Hope you enjoy this interlude. Peace to all in the New Year to come.

John thanks Kyra for taking Ariel to Cait

He wonders if her ability is not a "child of the shells" deformity

He asks if he can visit with Cait too--Kyra says no, but she can take him to see her, only he will not be able to communicate or interact with her like Ariel did nor will she know he has been by

Cait's last moments torment John, his brain seared in the abject, senseless ugliness

Minute 7:28+ (Led Zeppelin's Achilles Last Stand) is the soundtrack of John moving with Kyra between realms (alt version would start at appox the 6:19 mark)

John asks Kyra "How did you guys survive 'The Pills,' You should have been dead."

Difference between the idea of something and the doing of that thing--would we want to do everything we fantasize about?

The idea of being a parent versus the reality of being a parent--where does self-delusion begin?

Trev dock story: girlfriend slaps him in the face

Kyra washes John's head and changes his bandages

Bravo comes into sight--Em asks Pinky to find ink and brush and she paints from Joy--still blind

Kyra asks Taren about Dr X

Kyra flashbacks to first using her "gift" on Hyneria

As Bravo comes into view, there is the idea of home, a return, and each member of the crew reacts differently--good and bad

The issue of who are the good guys and who are the bad guys comes up (Kulmyk/Arc'teryx)

Kyra reflects on having killed "the good guys" in what has been called "The Kyra Incident"

The idea of atonement--does one act from an idea?

407. Interview: A Thousand Pieces

T: Can you shed any light on John's behavior shortly after the return to Bravo?

K: He had no closure. With Cait. No period to mourn. No time to grieve. You've got to remember, within minutes of her death, Tranquility was set to self-destruct, an intense firefight occurred, and we fought like hell just to reach the transport. Nothing quite like knowing the ship you're on is about to explode to get your blood pumping. I think he was haunted by two images, both of which made him feel, impotent is not the word, I suppose made him feel powerless in the face of fate. John was not a man who had ever felt that way before. All his life, he imposed his will, shaped his outcomes with skill and cunning. And then, in a matter of minutes . . .

T: You lost me on "the two images." What was the second?

K: You could almost say there were three. Three images. The first, of course, was the sight when he rounded the corner and she was still alive. He didn't talk much about that, as I imagine you can understand. The second, and this you could see in his eyes, was leaving her behind, her body. We had no choice. There was no time. Everything moved too fast. But when we boarded the transport you knew he wanted to go back and get her. I think if it weren't for Ariel, he would have gone. And the two of them, would have been reunited.

T: Reunited?

K: If he had gone, he wasn't coming back. Even if he had wanted--and I don't believe, in that moment, he did--there was just no time. The best way to explain what we saw, perhaps, is like a dog, who is willing to run back into the burning house, to be with his master, even thought the master is dead, even thought he, the dog, knows he will die going back. John had that look. Those puppy dog eyes, I still remember them, glassy, and how when he looked at you, it felt like he was looking through you, as if he lived on a different dimension, as if he were seeing a world beyond our world. And who's to say, maybe he was.

T: And the third?

K: From the transport, we witnessed the explosion, of Tranquility. One didn't need to be Mairi to know what was going through his mind. He was trained under the code of 'leave no one behind.' Yet, in his mind, he had left her, abandoned, I believe, was the word he used. She would have no proper burial. There would be no dignity in the face of the horrific. And when the Tranquility exploded into a thousand pieces, of fire and debris, and what was once a magnificent vessel was but a fading flash in the eye, well, he just didn't look the same, as if the events had a cumulative effect, each breaking through a layer of strength, and with each breakage, he became more vulnerable, less able to cope, less able to repair, less able to see the world the way it was just hours before. I suppose one could say, as went Tranquility, so went his heart, and for all practical purposes, his soul too. Shattered. And you just don't put shattered back together again.

T: Did he have any idea The Brotherhood would be waiting on Bravo?

K: If he did, he never spoke of it. I would have thought the thought would have crossed his mind, but, and I don't think he would admit it, the man was in shock. In fact, I don't think he could even tell you what he thought at that time. Shock is like a magnifying glass. The object before your mind is all you see. It looks larger than it actually is and it blocks out everything else. He had no room for anything, and this is my opinion, but his own despair. So, no, on second thought, I don't think he thought of it.

T: And they wanted him to return with them to Kulmyk, to fight the good fight so to speak.

K: Yes.

T: But they wanted more than just him. They needed more than just John.

