The Official Online Guide to the Starchild Universe!

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

2008-07-13T15:46:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 3:48PM, Sunday; July 13th, 2008)___________________________________________________________________

As far as things went for me, my persnonal exploration Stratos City's many levels wasn't a total loss. If there could be something said of the space complex's designers--nothing was ever boring for people like me--visitors from the surface.

Or surface dwellers as we are called.

Calis told me once that we were one and the same people so many centuries ago--before wars and a general caste schism permantly separated us into two groups.

On in space, the other on the surface.

After that? Civilization took a dramatic U-turn for us--while things remained pretty much on the up and up for those residing in Stratos City.

I was never much a racist or a Class One xeno, but I couldn't just look at myself and those I passed by as different.

We were all humans from the same gene pool; cast away from our home world thousands of years ago by an event that I only know as the Fall of Man.

Since then, wars from both sides swallowed us all from the last 600 years--followed by years of an uneasy peace; which still exists today.

Neither the sky dancers nor the surface dwellers had sufficient cause to fight anymore--but that didn't mean that confrontations weren't uncommon where I live.

The Barren Wastelands still had its share of problems with the prairie bandits, leaving me to help defend the homestead out on the Golan Desert.

But up here in the space complex? There didn't appear to be such problems with the sky dancer population. No one I had crossed paths with looked anything like the rough and tumble troublemakers which made up Shark's Bay--my favorite haunt.

As I looked up into an enclosed skylight above my head I found myself marveling at how impressive this layout was--as this part of Level 1774 was the city's main hub complex.

So much technology had gone into the fine construction of the surounding areas, it was often hard to imagine that I was still in space--zipping around my world.

Borne up by simple gravity and an atmospheric envelope.

Leaning against the stone railing, I took in all the sights that a surface dweller could handle at once, before sea-swept vertigo took over after that; forcing me to look away--lest I become too overwhelmed by such heady experiences.

I felt so small and so alone up here. There was nobody here to protect or shelter me.

Not my mom, my youngest brother, Calis, Cara Hastings, or even my...father.

I knew that he had to be up here. Somewhere. Soon after I do what Calis wants--I recalled teling myself--I was going to conduct a search for his whereabouts myself.

But seeing how big this place was, I started wishing that I could just jump off this level and fly.

Free as a bird...

Zpping about on my own, try to experience everything in a whole new different light, before getting down to business of finding dad.

Yes...

There were days when I fantasized about saving him. How could I not. The man was my only true role model. Even Calis couldn't replace him--even though he sometimes dotes on me like the daughter he never had. (He never could explain to me fully why he never got married in his youth. Something about a tragic accident and there was little he could do but to ride that one out to its full conclusion. When I pressed upon him what that was, he said something about a girlfriend dying in Sherman's Pass--before it became part of the Desert Storm's race track. But he never told me her name--not that I blamed him. The old man was a very reclusive and private man. It took me forever just for him to like me and trust me not to get into his tools and spare auto-frame parts! lol)

My father was a special kind of person whom never left your side, never once questioned your curiosity, never did anything to jeopardize things for the sake of personal advancement.

I loved him and adored him so much when I was a little girl. Every time I looked into his eyes...it was like staring into my own personal security blanket. I felt so safe when my father was around. Like nothing in this world could ever cause me personal harm.

But I loved how he always looked at me and held me with such love and affection. I loved how his arms felt around my small body as he held me close. I liked how he smelled to me. I also enjoyed the subtle vibrations his voice made whenever I laid my head against his chest.

Oftentimes, I could see why my mother held my father which such love and devotion. From the times I saw them together, I made a small vow to myself to find a man just like my dad--for when I got older of course.

But as I looked out again at the fantastic panoramic view that the city gave me, I chuckled to myself--thinking back along the years growing up where pickings where slim for me--and most of my visits to Shark's Bay didn't yield a true-to-life boyfriend. (Not that I was looking, mind you.)

Calis told me that my life as an auto-frame pilot would be a lonely one--if I didn't find someone to be with soon. (Because as he put it: "I'm not getting any younger." I swear...! I was ready to kill him for that remark two years ago!)

The sights before me continued to inspire and awe me-leaving nowhere else for me to go.

For the moment.

But when I backed up...?

Someone collided right into me--pushing me forward a bit forcefully. I thought it was nothing more than an apt bump (which I didn't take to very well at first), but it was enough of a jolt to set me off.

