“Get outta here, you urchin!  You’ve stolen from me kitchen fer the last time!  If I ever see yer face again, I won’t stop ‘n’ think before I shoot ya!  Now git!” 

            It was this scene the morning found when it rose: A large, angry bakerwoman, bodily carrying a small, battered boy, and throwing him violently into the street, the stolen roll still clutched in his bony, dirty hands.  The boy was young, about 10, but no one, not even himself, knew his exact age.  He had been living on his street for as long as he could remember, and his appearance proved it.  Long, unkempt tangles of hair wafted past his thin face, his beaten, bruised, bony body was clothed entirely in the oldest and dirtiest of rags.  He never smiled.  His name was Bowie, and he was now covered in mud.

            He stood up quickly, but the ordeal hadn’t escaped the other shopkeeps’ attention.  They stood protectively in their doorways, weapons ready at hand in case he dared try to enter their provinces.  Nobody likes a street urchin, and Bowie was a master thief among them.  His body bore the marks of many relentless beatings of the robotic cops whenever they could catch him.  He was fortunate enough to outwit their intelligence chips every time before any lasting damage was bestowed, but he hated those idiotic robots more than anything.  More than the woman who had thrown him out, more than the other shopkeeps who now glared down at him.  He had long vowed to somehow avenge himself and repay the damage.  But he was a mere orphan, a homeless vagabond, an angry street kid with no weapons or skills.  There were none lower than he.

            Glaring back at the shopkeepers, he stuffed the muddy roll in his mouth, then began sauntering down the street, bare feet splashing defiantly through puddles and mud, as he stared each shopkeeper in the eyes as he passed.

            The bakerwoman had not yet finished.  She had gone to the phone and dialed a code, and just now a cop was coming up the street behind him.

            He froze when he heard the steely, robotic voice proclaim, “You are under arrest on the charge of petty theft.  You have the right to remain silent…”

            Bowie ran.  He knew what would happen if he complied—he would be taken to the station and gouged for information on other crimes in the city, then beaten with metal sticks, sometimes red hot.  He had once relented and given information.  This mistake had cost him the friendship of every other street orphan in the city.  That is why he roved the streets alone, and when he ran from the law, he was running from enemy to enemy.

            Fear kept him running, and hate.  He ran into an alleyway between two buildings and hid behind a dumpster, trying to stifle his breathing.  Fatigue washed over him, and he leaned against the grimy brick of the building, closing his eyes and praying, to some God somewhere, that he would make it.

            When he heard the whirr-shunk noise of its footsteps pass, he started to stand, but his arm was grasped by a hand dirtier and slimmer than his own.  A man, homeless like himself, was laying next to him, propped up against the wall, and so dirty that Bowie had taken him to be a part of the mass of the garbage that littered the alleyway.  But now it was apparent that it was not a pile of trash, as he rolled his eyes upwards to meet Bowie’s, and spoke in a hoarse, insane voice.

            “Lovely doesn’t have a home, oh yes lovely, but he can stay with us, pretty boy, yes he can, pretty can stay with Tom, lovely, yes…”

            Bowie let out something that was in between a word and a cry as he pried himself from the hold of the man and began backing out of the alley.

            “Lovey mustn’t leave, oh no, pretty boy must stay with Tom, yes, with the lovely long hair yes…” The man lurched to his feet and stumbled after Bowie.

            Bowies started running again, but the man was in bad health and was left behind, to what fate—a cop or back to his alley—Bowie didn’t care to find out.  He has found one of his old hiding spots and almost collapsed as exhaustion was replaced by dizziness and nausea, his heart pounding angrily and his stomach churning sourly.  He didn’t know when the last time he ate before this morning was.  He didn’t want to think about it.

            He fell asleep, just a short nap to forget his hunger and to pass the time until later that day, when people would be throwing away leftover food.  That was one good thing about this city, the people were very wasteful.

