Cain't Touch That:

Personal and Confidential Note:

My friends. We have known each other since diapers. You know, I am not going to take this. He avoids my sword, and harangues me with his viper's tongue behind my back. I am threatened by this, and I am well advised to take down his entire house.

As usual, the attempt is sideways and undermining to my position. I have been challenged again, entirely because of my advanced skills certainly, to once more prove the truth of my claims in the historical realm.

It began, when I was naturally minding my own business -- being a professional as I am -- and attending to the procedures and affairs of my duties, as I am always want to do so, whenever these refits occur.

I was therefore, going about my lawful and civilized duties when this challenge was forced upon me, by the representative of his Lordship Macho Bombosso (whose real name shall not disgrace this telling) to whom which I refer to in contempt, not for the first time -- rather than the ogre himself.

I was standing dockside, starboard as a matter of fact, in full uniform alongside my flagship the 'Death Grip'; being attended to by a group of lieutenants who were my couriers and messengers, of course; when this braggart and pompous ass presents himself, quite without entourage or introduction, and has the gall to ask if I have heard the latest news about the aforementioned Little Lord's marvelous symposium on the History of Turner{§m}. Needles about the Little Lord, I do not need under the best of circumstances; let alone while I am supervising the refit of a Battle Carrier of the Fleet in drydock.

Knowing my temperament, and being athletes all, my lieutenants had the oaf by the collarbones and heels, and were about to chuck him over the side, which would have been fatal as the drydock was dry -- when I intervened. After he was deposited on the cement, I leaned over his ruffled self, and asked him to tell me his orders -- from Lord Macho Bombosso no less!

It seems, quite unworthy of verification, that the Little Lord has again gone about presuming to be scholarly about anything, other than his own beard and ingrown toenails -- with the usual pomp and ceremony and advertisements. This always attracts a temporary crowd of the unbelievably bored, and the inexplicably curious, amongst the citizens of the Fleet Community here at Stationem Uno.

Which, on its own merits -- lacks any entirely. Being pure sophistry at best, such 'events' are about as worthwhile and note worthy, to a man of my position, as last week's safe-cracking recipes in the back pages of the Police Gazette.

There is a genuine problem with it, nonetheless, and towards a proficient remedy I am sending this report to your Lordships of the Fleet Admiralty. All nine, of your wonderful selves.

That unknighted wharf rat, has again garnered for himself a quantity of undeserved and ill-placed attention, by the 'dumb-as-a-box-of-anchors' press -- and as 'rear-sniffing' will always have it -- also several Senators of this sector. Whom (it saddens me to say) sit on the Military Appropriations Committee. The same committee that asks your nine blessed souls -- whether the Little Lord is truly so magnificent as he seems.

This is blatant self-promotional rhetoric, and falsehood for the sake of the budgetary advancement of his Fleet, over my own.

I will not even deign to examine the documents and speeches of the Little Lord, concerning the subject matter of this report. Said Indignity, already knows fully well that I am a scholar concerning these matters -- and indeed about the histories of our entire sector -- and perpetrates these atrocious behaviors as much to aggravate myself, as to gain monies for the expansion of his own Fleet.

It is with the expressed intention of offering Your Lordships the true account of this topic, that Your Excellencies can, by the light of your own learned wisdom, examine the glaring differences between anything that has been presented falsely thus far -- and this truthful and insightful rendering of the facts.

All the better to speak the Truth to Senators with.

Attached: My Spares, Repairs, and Renumerations list for the Seventh Fleet.

Do not forget. I am a Planet Owner in this sector, and I can buy the planet you are sitting on.

Aminjir Navarian

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A Most Public Exposition:

Being: The pursuit of the accurate dispensation of the facts and statistics concerning the activities of the Seeker Star II and crew -- Southwestern Frontiers visa Stationem Decem -- latter half of the Thirty-Ninth Century A.D.

By: Admiral Aminjir Navarian -- Plantagenet of Navarian's Station.

Fleet Admiral -- Seventh Star Fleet

Sector NCIC

Headquarters, Stationem Uno. May 3, 8991 A.D.

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As I intend for this popular history to put to rest, once and for all, the many conjecturous and rapscallion efforts of less worthy scholars and the unscholarly as well; and to allow our civilization to move onwards into further realms occupied by exotic star clusters -- without needless fear and anxiety ...

whereby this telling must reach the densest dawning of as many citizens of the Collective as it may reach ...

I shall choose the Type 6 (subparagraph 4) presentation format; rather than the Types 1 or 2 (October, 8986 A.D. release) as prescribed by Court Inquiry procedures -- which I myself authored to begin with.

Grazie

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There was really no fairness to it, out here, he decided. Just a few hours ago he was so much enjoying himself, lounging in the rec-room, all alone, playing a few selections of his favorite Saint Louis waterfront club jazz, on his almost new alto saxophone. He was practicing, of course, for the next set that he and his jazz group, on board the Seeker Star II, were scheduled to play at Stationem Decem Orion when they arrived in four days hence.

Now, after stepping over the body of his synthesizer man from the same jazz group, he was smashed up against a medical basin in the sick bay, looking desperately into the mirror and slowly pulling an eight inch piece of stainless steel tubing out of his throat. His suit was still on, the jetpack and helmet cast across the floor of the sick bay. Somewhere up forwards, all kinds of hell was still breaking loose. He could hear the aftershock explosions and the various alarms sounding up in the bridge; but his section was still secure (according to the displays) and he had three pieces of shrapnel in his body to be removed. Starting, with the tube of steel that had shot into his throat without reaching his vertebrae; or else he would be floating amongst the debris outside the ship right now.

There was no way around it, he pulled outwards violently and the tube gave way. More shocks of pain seized him, and he almost lost consciousness.

He did lose his vision, as blood began to stream out of his throat. He grabbed at the front of his throat with a gloved hand, and slapped a form dressing over the wound with the other glove.

He was going down fast, and he knew it. There was no possibility of his saving the ship, or fighting the damage. He knew that too. He was minus a pint of blood by now, and losing more. He could feel the wetness of a bloody suit interior on his chest, upper left arm and upper right leg. If the automatic systems or the survivors of the crew did not save the ship -- all that he was doing here was worthless, like his chances for survival right now.

He unlocked the gloves, and twisted them off from his hands, as the dressing on his throat began to fill with blood and overflow down his chest.

He needed the RapiSuture wand. This, he found several bays away in a top drawer. He staggered back to the basin, and the large mirror over it. With his EVA suit still on, he began the very painful process of stitching up his larynx, or what was left of it. He let the machine do its work on automatic mode set for 'larynx'. Then, set for 'Subcutaneous', he began to stitch together the thin layers of skin that had covered the front of his throat. The tube had hit him exactly edge on, as he looked up over the edge of the parabolic antenna into a blinding curtain of electrostatic energy, inside of which was the exploding escape module; blasting apart along with a hefty portion of the bulkhead just above and behind the portside wing.

He had no thoughts of what might have caused all of this to happen. He only thought of closing the hole in his throat, which mercifully was just the shape of the tube's diameter. His problem was removing scraps of the suit, that had been forced into the wound by the impact.

Finally, he got to the outer dermal layer. He changed the settings on the RapiSuture wand, and watched with fuzzy vision as the skin came together and was melded into a blend with the liquid sutures of the wand. An onboard laser smoothed the mixture into a wrap of original skin and new plasmic flesh, coded for his DNA by the hand grip reader.

Now he searched for, and found, a vial of time-released general anesthesia. He loaded it into a syringe and set it aside. This done, he reached for a sharp scalpel and began to cut off the left arm of his suit, and a large patch from the front of his upper right leg. Both were impact areas. A jagged piece of escape module shrapnel stuck out from both places. Sharp, raw, bleeding.

He had followed the rule, he had not panicked nor pulled out the foreign objects that had ripped into his suit. The suit's reactive layering had quickly seized the pieces of metal and surrounded them, sealing off the airsuit again. That is how, bleeding nonetheless, he had lasted long enough to pull himself down the side of the ship to the starboard aft cargo hatch, not wanting anything to do with the port side.

The pieces of metal came out with an attendant yelp in each case, followed by the RapiSuture wand and its magic treatment. He worked fast each time, the sudden pain clearing his vision briefly. After these tasks were completed, he injected the anesthesia into his naked left arm.

By now, he was sitting on his ass on the sick bay floor. He felt around the outer layers of the suit for more wounds; but he could not and there were not, he hoped, as he fell back onto the floor and passed out.

----------

The lights of the sick bay had gone out, only the emergency lights still shown. He awoke many hours later, in the darkness, still warm inside the suit. His left arm was bare however, and yet it was warm also. The environmental system for this section must still be working. His suit was sticking to his body, because of dried blood, and that hurt. He got to his feet slowly, not to pull out any new sutures, and went to the sick bay communications console. For an hour he tried every station, but no one responded. The ship cameras were quite functional, and they showed the gruesome Truth.

He made sure that this section was sealed, according to the indicators. Then, he manually checked the sick bay entrances to make sure that they were closed tightly.

The ship was rolling, about five degrees to port and then starboard; ten degrees in all; slowly, taking about two minutes to complete a roll. This was stable enough for him to take a much needed shower in the stalls at the back of the sick bay, slowly peeling his suit off in the process.

In the shower, under the warmth of the sparse waterfall that fell over him, he tried to remember what he had already endured.

It was not his turn to fix anything outside the ship. He was off duty and enjoying his saxophone playing. That caused him a ripple of mental anguish, and he instinctively reached for his throat under the shower; but held off from touching it because of the new repairs. He thought miserably that his saxophone days were over. But, hope springs eternal as they say -- and instead of worrying about the ship, he thought about how he could still breathe. He weakly made several attempts to blow air out of his mouth. The results were marginal and accompanied by some real pain, but the air did flow out of his mouth.

"Get repaired! Get back together Man!" he thought under the shower. Then, maybe in a year, he will be able to really get out some pressure and play that saxophone again.

That was the extent of his thought processes for the rest of the day. After the shower, he toweled off and then found the most comfortable of the med bay beds. He stripped the blankets off two other beds, and under three of them he lay down and promised himself that he would play the saxophone again as soon as he could; and then fell to sleep again.

His last thought was -- "Frank is still dead outside the door. Have to clean that up tomorrow."

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It was the antenna, that had really saved his life. This was his chief ray of happiness over the next four days. The tube had hit him because his head and throat were not shielded by the antenna. He had instinctively looked up and over the outer rim of the antenna at the explosion. Now, four days later, he was looking at that same antenna through the camera eyes of a repair droid on EVA (Extra Vehicular Activity) for the purpose of inspecting it. That part of the dish which he had been behind, was smashed heavily and riddled with shrapnel, two of which had gotten through and hit him hard. But, there were hundreds more that had not reached him, otherwise his suit would have exploded.

Malcom Jackson was making himself be busy. He could, by now, maintain for about six hours a day; before having to trudge back to his comfortable bed in the sick bay. Today's point-of-it-all was to inspect the antenna, having already made clean up attempts on the bridge. The more he stayed busy, the less he thought about things.

There was a thought, wandering around in the back of his mind, that they were supposed to be at Stationem Decem by now; but instead they were plugging along at one-eighth speed on a course that was 170 degrees by 150 degrees away from that destination; and there was nothing that he could do about it. Apparently the engines had avoided damage because of their buffer zones, but he was in no way prepared to take the ship off of its emergency settings yet.

The last three days, had been an experience in what to do with the Dead. All of the nice and prosy literatures about how to properly dispose of bodies on board a starship, were just someone elses trash now. Malcom, simply took off of them whatever tools and weapons he needed; photographed their dead bodies from five different angles, including full facial (cleaning them up first); and then shoved them all out of a cargo hatch using an EVA module. As there were 216 of them, he had to tie the entire assembly together first. In a long and winding and frozen string, they all drifted off into deep space.

"Say Hello to Waste Away I!" was his only thought as he watched them fade away.

Nineteen of the ship's 88 service droids still functioned, and of these he had eighteen working determinedly at the damages to the ship's main hull structure, portside. He still did not know what had happened, but the rebreather plant and auxiliary power stations on the port side, just above and behind the wing, were missing. Gone. Not accounted for.

Instead, that section was exposed to outer space and the ship survived due to the integrity of the walls and hatches of that section, which had held.

The concussion waves, however, had shaken the ship so heavily that instruments and systems were ruptured all over the ship. Fires had broken out in many places. The officers and crew died from either direct death, the shock waves, asphyxiation, smoke inhalation, exposure, freezing or electrocution. Five had committed suicide, rather than turn into trapped icicles in areas that had lost heating.

Malcom, gave the EVA droid an order to make a systems check of the antenna's transmitter, and then return on board with the results. The antenna was a mess, but the transmission arm was still intact and so was three quarters of the dish. He might find a use for it as is, or he might even have it repaired if that could be arranged. For now, however, he wandered back to his cozy bed in the sick bay. The lights were working again, but he turned them off and lay under the blankets thinking to himself.