I remember turning myself--ready to punch the offender's clock the hard way--for disturbing my peaceful tour of the city.

But what I didn't expect was to run into real dreamboat!

The sight of this older boy took my breath away--by the way he towered over me by at least 4 inches, with a nice amount of nicely touseled long black hair to frame his handsome looks, the freckles mottling his tanned skin--and the most lucid brown eyes I've seen up close and personal.

His face was strong and yet soft at the same time--with a sharp nose and well-defined cheeks, and a smile that just made me forget my anger in a second.

But no matter how I looked into his face (to commit what I saw to memory), I couldn't get past those eyes of his!

I was so weak in the knees and probably gaping at him like some shallow-minded tart.

Well, Calis...? I thought to myself at that point. Here's one guy that I wouldn't mind settling down with and bear his children in a heartbeat!

I know I was laughing inside when I thought about it back then--but Bayen was the kind of guy that most girls my age would kill each other over; just to be near him.

Fortunately--for me--my fortunes were about to change this day.

But getting back to my first encounter with Bayen, I distinctly recall the fog of lust lifting from my mind--giving me a moment to collect and reign myself in. (Could you not blame me for not wanting to jump him right then and there? lol)

Adjusting his tattered black trench coat, my dreamboat asked me if I was from around here. (As opposed to what my sign was? Seriously! I was thinking that!)

But despite my out-of-control hormones and my other teenage impulses, I managed to conduct myself appropriately in his presence. If Bayen ever knew then how I regarded him then--he probably would've been more wary of me back when I was a teen; as opposed to right now.)

I told him I was from the surface and this was my first time visiting Stratos City.

He smiled at me--trying to be as polite as possible (which scored big points with me--by the way!)--and told me to enjoy my stay; apologizing that he had errands to run and couldn't be a more gracious host.

I so wanted to talk to him--talk to Bayen--but as I recalled, I was too paralyzed by my own hormones and conflicting urges; to be of any help.

It was just before he left me for the time being, that I finally got up the necessary courage to ask him his name.

When he told me, I did the same. Heavens knew why I did that. But I guess--then--that I would be seeing him later on.

You know?

I just didn't know how prophetic my own personal intuition would be later that day.

Because my next stop was to be a shop which would forever change the life that I knew from that point forward.

Isis

HELP FROM A COMPLETELY UNEXPECTED SOURCE.

2008-06-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 5:58PM, Saturday; June 21st, 2008)___________________________________________________________________

Sometimes I wished that I had come better prepared for the long experience at hand; say...a digital readout and maybe my dad's experimental T-117 pulse rifle? I wasn't so sure that my own hand blaster, martial arts training, and my knack for direction, was going to get me far in my ongoing journey up here in Stratos City.

In the couple of hours I had spent walking around different levels, my legs were screaming for relief and my feet were about ready to fall off.

What I wanted more was a relaxing bath and a massage by a certified masseuse. Say...all day maybe?

I had the credits to burn--given what Calis handed me before leaving the surface. I certainly wasn't going to come up here empty-handed; that's for sure.

Gods...I can still recall the pain and stiffness in my joints--before I was desperate to get the heck out of this endless rat maze. While it was beautiful, I was still at a loss as to where I was supposed to go next.

One thing was for certain, I didn't have any clue as to what Calis was having me look for--let alone have a fucking clue as to where it was!

Chalk up my next experience to plain exhaustion--if you will. But I was beat tired by the time I ran across the first person to cross my path in a matter of minutes (or was that hours?).

I asked this guy if all of this was real or imagined, and he wrote me off as a 'spacer' or a net 'e-dict'.

I was too damned tired and miserable to punch this space case's clock the hard way--and so I chose to take a seat at a nearby fountain and just rest.

If I had known how much a pain in the ass this would turn out, I would've bought myself a map-engram generator. Or had the old man loan me his for the duration of the trip.

At any rate, I sat on the stone masonry ledge overlooking the cool fountain parked in the square; trying to recoup some of my spent energy and strength.

This certainly had some advantages for the physically challenged--or those wanting to shed some poundage.

But I still hadn't a clue as to where I was going--or if I was any closer to my objective.

Fortunately--for me--a woman was kind of enough to stop in whatever she was doing to help me out.