            It was near noon when he awoke, and crawling out from under his protective camouflage covering (an innocent-looking pile of cardboard boxes), he found some newly filled and dumped rubbish bags sitting by the dumpster in the alleyway.  He tore them hopefully open, and fifteen minutes later, smelling thoroughly of rubbish, had managed to find enough edible scraps to stave off starvation for another day.  Then again, anything is edible if you try hard enough, and when one is starving, one tries very hard.

            He would try the dumpster behind the bakery next.  Occasionally they would throw away food, usually if it had gotten moldy or started to rot.  He found this was his best chance of getting anything good, but he’d have to be careful.  After this morning the bakers would be very alert for any sign of him.  In fact, now that he thought about it, he should probably stay out of that area for a few weeks, until they let their guard down.  It was also likely he’d run into some of the other street boys there, since they knew as well as he did that the bakery was the best shot at getting any substantial amounts of food.  If he saw anyone else he knew he’d have to clear out fast—they hadn’t forgotten about him squealing to the police bots, and the ones who had been caught had been subjected to the same torture as him.  Only they had kept their mouths shut.

            He made his way through the maze of streets back to the bakery, keeping to backways and alleys, wading through street filth.  He wanted to scope things out, anyway.  He was very dirty.  He sometimes even climbed over entire buildings using fire escapes, if he felt it was more discreet.  One thing Bowie really loved was climbing.  He felt that maybe if he could ascend the muck, perhaps he might become a person.  And he loved looking down at the people; for once he’d be above them.

            While pausing atop one building he gazed over the city.  Immediately below him were the polluted streets, but he looked beyond that, where distantly he could see housetop after housetop, winding silly roads connecting neighborhoods; a suburban utopia of houses, gardens, and well kept yards, where children happily climbed trees and laughed in the sunlight.  He had never climbed a tree, though he guessed he would like it.  The only trees he had even seen were sickly poisoned branches that lined a few of the major roads—a poor excuse for decoration, which were occasionally blasted by cops for quivering on a windy day.  He had never laughed, either, though he had heard it from time to time, like the occasion when the Junction restaurant had taken him to court for stealing the food they had thrown away.  The owner of the restaurant had laughed when the court ruled in their favor.  Bowie didn’t like laughter very much.

            Still, he thought as he gazed as the treetops and red roofs, he would very much like to go there, at least to see what it was like.

            Why not go now?  A little voice inside him tugged him forward, pulling his yearning up into action.  He could go now.  There was nothing stopping him, certainly no reason he needed to hang around the city all day, the bakery could wait and besides, it was probably still too early in the day for them to be throwing any food out.  At any rate, there was bound to be less cops hanging around that peace-filled haven.

            His mind was set.  He climbed down from the building and began heading for the suburbia, jumping fences and cutting across property, climbing buildings to reorient himself, then descending again to continue his trek.

            It was late afternoon by the time Bowie reached the suburbs.  He walked through the twisting streets, the trees taking the sunlight off his bare shoulders.  He crinkled his small stubby nose at the small, stubby houses.  They looked so inadequate next to the behemoth skyscrapers of the cities.  But he liked the houses anyway.  He could smell freshly cut grass and barbeques roasting better food than he had ever dreamed of having.  He began wandering through yards, noticing that some grew food while others grew flowers.  The air was sweeter than the city air, and tranquil, and he thought that he’d be happy if only he could live here for one night.

            He turned.  The backdoor was open.  He could see inside the house to the kitchen with sparkling black countertops and a blue and white tile floor.  On one of the countertops, the one closest to the door, sat an exquisite, overflowing, heavily glazed strawberry pie.

            His mouth opened.  He glanced around quickly—no one could see him through the heavy stone wall.  Taking a deep breath, he slipped quietly into the house.  There was no one there.  In the next room he could here the TV going.

            “...rejoiced as Telperion returned as scheduled from her 1,000 year quest through space, on a mission searching for extra-terrestrial life in the universe.  She is now being captained by Jordan Anthony, descendant of the original captain, Jack Anthony.”

            “We have traveled throughout the entire universe, and have found no indication of life beyond this Earth.  This proves that humans are truly the superior race.”