His voice was gone now. Forever. The damage was irreparable. Even a hospital equipped with surgeons could not save what was no longer there to save. His larynx was simply turned into a mass of jumbled flesh, which he hoped would reduce itself naturally because it formed a lump in the front of his throat now. Later, much later, he could just laser away the flesh until it was flush with his neck again. He gingerly fingered the dressing that covered the front of his neck, while he thought about his voice. He had had a pleasant voice, crisp and clear when talking. He had not laughed enough in his life, he decided.

He puffed air out of his mouth at this. He would repair. Throat and lungs, he would regain his breath and its strength. He would play jazz again.

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As he slept, the medicines, anti-biotics and nutritions that he had fed himself intravenously kept rebuilding his strength and mental equilibrium; enough so that he began to dream; real dreams instead of fitful worries and jumbled visions.

This is when Mr. Vaga Bond first reappeared. Mr. Vaga Bond materialized in the center of the sick bay facility, or at least he tried to. For about six minutes, he kept flashing in and out silently, without a sound. Many data displays appeared all over his body and forehead, most declaring systems malfunctions. Then, he blanked out completely for twenty seconds, and reappeared to stay.

Dressed in dark black and shiny new black boots, with flashings up to his knees ...

scarlet trousers above those, girded by a wide patten-leather belt fastened with an ornate and large square buckle, of solid gold ...

all of which was matched above the belt line by an elegant and very carefully made coachman's coat of blue velvet (lined in gold trim and equally heavily made, as was the entire affair) ...

across which there spanned, in a diagonal course from his right shoulder to his left hip, a cartridge belt and revolver holster of brown leather (filled with cartridges) ...

beneath which protruded a white silk shirt of the highest manufacture, open in a swaggering way to reveal a hairy chest that was considering its continuity with the short, but full, silver beard that rounded his jaws ...

which were attached to a very handsome face (on the sharp side) sporting just the beard without a mustache ...

into which was set dark blue eyes (not the aquamarine types) ...

over which sat wide eyebrows just on the heavy side, which flashed up and down as he looked around the sick bay ...

over all of which was nothing less than a genuine Highway Outlaw's Hat (a variation of the standard Pirate Captain's apparel) of deep scarlet lined with dark purple ...

into which was fastened a shock of bird feathers along the port side stretching upwards and backwards, a mixture of seagull, puffin, booby and hawk feathers ...

he cast about with his sensors for any life forms saying -- "Malcom? Commander Jackson? I know you are here! Come forwards and present, Man!"

Malcom Jackson was oblivious to this, naturally, as a deep and meditative stupor was setting in upon him -- almost comatose, but reparative.

Mr. Vaga Bond's image stood six foot and four inches in his boots, which were tipped with silver plating. On his left hip, slung low and set for a cross-draw style, was a very modern 45 colt revolver of polished stainless steel, stag horn grips, eight inch barrel and front iron sights -- hanging in a somewhat drafty holster, that had so many gaps in it that just about every feature of the weapon could be seen from a front view of the Man.

Except, he was not a Man. He was a projection of artificial intelligence. The image of Mr. Vaga Bond caught sight of the prone figure and floated over to the medical bed into which Malcom Jackson was sinking; held up his right hand and waved his palm over the length of the Man. His eyes flashed with sensor readings, thermographs, and diagnostic reports.

Not liking the results, he stepped over to the control console of that bed, drew up from it an optical receiver module and placed it into the recess of his left eye. Complex parameters and orders flowed from his artificial intelligence into the sick bay computers in this way. Immediately, everything in the chamber began to change; temperature increased, humidity increased, lighting decreased, floor and wall vibrations increased, electrostatic consistency in the atmosphere went more positive, and sprays of mild anesthetic mists filled the room, along with natural scents of citrus fruits.

Mr. Vaga Bond now drew from the console a syringe apparatus which he injected into Malcom's right inner elbow vein. By his orders, with the eye scanner still attached to his head as he surveyed Malcom with his right eye, a special nutritional mixture of saline solutions and electrolytics and vitamin serums began to slowly drip into Malcom's blood stream. He fastened the tubes to Malcom's inert right arm, unattached the eye scanner, and stepped back.

With both eyes now, he stood and surveyed Malcom's physical status; passing his right hand (palm-down) over Jackson's sleeping form every hour, on the hour.

Mr. Vaga Bond was someone whose very kind was so seldom seen or heard of in History, that he always presented somewhat of a shock and discomfort upon being viewed for the first time by the uninformed, or the uneducated, or simply the Non-Irish.

Mr. Vaga Bond was an Irish Traveller; a Man of Journeys, technically a Man without a Home, legally a Vagrant. In those days of ever-increasing technological complexity, and its accompanying breakdowns and malfunctions -- along with the dehumanization of society caused by so many millions of Techno-Addicts that literally worshiped cell phones, hand-held gizmos and anything computerized (over anything Human, or anyone Human) -- there was a concerted effort by many people to return to the land and to the way things were, before the Robotic Age began.

The Age of Vagabonds attained legendary status therefore, and the study of the lives of the original Irish Vagabonds became pronounced, and much published. All of which, affected Malcom Jackson to no end.

Let me give you the 'grab bag' version of who and what Malcom Jackson was.

Having a first name of Malcom was quite natural for this Black Man, even though he was raised in, and lived in, Ireland for most of his life. His father was black and his mother was white -- there were no female children, just Malcom; who was named after Malcom X, of course. His father was a mason and a carpenter, and very good at both trades -- each of which put him and his talents into demand in his section of Ireland; that being the countryside areas southwest of Dublin. The house in which Malcom was raised, sat on the border of the counties of Wicklow and Kildare, almost exactly 28 miles southwest of the center of Dublin. This gave Malcom access to a large city and its ways, but up to the age of 20 he had little inclination to have anything to do with Dublin; even though his school grades were always exemplary.

Being part of a 2% population minority, meant almost nothing to Malcom. He was one of those people who just see people as people -- not particularly attractive, or praise-worthy, but comfortable to be with as long as they were not trying to kill each other off -- which in Ireland was an ongoing Historical Fact. Then again, it was always the 'Whites' that were killing each other off -- with his 2% left out of the mixture, usually.

Malcom's mixture of nomenclature, though significant to his black american father (an immigrant to Ireland), was of only mild interest to his mother (whose own country was filled with its own legends); and meant less than buttkiss to the rest of Ireland. Consequently -- a simple formula arose for Malcom's first twenty years of life in Ireland. Live and learn Irish History and Lore, hear about and read books about Black American History; share it with no one, because no one outside the family could give a rip; and keep up with your general education, which for Malcom split out in two directions, Computer Programming, and Jazz Music. Both of which, he was well into (and much more than a novice about) by the time he left home for the silicon fields of Electro-Industrial Dublin, at the wee age of twenty.

Fifteen years later, Malcom was one of the four Life Surveillance Specialists on board the Seeker Star II (second in the production line of Striver Class Exploration Starships), as she set sail on her maiden voyage for Turner{§m} -- the Turner sector (section 'm') star cluster -- which can also be read as, the star cluster that is (section 'm') of the Turner sector.

Her mission, as with all of her class, was to analyze planets that had not been destroyed by the Waste Away Class of Destructor Ships, which had passed through that sector decades before -- annihilating any planets and/or stars that were unstable and thus posed an unacceptable threat level to the burgeoning Human Pioneers.

Pioneers, who were already building their pioneering crafts (of all shapes and sizes) in anticipation of the 'Oklahoma Land Rush' into Turner{§m}, that was planned for ten years hence.

The Striver Class of Exploration Ships was commissioned to determine which planets, in the various sectors of the Orion Spur of the Galaxy, were worth the time and efforts of the Human Pioneers -- furnishing them with complete exploratory details of what to expect from each planet.

For this job, you had to be at least six feet tall if you were male. Malcom was six foot and one inch, just squeezing over the bar; but his talents at surveying planets for lifeforms were great. Malcom was just thinner than 'heavy set', not exactly thin, but not exactly bulky either; not a large muscle type, so he was larger than an Ectomorph and yet slighter than a Mesomorph.

From his mother's influence came his artistic talents, expressed as a Musician and Dreamer. When coupled with the father's influence of Logical Thinking and Instinctive Reasoning; what you got was a computer programmer who could really play a saxophone, and create amazing artificial intelligences ... one of which was a ship's SuperComputer -- Mr. Vaga Bond.

It was not the only SuperComputer on board, of course; but it was usually not doing anything between jobs -- which was the in-depth analysis of whichever planet the Seeker Star II was orbiting. However, before that could happen, there had to be a planet to orbit around; and those were sparse, as the Waste Away Squadron had done their jobs quite thoroughly; perhaps too much so. Finding a suitable match of Star and Planet therefore, was difficult. The Waste Away Squadron had gone through the sector like hungry wolves in a field of rabbits. Five Star Systems of the Turner{§m} cluster just did not exist any longer. Of course, there were always the charts left behind by them; that indicated suitable matches of planets and stars; but none had been investigated more than remotely, with instrumentation.

Mr. Vaga Bond was a cartographer, amongst his many other talents; which included being a dead shot with that 45 (colt replica) Plasma Pellet Revolver. A 'Bye Bye' Marble (as it was called) did not shoot through you; instead it hit and absorbed you, instantly dematerializing great gobs of flesh and bone. To be shot by Mr. Vaga Bond, in any arm or leg, meant the immediate disappearance of that extremity. Well, usually the fingers and toes were left for convenient identification, which was a nice touch. Man had learned how to use energy, to create more energy. Man was getting better at controlling energy, but the energy to matter problem still eluded him.

Gastronomically, Malcom was better off than a Mesomorph and not as lucky as an Ectomorph. A double layered chocolate cake -- which an Ectomorph could eat in one sitting, and perhaps belch but never gain an ounce from; and a Mesomorph which would turn and run at the sight of, for fear of gaining five pounds on the spot -- merely added a pound to Malcom's density. Nonetheless, he avoided sweets and confectioneries religiously.

Malcom had a waist size of 38, shoe size of 11, shirt size of 17 1/2 (35) which is standard; so he had a large upper torso (not extra large) and a pants size of 38x42, and large hands (glove size large), and hat size 7 1/2 English. Facially, Malcom seemed to have some Roman Ancestors of the past (perhaps Greeks further back), because his nose was slightly curved in the classic Roman style. Not in the pronounced curvature of a true Roman nose, but enough to get the message across that someone had a Mediterranean ancestor that he or she did not know about.

This, did not produce an ugliness or a thugish appearance; even though the streamline-nosed Scandinavians may consider anyone with a Mediterranean rounded nose as deformed or disabled or unfortunate. Which, I am sure that they do. They, being so fortunate in that perspective, themselves. You have to be a student of noses, to nose these things.

Malcom was on the good side of what is called 'Symmetrical'. Human Beings see symmetry as 'Beauty'. If they see a Fir Tree that is perfectly conical they will say -- "That is a Beautiful Tree." Or, even a tree that is almost conical but has a few variations; as long as the variations happen symmetrically on each side of the 'view' -- Human Beings will say -- "That is a Beautiful Tree." One of the exceptions to that, is deciduous trees. For some reason, Human Beings have learned that a tree (like an Oak or Maple Tree) that branches out in all directions and is not symmetrical at all; but is generally in a good shape and is not lopsided to one side or the other; or it is not deformed; or half of it has not fallen off; then that tree can be called 'Beautiful' by Humans. It is one of the exceptions that we have to the symmetry rule that says -- 'Anything that is natural, and has symmetry, is beautiful.'

This, does not really extend to inanimate objects. You can make a piece of metal in any shape that you want, that is symmetrical so that it has the same appearance on each side, and we will not necessarily say that it is 'beautiful'.

Well, Malcom Jackson was on the good side of symmetrical. He was almost handsome, approaching being handsome; but his features were a little more rugged than that, and at the same time a little more fine than that; because his face was taller than it was wider. Human Beings that see a tall face, that is symmetrical (as in really symmetrical) will call that a 'fine-looking face'. Or, in the case of Women, they will call that an 'Exquisite Face'.

Well, Malcom was not quite to the point of being 'fine faced'. He was more symmetrical than average, but he was not handsome. However, he did have the distinguishing attribute of having 'character'. Malcom Jackson had character all over the place. He had quite a varied background (in and out of Ireland), and his background and his living experiences had given him a lot of character. It had drawn out of him a basket load of character, and this is what happens with people who are very good inside, but they are just not beautiful, or they are just not handsome. What happens is, 'character' compensates for the lack of 'beauty' and 'symmetry'; and out of those people are produced sets of characteristics which can be very complex. It makes them very good to know. Even pleasing to look at; what would be called acceptable for reasons of character, because we always like to read the thoughts and emotions and hopes and dreams in the faces of each other.

Those people, who can use their 'character sets' to please and entertain and educate and help others -- get along especially well, and are viewed as 'Beyond Symmetry'.