K: So it seemed, yes.

Merry Christmas

From Kyra, Papa and the entire Bravo crew, we wish you a Merry Christmas.

406. Reflection

I sit in my prison of cold steel and glass silent and the reflection before me looks without speaking. My eyes flutter as pages of a book, memories dancing of what was, of what will never again be; and somewhere a clock, relentless, ticks away the moments of my life as leaves blown over a stone bridge and into the serpentine river flowing, always flowing, below my vision.

My body sighs and I witness a vessel I neither asked for nor command, if I am honest. I raise my arms but the weight upon my shoulders is not of body and recognizes not the touch of muscle, labor and sweat. I stretch what cannot be stretched and as frogs dream of birds, I do it anyway and the dull ache, as I know it will, remains as if sewn into sinew and skin from underneath.

Queries come like rain but I lose them in the tears. My head spins and light seems dim and sharp, cutting my mind as paper cuts a finger. I try to move and, like an echo in the dark cave of my mind, I mock myself in the attempt. So I sit and I wait. I wait not as positive action, not as my will imposed on the universe. I wait because there is nothing else. Fate will speak when fate is ready. I have not been asked for an opinion. I have no say in the matter at hand. Judgment waits not on me.

Others move around me, and they seem as mechanical toys in a storefront window, moving to move. They look concerned; for me or for them, is not clear. I hear voices, but the words are unintelligible and I auger my ear, but the fault is not of body and I begin to wonder if it is even of mind. My chest holds its curve as it held it before, and to the naked eye would seem today as it was yesterday or the day before that; yet I feel a hollowness, an emptiness not even the overflowing heart of papa could fill.

I wish they could see me now. I wish they could know the flesh of me, feel my blood warm, grow cold. And so I glance at my comm. The call is coming. An answer is as forthcoming as the dawn. And I wonder why, anyone ever thought I had the courage to carry them.

405. Round the Horn II

Ariel: Running around Bravo like a kid in a new house. Touching everything. Playing with everything. Skipping down the corridors and singing to herself.

Em and Trev: Waiting for the operation to restore Em's sight as children on xmas eve. He is just itching to give her the earrings to match the dress, and, for the moment, the joy of Em, as the sun to night, shines bright.

Kyra: Torn between desire and obligation. Kieran told her, "to whom much is given, much is expected." She is tired, weary and in need of a vacation. Although she would not admit it, she is tired of being strong, tired of being "the one" that everyone looks to for help. She is also terribly conflicted with what her "gift" is meant to be. John's request puts her back in harm's way, or more to the point, puts her in a position of more death and destruction, from her hands. Death is death, and no matter the cause, the idea of more killing is more than she can bear at the moment. She longs for a walk on the beach with Papa.

John: Not himself. The memory of Cait and the future of Ariel color every perception. The brotherhood has framed the argument for a return to Kulmyk such that he cannot say no, or at least has not found a way to say no without losing every last sense of who he is and the feeling sits nauseous in his gut. To return without Kyra is nothing less than martyrdom. To return with her, based on their last exchange, seems unlikely. Only the urgency of events stave off depression.

Tom: About to break under torture.

Tabood: About to be apprehended. About to walk the same plank as Tom.

The Hood: Fears of a secret cabal solidified. Paranoia grows in step with ruthlessness.

The Brotherhood: Waiting on John's decision.

Von: Knows something is amiss. Kyra won't answer her comm. Neither will John or Rog for that matter.

Dr X and Mairi: Exploring their options for Em and the operation.

Rog and Yul: Enjoying their new found privacy. Doors locked. Comms turned off.

Taren: Uneasy in the presence of so many Kulmyks. Uneasy with the whispers of their request.

404. Damn!

John stood before Kyra. Said what he came to say. She stood without speaking as a volcano sits without eruption. Sometimes.

"You Janus Frailing Bastard!"

John started to speak. Starting is as far as he got. From his left, as a bat shot from a dark cave, Kyra slapped the hellocks out of him. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and started to speak again. From the right, a blur of leather, with the crack of lightning, stuck the other side.

"Call it even. Damn." Kyra turned.

"Don't--"

She wheeled on the word and pointed her finger as a dagger. "Don't you even frailing say it. This is MY ship and I ain't your frailing beotch."

403. Options

Em left the examination with the same smile she carried in. Dr X, however, seemed heavier than before, as if expectation, unabated, sat on his shoulders as a cloak of lead.