            “Thank you, Captain.  In the meantime, Telperion’s sister ship, Kronion, has not returned as scheduled.  IFSAB has refused to comment on the delay.”

            Bowie stared at the pie and its mounds of red coated in a sugary white glaze.  There was no one here, no one to know if he just took it.  He edged closer to it, daring himself to swipe some of the sugary coating off with his finger and taste it.

            “Hello,” said a voice from behind him.  Bowie turned quickly and guiltily, trying to come up with an excuse to be standing in the kitchen.  “What’s your name?”

            For the first time, Bowie was being confronted willingly by a girl his age.  She was wearing a white dress with pale yellow ribbons for the trim.  He had seen girls his age before, certainly, but they were always being herded off by their mothers and being told no to look.  For the first time, Bowie didn’t know what to do.

            “Bowie,” he choked out.

            “Do you want some pie?” she asked, cutting out two large, irregular pieces.

            It was the most beautiful thing he had ever tasted.  His heart pounded faster with each bite, and he thought that he had surely, finally died. It was sweeter than all the revenge in the world.             He savored the first few bites, then stopped wasting time.

            He was nearly finished with the slice when he heard a horrified scream from behind him.  He froze as a woman swooped down upon them.

            “What are you doing?” she screamed.  “Didn’t I tell you to never let anyone in the house while I was gone?  Didn’t I!  Look at him!  He looks like he’s been dragged through the streets of London!  And you!” she continued, directing her fury towards Bowie.  “You stay right there, you miserable little wretch, you street scum…” sparks were flying from her mouth and her eyes were rolling horribly, “I’m calling the police.  They’ll know just what to do with you!”

            The girl was cowering terrified behind the counter and Bowie was still frozen in his seat.  When the woman turned to dial on the phone, he realized—the police!  He got up and ran out the door, scrambling madly over fences and through yards.  He wasn’t paying any attention to where he was going, until the grass turned to sand, which turned to wooden platforms.

            He was at the docks.  He was at the sea!  He had seen the ocean, very distantly, from the city.  He had never imagined going there.  After all, there were no trees or buildings to climb on the ocean.

            There were cops on the dock, but at least they weren’t the ones looking for him.  Still they would transmit the info on him as soon as they realized he was gone—including his several arrests and court time.  He glanced around, looking for a hidden refuge.

            The dock was crowded.  Everybody was tending to their own business.  If anyone had bothered to look up, they might have noticed a small boy, thin, with unkempt shaggy hair, clothes only in ragged shorts, and extraordinarily dirty, take a running dive off an unoccupied dock.  But no one bothered to look up, so Bowie escaped unnoticed.

            He swam under the dock towards land, where he found an alcove between the wooden walkways and the sand.  Several sea creatures had also taken refuge here, but since there was no chance of a robot finding him here, he didn’t mind sharing the space.

            He could hear the muffled sounds from the dock—large, heavy crates being rolled across, the weighty footsteps of men and the whir-thud of robots.

            It was then that he heard the voice.  “Come to me.” she said.  “I can save you.”  He looked around.  There was nothing but him, the crabs, the spiders, and the ocean lapping against his toes.  Maybe he had dozed off listening to the sounds from above, and dreamed it.  But the voice sounded so close.  “Come to me…” There it was again—deep and mysterious—“I can release you…”—dark and liquid—“I can show you freedom…”—smooth and dangerous—“Come to me…”  The water lapping at Bowie’s toes started pulling insistently; it swelled as it pulled, until it was covering his feet.  His chest pounded with panic as he realized that water was coming in, filling the crevice.

            Taking a deep breath, he slipped into the water and swam blindly out, finally resurfacing when he could no longer feel the wood above him. He grabbed the edge of the dock and hung on, gasping for breath.

            It was night now, activity had ceased.  He climbed out of the water, a warm breeze licking the water from his skin.  He looked out at the ocean, and thought he could faintly hear the voice again, or an echo, or a memory of it.  It sparkled black and stars, calm and smooth like a comforting blanket; or a tile floor.  She was the soul of the earth, and he wanted to dive into her and let her claim him.  But he didn’t.  Instead he found peace behind a shop near the dock, where he could still hear the lapping water and the seagull’s cry.  He was still clutching the fork he had used to eat the pie.