She was nicely built for her age--30s I think--sporting a crop of dark brown hair topped off by an oversized brimmed at.

But I think her taste in fashion was a bit loud and too much for my personal tastes--to tell you the truth. She looked like she was readily dressed for one of those high-altitude sky-diving contests often held at the metaphorically named, Sun Blazer Valley.

Loose fitting, billowing pair of orange pants made of the highest grade of synthetically spun cotton and polymer-constructed fabrics. A purple and gold shirt with a Go-Play! logo design on the front, with a slightly flared collar around the neck and tapered sleeves.

I noticed that one of her skinny arms held a manacled bracelet made of silver-tibernium; inlaid with a holocronicon piece.

A quick glance told me all I wanted to know: It was closing in on four in the afternoon.

Her pleasant appearance and soft facial features relaxed me a little as she asked me what was the matter.

I don't know what made me open my mouth to her, but in the span of a few minutes, I told her my plight.

A complete stranger no less! My mom would kill me for doing so!

I sighed then, muttering whether or not this place was just a fabrication of my own mind or a bonifide nightmare.

My comment set the woman into a spazzed laughing fit and she told me that this place was as real as it can get.

I snarled out a response about the last bystanding asshole saying the same thing--but the woman in question was exceedingly patient with me.

“That’s true. He did. But there is no real reason to fake what everyone else sees and enjoys. No reason to be deceptive. It is all how you look at it.” She told me with absolute gentleness.

At this point, I just gave up and sunk down inside myself--not caring what happened next.

“So how come the layouts and buildings keep changing?” I remember asking.

“Because you’re not seeing the truth that’s before you, dear. That’s why. You should try and look up once in awhile.” She had ogled her eyes upwards as a hint to myself. Or was it my innate stubbornness?

I did look up and recieved the shock of my life: There were clouds!

Iron-slate gray; like it was going to rain or something heavy. But as I remember that moment--they didn't do anything but dance to and fro in a graceful ballet--as they were being gently drawn across the skies above my head.

And hugging one of the levels I was on earlier. Though--from this distance--I couldn't pick out any particular features.

When I turned to ask my mystery woman a question, I found that she was no longer there. But others had taken her place along the promenade area and lookout balconies.

However, none of them seemed all that interested in further explaning the finer points of the city to me.

Nor did they seem intent on revealing to me how a city of this magnitude could be concealed.

But how could that be?

From my standpoint, everything about that woman's converstion was just as baffling, and I didn't know if I should put any amount of credibility toward what had been revealed thus far.

I crossed the upper confines of the plaza--seeing that no one was going to be of any help to me--and descended down a flight of stairs.

More people came and went and I saw another fountain on my way down. Apparently, aesthetically-pleasing architecture was the norm around here.

On the surface, only one such fountain existed in Shark's Bay. And that puppy hadn't been used since I could remember.

But I let my confusion and anxiety melt away--after I came upon my first line of shops, a couple of what was called 'window shoppers'; and some catchy musical chimes.

The music faded and my attention soon became riveted by the couple's attire--finding their choice of dress to be more pleasing than that nameless woman's. (lol)

However, I found myself drooling over the woman's partner--forcing me to turn away before I could get caught for openly gaping at him in frank appreciation of his nice form and choice of clothes.

(Just because I didn't have a boyfriend--it didn't necessarily make me dead.)

When I had sufficiently composed myself, I turned around and found them leaving and what I thought was barely restrained laughter.

Were they laughing at me because of my appearance or because I was looking at the stud-muffin of a guy like he was the best thing this side of the surface?

I wasn't 100% sure. I thought it was because of the noisy fountain in my immediate proximity--but it didn't matter.

I still had a lot of exploring to do. And I always never left a place until I fully explored everything in sight.

It was nothing more than a defense mechanism from growing up in the Golan Desert.

Dangers always lurked--no matter what the change in circumstance.

Or in this case?

A change in scenery.

So I carried on with my intended...what was the term Calis once called it...?

Field trip.

Honestly, I couldn't recall how many times the old man had lost me with the way he talked at times. It made me think that he didn't belong here in the present, but entirely in the past.

Like in the last 10,000 years or so.

I still wished I carried a map though. It would make my journey of getting around this city a hell of a lot easier!

Sigh...

Isis

BRAVE NEW WORLD?