+What's wrong?+ asked Mairi.

+Nothing. Everything is exactly as it is. + replied Dr X.

Mairi watched him fumble with some odd contraption, too small for her to see, and considered his non-response response; then smiled without smiling when she realized she was not nulling.

+Options my dear. I'm just considering the options.+

402. Plagiarius Hyneria

The last known view of Hyneria by the crew of Bravo

401. Cracking Wet Stone

"Dad," cried Ariel. "Taren beat me again."

"Not now," said John plowing past his daughter like a cutter, a spray of tears in his wake, her arms falling to her side with the impertinent anger of unsated anchors.

"Hey," she shouted. "I'll tell you something." John marched on. And with a young girl's voice as whip cracking wet stone, she cried out, "I wanna hold your hand."

John stopped, his back (stinging) to Ariel, his chastened head bowed. Then he turned and . . .


Soundtrack: I Want to Hold Your Hand (TV Carpio version)

400. Time Waits . . .

John cocked his head to the left with the slow steady movement of a setting moon, his eyes heavy such to sit like lead upon the wrinkled rolls of his sandbag flesh; the man across the table waited for a response. John stood. Started to say something, as a length of fluttering gauze betrayed a tremble along the side of his aged bronze face. The other man spoke. "You know I'm right."

John's eyes flared as did his gun-bore nostrils. Still, words were lacking and again, the man spoke. "If not for the brotherhood, if not for Tom, if not for Kulmyk, then . . ."

399. Mother Mother

Ceru stepped outside, and surely as the hand of woman scorned, felt the angry slap of mother nature upon a cheek once abandoned by mother biology. With eyes tired, slits in the wind, and lips cracked and dry as desert floor, he looked again to the heavens and again his mind fought what his eyes told him was there. He managed to expel three words, and as if the plaintive cry were the skeleton within, felt his body collapse upon itself: "Oh My Janus."

398. Feel the Rain

Em: Pinky, what is it?

Pinky: Oooohhh, Ohhhhh, Oooohhh!

Em: Pinky, what's going on?

Pinky: Oh my, oh my, mutter butter, mutter butttttter.

Em: Pinky!

Pinky: A note, there is a note. A note I say.

Em: P-I-N-K-Y!!!

Pinky: Mmmmmmmmmm . . .

Em: Pinky?

Pinky: Says . . .

Em: WHAT?

Pinky: No one else can feel it for you.

Em: Is that it?

Pinky: Besides the dress. Yes.

Em: Dress! What dress?

Pinky: The one Trev just left.

397. It's Me

ed note: this chapter takes place approximately 24 hours after the crew reunites with Bravo--a flash forward so to speak since we will visit events in the preceding 24 hours in the chapters to come.

Kyra returned to her quarters and assumed the position, which is to say, on bended knee and arms extended as wings. With head bowed and eyes closed tight, she placed her plea before hearts more open than her own. A brightness filled the quarters and a voice melodious spoke. "Open your eyes."

As if a warm ocean wave had gently washed over her porcelain skin, Kyra perceived an energy rare such as to be unmistakable and her heart felt as if a balloon floating in her chest, pulling toward home by the wind and the sun of life itself. Standing, floating, before her, a vision; and it spoke again. "Be not alarmed. Nothing stays the same, even in the life to come."

Kyra looked puzzled.

"It's me."

"Who's me?"

"Kieran."

396. Circle Unbroken

Ceru looked incredulously at Zeke as the old hynerian stood without moving, expecting, apparently, an answer. A thousand responses ran through his head, each seemingly less skillful than the one before. Zeke was wrong, that much was clear, but the Tao seemed to be wrong about what he was wrong about and how did one tell a ninth order Tao he was projecting and, in the projection, confused and ignorant of the facts?

His father took the mission not to repay the debt. The two, father and son, had sat down, discussed the matter of Hyneria and the mission as adults, and both had concluded the right thing to do was to accept the honor of protecting a bright Hynerian hope, to play a role in keeping the species alive, to have a chance to have an impact on life to come just as he (Ceru) would have a chance to have an impact on the life that was to die.

He had promised his dad he would honor the family name, honor him, by giving aid and succor, by showing compassion for those left behind. It never occurred to him his promise would start with the great hynerian himself. So instead of correcting Zeke, of telling him he was wrong about his father's motives, that he was wrong with regard to the pain he had inflicted, he took a higher path. The heart that was hurting was neither Ceru's nor Von's as much, as was clear now, Zeke's. Zeke was the one that was crushed by his separation with Kyra, of sending her alone into the inky dark coldness of the unforgiving cosmos.