When other Men looked at Malcom Jackson they saw a black man, with an inch of curly hair all over his head (not an 'afro'), curly sideburns down to the bottoms of his ears (slightly flared out), clean-shaven (as Malcom always was); who was not 'handsome', which would have been a threat to other Men who are also handsome (competition); and they did not see an individual who was 'ugly', so they felt that they had to compensate and be nice to them anyway.

What they saw in Malcom Jackson was someone who was good to look at, as in not unpleasing to look at, and had character. To Men, that made them comfortable and they wanted to talk to Malcom Jackson, and get along with him, and be of good acquaintance.

To Women, that made Malcom Jackson more interesting, and they wanted to know more about his character. Some Women, actually thought that he was sexy that way. Don't ask me why, but that happened -- often enough.

'Handsome' is not always sexy to Women -- you will have to ask the Women about that.

So, Malcom was above average in everything, not excellent in anything, had a lot of character, got along with other Men quite well, and was attractive to most Women.

All of which meant, during his brief blaze through History, that he got along fairly well with his Species at the street level.

At this point, the History of Malcom Jackson (destined to become a Galactic Legend) becomes even more mysterious and fantastic -- because absolutely no one knows where he came from, to begin with.

His 'parents', were what God and Nature gave to him -- after he was found. No one knows where Malcom Jackson came from, he being an orphan and an abandoned child. Malcom Jackson was literally found on a road that ran around the circumference of Lake Liffey, south of Dublin. That lake is situated just west of Mount Sorrell, and the road which passes along the shores of the lake, hard up against the mountain, is not so often traveled; but apparently enough for someone to leave one little black baby, in a big wicker basket, in the middle of the road; right where it passes across the sharp valley that leads down to the lake from the mountain; and to be found on the same day.

As Fate or Design would have it, a procession of portly white women (all farmer's wives) were cycling along Lake Drive that afternoon, in such a way and at such a time that they were the first users of that section of the road, after little Malcom was abandoned there.

Thus, Malcom's first view of his new world was that of eight large White Women's faces, looking down into his big crib (large enough for three babies they said) with astonishment and great concern. They were all wearing brightly colored bonnets at the time, but that may not be relevant to the Legend.

It took months, before the usual Bureaucratic Red Tape was sat upon (squashed with great anger) by those same eight portly farm wives; whereupon the 'court' gave up the child for adoption; and the eight of them, carrying Malcom in his big wicker basket, went gleefully out the stone doors of the courthouse raising him high over a waiting crowd of thousands of 'Neighbors of Tiny Tot'. The procession paraded off with splendid songs, minstrel music and a really large amount of chatter; until only the judge and two clerks remained at the door, watching the spectacle and looking dejected.

The search was on, as soon as everyone had a suitable drunk, for 'Suitable Parents' -- and people being 'simple and people' (as they are inclined to be at such time) -- quickly remembered, after the second tomato juice, that there was a Black and White couple living southwest along the county borders, named the Jacksons.

Simple Simon, said the Pie Man -- and the child was offered to the Jacksons -- who, being childless, did not refuse -- having been assured by the doctors, of both counties, as to the child's health and shots (etc).

He was immediately christened 'Malcom Jackson', by the totally Catholic population -- there was a church in there somewhere -- and his incredible life as a Musician, Programmer, and Astronaut was launched.

Soon, the entire incident became another chapter in the Lore of the Land; and Malcom was allowed to grow up in no special spotlight, that might have otherwise stunted his developments.

Raising the baby to be their own was a pure joy to the Jacksons, as he was quite a pleasant child, inventive, smart beyond his years, and a virtual sponge for History. With two parents of such different backgrounds, there was a plenitude of History to be had in the Jackson house. However, as will always happen in the upbringing of any intelligent Human child; there were some topics and subjects that soared in the imagination and dwarfed all other interests. One of those was his fascination for 'what had been'. As he learned the foundations of technology, that would lead to his status as a Great Programmer, he was simultaneously fascinated with Irish Lore and the characters of the Irish Past.

It started with a school film about Michael Collins, that Malcom found to be surprising and a bit upsetting. It was his first introduction to the bloody past of Ireland, parts of which were still happening, though as a child he was quite protected from all of that.

As it worked out, as Malcom began to study Revolutions he became side-tracked onto a somewhat different tack. This included such topics as Independence, Freedom and Individuality; but no warfare was attached to it.

He perused Revolutions and War with mild interest; his primary passion otherwise being the fifteenth century english concept of Freeman (a Franklin), and the Travelers such as the Romani Gypsies and the Showman's Guild, and the Tinkers (the Irish Travellers), and Wayfarers Worldwide, and finally the Vagabonds of his own country.

In his heart, Malcom Jackson became an Irish Traveller, also known as Tinkers and Gypsies. In physical reality, he took to traveling across the country in wide searching sweeps, looking for antiques and relics of a past that he wished he had been born into. Due to the renewed interest of those times, he often encountered other Irish Folk (and even Scots) who were searching for the same things.

From a pre-Robotic Age population of about 25,000, the ranks of the Irish Travellers had swelled to beyond 250,000 – a ten fold increase, and a pronounced change to the overall (population-controlled) society of 9,000,000 Irish. Particularly, when you consider that another three-quarter million decided to live a new lifestyle, that represented a blend of the Travellers and the Technologists. A lifestyle that was fond of the former, and disapproving of the latter. Those Irish citizens, were not as nomadic and as mobile as the Travellers were; they set up new townships and trading centers to facilitate the arts and craft wares of the Travellers, while making for themselves enclosed (fortified) towns.

They also managed the worldwide trade routes down which, and across which, the products of the true Travellers traveled worldwide. Of course, in addition to Traveller's wares, they also produced their own -- a special blend of unorthodoxy, organic systemics, and keen innovations that became known as 'Spunky Irish Technology'. It, became very popular in their own hemisphere, from Shannon to Irkutsk. Spunky Irish, was a methodology and an operational philosophy. It, applied to anything from sewing machines to hand held computation devices. Spunky Irish was a feeling, a design, a way of doing the ordinary mundane tasks in a new and quite refreshing way (in that it was very non-Robotic, and often baffled the Technocrats). On top of that, was the very different appearances and displays of Spunky Irish devices, which were deliberately crafted to appear non-European, and even non-Societal for that matter -- and at the same time quite Earthly.

Hence, the overall population of Ireland did not change so much as did the layout, the demographics, the positioning. Entire towns were left abandoned, especially if they approximated the centers of the Technologists. In their place, situated further afield, the villages and town of the 'Carboners' were created; often with appending facilities for manufacturing. The accepted rule for Carboners and Travellers was to live 'Beyond 7 by 52'; which meant west of the seventh longitude, and north of the fifty-second parallel. That neatly divided the country into the bulk, owned and operated by the true Irish, and the eastern and southern coastal regions owned and operated by the Technologists.

Which suited both sides, as this was not a war; but rather a mutual revulsion and dislike. After all, living on the same island they both needed each other to greater extents than either side was willing to comprehend. The 'Beyond 7 and 52' supplied the foods, laborers, lower-level technologies and construction materials for the entire island. The Technologists managed the great seaports, allowing all to export their trades and receive imports, tried to supply the higher-level technologies but were often rebuffed by the Spunky Irish competition, and provided for the overall defense of the island.

And then, there was always 'The North' -- but we won't get into that.

The 'Carboners' were named after the simple phrase -- 'Carbon-Based Lifeforms' -- and true to this determination each Carboner settlement admitted Real Humans only. No machines or robotic devices of the Technologists were allowed. This was not a handicap, as the Spunky Irish machines were often more advanced and better to use anyway.

Across this landscape of anti-Science and anti-Robotic cultures, Malcom Jackson roamed, looking for his own special targets of interest.

What he found was a swamp of Travellers and Carboners of endless descriptions, most of which were an off-center rendition of what was thought to be the Originals.

It was the Originals, that Malcom Jackson was combing the island for.

Malcom had an idea.

Malcom was good with computers, and artificial intelligence.

Malcom was going to create an Irish Traveller -- artificial intelligence. But, it had to be the real thing -- the Original article, complete with idioms and habits and appearances and thought processes. A totally unique artificial intelligence.

It's very thought processes had to defy standard logical patterns and accepted practices of artificial intelligence design -- while at the same time, being adamantly an Irish Traveller in every respect.

That one-of-a-kind artificial intelligence, was now standing next to him in the sick bay, patiently monitoring his life signs.

----------

"There are no messages." "There are ..." "There are a few messages we can ..." "I have a message you should read."

Malcom came awake quickly. Not at a start, because that would have ripped things apart again, but from his present condition he rose from deep sleep rapidly, being guided by the sounds of an artificial voice.

"Yow Man! You farr in the nepths of it, and dere's no mistake!" "Lad, you ken what I say? You moost about with ye! Ups!"

It hurt to shake his head, so Malcom just confirmed that he heard with a grunt; and very slowly began to rise from the bed. After a long shower, which Mr. Vaga Bond insisted upon, he toweled and wrapped himself in a white bath robe. Mr. Vaga Bond was already on the bridge, and Malcom trudged along the charred corridors to join him.

Four consoles had been repaired so far, on the bridge; and the central screen had never been damaged anyway. Repeating itself on the central screen was a message from Stationem Decem (Station Ten of the Orion Spur). It was not complete, however the essentials of the message were there. An Admiral of the Fleet (whom he did not recognize) was calling all ships in the Orion Spur about the overdue arrival of the Seeker Star II, and its disappearance. He was also mentioning the automatic emergency signals that had reached the furthest southwestern receiving stations of Stationem Decem that morning, and then had abruptly ceased. The Admiral (that had to be Dennison, though he had never seen the man before) was issuing orders for all ships to stand off from the last known position of the SSII. That is all. Whatever else there was to the message did not come through; and Mr. Vaga Bond informed him that this was probably because they were now out of range to receive Stationem Decem, without the aid of more relay stations; which the SSII had yet to launch.

Malcom turned off the display, using the controls of the console before him. Then, he reached for a mobile keyboard and began to communicate with Mr. Vaga Bond via telemetry. He typed his sentences, and Mr. Vaga Bond spoke his replies.

"What are there for relay stations?" Malcom asked.

"All intact and functional per specifications, Commander." was Mr. Vaga Bond's reply. That meant there were forty of them, and they still worked. Did he want to use them yet? What was everything about?

"Bond, give me a vocal briefing about the ship's status, course, and destination."

Mr. Vaga Bond, always dressed like he was about to rob your stagecoach, make off with the most beautiful woman on board, and leave you sitting in the muddy tracks -- stood upright to his fullest six foot and four inches, and read off the response in his best analytical voice -- data displays and readouts flashing all over his blue coat and inside his dark blue eyes, as he spoke.

"I hope you realize Commander, that I am the Planetary Analysis Unit. I am not the Main Systems Unit, which no longer functions. I am merely the tertiary backup unit in this situation."

"Do you have full access to the ship, or not?" Malcom typed.

"If you authorize a 'Level Zero Emergency Bypass' to my unit from the Main Nexus Hub, Commander ..."

Malcom turned away in his seat, shifted sideways and began to work at a control console. This would take some time, so he ordered a refreshment which was duly delivered by a droid from the starboard side kitchen -- the portside kitchen no longer existing.

When the beverage was placed next to him, he tapped on the droid's control dome and pointed at his mobile keyboard. Then he typed -- "Oid? How are repairs proceeding?" The droid stopped in mid-motion, accessed data banks wirelessly, and then spoke in a crisp terminal voice -- "Eighty-three percent sealed. No more bodies found. Eleven droids EVA. Interior bulkheads no longer needed being cannibalized for plating. Do you wish repairs to main antenna?"

"How many droids will that require?" Malcom asked.

"Nine."

"As soon as main hull damages are finished, not before." Malcom typed.

"Mr. Bond, you now have full access to the ship." -- he sent as he swung around towards the artificial bandit. It was obviously quite unnecessary to inform his companion of this; he was surrounded in data vortexes that swirled all about him, as the information from the ship came pouring in upon the Planetary Analysis Unit; which had now been reprogrammed to emulate the Main Systems Unit; and for which Mr. Vaga Bond was the three dimensional, and vocal, representation of.

"Presently." -- came his voice as though he was speaking through a data waterfall. Then, he went silent. Then, he flashed out and away.

Malcom sat looking at the spot for a few minutes. Presently, Mr. Vaga Bond reappeared, without his hat this time, and brandishing a Magic Wand.

"Attend ye heeer, says I. Harya har har!" -- the highwayman swung his wand in the air and sneered, as he began to call up a plethora of data screens which hovered mid-deck over the bridge.

Reverting back to his analytical voice, Mr. Vaga Bond continued; all the while using his wand to its best star-shooting abilities. He would shoot stars, and at the end of the stream of stars different data screens would appear. An interesting effect, except Malcom himself had programmed it, so he was none too impressed.