2008-05-26T13:57:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 2:00PM, Monday; May 26th, 2008)___________________________________________________________________

Sometimes, I seriously wished that Calis had been kind enough to warn me that I would be traveling in one of my mom's famous spice mixers.

I swear...

The old man has no sense of humor whatsoever.

Traveling upwards so quickly and so fast had both my mind and body reeling. The only thing I was grateful for was a small port window which didn't offer me the vertigo-inducing view of the planet's surface peeling itself away at breakneck velocities--reaching nearly 1,315mph. (In any case. Mmph.)

I could see why the Praetorial Guardsman had me strapped in so fucking tight! No one I knew would've survived the trip intact so carefree.

Not even the suicidal types would go for something like this.

Of course, the majority of my time in suspended transit was spent with my eyes closed and me screaming off and on--especially when there would be an abrupt stop here and there; leaving me to wonder: Would I fall to my death?

But everything transited smoothly and I soon found myself in the gentle grip of the orbiting space complex's tractor-beam system; as it maneuvered me into position for docking and passenger extraction.

My thoughts were awhirl with what I would find within the complex. Stories, myths, and legends...that's all I had to guide me on this trip.

Calis had done his job in the schooling department--filling my head all sorts of nuancing details and information to cover the study equivalent of three discs.

My mom gave me the basics, but that was it.

Calis felt it was up to him to provide the rest, seeing how my father wasn't in the picture. My mother had no objections to the old man giving me a first-rate education--seeing how it was a rarity on the surface.

Through Calis, I discovered that not many people had anything past what he called the '7th grade'. (Based on the ancient measuring system.)

I had no clue what that meant. But the old man assured me that what I would receive would be more than adequate for the road ahead.

"Consider yourself lucky," he told me once--even as the tube car finished its docking procedure. "Not many people are as fortunate as you are, Isis McGowan."

Being seven-years-old at the time, I recall feeling a little guilt-ridden for undertaking the process of being so well-schooled.

"What about my brother?" I recalled asking him in a tiny voice. He was only five at the time, but already showing so much promise. It was hard to believe that it had been a year since my father was taken from us.

And that pain of loss still reverberated deep within me; seeking to fester inside me for all time.

A comm signal interrupted my thoughts for a second--as a voice told me it would be only a few more minutes before they could let me out of my garish imprisonment.

I sighed and nodded nervously, not knowing what to expect.

"What about my brother?" The unanswered question came back to me; allowing me a few precious moments of escape back into a past which I thought I had long since buried under a mantle of premature maturity and wisdom.

I recalled Calis's stern facial expression as he fondled my question with great care.

Which only lasted a few seconds.

"No," he told me. "This is for you, Isis. It's your mother's personal wish."

"And my father's?" I ventured then without thinking. The sudden image of him being led away by the Praetorial Guard left a wound that I knew back then--wouldn't heal.

No matter how much time would pass.

"Your father isn't here, now is he, Isis?" Calis shot back, a little too cold for my immediate tastes.

My eyes went wide--as I remember it--and I had to spin up all the strength to fight back the tears welling in them.

"N-no." I answered back in a small voice. Calis's expression softened upon seeing me in such distress.

"It's nothing personal, little one." He said in his best fatherly voice."This is how the world works: It is neither caring nor understanding of your desires or needs."

"I see." I said uncommittedly, the tears receding for now. But I knew that this respite would never last long--for Calis would later introduce me to a world filled with pain, suffering, and agony.

A world I would have to grow tough and resolute in--if I were to ever survive.

***

The door to my improvised cell snapped up with only the barest hint of air--breaking into my reverie.

I recall looking up in disorientation, which only lasted a few seconds--before I caught sight of a good-looking man with dark hair (bearing the rank insignia of a third-lieutenant)--peering inside my tube car.

“How are you doing?” He asked good naturedly, though there was a noticeable hint of awe in his tone.

I stopped for a second in my struggle to get free--to take in the man's disposition.

For a second, I thought the man was high on something; just by the way he stared at me.

"What?" I recall asking. "You've never seen a girl before?"

"Of course I have," the man replied unabashedly. "It's just that--"

"Would you terribly mind letting me out?" I interrupted him.

"Huh?" Then looked embarrassed. "Oh. Sure." Touching a hand-held controller, the restraints snapped free; releasing me onto the deck.

I swayed back and forth then, a little unsteady. The man reached in to grab me, but I waved him off--telling him that I would be okay in a moment.