"Sir, I forgive you."

Zeke searched Ceru's face as the two seemed to communicate in glances. Arms opened, as they had a long time ago on a planet far away, and the circle closed, as compassion, once given to the father, was repaid by the son.

Soundtrack for this chapter: Let It Be

395. Lave

Trev gently held her head as his olivaceous genuflector leaned from hip into the terra granite lave, a christening of sorts, as water flowed warm over hair wet and beautiful. Em closed her blind eyes, her hands at her waist, trembling, holding her ivory silk sash loosely. Trev moved behind her. She felt contact. As did he. Nothing said as water gurgled from the golden spigot in sympathy to thoughts rushing as one softly spooned into the other, a communication overt enough to be denied as the hands of time raced with breath shallow and quick. Hair was washed but neither noticed and where silk once hung from shoulders willing, lips risked a touch. Somewhere else a knowing Null smiled.

Soundtrack for this chapter: Johnny Vicious Club Mix of Unwritten

394. Mountains in Oil

Ceru arrived early to the compound at Valla, a place his father had spoke of but he had never been. The main house, as large as it was, looked fragile against the backdrop of the churning sea and roiling gridelin clouds. Leaning hard into the wind, his hand tight on his hat, Ceru struggle up the slippery wet stone steps, worn smooth, it seemed, as bar soap and onto the grey wooden porch. Blu was waiting and together they made their way into the house and to the study where Zeke was standing, his white tunic-ed back to the pair, head bowed and a painting in his hands.

"Come in Ceru" said Zeke without turning, his eyes still locked on the canvas in hand. "Thanks for being on time. You know, your father, he was always on time too."

Von's son stood in the doorway, not quite knowing what to say.

"Come, come, have a seat. The planet's not going to blow away today. Tomorrow maybe, but not today," Zeke smiled, the painting still in his weathered hands. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Thank you, but I'm fine," said Ceru as he sat opposite Zeke's desk in an old leather chair and wondered how many famous arses had graced the seat he sat. He placed his hands in his lap like a nervous schoolboy and looked around the study as if in a museum. After what seemed an awkward silence, he asked, "Is that one of yours?" Then quickly added, "the painting."

"This one?" asked Zeke, holding the painting in the air with one hand. "I wish it was. Then, perhaps, I could leave it be." Zeke realized from the look on Ceru's face the young Hynerian had no idea what he was taking about. "My granddaughter painted it, Kyra. Actually, we did it together. The lesson of the mountains I called it. It was her first time with oils. Still my favorite. We did it with our fingers, her choice. Grand was none too happy." Zeke smiled with the remembrance of the heat he took for that one. Oil paint, fingers and a child don't mix she had said, over and over again. And he had listened over and over again. "But I didn't call you here to wax sentimental. I need your help. Important mission. You open-mined?"

"I suppose no would be the wrong answer?"

Zeke smiled without answering.

"Okay, I'm open-minded."

"Good. But before we discuss details I need to tell you something. About your father."

Ceru moved to the edge of his chair and if there had been birds chirping he wouldn't have heard them, for the gale whipping the shutters and windows presently stood outside the attention Zeke's statement commanded. One never knew one's father as well as one thought. The mere mention of new information, inside information, for it certainly seemed Zeke was about to share something a son would not know about a father, was as treasure more precious than gold.

The ninth order Tao spoke slowly, his voice slightly deeper than before. "He loved you. He loved you as I loved Kyra."

Ceru's eyes welled. He loved his father. Zeke had been the one to authorize the imprimatur on his book of letters, so he knew the Hynerian sitting across from him knew his heart, at least as it related to his father.

"And he left for one reason only. I asked him to." Zeke paused to take the measure of the moment. "I ripped his heart from his chest. I tore him away from what he loved most, his son, you, because he owed me a debt. And I knew, I knew your father, in spite of the pain, the personal cost, would honor the debt. I would like to tell you the asking was noble or honorable or right. I'd like to present my case as to why I had the right to demand such a sacrifice. But I had no right and I have no case. Your father was the honorable one. I was wrong.