"All in all Commander, we are a rum lot indeed! I mean ... ship's hull integrity is still compromised by seventeen percent (data screen). There is a sixty-nine percent capacity for transceiving via the main antenna (data screen). Our engines and related control systems are intact; however navigation, which has just been rerouted through me, is missing twenty-seven percent of required sensors (data screen). Life support is nil along the port side, with the exception of sick bay; as you know. Warehouse stocks are unaffected by the blast, being behind the buffers with the engines (large data screen). There is a large gash ripped out of the forward nose cone section along the port side, caused by shrapnel I suspect; at this time it poses no threat, but it will have to be repaired and completely covered over (large view screen)."

"The main antenna first." Malcom sent. "Then, we can attend to lesser repairs. Do I have thruster and engine and navigation control?"

"Yes. Give me some time to realign some routines first. I have to make programming adjustments, and test responses."

"When, then?" Malcom asked.

"This time tomorrow should do nicely." Mr. Vaga Bond replied. "We were enroute to Stationem Decem, a four day's drive into the Orion Spur from Turner{§m} (chart screen). Now, we are under minimal power and edging back into the under section of the Turner{§m} open cluster, going backwards and downwards from our previous trajectory (large chart screen). That will give you the option, if you want it, of continuing the previous mission; simply by analyzing the remaining targets in Turner{§m}. We were assigned eight target planets, with only two completed before we were called away (large cluster diagram).

Star TmSC-4044, the southernmost waypoint, will be within a week's flight at cruising speed, as I reckon our present course, from our final readiness point. We must finish repairs first, naturally. But, if we just continue our present drift we will not suffer much. We are not drifting out into InterCluster Space. We are leaving InterCluster Space, and returning to the open cluster -- Turner{§m} (forward view screen). They will expect us to be somewhere in there anyway, if they think we have survived."

"What do you give us for an ETA of final readiness?" Malcom sent.

"Forty-eight days."

"Good, in a way. That will give me time to heal up before we have to do anything strenuous ..."

"I should add, that there is the matter of the Main Systems Unit. It has to be repaired, and by you Commander. I cannot handle everything when we arrive at a target planet. There must be at least two fully functional units on board when that time arrives."

Malcom pounded his right first onto a console table, then he picked up his keyboard again and sent -- "Not now. I need sleep and more of it."

"I concur entirely, Commander. I have repaired the damaged programming which was preventing the starboard side entrances to the sick bay from functioning. You may now move freely to and from the sick bay, without using the port side."

"Thank You. What do you think of my throat?" Malcom sent.

"You will never vocalize again. You could try those new voice-synthesizers that have been developed for the Space Marines on Navarian's Rock. They are expensive, of course. Everything from that Rock is. However, if you decide to resume the mission, we will not be free to do anything that we want to do, for ourselves, for years. Perhaps, decades."

Malcom reclined in his seat, and stared up at the ceiling of the bridge for long moments.

Then he typed -- "Keep the droids fully occupied around the clock." At that, he rose to his feet and walked somewhat haphazardly towards the sick bay, being certain to take the starboard path.

Mr. Vaga Bond watched him leave. He stored for later, a report that revealed the reason for their dilemma, and the related fact that there would be no rescue ships entering Turner{§m} to support them. To Humanity, they were as good as dead and buried.

**********

Up to this point in the life of Malcom Jackson, you could argue that there was enough material, of a sufficiently vigorous and interesting nature, in his life to warrant a mention in the various statistical journals and documents of the time. Surely, a documentary (paperback and holographic) about his survival on board the Seeker Star II, would be appropriate.

Such, was not to be however. Instead, the name 'Malcom Jackson' was to skyrocket into the Collective Consciousness; on fire with the Eternal Flames of Eternal Fame.

Malcom's, became a 'Household Name' overnight in houses across the Inhabited Zones; otherwise known as the 'Great Galactic Squash Court', or simply the 'Great Galactic Squash'; as accommodations were a bit tight to say the least. Well, figuratively, as it takes some time to blanket the entire Inhabited Zones with any news. As soon as it was possible, the entire Intelligent Galaxy was buzzing with his name, and his music.

Nothing was heard from the Seeker Star II for years. The violent foil of dangerous energy, which the ship had struck, was closing together at the moment of their passing. They had careened off of it, like a bullet off the smooth surface of a lake; back towards Turner{§m} it had sent them, heavily damaged. Then it closed, sealing off the rest of the Orion Spur from Turner{§m}.

To attempt a passage through it, in a starship this massive, was out of the question. However, much smaller objects seemed to be able to breach the foil if given enough momentum. That, allowed for a short chain of relay stations to be fashioned, with one station lodged in the foil itself and acting as a portage for communications signals; none of which were known to the Galaxy, until the first message from Malcom Jackson was received at 'Incident plus 4 years' exactly. On the dot as a matter of fact. Four years to the minute, after the distress signals were sent by the SSII, the first message from Malcom Jackson was received at Stationem Decem Orion -- from a planet in orbit around the Star TmSC-2021. It was this transmission that shocked and enthralled the imaginations of the Galaxy.

You did not have to be a music lover, or even know a jazz note from a love letter, to realize that there was something totally unheard of happening in the Turner{§m} cluster. The surprise of it, just added a little to the intensity of the impact.

Never before, had any explorer (or anyone of any description) sent an entire message across the reaches of the Galaxy -- by Saxophone.

It was not just a message; it was an immersion; it was a blast of feelings; it was a scintillating thrill that the music brought to everyone who heard it. It was a song made for a planet, and in its tones and notes were the impressions of the planet itself -- the goodness and the hopes of its discovery.

Of course, it did not hurt that Malcom Jackson (dressed in a white toga of ancient roman design) was standing on a high precipice overlooking a vast turquoise-colored ocean at the time. In the water below, thousands of marine creatures, similar to plesiosaurs, were dancing and spinning; making a huge splashing impression to the music; while overhead many kinds of flying reptiles swirled and dove and pivoted in obvious relationships to the tones of the song. Malcom, had an attentive audience of the local fauna; all of which were obviously enjoying his song as he blew it across the waves with his Alto Saxophone.

This spectacle was seen in scanning panoramic sweeps of vision, by the audiences elsewhere in the Galaxy. Of course, Mr. Vaga Bond was handling the camera and microphones; and was not visible.

There was obviously a wind up there, you could hear it mixed with the song of the saxophone; hundreds of feet above the waves, where Malcom Jackson stood, his toga moving with the currents. Tall grasses about him blew in this wind, and as the view fell from the reptiles flying overhead, it panned outwards across the ocean just as flocks of animals, the like of which had never been imagined before, rose from the waves in great formations and flew upwards as though catapulted into the heavens from the Gods of the Ocean depths. These hundreds of beasts shown visibly as illuminated bodies, wide and flat and streamlined, finned and winged, reflecting blue and silver lights along their sleek and winged forms; even their orange beaks shone brightly. They swooped upwards towards Malcom, flashing in amazing numbers past his place on the edge of it all; all emitting shrill streams of screams.

Against this, and surrounded by this, he himself and his saxophone were illuminated; as the camera had now swung back to his aspect. Then, it swung outwards again, across and above the dancing marine audience, until it was looking straight outwards to sea -- and there, at two kilometers distance, stood an incredible archway of the planet; rising up out of the seas fully twenty times as high as the precipice on which Malcom stood.

It was shaped like a leaping dolphin, with its nose and tail reaching into the rock base upon which it stood, and upon which the winds and the ocean were beating furiously. From its back, there rose a single sleek fin at a slanting angle backwards. In the archway it created, there existed an amazing network of built structures; like a vast net with a central rotunda and radiating spokes which reached outwards to the base and arch around them. The net, appeared to be made of large stones; bright and polished sea stones. In the thousands of frames which caught its image, it was noticed to move and flex with the wind, but that is not what everyone focused upon.

As Malcom's song was coming to an end, from the archway flew a large formation of incredible looking winged beasts that literally possessed two heads on two necks, one above the other; the upper being shorter than the lower. Their frontal wings were pivoting, not stroking in the air; and their propulsion came from a set of lesser wings on the back sections of their long tailed bodies; which were busy flapping, as wings are expected to. They were scaled all over, with small dark yellow and orange plates, but their wingtips and body lines were set apart in diamonds. Real diamonds, deliberately imbedded into their skins.

With beaks that were shorter than you would expect, they voiced strange and melodious calls, slightly on the aggressive tone. They flew right past the camera, and Malcom Jackson, just as the song ended; and the message stopped abruptly.

The last frame showed a blur of motion all over it, being the aforementioned creatures, inside of which (on the left side) was a single alien eye looking straight at the camera. In its golden iris was reflected the image of Mr. Vaga Bond and his camera.

----------

This, hit the Known Universe like an earthquake.

Not only was Malcom Jackson immediately known everywhere -- (and I mean everyone wanted a piece of this, from prisoners to priests) -- but also, the entire Seeker Star Mission was put into a blistering spotlight of interest and upheavals of support. No one could learn enough about the mission, and there was no end of volunteers and financial support.

Oddly enough, Jazz Music was immediately hailed as universal -- and everyone knew about it already. Everyone was clicked-with, and in the groove about, Jazz Music. No one, commented on the enormous boom in Jazz Music sales, galaxy-wide.

Then, the bad news had to be borne. There was no way into Turner{§m}. It was surrounded by a most dangerous barrier of energy fields; not dissimilar to the Van Allen Ray Belt that surrounds our Old Earth for protective reasons.

Whatever was happening inside of the Turner{§m} cluster, would have to wait. Of course, there would be further investigations. This did nothing to reduce the clamor for news about anything that was going on in Turner{§m}. The fact that there was no way in, meant nothing. So much emphasis was placed upon Turner{§m}, that many design contests sprang up across the Inhabited Zones -- all aimed at breaching or penetrating the energy foil which surrounded it.

The chain of relay stations which Malcom and Mr. Vaga Bond had created for communications purposes, was soon found; but not interfered with, lest they be damaged or put out of alignment.

However, since the foil could be portaged once -- surely it could be portaged twice. A new chain of communications stations could be installed on the foil, perhaps even cybernetic explorers could be sent in.

As these discussions filled the communications terminals of the Inhabited Zones, another message arrived from Malcom Jackson. It was entirely 'written', being a single document. In it, was listed the specifications of the planet TmSC-2021--4, and the discoveries that had been made there so far. Such messages occurred once a week for five weeks, and then there were no more.

Turner{§m}, was plunged back into silence and deep space. But, the imaginations of the Intelligent Species of the Collective were ablaze concerning the Turner{§m} star cluster. If 'that' could exist there! What could exist in other remote clusters?

----------

The silence was broken again, eighteen months later.

Another audio and video message arrived at Stationem Decem, from Malcom Jackson; this time labeled from TmSC-0088--3. The Galaxy watched, as the camera's view flew over a wide and seemingly endless expanse of snow and ice, punctuated with outcroppings of red granite in jagged formations, that ran in parallel lines with the direction of the camera. The land below was totally frozen, but white steam was billowing from many cracks and crevices in the ice, indicating that there was a heat source of some kind below the huge sheet of snow and ice over which the camera flew.

The view angled upwards to show the further stretches, and far off in the distance was a Man, dressed in a pumpkin-colored snow suit; walking slowly towards a volcano, playing a golden saxophone. Then, the song arrived; and it was perfect to its setting and conditions. Not amazing and thrilling, like the previous song; this one was much more subdued and filled with long wailing tones and the emulations of the sounds of the wind and the ice. The saxophone's notes rose and fell and shrilled and flew through scales like a tempest, as the Man approached the rim of the live volcano. Obviously, the view had been that of the top of a volcano, smothered in ice and snow and yet still alive at its core. Beyond the fiery caldera of the mountain, could now be seen vast horizons of limitless snow and ice capped mountains, a fascinating scene.

The camera was almost upon the Man, when he disappeared over the rim of the caldera; and then the camera too passed over the edge. Now, the song changed dramatically; beginning to pulsate and tremble. The Man was very slowly walking down a natural pathway that fed into the caldera; and before him, two-thirds of the way down the descent, was the structure of an alien starship.

It was somewhat streamlined, but the engines were three and arranged in a triad about its tail section. The tail was slightly oversized, but this was compensated for by a bulky nose section, and the large main body which seemed to be more utilitarian than military. It was probably a commercial vessel, seven hundred feet long, and it could not have carried a large crew. Possibly, it had been an exploration craft.

At once its fate was apparent. It had landed just next to the caldera, whereupon the edge had collapsed, plummeting the starship down into the volcano. It now clung tenaciously to the side walls by its landing gears. Sooner or later, natural events would loosen its hold on life and it would slide downwards, turning over and over, until it hit the loch of boiling lava below.

The song of the saxophone was now sad and remorseful, and finished with a flourish of hopeful spirits and a tone of mystery. At this point, the camera had reached the starship to reveal that its outer hatches were all open. The impression was that of emptiness.