But that didn't happen--as I had hoped--and when I did pitch forward, the man grabbed me again (this time for real); steadying me.

"What's wrong with me?" I asked, confused. "I can't seem...to stabilize on my own accord."

The guard then told me that it was just the gravity. Since it was one-tenth of what I was normally used to, it would take some adjusting.

My stomach protested and I fought back the urge to zuke--but the queasiness didn't fail to stop me from thinking some rather dark thoughts back down towards Calis himself.

"Okay." I finally managed to tell the guard, but that's all I could muster for the moment. My guts were still wanting to expell themselves the hard way--and I needed some time to compose and steady myself; which the guard allowed me out of both privacy and abject curiosity.

It wasn't all that hard to sense him still staring at me like I was some kind of long lost public exhibit.

"Is there some reason why you have to continuously stare at me?" I asked with unconscious annoyance in my voice.

The guard took a step back, but didn't relinquish his post. Admirable, to say the least.

"Sorry," he apologized right off. "But you're the first surface dweller to come up here in 50 years."

His statement took me off guard.

No way could that be right!

I even said so directly to his face a moment later.

"It's true!" The guard bleated excitedly.

"But what about the others that I saw down at the terminal?"

"Under special circumstances, do we allow anyone from the surface here to the city." The man said. "But usually, the tube cars just crisscross the planet from one point to another--after each positioning."

I knew that to be true, but it still didn't explain how I got here unmolested.

"So how come I'm here and not somewhere like Gorge Run?"

"You carry a special pass card which gives you the highest security clearance. The others have green or blue ones which designates them for point-to-point transport. Red means immediate access to the space complex--no questions asked."

I dug out mine and sure enough, it was red. (Like I didn't know this before? lol)

"Weird." I muttered nonchalantly, then pocketed the item in question. Glancing back at the guard, I asked: "So where do I go from here?"

"Down the hall, then right, and down the staircase." The guard told me.

I mulled it over in my head, pretty sure that I got his directions down pat--and then left with a smile in place; making sure I thanked him as I left.

A quick glance back told me that him and his friend at the receiving terminal had a lot of news to discuss in my absence.

I smiled--thinking and imagining what the result of that would be.

***

It didn't take me long to find my way around this giant terminal. The few pluses in my book were that this place was even more sparsely populated than any terminal (or small hamlet on the Barren Wastelands), and on top of that?

I had a whole babygrand to myself.

No crowds. No pushing. No long lines.

I could see why Stratos City was such an idyllic jewel which so many people on the surface sought to chase after all this time.

Still the impulse to act childish didn't escape me and I spent the next few minutes taking in the sights and just acting like a complete goof.

Like a kid in a candy store. I remember my mom telling me once--upon the very first time I laid eyes on my own personal auto-frame: The Viper X-1.

This was no different.

It was huge. It was gargantuan in size--with its open spaces and skylights...everything which spoke of the highest possible opulence imaginable.

Naturally, it didn't take me long to find the exit. But I was still plenty wound up by my experiences--so I did my best to not appear so flustered as I approched the card reader and the guard manning it.

But what stopped me was the sanguine voice asking me to slide my card into the reader--before I could be granted with an audience from the city itself.

"Why?" I asked, looking around, but finding that no one spoke to me.

The guard tapped me on the shoulder and directed me towards the reader's HUD display.

There was this pleasant face of a woman in a strange red get up, with a cap on top of some equally blonde hair of hers.

"Oh-kay..." I bit out in confusion. "And who are you supposed to be?"

"I am the terminal's computer. You may call me Darci." The gen'd image told me.

"So--Darci--" I asked politely.

"The reason why I am asking for you to slide your card through, is so that
we have you registered here as a visiting civilian. If you wish to fill out a permanency residential claim form, they are located at the Information Center on Level 2057.” There was a momentary pause in the terminal's programming. "Would you like me to show you were that is?"

"No," I quickly (and politely) declined. "That won't be necessary." The stupid thing buzzed me three seconds later--when I didn't move.

"What did I do now?"

“Please move forward and swipe your card.”

The guard looked at her silently, but said nothing.

I did as I was told.

“Thank you. You may exit through the doors in front of you. Have a nice day.” Darci called back to me.

I left the terminal and found myself outside.

Outside!