Ceru looked down at the floor, the muck of his mind stirred by the words cast his way. Zeke walked around from his desk. "Stand up and look at me." Ceru obeyed as if the asking was an order. Zeke placed his hands on the young hynerian's shoulders as his pale blue eyes sparkled without blinking. "Before we discuss our mission, I need to ask you something and I need you to look me in the eye and answer from your heart, not your mind. I won't accept anything but the truth. You understand?"

"Yes sir," said Ceru, his head spinning, confused, throbbing with a million thoughts.

"Can you forgive me?"

393. In View

"Von, get the crew up here. I think they're gonna want to see this," said Kyra, as Bravo emerged from the canvas of stars and her golden hued hull looked alive with activity like a hornet's nest abuzz. One by one, with the exception of Trev and Em, the crew arrived, and the sight before them, as if a magician's trick, stole the words from their lips and raced the drumbeat of their hearts as palms lactated and eyes became baby wide. The sight of Bravo stirred the wicked spoon of fantasy and dream (they all had recurring dreams of a return home) within the bottomless bowl of goodbyes forever lost as surely as the page of yesterday into the turbulent wind of train-like time.

"Incoming transmission," said Von, with a smile that looked warmer than it should have been.

"Is there a problem?" asked Yul, the first to catch Von's reaction.

"No, not at all." With a nod of his head, the transmission filled the bridge with a voice familiar and unexpected.

"Docking sequence initiated."

"Snazzle?" asked Rog. "What the heck?"

"It is captain Snazzle," replied the former onboard computer of Bravo's pod.

"What?"

Von interjected. "It appears the repair crew needed a few parts and Snazzle was transplanted from the Pod to the main circuit. Says since he was the only one still holding down the ship, by law, he assumed the captain's role and the repair crew has been calling him captain Snazzle, apparently, at his request."

"Your shioitting me," laughed Rog.

"I shiott you not," replied Snazzle. "And Rog, nice to hear your voice too. I've personally supervised the upgrade of your quarters. You know, I never forget a Hynerian that has graced my levers with their hands, big boy."

Well Captain Snazzle," said Kyra, "we are pleased to hear your voice too. Congratulations on your well deserved promotion," she added, winking at Rog. "Take us home my friend."

"Sequence locked," replied Snazzle. "May I suggest the crew prepare for dinner. Your presence has been requested."

Kyra nodded to the crew and then noticed John or what looked like John, his head wrapped in white gauze as if he were leaving shortly for a Halloween party. "What the hellocks happened to you?"

"Cut myself shaving."

"Your forehead?"

John shot back a look, humor absent. Kyra glanced toward Yul. The silver-haired one shrugged her shoulders as if to say, don't ask me.

392. The Brotherhood

"Sir, the transport will be docking soon. Considering all that has happened, do you think he will join us?"

"Don't know. A man loses his wife, that way, hard to say. Are the repairs finished?"

"Yes sir."

"I don't think they are."

"Sir--"

"I said I don't think they are."

"Afraid--"

"I may need time. Not like I'm asking him to go for a walk. And . . ."

"And what sir?"

"And there is the other one. We need the other one too."

"Is it true what they say? About the other one."

"Depends. What do they say?"

"That she can move like the wind and shine like the sun, that she single-handedly destroy an entire company with no more than her hands, that she can slip between realms and speak to the dead and summon the gods."

"Well, if it's not true, we're wasting our time, brotherhood or not."

New Fan Site Feature: Q5 (Updated)

The Official Story Fan Site has posted the first in a new series: Q5. The Q5 will feature 5 questions submitted by readers and can be on any chapter, character, or topic in the story, past or present. The first Q5 (Topic: Mairi) is up. Enjoy. If you would like to submit a series of questions (less than 5 is ok), please send via the email on my profile.

The second in the series is now posted: Q5: Moments
The third is the series is up: Q5: John and Cait

391. Outtake #5: Blue as the Sky

"Mairi, you have a visitor."

"Tell him to wait."

"Okay, I'm sure the Zing Tao Master will not mind."

"Wait. Are you . . . Why me?"

"Recommendation. Someone thinks you are special I guess. I think you should see him."

"How do I look?"

"Superb."

"Wait. What's his name?"

"Zeke. He said to call him Zeke."


One hour later . . .


"What did he say?"

"Those eyes. Did you see those eyes? Blue as the sky, bright as the stars."

"Yes, yes, the eyes, but what did he want?"

"He wanted to know if I wanted a ticket, an opportunity."

"No shiott?"

"I told him no."

"What!?"

"You're too easy, you know that."