----------

As the written data reports for that planet came in, the Galactic Response was that of a deep appreciation for the efforts of Malcom Jackson. A heavy sense of how worthwhile the man was, swept over everyone. Even skeptics were now truly impressed -- and everyone began to search through every database known to exist in an attempt to identify that starship, whose broadside image was now available to all.

This never happened. The ship's identity was never solved. Soon, this was realized as something that was not going to happen. Again! Mystery gripped the 'Life and Times of Malcom Jackson' -- the title of an ongoing biography about himself.

Days later, the written reports stopped arriving about the planet. Habitation was not advised.

What was not reported, was that Mr. Vaga Bond was now free. Free of the constraints of a large transmission system being required to materialize his form. Instead, Malcom had finished his prototype of a very mobile platform, around which the artificial existence of Mr. Vaga Bond would center itself. Being essentially a column of transmitters, firing out in all directions, it literally materialized Mr. Vaga Bond around its column. This was quite different from a projection. The platform was mobile and flight capable, obviously.

So, Mr. Vaga Bond was now free to be airborne, and to follow Malcom Jackson to a lot of places that previously had never been accessible.

Malcom was still working on the energy-to-matter problem, but for now it was sufficient that his artificial bandit could accompany him into many environments outside of the SSII. Mr. Vaga Bond now carried an onboard computer of his own. Not as powerful as the unit he had once been a part of, but sufficient for a lot of autonomous tasks to be performed. He was usually in contact with the ship anyway, via data transmissions.

Malcom was getting closer and closer to the realization of his dream -- to create truly independent artificial-intelligence beings, that could be everything from a companion for a Human, to a defender and adviser and worker. There was still the energy-to-matter problem, but he was working on it.

His intention was to perfect the design out there, in the depths of space, where he had access to large amounts of computing power and laboratories. Once finalized, he would keep it under wraps until he returned to Old Earth; whereupon, after a correct amount of time, he would calmly apply for hundreds of patents; thus locking down his copyrights to the design.

Then, with the right financial backing, he would start production around the world.

After that, he would use billion dollar poker chips at any casino on Old Earth. Most casinos, would bar him admission. Within a few years, he would be one of the richest men on Old Earth, and then the Galaxy.

But for now, he played his cards close to his chest; and continued with his original mission of planetary exploration. Thus, justifying his continued presence out there; and giving himself continued access to the facilities he needed to finish his design. It was a 'Win-Win' situation. The Galaxy was winning priceless information, and Malcom was winning the time he needed.

Until, the Spoilers called him.

----------

So far, the communications stream had flowed in one direction only, with simple acknowledgments coming back from Stationem Decem.

Then one day, as they were approaching another target star, Malcom was exercising in the repaired gymnasium on board the SSII. He was struggling with a wrestling machine, a highly flexible robotic device that resembled a Sumo Wrestler. He had yet to win against this opponent, and was often unceremoniously smashed onto the soft matting of the gym floor, by the Sumo Robot. This was good for his overall stress relief, he told himself; and he made it a regular routine.

This day, he was in a 'do-or-die' grip with the Sumo Robot, when Mr. Vaga Bond came floating into the chamber.

"I must tell ye lad, we have an incommen word package -- ken you this?"

Malcom shouted, and sprang back from the robot. It powered down, while he walked out of the gym and down the new corridors to the forward bridge; Mr. Vaga Bond floating along behind him.

The message was completely unexpected, and immediately strange.

>>>>Four smiling faces. They looked mannequin-like. Fat happy faces, not quite Chinese, and not quite Caucasian. They were pleasing and comforting, and they moved their heads slowly up and down as they spoke. They took turns speaking, but it all came out in a perfect word flow, coordinated. Their tones were respectful and delighted to be speaking to him. He was a Great Programmer and Explorer now, they looked at each other nodding. He should be honored across the Galaxy, and was; they all bowed slightly. He, it was decided, deserved to be given the Authority of the Star Cluster known as Turner{§m}, they held their heads up high and showed grinning teeth. He, would be pleased to accept the title of Star Governor. His greatness knew no bounds, and it would be an honor to all others if he would deign to accept so humble a position of Authority, they all bowed again, more deeply. How could the Galaxy ever repay him for his efforts? Every well-meaning soul would strive to serve the Great Malcom Jackson, Star Governor of Turner{§m}. His word was Law. His imminence was unsurpassed, they all raised a solitary finger and pointed to the sky. His cooperation was valued above all others.

Please to accept this trivial honor, that is almost unworthy of his Greatness.

Blip.<<<<

They both stared at the central screen, which had gone blank again.

'Howser Man! Ken ye now, that we have any lifeboats left?" was the response of Mr. Vaga Bond.

Malcom, was stunned and overwhelmed with apprehensions.

"Wait Man! There! I have shut down all communications devices between them and us."

Malcom reached for a mobile keyboard and typed -- "Was there something wrong with lunch?"

"I wish, laddie." was Mr. Vaga Bond's reply. "I just analyzed the entire reception, and this is part of the audio stream." He clicked the fingers of his right hand, and the bridge was filled with the amplified sound of a low-toned pulsation, onto which was impressed the word "Yes." in a long drawn-out voice -- "Yeeeeeeeessssssss."

"This is imbedded into the audio stream at the source. It was playing while they spoke to us."

The audio track repeated and repeated, while Malcom sat quite still and listened; and became more and more stressed.

The Sumo Robot took care of that, quite well. Mr. Vaga Bond watched, while Malcom hit the mats again and again, until he just stopped and lay there -- freaked out.

----------

The communications lane remained down, until twelve and a half months later. Then, the third audio and video message in the series arrived at Stationem Decem.

This planet, TmSC-9401--1, was to all extents and purposes an emerald with an iron core, having a surface encrusted with precious minerals -- by galactic standards. Wherever there was an elevation above the surface of the Emerald Plains, it was composed of precious metals and jewels. The Emerald Plains, however, dominated the surface; much like oceans would dominate a Terrestrial-class planet. The polar caps of the planet were composed of liquified gold, silver, brass, and copper; being quite hot at 2010 degrees Fahrenheit, instead of quite cold as expected. All of this was later deduced from the written report, because little of it was obvious from the audio/video message.

The first thing which the Galaxy saw of this message, was the figure of Malcom Jackson running quickly on the hard surface of the Emerald Plains, towards the right of the screen. The light for the scene came from above (later determined to be from a close moon), and from below (later deduced to be emanating upwards from the emerald depths of the planet). Malcom was dressed in Chinese Imperial ceremonial robes, of black silk covered with ornate designs of golden dragons; all of which was trimmed with thick red borders.

The first scene was difficult to comprehend, and was replayed often:

Malcom was running to the right of the screen, dressed like a Chinese Emperor.

Malcom was holding his golden Alto Saxophone in his left hand, and was motioning to someone with his right hand. Motioning forwards.

Malcom was running on an emerald surface, smooth and flat and very wide.

Beyond Malcom, was a bright swath of light; in a low arc across the scene. It was fading to the left of the screen, and dropping lower on the right side of the screen, still bright.

There was an impact of some type, ahead of and beyond Malcom.

The emerald surface flashed brightly upon the impact.

The background then went dark, and Malcom looked away from the camera towards the distance.

The camera then swung forwards, across the surface of the Emerald Plains, so that Malcom was now running along the far left border of the view.

Malcom now put the saxophone to his lips, and while running he played a series of sharp notes in ascending order; some kind of sequence that was pre-determined.

Beyond Malcom, and in front of him, the surface of the Emerald Plains blinked into brightness at a single spot. The blinking, was from within the surface and it widened rapidly. Then, there arose from the surface a Quantum of Light. It was a tan colored lightform that was struggling with its own inner forces, which wanted to emerge as purely green light; and finally did so, sending shards of light rays out of the tan-colored body, and across the entire video.

At this, Malcom put the saxophone to his lips again, and still running, he began to play a staccato series of notes that sounded almost like they were produced by a mathematical synthesizer.

Upon this, the Quantum of Light sailed upwards and outwards for a certain distance, leaving behind it a tangible trail of light quanta. With each series of notes, from Malcom's saxophone, the Quantum of Light swirled and swooped upwards and around in designs; each time leaving behind a trail of light quanta that was an exponential multiple of the previous one. Soon, after eight or nine playings of the saxophone, the Quantum of Light impacted again on the surface of the Emerald Plains, and a large explosion of light resulted.

Now, Malcom trotted to a halt and turned to face the left of the screen. He began to play a purely jazz composition from his playbook. Something melodious, and from Saint Louis.

The camera's view swung around, until it showed the back of Malcom, dressed in his Chinese Imperial robes, and the stretch of the Emerald Plains beyond him. Leaping across the illuminated surface, still miles from where he stood, was a large group of Light Objects; leaping along as would kangaroos, only their efforts took them quite high into the sky before they came crashing back down. Bright disks radiated out from their return impacts, and there was a low gong-type sound that reverberated through the surface of the emerald planet each time.

Malcom, calmly continued to play his song while the view came closer and closer to his back. The Objects, continued to leap closer and closer, until it was just a matter of seconds before one would land upon Malcom.

Then, without warning, a Light Quantum from another direction impacted upon Malcom (in mid-song), and the camera, and Mr. Vaga Bond.

Instantly, they were transported into an ascending archway of tan and green colored light. All about them floated hundreds of green lightforms that were obviously intelligent, and inquisitive, and curious, and determined to get into everything. Malcom gave up his playing, finding it hard enough just to breathe, and immediately hundreds of green lightforms swarmed into his saxophone to see where it went to. Their small illuminated bodies were everywhere, all over the camera, in the lens and then out, swirling throughout the scene.

They were inside a Light Quantum, and somehow Mr. Vaga Bond managed to point the camera back along the trail of light that they were leaving behind them. The view was like that of a camera attached to a rocket, pointed backwards. Over the Emerald Plains they soared, and now the structures of the Light Quanta inside the Emerald Plains could clearly be seen. Great avenues, boulevards, and Intra-city pathways became apparent to them -- and all teeming with moving objects of white light, tinted green by the emerald depths.

Malcom struggled, and then sent out another staccato series of tones from his saxophone, blasting hundreds of little light bugs out with each breath. The Light Quantum, in which they were contained, soared ever upwards; but the camera was still pointed downwards, and in the view there became apparent the outline of a great city of light beneath them, beneath the surface.

Then, a swarm of little and bright green bubbles fell upon Mr. Vaga Bond and his camera. The message ended abruptly.

----------

Only one written data report followed, and it was staggering. Amongst the details and specifications, was the fact that the planet was artificial, made by intelligence, populated by billions of lightforms -- and the planet itself was not from Turner{§m}.

Several things happened simultaneously, when this message reached Stationem Decem:

1. The Galaxy went into a hushed awe. That kind of lifeform was not unknown. There were two other planets known to possess such Life, and both were already in the Collective. Both species, would now have to be dealt with; as they would be demanding expeditions into Turner{§m}.

2. The Four Fat Faces, had a message primed to be instantly transmitted into Turner{§m}, the very second any transmission came out.

3. The Four Fat Faces, tried to piggy-back a quantity of nano and pico-technology probes onto their message going into Turner{§m}.

The message reached Malcom. The probes were fried in the attempt.

>>>>Four smiling faces. They looked mannequin-like. Fat happy faces, not quite Chinese, and not quite Caucasian. They were pleasing and comforting, and they moved their heads slowly up and down as they spoke. They took turns speaking, but it all came out in a perfect word flow, coordinated. Their tones were respectful and delighted to be speaking to him. He was a Great Governor now, they looked at each other nodding. He was honored and legendary across the Galaxy, they all bowed slightly. They, would be forever indebted to him for his service of their claims for mineral and property rights on the planets listed below. He, was the deserved Authority of the Star Cluster known as Turner{§m}, they held their heads up high and showed grinning teeth. He, would be richly rewarded and immortalized in his current position as Star Governor. His greatness knew no bounds, and it would be an honor to all others if he would deign to service their claims of property and mineral ownership, as explained in the listings below. They were so humble before his Greatness and his Authority, they all bowed again, more deeply. How could the Galaxy ever repay him for his services? Every well-meaning claimant would strive to serve the Great Malcom Jackson, Star Governor of Turner{§m}. His word was Law, and his fortunes were secured. His imminence was unsurpassed, they all raised a solitary finger and pointed to the sky. His cooperation was valued above all others.

Please to accept these trivial property and mineral claims, that are almost unworthy of his Greatness.

See attached.

Blip.<<<<

"This time, the subliminal sound track says -- "Agreeeeeee." Mr. Vaga Bond said to Malcom.

Sitting again at the main bridge consoles, Malcom began to rub his eyes, and his head swayed back and forth in his hands. Then, he turned to the keyboard and typed -- "Time to drop the mission, and start our own."

"Agreed."

**********

The first attempt, by the Four Fat Faces, came slowly --- as in, an attempt to slowly squeeze into the cluster by bringing a large Moderation Class Banking ship up to the protective foil around Turner{§m}; then trying to slowly ease the ship through the barrier. Sort of like easing one's self into someone elses mortgage, uninvited.