With a gentle breeze blowing past me, I got my first real look around: Seeing nothing but chalk-white/gray walkways--sandstone--with beautifully designed marbled railings and light fixtures which held crystalline gas-light bulbs.

But a look closer at one of them showed that the “light” inside it wasn’t really fire, but a form of high energy plasma that I had never seen before.

Not even in my mother’s (or the old man's) study history discs.

Wonder why neither included that in my schooling? I thought to myself--even though I was still very much impressed by what I had seen so far.

I continued my study of my new digs--approaching one of the railings in the process. But I wasn't...well...prepared for the enormity of the whole place itself.

A literal city in space, but so well defined and kept apart that I couldn’t tell where it ended and where it actually began.

But the brick-red building in front of me told a completely different story, with its eye-level window displays, draped in blinds or curtains, but occasionally a window would be drawn open to allow fresh air to filter through.

But in the distance--in the far distance--I found myself staring at what was perhaps the tallest set of entwined crystal spires I had ever laid eyes upon.

“Holy shit,” I breathed in complete amazement, wondering who would be the first person that I would encounter in this magnificent city.

Isis

UPWARDLY MOBILE.

2008-04-12T19:07:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 1:14PM, Saturday; March 12th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________

With all things, chaos always has a habit of descending upon these sky tubes of ours. Like the stories of old, people here found themselves waiting for the next available slot--sometimes lasting hours on end.

'Camping out'--as the old term implies--was a common sight in some of the busiest terminals lining the Western Gulf--adjoining the southern borders of the Barren Wastelands.

Terminal #323 was no exception. Most of the travelers I saw would be stuck here well after dark--with their needs attended to by the Praetorial Guardsmen stationed here. (Reiken included.)

But I was hoping (and praying) that I wasn't going to be amongst those unfortunate not to secure a berth before the day was out. I had no intention of staying the night here. The last time I had to go 'terminal surfing'--I was encroached upon by a couple of guys whom thought I would be easy prey.

I guess no one told them that I wasn't. (chuckling here)

Naturally, I took extra 'precautions' against such future encounters--but out here in the middle nowhere "squared"--as Calis calls it--one always had to keep his or her wits about them.

The desert, the surface...any place on this Earth that you can run your hands across--or set your eyes on...?

It was always smart never to underestimate your immediate surroundings.

Especially myself.

I stayed with the fascinating mural for a few more minutes before a chime sounded through the overhead comm system--announcing that a new berth was open.

So I went and stood in line--only to be set upon by many other eager travelers whom were hoping for the same thing I was: A way up and out of this burgeoning rat trap.

Unfortunately for me, I was soon to be in the middle of the line and not at the front--to be of any use to me.

Not only was I pissed about my misfortune, but I was also becoming quite claustrophobic--being so close to everyone present. The heat of the bodies, the rising tension, and this insatiable itch which I could not scratch.

I needed out and badly.

Looking for a way out, I spied what first thought was an unoccupied bench lining the wall--beneath the line of expanse windows jutting out; creating small alcoves with their little glass shelves.

But to my dismay, a family was already sitting there--waiting out the time as I was.

The father was passed out, the mother sitting there with her young son nestled soundly in her lap--and sleeping as well.

My unintended intrusion caused a disturbance in their quiet neck of the woods--which we both took in stride: I left her be, and she was free to go about her own business.

Myself? I was searching for another bench to take a snooze on. The day was tiring as it was. And I did not believe I was going to get another clear shot at my own personal berth.

So I went up the flight of stairs and into another branching corridor--thinking that there would be some empty benches (or even an acceleration couch would be bliss to my tired feet) for me to sleep.

But in my haste, I had gone to the wrong floor. I was at Terminal 130 and my card had been issued for #127.

And it left me wondering: Did these things go by numerological order?

I decided to find out by doing a bit of exploring. First, I checked the wall schematics and found that I was going in the wrong direction.

Scratch that off my list of "Things Gone Wrong Today"...

I needed to get up to the third floor. And the only way I was going to do that...? Was the hard way.

One thing about terminals was not only were they immense in size, but they sometimes ran themselves like a maze on the inside--making it impossible for a person such as myself to find my way around.

Each terminal on the planet was built differently--according to the area in question. Some were more rugged than others. While some were spartan and utilitarian in nature.

This knowledge forced me to turn myself around--going back the way I came--turning left instead of right. I then traversed another endless corridor filled with an equal number of people seen before in other terminal berths.