            First Mate Marian White stood alone on deck, gazing into the vastness of space before her.  She had taken 2^nd Watch, Universal Time.  She had paused to look blearily out the large window, at the sparkling black of space.  Had her ancestors, long ago, been drawn to that elusive call, the beautiful dark voice of the soul of time?  It was because of them that she now walked the halls of Kronion, that she knew nothing but the cold emptiness of space, and vast eternity of time.  So many generations before her had lived on this vessel, with no hope of even glimpsing the home planet, Earth.  But she would see it.  This crew would be the first in a thousand years to see terra firma.  They were going home.

            Marian wondered what it would be like.  How many people would there be?  What would they look like?  What if, during the course of 1000 years in space, those on the ship had evolved differently than those on the planet?  She wondered how their customs differed, and their fashions.  She looked down at her uniform.  It had probably once been black, but was now faded into gray from years of handing it from generation to generation of first mates.  What was the government like on Earth?  Here they had established a monarchy and class system based on family and occupation aboard the ship.  But was Earth ruled that way?  It made sense to her, but Earth was a permanent establishment, not a temporary venture like Kronion.  She wondered about the plants.  They had plants on Kronion, to supply food and air.  Earth probably had more plants, kinds she couldn’t imagine.  Maybe it had plants that were manufactured merely for beauty.  Were plants manufactured?  There was so much they didn’t know.  For centuries they had been taught about biology and literature and the history of Earth.  This stemmed from the Originals, and all for the sake of this, the Returning Crew.  Yet they hadn’t been taught what they needed to know.  There was one thing missing from their lessons—the past 1000 years.

            What if the Kronians were so different from the Earthlings, that they would be rejected, and cast back into space?

            There was a slight shuffling noise behind her.  She turned to face it, and found herself looking at a small man with thick glasses, dark blonde hair sticking out in ludicrous positions, wearing a plaid bathrobe with matching slippers, and holding a cup of a steaming liquid.

            “Hello, Will.” she said to the ship’s main technician and lawkeeper.

            “Hello Marian.” he said.  “Second Watch?”

            “Yes.  Insomnia?”

            “Yes.”

            “Any news from IFSAB?”

            Will looked troubled as he replied.  “I haven’t been able to contact Earth for a few days now.”

            “A few days?”  There was the slightest hint of alarm in her voice.

            “More like a week.” Will admitted.  “And—” He paused awkwardly.  “According to the Plan of the Originals, we were supposed to have returned to Earth a few days ago.”

            ‘We’re off schedule?” She now sounded fully alarmed.  “Have you told the captain?”

            “I was planning on telling him in the morning.” He said sheepishly.  “he’s just been so busy with the failure of our location system that I didn’t want to add to his problems.”

            “Understandable.” Marian said.

            “Marian,” Will said, “Do you think our Location system was connected to our communications with Earth?  The transmissions stopped at about the same time the system failed.”

            “Sounds plausible when you put it that way.”  She turned to look out the window again. “The beauty and mystery of space never cease to amaze me.” she murmured.  Will joined her at the window, sipping the last of his hot chocolate.

            “Look at that nebula,” he said, pointing.  “It almost looks like a flower.”

            “A flower?” Marian asked.

            “I learned about them in the journal of one of the Originals.  Apparently they’re some kind of decorative plant.”

            “I think it looks like the folds in some magnificent, iridescent robe,” Marian said.

            “We’re both romantics.” Will said.  “It is, after all, just a nebula.”

            “No,” Marian realized, “It’s not.”  The ship had continued drifting, and they had drawn closer to the phenomenon.  “We could never get this close to a nebula.  And look at its colors.  It’s like it’s shimmering.”