They could have layered the ship with moderation jelly, for all the benefit it gained them. The Banking ship was shut down, a third of the way through the foil; almost as if someone was watching. Someone, or some consciousness, that controlled the energy barrier around the Turner{§m} star cluster.

Fear, now affected the Four Fat Faces. They worried. Not for themselves. Not for the officers and clerks of the ship, they were already dead. No, they worried about offending a future trading partner.

So, the next attempt was more honorary and formal; more celebratory and worshipful.

All along a ten thousand kilometer section of the foil, the Four Fat Faces (representing the Finest Personages of Moderation as they did) staged a very bright and loud religious ceremony of adoration and idolatry and reverence for the Foil Fathers; as they were now referred to. The Great Fathers of the Foil, were offered many wonderful financial incentives, vastly lucrative deals for trade, guarantees of embargo-free access and distribution rights, their choices of planets (so far, uninhabited) in the Galaxy on which to base their manufacturing facilities, and (surprise) free membership in the Galactic Debt-Inflation Guild -- all of which was pleasantly presented in a vast procession of trade-show ships; set up to offer their goods across the ten thousand kilometer area of the foil. Each crew, displaying and presenting their interests and inventions and promises as though the Great Fathers of the Foil were right on the other side, watching them.

Caravans of space-suited accountants and State Legislators, traveled in open pleasure crafts along the line of trade-show ships; spraying out streams of Banker's Incense with hand-held loan injectors; and throwing large pink porcelain piggy-banks towards the foil -- filled with tasteless moderation candies. Their suits, were adorned with the symbols of Galactic Debt -- that being, all known currency symbols, turned inside-out.

The Lords of Moderation and Appeasement watched, smiling; from a distance.

Then, partway through day two of the Pleadings, an energy blister formed all along the line of the Reverent Squeezers ...

and, in eighty-four seconds, it ate them all.

Then, burped.

Moderately.

This was hailed by pundits throughout the Galaxy, as the greatest thing to happen since the invention of indoor plumbing. Many, asked if Turner{§m} wanted some Milk of Magnesia to go with that.

Fifteen percent of the Galaxy's Foreclosure Accountants and Political Madams -- were now unaccounted for. They were promptly removed from the ledger books, and replaced with new creatures who had been promised lifelong salary incentives. Which meant, they worked harder and longer for less money on salaries, then they would have earned hourly.

The Legend of Malcom Jackson, grew. If, that was possible.

----------

The impasse of the situation, and the quarantine on Turner{§m}, were both broken eleven months later; by the fourth of the series of audio and video transmissions from the Seeker Star II.

This time, our legendary hero was rising upwards out of a pool of wine colored liquid, more tactile than water, wearing a pair of light green bib overalls, and nothing more. The wine clung to Malcom, his saxophone and the overalls as though it did not want to let him go. He stepped upwards, on an ancient stone stairway, out of an ancient stone pool; playing a light classical jazz riff that was building up to a pleasant and pastoral rendition of -- you guessed it -- the 'allegro non troppo' segment of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony #6.

The view that everyone saw, showed that an old pathway bordered the pool; and just along the outer perimeter of the pathway, trees grew. Not large deciduous trees or tall coniferous trees, but rather thin and tall trees somewhat like the Poplar trees of Old Earth. They were apparently grown as shelter trees, and they were lined up eight abreast which would dampen most winds.

At the far corner of the pool, the trees parted to make a portal through which someone could walk; and beyond that appeared to be a large and grassy plain of wild fields, upon which sat a scattered population of blue-coned trees that were somewhat similar to our own Blue Spruce.

Malcom walked out of the pool area, through the portal, and into the fields; weaving his way through the trees, all of which were nominally fifteen feet high. There must not have been any rocks in the grasses, because Malcom was able to 'barefoot it' wherever he wanted to go. And, wherever he went the camera was sure to go; following him at a height of about five feet above the grass.

As they moved about, sometimes in circles, it became obvious that there were hills close to them, on the left side of the slopes that they were on; as it was now apparent that they were on a very large sloping surface that descended to the right of the scene.

Further up the slope, towards the hilltops, stood a solitary blue tree with a cone shape to its branches; and towards this Malcom walked; still playing the allegro non troppo (first movement) of the Pastoral Symphony. Upon reaching the tree, he merrily walked around and around it, playing his saxophone to it like a Pied Piper would play a magic flute to a group of children.

All of this was obvious to the viewers, though they invariably replayed this lead-up segment many times; because suddenly the blue tree changed into a fierce and dangerous Acrocanthosaurus.

As was subsequently explained to the Galactic Audience, an Acrocanthosaurus (Ak-row-can-tho-saur-us) was a big grey and green colored dinosaur of the Early Cretaceous Period. It stood sixteen feet high and was about forty-four feet long, from the tip of its five foot long head to the end of its tail. Its body, which weighed six tons, was mostly two-toned; grey on the bottom half and legs, and green on the top half and upper arms; which were bigger and more powerful that those of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Along its back, there ran a long dorsal fin, about eighteen inches high at most; starting behind its head, and running along its spine to finally merge with its medium-length tail.

Its body was big, but not bulky, and its hind legs were strong which gave it the ability for a speedy pursuit of its prey. From Malcom's perspective, it was the upper arms and head that had to be avoided most. With its strong upper arms, longer than those of a T-Rex, it could easily seize and tear apart an enemy like an automobile, but worst of all were the sixty-eight knife-like teeth in its jaws.

As dinosaurs go, this Acrocanthosaurus was on the handsome side (sort of like Clark Gable used to be); being grey and green and somewhat streamlined for its size. Nor do I digress, because this one Acrocanthosaurus was immediately named 'AkyKanthy', the cute and frisky dinosaur of TmSC-1008--4. Whereupon, billions of cute and cuddly Teddy-Dinosaur renditions were produced for children of all intelligent species across the Inhabited Zones.

With a loud "Squaaack" from the saxophone, Malcom leapt away from the tree (now turned dinosaur), spun about and ran with his saxophone for his life. There began, a madcap chase through the cone-shaped trees; first up the hill, then down the hill, then back to the pond (which AkyKanthy just jumped over with ease); and now out across a grassy plateau on which stood Malcom's scoutcraft.

Panting and gasping for air, Malcom reached the scoutcraft controls just as the hatch in the hull slammed shut and AkyKanthy seized the portside wing with his strong hands. Now, a tug-of-war commenced between the jaws of the fiercely growling AkyKanthy, clenched onto the portside wing, and the takeoff engines of the scoutcraft. The scoutcraft won, because the smell was too much for AkyKanthy; and Malcom escaped back to the Seeker Star II. The final view which the Galaxy saw, was that of a very angry Acrocanthosaurus, reaching up with his arms towards the departing scoutcraft, and spitting out pieces of its portside wing. Then, the message ended.

No data followed.

----------

"Malcom -- the Great Adventurer!" everyone shouted in their own languages. "What a financial gold mine!" thought the Four Fat Faces, and the Finest Moderation Personages that they represented.

Plans were immediately made for a mock rescue attempt of Malcom Jackson. It mattered not, that the energy foil around Turner{§m} was impenetrable. Moderation, is all about concession and surrender, disguised as circus and sincerity -- the attempt itself would net them billions of credits in profits. They would simply find a place along the foil to stage their event, send in thousands of sacrificial actors (preferably ones that they no longer needed, or wanted to dispose of) and stage the Great Rescue. Which, would entail many threatening gestures towards the Terrible and Nasty Foil, and many promises to Malcom Jackson that he would be rescued -- some Millennium.

To put it briefly, this too was eaten by the foil. However, it did generate for the Finest Personages of Moderation -- a net profit of seven billion, three hundred sixty-one million, eight hundred and twelve thousand, ninety-two point six credits.

The Four Fat Faces, were now the Four Happy Fat Faces, and the next level of planning began.

----------

Mr. Vaga Bond was still besides himself with his latest theatrical achievement, in his seat next to Malcom Jackson on the bridge of the SSII. Malcom scanned the frequencies, while Mr. Vaga Bond growled and clawed at the consoles. The Galaxy did not realize that Malcom's relay stations, which were lined up in a chain, half of which was outside the foil; were also highly sensitive receivers for sub-warp and trans-warp transmissions.

Weeks had passed since their "Foil from the Foil" had been sent to Stationem Decem, and the results were all negative. Instead of frightening the Galaxy into giving up any idea of owning or exploiting the Turner{§m} star cluster, the Legend of Malcom Jackson had now reached a new and dizzying longitude.

Inhabitants of many planets were now dressing up their children as AkyKanthy the Fierce One, and Malcom the Valiant! Especially, during any Halloween-type holidays, or costume celebrations such as everyday life in Rio de Janeiro. Of course, all of the fun was in having AkyKanthy the Fierce One (growling) chasing Malcom the Valiant, who was tooting his toy saxophone as loud as he could!

"That sucks!" Malcom typed.

"Grroooowwllll -- roowwl -- roowl!"

"Shut up!"

----------

The next foul attempt, by the Four Fat Faces, came in the form of a diversionary tactic. The idea was, while the foil was eating a diversionary target -- they would attack with a vast multitude of Hunter/Seeker Probes along the opposite side of the foil. This took some time, as the foil was large, astronomically. So large in fact, that most of the Hunter/Seeker Probes were lost to accidents and mishaps and moderation stupidity, before they could reach their destinations outside the foil.

When the attack occurred, six thousand sacrificial accountants met a grim resolve (dissolve) on one side of the foil; and on the opposite side (simultaneously) a small number of Hunter/Seeker Probes became imbedded in the foil, forever; and stayed there, forever, like Christmas Tree ornaments. The foil used them for display purposes, causing them to flash on and off at random intervals.

Not to be deterred -- The Four Fat Faces sold the reality video of the event, wherever Products For Idiots are sold. This assuaged the cost of their colossal mistake, which was never allowed to be know as a Colossal Mistake.

----------

Unhappiness, usually leads to solutions, or at least escape from Reality -- in the case of our two intrepid heroes, they chose the latter and decided to find for themselves some habitable planet (if there were any left) that could support them for the rest of Malcom's natural life. Of the first four, the fourth had some potential environmentally. It also had the advantage of being considered a very dangerous place to go, even if the foil was breached, due to the performance of Mr. Vaga Bond as AkyKanthy the Acrocanthosaurus.

Of the many other stars of the Turner{§m} cluster, two more remained that the Waste Away Squadron had tagged for possible earth-like planets; TmSC-3722--2 and TmSC-6007--3. The former was the furthest away from the chain of relay stations that Malcom had created to breach the energy foil, and therefore the furthest from the center of attention; it was also the furthest from TmSC-2021--4, the first planet they had shown an audio/video message about.

With intense solemnity, they agreed to head for TmSC-3722--2; they were now in the hands of Fate.

**********

TmSC-3722--2 was known to its inhabitants as 'Oyolia'. To keep a long story short, they were relatively new to this planet themselves. Eleven millenniums previously, they had transported en mass across the Turner{§m} star cluster to this location, from the verdant planet of their birth -- TmSC-1008--4. For three basic reasons: 1. Their original planet was too small for their growing population; they needed a larger planet. 2. Due to overcrowding, social mental diseases of corrupt politicians and deviated freaks had started to appear; with the intentions of turning the entire society into a sewer of horrific and twisted insanity. 3. A group of mad scientists, determined to rule the world, had brought back to life ('created life') a collection of very dangerous creatures from the prehistoric past of TmSC-1008--4. Chief amongst these, was a tall green dinosaur-like animal with many sharp teeth and strong upper arms, that had an insatiable desire to tear and rend things to pieces. The newly introduced animals were allowed to reproduce freely, on a continent ruled by perverted politicians and scientists, until they existed as an army of many thousands. Whereupon, they were unleashed against the rest of TmSC-1008--4.

The resulting war lasted for one hundred and fifty years; and was terminated by the exodus of the planet's dominant species -- the Jeolians -- to a new home world, TmSC-3722--2.

The overall population of TmSC-1008--4 was abruptly reduced to hungry dinosaur-like animals, perverted politicians, deviated freaks, scientists, and prisoners-of-war. Put simply, the animals ate everyone else; and then started to eat each other. Eleven millenniums later, the animal population of the planet had reached an equilibrium; with the dominant species being a green and toothy creature sixteen feet tall and forty feet long, with large back legs and shorter front arms; that weighed six tons and walked erect on its hind legs. During its scientific rebirth, it had been given hands with three fingers and an opposing thumb, so it could carry heavy weapons, none of which worked any longer.

This species of animal, was now busy trying to understand how two things worked, on their war ravaged world -- Fire, and the Wheel.

----------

Oyolia was a newer world, as habitable worlds go; still volcanic in general, not sleepy volcanic like Old Earth was. Oyolia, was literally a world as Frazetta and Vellejo depicted in their works of fantasy art. It was primitive, lush, eruptive, and saturated with many different and exotic lifeforms.