The plus side to all this running around was that I was finding so many empty benches were I could easily stake a personal claim to--without any complaints.

But the upcoming staircase escalator was a beckoning lover to myself and I needed to get to my next destination.

I bolted upwards as fast I could--hoping that the odds were with me that the number of people would be smaller than the current crowds within the terminal itself.

I kept my focus on the task at hand while running the numbers through my head: Once I got my berth, it would be an incredible 6 minutes up--the tube car powered by a varied gravitational field itself.

Passenger safety was of little concern. Each car was designed to operate in the vacuum of space and had its own self-contained life-support system.

Getting to the top, I found to my own delight that there were no people here and the berth ahead was empty!

What luck! I thought to myself--thinking that nothing could go wrong.

The placard above my head read 130--and I knew then that I had found my target. But immediately, suspicion set in.

If this was a tasteless joke...? I thought further, somebody here was going to find out just how irritated I could get!

But there was no one that I could see--just a lone Praetorial Guardsman manning the terminal console.

I couldn't tell what he was doing--not with the small bank of monitors and the large console in front of him--but the closer I got, the more revealing things became.

But I stopped within feet of him and my overall destination. But I decided tha nothing more could be had by not going through the motions; startling the man when I asked him where everyone was.

After he had recovered, he gave me the answer that I didn't want to hear: Nobody had arrived yet--with the time pointing past two itself.

I was in such despair myself over the news because I really needed to get up to Stratos City!

This in turn had a confusion effect on the guard--whom in turn asked me what my problem was.

I whined to him that I needed access to that berth and couldn't stomach the idea that I would have to wait much longer than usual--just so one could be made available to me.

The guard inquired if I needed access to one and I told him that I did. After checking his list to see if anyone had pre-registered this particular berth--the guard informed me that no one had made any appointments for use of the terminal-except for someone at 2:15PM.

In a blind hurry, I dug out my card and shoved it in the guard's face; prompting him to make it quick. I was willing to do almost anything to make sure that I could gain free access to the sky car. And I mean anything.

Was I desperate? Yes. Was I foolish? Yes.

Was I a born idiot? Naturally. But when you're faced with no other options in life, what else would you do in my place?

I wasn't about to let this opportunity escape me hand over foot.

But I was lucky this time: The guard accepted my card without protest and ran it through a portable reader.

He also let me know that he was waiting for someone else to show up--and he (like me)--was surprised at the end when he discovered that it was me he was waiting for!

Elation and relief flooded through me like an overpowering sand storm, but I was also puzzled as to how I could've registered for full access to the terminal--but soon discovered that it was Calis McGraff whom made all the arrangements for me.

After the reader ejected the card, the guard in question wished me success up at Stratos City--before getting up and leading me to the berthing compartment of the sky tube car itself.

Tapping a flat-paneled button, the guard motioned for me to go inside and get into the padded acceleration seat--which I did--but I soon found out that I was facing the wrong way!

"Turn around and strap yourself in." The man said patiently. I did--to my embarrassment; settling in without any further problems.

I managed to stuff my pack into an open cubicle stand next to me--which immediately rose and then meshed itself into the wall noiselessly.

I spied the mesh body webbing in my acceleration seat and began attaching them together with the guard's help.

Afterwards, he stepped out to do something at the terminal. Suddenly, the chair around me reconfigured itself around my body--to provide even more stability and comfort; meshing with my lines in the process. This would prevent any bodily injury while the car was in shunt mode.

But I felt like an expensive child's toy--encapsulated in some kind of foam material with little wiggle room.

The guard came back to make some final adjustments and closed the cubicle's door holding my pack.

Despite my noticeable anxiety, the guard assured me that everything would be fine. After some further conversation, the man left to completely seal me inside the lift car.

I was quaking with fear about what was going to happen. Never, had I had to endure this all by myself. I always had someone in the past accompanying me.

By myself...? I was scared.

But there was little I could do--as the car rocketed upwards at fantastic speeds.

Isis

WHALES AT WEASEL RIDGE.

2008-03-09T17:27:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 5:28PM, Sunday; March 9th, 2007)______________________________________________________________________

It didn't take me long to get to Weasel's Ridge Maze. The place was more like a canyon embedded with twisting and confusing passages than an actual transit terminal.