            Will glanced over and Marian.  He saw the light reflected in her eyes, and for a split second he thought he saw shadows of Marian standing in her place, accompanied with echoes of her voice.  “This is stupid.” “When does my watch end?” “It’s just space.” “A nebula?” More echoes, unintelligible, each matching a shadow of a different reaction.  “What else could if be?” “We must get to Earth!”  “So black…” “It’s beautiful.”

            Will blinked, the phantoms were gone.

            “It’s beautiful.” Marian repeated, sensing Will hadn’t heard her.  “What do you think it is?”

            Will was still staring at her, awestruck by what he had seen.  “The TSC.” he said without hesitating. 

            Her eyes widened.  “What? You mean…?” Will nodded.  “Go get the captain.”

            Bowie awoke bright and early the next morning.  He felt brisk and energetic, and could smell the sweet savor of the salt in the sea.  He knew what he had to do.  He would escape into the ocean, letting the salty, fresh wind caress him and whip his problems away.  But there was something he had to do first.

            He found the place where the wood turned to sand and the sand turned to grass, and followed it.  He started running, and saw thins he recognized—a while wooden fence, a stone angel, a neat row of vegetables, a small rocky fountain.  Yes, there was the pink house, and it was here that he had to climb.  He was getting closer.  Here was the yard with the brick walkway.  A few more blocks, he could feel it.  There was the large twisted tree where he had turned, then the house with the tire swing, and finally, the thick stone wall.

            He scaled it and surveyed the yard.  Empty.  After dropping down he hid in the bushes lining the wall.  No one had noticed.  He crept closer to the house and peered into the window.  There she was, the girl, today wearing a light yellow shirt with white Capri pants.  She was sitting at the kitchen table, drawing.  He skitter over to the door and pushed it open.

            She looked up when she heard the door opening.  When she saw that it was Bowie, she put her crayon down and went over to him, closing the door quietly.

            “I brought back your fork,” he said awkwardly.  She took it and put it in the sink.  “I have something to tell you.” he said.  “You’re the only girl I’ve ever loved.” A pretty flush spread over her face.  “But I have found something that I love even more.  I’m sorry,” he added, noticing her pale, “I’m going to sea.  I don’t think I shall ever see you again.”

            Whirr-shink.  Whirr-shink.  The girl grabbed Bowie’s arm and pulled him behind the counter, where they would be hidden from the view of the door.

            Whirr-shink.  Whirrrrrrr… The robot stood in the doorway, looking through the room.

            “Her circletry’s worn down.” The girl whispered to Bowie.  “It happens after she gets mad.”

            Whirr-shink.  Whirr-shink.  Whirr-shink.  She was going back to the other sections of the house.

            “Well, I guess this is it.”  Bowie said.

            “Yeah.” said the girl.  “Have fun at sea.”

            “I will.” Bowie said, suddenly aware of how stupid he sounded, and had sounded this entire time.  He turned to hide his embarrassment.  “I guess I’m leaving now.  Off to sea.”  He walked mechanically towards the door, opened it, walked out, and felt it slam shut behind him.

            It had seemed so warm yesterday, but now a cool wind rushed seaward, the smell of adventure at its heels.  Bowie felt the call, and obeyed.

A.D. 1744

“Oy, you, cabin boy, wake up!”  Ryan awoke to the rough voice of a crewmate and a soft kick in the ribs.  He had fallen asleep on deck again, staring at the stars.  He loved looking at them, sparkles in the black expanse of night, especially at sea, where there were no other lights to interfere.  He was never allowed to stay up on duty though, except when the fog rolled over the seas and he was needed to operate the foghorn.  But on nights like that he couldn’t see the stars.

“I said get up!  It’s ‘alf past eight already!” He kicked Ryan in the ribs again.

“Oy Jaffer, I’m up.” Ryan said irritably as he rolled over and pushed himself up, breathing the sweet-sour salt air deeply into his lungs.

“The Cap’n wants ter see yer.” Jaffer said, shoving him in the direction of the Captain’s cabin.

“No need to push, I know where the rugged captain is.” Ryan said, walking slowly towards the cabin while trying to stretch his stiff muscles.