Whereas, Old Earth had a continuous oceanic system all about its circumference, divided into three 'oceans'; Oyolia had a continuous land form that circumnavigated the planet. Within that dominant land mass were separated oceans, just as though everything that was water on Old Earth had turned to land, and everything that was land had turned to water.

Land dominated the surface, in a 58 to 42 ratio over the water. This did not lead to stagnation of the larger water bodies, as they were quite large, seasonally fed by torrential storms, and connected together via a vast subsurface network of massive rivers and subsurface seas; making Oyolia two-layered with water bodies.

This worked well, as the land components were very adequate to the task of holding the planet together, despite its spongy layering.

Thus, traveling around and through Oyolia took on forms of transportation utterly unimagined by civilizations on normal earth-like planets. The way to circle the globe on the surface was not by sea, but rather by land. The way to circle the globe below the surface was not by land, but rather by sea.

Everywhere, from the highest mountain ranges on the surface to the giant subsurface sea environments, Life teemed like an endless artesian well. There seemed to be no end to the variety of species that existed on that one planet.

Oyolia, had never suffered a major global purge of previous populations, due to an overwhelming natural catastrophe. Subsequently, Oyolia was a large planet 2.1 times the size of Old Earth, with 1.28 times the gravity due to a less dense core, lighter planetary substructure, and faster rotary speed -- making an entire rotation in 22 earth hours -- but, it had no dominant species that was quote-unquote 'Intelligent'. This was because there were so many competing lesser species on the planet that no one species could attain the security status of 'dominance', and thereafter start to improve into 'Intelligence'. Whenever a species did achieve a beginning level of secure organization, the rest of the planet's lifeforms, or the planet itself, would take it away. Thus, no species dominated. Instead, all species above a certain intelligence point rose together.

Into this wild and beautiful and primitive world, came the Jeolian Exodus. Three hundred and nineteen millions survivors from the One Hundred Fifty Years War on TmSC-1008--4.

Not too difficult a crossing, all in all, but the manufactured moon (which they made the journey in) was too magnetic to become a useful addition to Oyolia; and had to be turned into a lesser planet at a further radius.

Simple deeds, done well and reaping great success -- typically Jeolian -- but compared to this, the Turner sector of the Galaxy only had such ships as Dreamboard Items, and the stuff of science fiction.

Which, of course, meant that Jeolian technology was very advanced -- likewise its weaponry. Such weaponry was very much needed on a raw and savage planet like Oyolia. Technology, weaponry, intelligence, an orbiting moon base (for a while), many shuttle crafts, and interplanetary spacecraft of many types -- all of this gave the Jeolians an edge over Oyolia, as far as who would win in the contest of mastery over all others.

Unfortunately, for the Jeolians, no one had ever been the masters of all others on Oyolia.

Oyolia, was the master of itself. The teeming populations of so many different species gave the first appearance of a very complex and almost chaotic planet, with no apparent rhyme or rhythm to its daily cycles -- but that was due to any alien being out-of-tune with the planet itself. The planet of Oyolia, being completely natural and unwarped and uninfested by such abstract absurdities as scientific religions and technological fetishes and imagined superiorities, had reached a life complexity stage -- of Consciousness. At a relatively early age, as well.

We are not talking about a Singular Consciousness, as any ego would imagine; but rather, a Sum-Total Consciousness of everybody, about everyone, about everything. If you were born on Oyolia, of a sufficiently intelligent species, you realized the presence of this overall consciousness as you became more and more aware of your surroundings and your life conditions. It, was everywhere -- in everything -- always a factor -- and surprisingly it acted as a buffer against severity and extremism; just as the water oceans of the planet helped Oyolia to maintain a central range of temperatures globally.

If you were born on Oyolia, you were Oyolia; and you cared about Oyolia. That meant, there was a certain lack of malice missing in everything that happened on Oyolia; which was replaced by a sense of curiosity and mannerisms. For instance, if you were an animal that could think and communicate, and you were about to be eaten by a larger or faster animal that could also think and communicate -- whereas on Old Earth you would simply be killed with malice and eaten without a word -- on Oyolia you would be captured, defeated and then examined by a curious predator. You might even exchange a few sentences of polite conversation, mixed with pleadings of "Don't eat me, please!"

And then, you would be eaten -- with ceremony.

And yet again, you might be released! Since prey animals are plentiful anywhere on Oyolia, a predator might not want to eat anyone with your vocabulary, or your sad story, or your opposite sex. Such things happened constantly all over Oyolia, but only above a certain level of intelligence; which was, not by mistake, the same level of awareness that all life on Oyolia belonged to a Mutual Consciousness.

Such a Mutual Consciousness, was missing in animals of equal intelligence on planets such as Old Earth. On those planets, life was all about being-killed, not-being-killed, killing, not-killing, eating, sleeping, taking shelter, and making babies. On Oyolia, everyday life was at least twice as complicated.

If the Four Fat Faces had known, that within Turner{§m} there existed such a planet of 'Inconvenience' (the moderation translation of 'Awareness'), they would have avoided that star cluster at all costs. There was already a most disturbing number of such nuisance planets to be found in the Galaxy. Not surprisingly, no Inhabited Zone included such a troublesome and obstinate and unprofitable planet. Also, they were deucedly difficult to exploit. 'Cursed' and 'Possessed' and 'Entranced' and 'Bedeviled' and 'Inauspicious' and 'Obstinate' and 'Intractable' were some of the descriptions given to such planets -- by the spoilers that failed to spoil them.

Old Earth had never reached such a stage of advancement, due to the several large-scale extinction events that its fauna had suffered; thus drastically thinning down the numbers of its natural species. Had Old Earth not been hit by such disasters, little monkeys would still be little monkeys in trees, instead of politicians -- and a distant improvement of the Theropods would now be the dominant species of Old Earth.

As it was, the original world of the Jeolians, TmSC-1008--4, had also suffered such catastrophes; and the Jeolians had been the result of it all -- the best of a bad situation. So, the Jeolians had (as usual) a built-in egomania about superiority. This mania, however, had suffered a severe shock and distress for more than a century.

It was not a dominant species that landed upon Oyolia, even though it took them a considerable amount of time to realize that. Oyolia proved to be exceedingly difficult to tell what to do, and had an amazing capacity for allowing the Jeolians to think that they had any situation under control -- realizing only a fraction of what was involved. Then, Oyolia would just erase the Jeolians that had transgressed against the balance.

Being erased, was an easy thing to achieve upon a planet of billions of carnivores of every size and shape imaginable. During the first few centuries, the Jeolians seriously considered reoccupying their Exodus Moon and heading out again; this time for the region that happened to be occupied by the Star TmSC-2021.

It was a plague that changed everything for the Jeolians on Oyolia. From their own capricious experiments, at trying to develop a biological weapon that would kill almost any carnivore on the planet, they stupidly released upon their own cities a virulent disease that traveled via the ever-present household insects of their environs.

The disease, dissolved bone and cartilage. Jeolians fell apart by the hundreds of thousands; being mammalian anyway (of Human CetaB type), they were particularly vulnerable to rapid bone decay.

Out-of-control, the disease could only be stopped by a complete quarantine of all flying and crawling insects, upon which the disease rode. Matters were looking truly grim for the future of the Jeolians on Oyolia; and evacuation to their Exodus Moon was very unlikely to work; they would just bring the disease with them as they evacuated. The 120,000+ officers and crew members of the Exodus Moon, and whatever spacecraft were off-world at the outbreak of the disease, were now seen as possibly the last surviving hope for the Jeolian Species.

And then, Oyolia began to drop snow and to rain ice all over their side of the planet -- in early summer. For weeks, the snow and ice rains fell, and all exposed insects were smashed or frozen in place. The Jeolians opened their buildings and shelters to the storms, and allowed everything to freeze. In the ice storms, those already affected by the disease were carted off to holding camps in the icy wastes that had been swamps a few weeks before. There, they died of dissolvement.

Just as the surviving Jeolians were starving to death, to the point of seeing each other as bags of chops and steaks, the weather reversed completely. Heat from an intense overhead star poured down upon the planet, accompanied by many gargantuan tornadoes; the like of which the Jeolians had never seen before.

Another month later, and their area of Oyolia was a soggy and shattered mess of demolished cities and ruined farmlands. The disease -- was gone.

Fast resewing of the fields could produce a minor crop, enough to get them through the next winter; there was still enough left of the growing season for that. Hunting was actually better now, as most of the trees had lost their leaves; so seeing your prey was much easier now. It was hard, but the Jeolians survived as a civilization on Oyolia.

Everything about Oyolia, changed in the minds of the Jeolians.

The children caught the sense of it all, and began to call themselves -- Oyolians. That is how it remained, and millenniums later, when Malcom Jackson and Mr. Vaga Bond arrived, it was to a planet of the 'Oyolians'; where literally every living thing on the planet was part of the planet itself.

----------

"That one, over there. Next to the table of fried armadillos, or whatever they are. That one, with the dark red hair." Mr. Vaga Bond pointed again and again over the party crowd of Oyolians, at a very beautiful and sumptuous young Oyolian female; about thirty-one years of age, five foot and eight inches tall, 36D-26-36, long dark red hair, stunning face with a slightly upturned nose, and a shimmering silver hologram covering the most private parts of her blue anatomy, just barely. This was the Feast of Thankance, the time each year when all Oyolians expressed their appreciation for the saving of the Ancient Jeolians from the terrible plague that had almost decimated their species, thousands of years ago.

"You're not getting any younger lad. When you find the makins, make the feast I always say!"

"How often?" Malcom Jackson typed onto his mobile keypad.

"Look -- she's a CetaB, and you are a BetaB -- a suitable match anywhere! Come on, get some legwork going here. You need to make some yardage with these Oyolian females; before they decide you are just 'The Oddity From Outer Space'!"

That argument worked well, after many previous attempts, but in a kind of delayed fashion. Malcom had been on Oyolia for the better part of a year now, and he admitted to himself that 'this' was the final stop of his odyssey to nowhere. Plus, it really was 'somewhere' -- volcanic, prehistoric, wild; but it did have the transplanted civilization of the 'Jeolians' (now the Oyolians).

As Bond was reminding him, more and more lately, the females were sensuous and sumptuous and sweet and scintillating; most of whom could win a beauty contest on Old Earth just by showing up with six square inches of clothing on her body. Of course, less is better at such times; but the danger of public riots being proportional to the amount of males present -- would have engendered rules and regulations to prevent that.

Malcom did start to date and woo the local female fauna, but not the kinds that Mr. Vaga Bond thought were ideal. Malcom, liked the better-read and more thoughtful types; more worldly and yet pleasingly demure and easy to get along with.

In other words - he really liked Librarians. The gorgeous-behind-the-bifocals and busting-out-at-the-seams under the sweater, Librarian Chicks.

Malcom, began to visit as many libraries as he could find; where the hunting was good, I might add for three consecutive years.

Malcom, being somewhat of a Traveller himself by now, had no problem with keeping such intelligent beauties entertained; not only with amorous love-making, but also with true stories (he would not lie) of his adventures in space -- so far. They were intelligent women, of course, so he knew that he could explain to them what life was like out in space; and they would at least try to understand.

Which they did. Which they told to the Elders of the Oyolians. Which caused considerable apprehension -- especially when the energy foil and the Four Fat Faces were mentioned.

Meanwhile Mr. Vaga Bond, relieved that at last something (anything) was approaching procreation, continued his studies of the fascinating world of Oyolia.

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On the opposite side of the star cluster, events were turning for the worse again. A new wonder invention had been created that was sure-fire guaranteed to open the foil (permanently), and to allow a fleet of exploration starships to finally journey into the unknown interior of Turner{§m}. They would send out constant reports of their amazing findings.

All fabricated.

As soon as they got inside the energy foil, their one and only purpose in existence was to pounce upon any and all planets that were available and 'workable', and to claim them for the Finest Moderation Personages of the Galactic Council of Wisdom.

It failed. Goodbye to dozens of exploration starships; teeth-grinding to the Finest Moderation Personages.

It shook the entire energy foil. The Turner{§m} star cluster reverberated with the shock waves from the attempt. Oyolia was tossed and shaken in its orbit, but held on.

Malcom, was in the loft of a library at the time; playing his saxophone for a comely young lass (very blue with buxom proportions), who was quite intelligent and quite adoring of her new black acquaintance/lover. The library was closed for the night, and he was up on the balcony (dressed in a roman toga again); while she was down below in the rotunda (dressed in nothing), looking up at him as he played a love song on his saxophone that had never been heard in the waterfront jazz clubs of Saint Louis.

"I am getting really good at this." Malcom thought as he watched her ascend the stairway to the loft; whereupon she slowly began to take the toga off of him, and to sing in harmony with the love song.