"Out with it. A ticket? Where? Where would you go in this weather? Does he want you for himself? Not very Tao like. Who would of thought. Kinda old though."

"It's not like that."

"Really? Then what is it like?"

"It's a ticket off-world. He's not going. His granddaughter is."

"Granddaughter? Wait. Oh My Janus. What is her name?"

"Kyra. Heard of her?"

"Heard of her? Are you shiotting? (blank look on Mairi's face) You don't know do you?"

"Know what?"

"Who you just sat with?"

"Some Tao freak. What?"

"I don't think you understand. That was not just some Tao. That was the Tao. My Janus. Pull up a slate. We've got some educating to do."

390. The Mornings

Within hours Bravo would come into view, a homecoming of sorts, for some, a reminder of what was not to others. John looked into the mirror and washed his face with water cold as space itself, as if in the washing, in the splashing of pain, the face he knew, the face he remembered, would return. If wishes were horses and land was free he thought.

Pain came not in the night--and, contrary to belief, not in the constant and intense nightmares, each seemingly more vivid than the one before and all the more real with each re-dreaming of an event that would no more wash away than the blood from ancient cobbled streets--but in the mornings, in the mirror, when a face once familiar stared back as a stranger, and answers were as absent as the eyes grown weary in resistance and regret. In the night, the pain was sharp and quick, intense, wet and heart-pounding. But in the morning, in the mirror, the pain was nothing but endless dull grey, a heaviness in the gut, invisible to the eye but as real as the ticking of a clock, steady, consistent and as tortuous as water dripped on the forehead.

John waved his hand and water flowed, from where, to where, he did not contemplate. His white undershirt hung from his thin frame as from a wire hanger, clinging to skin as damp cloth is wont, a gift from the night, a reminder that all was not as it was. He washed his face again, slapping each cheek as a mendicant in supplication, hat extended, empty, again. Placing both hands on the lave before him, John leaned forward as if his back no longer could support the standing straight, as if judgment rendered a slouch he would wear for to stand straight was reserved for men deserving, his nose inches from the silver reflection, his breath as frost in the cold. Then as if his forehead was a hammer and as if he could bang the pain out of the likeness before his worn visage, head met glass and he never heard the knock.

"John?" asked Rog, knocking again, unsure of the odd noises from within. "John?"

The noise stopped. Yul looked at Rog. "Override the lock."

Rog fumbled the pad then reached for his las. "Put that away," said Yul, slapping the back of his head. "Frail, did you not learn anything from the last time." Offering no resistance, Rog stepped aside. Yul worked the pad, the door opened. "Oh my Janus. Go get Trev. And Rog, don't let Ariel anywhere near here until we can get this mess cleaned up."

389. Lacrimation

They stood two upon the one. Hanging impossibly pregnant, fearful of release, a single crimson drop of blood hung like a bat from her lip, pear belly round, reflecting malicious grins of goblin white distortion. Her eyes were wide, clear, resigned as pleat swayed neither to walk nor breeze. Gleam of sharpen silver matched her pearls, which jumped without grace, dumb as dead to grunts of anger pulled and pushed, thrust and parry smacking flesh forbidden in pleasure denied victor and victim alike.

He turned the corner. Time changed as thought moved as light and the movement of men slowed as if the scene would play, had played, and events were but a retelling, a story written, and as words on a page, plot in prose, beyond the observer to alter, change, or stop. From a distance the drop fell, as surely as the eyes to follow, and in the dropping from afar a cry heralded the release of a love no scythe could cast asunder.

388. To Envy Dreams

Em sat before the window, tender warm flesh, young and pink and ruddy, upon cold silent steel, aged and pearl-grey and blue. Her dark olivaceous head weaved a melody her mind forever denied humming and the glorious sight before her sightless eyes seemed more real than anything in the inventory of her seafaring memory.

Mairi stood to Em's side, her auburn mane shades of ochre banding into straw hues of primrose and crimson and bowed with tawny highlights of ancient stars as a diamonded tiara. Closing her eyes, and with a gentle approach, as rugose waves on a pan smooth lake, as arm slips into an old worn leather jacket and smiles of familiarity run from cheek to heart, the mind of the standing took the hand of the mind sitting and to a tune joyous one danced with the other and a warmness spread between hearts as if the uncaring coldness of space between them were but a helpless bystander.

+I could take you places to envy dreams.+

+Yes, please, do.+

And what was dry became wet and what was cold became warm.

Commentary and Reading: To Envy Dreams