He knocked respectfully at the door, going in only after the captain’s baritone, “Enter.”  The captain was standing over his desk, flipping through an old, frail-looking book.  He was tall and straight-backed, in a powder-blue tailcoat suit, a powdered white wig, and fine black leather boots—grandeur compared to Ryan’s homely, tar-beaten rags.  When he spoke, it was with utter command.

“So, cabin boy, you were out watching the stars again last night.”  It was no question, the captain stated it as hard fact.

“Yes sir.”

“You do realize that in doing so you were shirking your duties as a crewmember.  You must have adequate rest in order to operate proficiently with the crew.”

“Yes sir.”

“We are a very important merchant ship.  We have carried orders for the Queen herself.  I cannot let our productivity decrease because of simple pleasures such as star-gazing.”

“Yes sir.”

“Tell me, cabin boy, have you ever seen anything phenomenal in the stars?”

“No sir.”

“Nothing beautiful? No perfect structure of lines and orbs?  No indescribable brilliance of light?  Nothing iridescent, or extraordinary?”

“No sir.”

“Then it is an utter waste of time.  I am a man of science and business, cabin boy.  I cannot allow those under my command to waste their time.”

“Yes sir.”

“Very well, cabin boy.  You may leave.”  The captain turned back to the small, leather-bound book, muttering to himself as Ryan let himself out.  “What is your secret?” he asked the book.  “Who recorded the preternatural events within you?  Who was this Mate, and what does it mean?” 

The captain remained inside his cabin, letting his First Mate take care of business on deck, while he poured over the events detailed in the book once more.

A.D. 1714

The blackest of the night sky was no comparison to the dark of Ken’s hair.  He wore it like a cloak, concealing his fair face as he stalked the streets at night.  Fourteen years ago his master had been killed, along with others proficient in the art in ninjutsu.  Now he was the one doing the killing.

His long katana was his main companion as he sought his way through life, alone.  Katana was his preferred weapon, though in his short time in training he had learned about most others, and in his fourteen years of isolation he came to know everything there was to know about killing and stealth.  He terrorized the cities at night, the dark figure who came silently and left behind him a trail of blood.  Every night he would wreak his revenge on the samurai class, who had destroyed everything he lived for as a young ninja. 

Don’t think about that, he instructed himself one morning as he meditated.  He had not yet managed to achieve ninpo, the highest order of the ninja class, available only through intensive meditation.  He could feel it though, he was drawing ever closer to the elusive enlightenment.  When he achieved ninpo, he knew he would be invincible. 

It was like he was drifting, but struggling to go higher, higher.  He was beneath dark clouds, and beyond the clouds he could sense light and truth.  He knew it was there, but the clouds were impenetrable.  Which every futile kick upwards, it would draw him down a little lower, until the clouds were drifting farther and farther away…

He collapsed onto the floor of his small dwelling, a secret place where none knew him.  It shouldn’t be this hard, he thought.  Meditation should be relaxing, and only by the letting go of the body can one achieve Enlightenment.  Why did he fight?  Why did it exhaust him so that now he was only capable of laying breathlessly on the floor, eventually to awake and return to his bloody deeds?  Enlightenment must be sought out, he thought.  It does not come easily.  It does not come to the lazy.  That is why he struggles.

When he awoke he fixed himself some rice and ate it quickly.  He unleashed his hair from the ribbon tying it back and changed clothes.  He drew forth the katana, once his master’s, and said a small prayer in respect.  He then awaited nightfall.

When the time came he affixed a mask around his face and slipped through the door.  Tonight he would defeat his greatest enemy, and in the morning, perhaps he would find what he sought.

He clung to the shadows as he slipped from street to street, like an invisible, vengeful spirit.  If anyone saw him they would not live to realize it.  The pale face of the moon sought to penetrate the darkness and discover him, but he, he was the darkest of all umbrage, shrouded in the blackest of gloom, and Night herself could not find him, for he could hide within her. 

The darkest of deception seeking the brightest of truth.  A paradox.  Tonight he would commit the blackest of deeds, and tomorrow he would discover the lightest of being.