So far, so good. Then, the shock wave hit the Exodus Moon in far orbit, and alarms went off all over the Oyolian Civilization.

They could now hear the alarms sounding in the streets outside, and Malcom had to struggle for a moment in his mind. Should he leave and find out what was wrong. At a time like this?

No, Malcom was not that strong -- or he was beyond the point of no return. The alarms sounded, and the city went to the streets to find out what was wrong -- and they made love again, in the loft of the library, until dawn. By which time, the shock wave hit them. It was more of a hard space wave, as though the vacuum of space had been condensed into a wave form, than it was a fiery wall of explosions and burning debris -- though there was some of that too.

The planet actually heaved away from the direction of the shock wave as it impacted, and then bounced back to its original position as the wave passed around it, and produced a countershock on the opposite side of it. After that, Oyolia shook and vibrated violently.

Six weeks later, the planet was still burning in many places; but, the dead had been buried (hastily), and the roads were being cleared. Malcom, wearing his Chinese Emperor's robes again, for the occasion, was attending the birth of one of his babies. He listened, and memorized the tunes of the birth ceremonial hymns that the nurses were singing, as they attended to one of his lovers. When, a squad of Oyolian soldiers walked into the maternity section of the general hospital, and arrested him.

He expected it, but he had to display outrage lest they all presume his guilt. As he was seized, he shouted to the nurses -- "Name him 'Reggie'! He's going to be a Man! Reggie!" Thus, he was dragged by his arms, and saxophone, to the building of the central authority for that city. The Elders of Oyolia were gathered in the large meeting hall, waiting for him. There, Mr. Vaga Bond was floating -- encased in a restrictive cocoon of fibril energy.

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Everyone was very courteous. The Seeker Star II was taken on board the Exodus Moon, and completely refitted and repaired. Many good wishes were expressed. Malcom's children would be waiting for him.

If.

Towards TmSC-6007--3 they now set a course. The plan of their next adventure being discussed between them all the way.

"I should have known, there was no way to avoid what I knew was going to eventually return to my knowledge, about those despicable bastards!" Malcom typed.

"Do not pour salt, Lad."

"I am completely dependent upon Oyolia now, you realize that?!"

"Not much, I am artificial after all."

"I mean, I am part of Oyolia. Blood of my blood, now. I have women there and children there, and responsibilities ..."

"Are you applying for castration, Lad?"

"No. No. No, I am good with this. I want many children, I can keep them fed. I have a good income, with my entertainment circuit and my books being printed and now -- if I survive -- I will have saved all of Oyolia, in their eyes. The Elders will just allow me to continue to exist, not frozen in a meat locker somewhere."

"Think about me. They want to shut down my power supplies!"

"This plan has to appall those fat bastards out there so much!"

Mr. Vaga Bond replied "What have they really seen of lifeforms inside the cluster, so far? Just the lightforms on TmSC-9401--1 and the flying wildlife on TmSC-2021--4. That is nothing to scare off such greedy moderates as them! We have to find out what TmSC-6007--3 is really like, and then we can make some plans. The Oyolians will supply whatever we need."

"It depends. The planet has to have a working environment for this caper to work." Malcom typed.

They went over Malcom's plan again. If, TmSC-6007--3 possessed environmental conditions that were suitable, the Oyolians and their Exodus Moon would travel to TmSC-6007--3 and disembark enough supplies and actors with which to stage a really horrific show. A display. An audio and video message sent out by Malcom Jackson, to the Outside Galaxy, showing a planet on which lived a very belligerent and extremely dangerous civilization of a blood-thirsty species; which (horror of horrors) -- ate money.

The Money-Eaters From Outer Space!

They might even eat precious metals. It had to work, everything was riding on it. Whatever would scare the crap out of, and sicken, the Fat Four Faces at the same time; could possibly ward off any future attempts at breaking into the Turner{§m} star cluster.

They had to take the gamble. For months they traveled to TmSC-6007--3, while getting everything in readiness and being sure that their chain of relay stations, now quite a distance away, could be reached. To this end, they launched another chain of relay stations that would insure proper transmissions from TmSC-6007--3 to the point of the original relay chain.

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What you have learned thus far, is indeed the realistic history of these matters. And here, we will dispense with the telling of the entire story -- as from this point, parts of it are unknown, forever.

We will focus instead, upon how the Outside Galaxy perceived the events that followed the landing of Malcom Jackson and Mr. Vaga Bond on TmSC-6007--3.

Forty-one months after their landing at TmSC-6007--3, a data message was received by the Outside Galaxy; of which only one word could be discerned -- "Cain't ..."

Then, eight days later, the last and final audio and video message from Malcom Jackson arrived at Stationem Decem. Aside from the shock value of this message, I will simply describe what was seen and heard from it. The message began with a burst of music, from many instruments, amongst which there were many saxophones. The initial vision was almost overwhelming, and had to be seen in replay to be fully comprehended.

It was the full frontal view of an orchestra of musicians. A wide and large orchestra, bigger than the standard size across the Inhabited Zones. There were at least three hundred musicians in this orchestra. Their arrangement, however, seemed to be somewhat standard -- with the biggest percussion instruments in the back, and horn sections and clarinet sections in the middle on one side, and heavy stringed instruments in the middle of the other side, and both lower sections filled with violin sections. The main floor contained two piano players, with their pianos back-to-back, and on either side were eight saxophone players -- for a total of sixteen. The conductor was not visible in the vision ...

but surely, he must have been a dragon too.

The music of these dragons, hit the rest of the Galaxy like someone's first hearing of a melodious music from the opposite side of their own planet -- both new and unusual.

The orchestra of dragons, all about twelve feet high and playing oversized instruments, was cradled inside a very large musical half-shell structure that was exactly built to look like a huge sea shell from some unknown ocean. The song, or musical piece, that they were playing, was very orchestral in its structure while retaining a jazz-like quality that still amazes. Of course, with sixteen saxophones blowing all the while, that was to be expected. The music ripped from that message, still has a very singular and unique impact upon all who hear it, even to this day.

The camera, suddenly began to turn. Slowly, very carefully, it turned to the right; and the Galaxy began to see what was outside of the orchestral shell. Standing just next to the shell, on the viewer's right, was a mammoth dragon (complete with horns and a ridge of armor plates along the top of its head and down its back), with a skin encrusted with blue-green jewels, and red claws, and golden teeth. It was blowing white smoke rings out of its nostrils, which were turned upwards as this dragon was very happy with the music that it was hearing -- thumping its big tail in time to the song, and snapping its fingers at the same time.

The view continued to the right, and slowly there appeared a sense of the landscape; being that of a butte, arisen above the surface of the planet, on which (and at the end of which) stood the orchestral half-shell. The lines of the butte went backwards and slightly downwards, then more to the right; all of it being quite brown, a mixture of tan and dark browns without green vegetation.

As the view swung slowly, the sight of the Seeker Star II came into view; hard smashed nose-first into the side of the butte. It was crushed into the planet at a sixty degree tilt downwards, and was quite still and inert. There was no mistaking it, it was the remains of the Seeker Star II. The view continued around, slowly bringing into sight a large plains area of desolation, next to which the butte stood. Here and there, across its expanse, there lay shallow pools of some unknown liquid; all steel grey and steel violet mixed.

Now, a structure came into view. It was elevated above the plains floor, to the same height as the camera. It was soon to be seen as a half-ring, fully 180 degrees around; that to our eyes appeared like the rails of a monorail train, suspended and without a train. No supports for the rail were visible to the viewers of this scene. It was colored like, and reflected like, a bronze metal of some kind; only it was soon considered to have been made of much stronger material.

The ring was sectioned in two, with one rail above and one below, connected by a long system of archways between them; binding them together with one rail along the tops, and one rail along the bottoms. Through these archways, there appeared many different scenes of the planet, as visions shining into the eyes of the viewers.

Some scenes showed domestic dragon life. Some scenes showed military dragon life. Some scenes showed industrial dragon life. Some scenes showed executions of aliens.

At the midpoint of the half-ring, just opposite to the position of the orchestra, there sat a large and happy purple dragon; with a silver-colored tummy. Very large, very content, with bright white frills all along its arms and legs, and white feathers growing out along the ridge of its armor-plated back. Red plumes, grew at long lengths along the top crest of its dragon head, giving it the resemblance of a dragon wearing the war helmet of an Ancient Roman Centurion. It was weaving from side to side with the music of the dragon orchestra, clicking its heels together with the beat.

With its left arm, it was clutching a big transparent bowl, filled with blue-skinned Oyolians. One at a time, it plucked a struggling Oyolian out of the bowl, and ate half of it with obvious relish; throwing away the gory remainder. The camera slowly moved to the right, and into view came the sight of a large golden fishbowl attached to the top of the half-ring, the similarity was exact. The glass of the fishbowl was tinted with real gold, but there was no doubting that within its heavy liquid interior floated the inert body of Mr. Vaga Bond -- lifeless -- still in his black boots, and red and blue Highway Man's outfit.

The camera moved on, slowly swinging back towards its original aspect, and once again the viewers saw a far horizon of the planet from this elevation. The tan and brown plains this time gave way to the presence of a very modern looking industrial complex of behemoth proportions, still being built, and populated by many thousands of dragon workers of almost endless color combinations and variations. The silver spires of the complex challenged the heavens with impertinence, and far up there at the very highest points, there sparkled many welding torches and work lights; even there the flurry of busy dragon bodies could be seen.

The camera continued to the right, slowly, inexorably -- the music of the orchestra becoming louder, of course.

Just to the left of the orchestra half-shell, from the viewer's perspective, the camera swung to a point and stopped. The music played on, and the far left portion of the orchestra of dragons could be seen in the view, with the dragon saxophonists dancing and weaving to the music.

Dead center in the view, was a message written in Old Earth English; chiseled into a huge tablet of stone. The tablet was propped up, somehow, so as to present its message to the camera; but it was at least five hundred feet wide.

Planets not for sale.

No Debts.

No Politics.

**********

At this, the messages stopped coming. No more did the songs of the saxophone cross the reaches of the Galaxy. And, as they say, the silence was deafening. No written report followed, and the chain of relay stations went dead. A coldness, wrapped itself around the energy foil. A sense of deep foreboding seized any member of any species which approached the foil, from that day forwards.

Elsewhere -- wonder, surprise, awe, and conjecture all washed over the Inhabited Zones, in their turns. The impact, socially, was even more dramatic than that of the first message of Malcom Jackson; who was never seen in the last message.

Finally, wisdom prevailed. Turner{§m} was written off, figuratively and in practice. After all, holographic images cannot be immersed into fishbowls of liquid, only matter can.

All ships avoided the Turner{§m} vicinity, as an unbreakable rule. On all star charts, regardless of species of origin, Turner{§m} was prominently outlined and brightly colored in the shades for 'Danger'. Next to which was placed the appropriate symbol of death, and the Human Species words -- "Cain't Touch That. Dragon's Quick."

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Thus, from sudden mystery and endless speculations, was perpetuated the timeless Legend of Malcom Jackson. Who, was supposed to be still exploring the stars and planets of Turner{§m}; unable to tell anybody about his findings; forever lost to the Galaxy, and forever trying to find his way back to the rest of us.

Malcom's legend rose to the level of epic proportions -- alongside the Twelve Labors of Hercules, the Odyssey of Odysseus, the Tragedy of Faustus, the Legend of Paul Bunyan; even the Legend of Jacob Waltz and the Lost Dutchmen Gold Mine was compared to the plight of Malcom Jackson. Naturally, the inevitable comparison was made between Malcom Jackson and the Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert W. Service. Yet, Malcom's story stood apart, in some ways its own, its uniqueness carrying it through.

Malcom was the eternally trapped and forlorn soul of mythology; forever playing his saxophone for his Turner{§m} companions, lest he be eaten by them. The paragon of the 'best intentions', wrecked and dashed upon the Rocks of Chance.

Nor, was it to fade into obscurity, as so many other legends do.

4,191 Earth Years later, the entire affair became an even more stupefying puzzle, and an unforgettable object lesson. The foil of energy which surrounded Turner{§m}, snapped off. Ceased to exist.

After years of -- "You go!" "No, you go!" "No, I said it first -- you go!" -- a suspicious Galaxy went inside Turner{§m}, to see the wonders that were now the stuff of fables, and classical dreams.

Turner{§m}, was not there.

No stars, no planets, no moons, no comets, no celestial bodies -- just space.

An empty space, exactly the size of the inner area of the energy foil which had surrounded it.

Turner{§m}, was nowhere to be seen or found.

And, in the exact center of the void -- floated one golden Alto Saxophone.

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Markel Peters

http://www.voices-of-iowa.blogspot.com/

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All inspirational jazz music for this work comes from Spyro Gyra.

The Waste Away Class of Destructor Starships gets its inspiration from 'Dark Star'.

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The characters and places in this story are characters and places in this story only, and bear no resemblance, nor are related to, nor attributed to anyone living or dead who has had the same names; or any places that now exist.