Why the Praetorial Guard built such an installation here in the first place...? I never could figure that out.

I suspected because of its nearly impregnable location--made up entirely of walls of solid rock and a few overhanging mesas.

The center of the "maze" was the heart of Transit Terminal #323. Carved out by particle beams and heavy digging equipment, the building was much larger than most terminals I had frequented and visited often in the past.

Only six such giants existed on the entire planet. This one sat 224 miles from Shark's Bay and was just as much a challenge to navigate as it was a headache for someone like me.

High winds sometimes enjoyed playing havoc with me and my ride--sometimes I would be riding at an easy clip--spurred on by gentle buffs--others...? It felt like I was going at a snail's pace--even though my engines were at full burn.

I looked past the few uninviting entrance points and focused on the internal structure of the terminal--the easy slope of the causeway and found the parking terminal to be extremely packed.

Today was certainly a busy day.

The five-story building reflected the day's sunlight; illuminating the three transit tube apertures as it went. And these three polymer-tritanium fixtures were critical to the continued function of the sky tubes.

They also could be retracted and moved elsewhere--in case of an emergency.

I caught sight of a car going straight up inside the tube and I had a real sense of foreboding then surge right through me. Primarily because I didn't know what to expect.

I had never ridden in one of these things before in my life.

But I had nothing to lose by not going. And sighed; knowing that I was only doing this because the old man wanted me to.

Despite all the horror stories dredged up about Stratos City, I promised myself one way or another--I would not fall victim while I was starside.

Sitting back on my bike, I chose the most direct route into the terminal and gunned my bike's engines for effect; vowing to make it in one piece.

***

Okay...

So the place was more packed than it looked up from the top of the hill. It took me more than 15 minutes to find a good place to park my hog. But the trek back to the terminal was much longer in my opinion, but it gave me a chance to scope out some other visitor's machines and parked vehicles--including a garbage hauler transport.

The thing was so massive, I felt immediately humble and small--somewhat scared if you want to get personal. These haulers reminded me of the same storybook monsters my mom used to read to me about as a little girl.

The effect then was no less frightening and I certainly didn't want to stick around in case the driver came back and found me gaping at his monstrous machine.

But my overriding fear couldn't be kept contained for very long--as an ample amount of curiosity surfaced and made me wonder just what it was doing here?

Garbage bags no doubt. I told himself then; smiling as I said it.

I continued my journey towards my destination--towards a flight of stairs which proved itself to be more of an obstacle than I originally gave credit for.

I have no idea why Calis left this part of my trip out--but a hike isn't what I had in mind when I came to Weasel's Ridge Maze. But I managed my ascent without any trouble. But the look down had me panicked.

No one said this thing would be this far up! I felt a wave of vertigo and I had to lean up against the protective safety barrier before I somehow fell off and ended up taking a nose dive into the vastness of space itself.

I certainly didn't like this moment--as breathtaking as it was to the naked eye.

300 feet up didn't readily appeal to the normally adventurous side of me; leaving me to look for the entrance way as fast as possible.

I darted inside the spacious double-doors as soon as I was able--only to be confronted with a world that was unlike any other I knew first-hand.

This one had plush red carpeting, beige and gold-colored walls, portraits, charts, and varied diagrams along with the checkered black and white floor tiling.

I craned my neck for a better view of the nicely scoped ceiling with its majestic center piece skylight. One that allowed for natural light to come pouring in unobstructed.

There was no doubt in my mind that this place was to die for.

To complete the picture from my perspective, there was a baby grand staircase with its own moving escalator in front of me, inviting newly arrived visitors to explore the terminal’s upper levels.

On each side of the staircase stood clearly marked restrooms. But at the moment the lines in front of them weren’t emergency-related, but rather a conglomerate of people–each person waiting patiently for their turn at a sky tube car.

Everyone here appeared to be in good spirits. No agitation, kids playing amongst the crowded lines in varied levels of excitement here and there…?

The tension inside me left as quickly as it had appeared since leaving Shark's Bay.

Then I recall being bumped into and my indignation made itself known right then and there!

I screamed out at the offending person in question, but the assault continued without question.

At that point, I was ready to let him have it with my personal side arm--an HT-909 Brasner blaster. But the second I had it partially pulled free from its holster, a stern voice stopped me from going any further.

"Don't." I remember him telling me.

Why wasn't I surprised? Some idiot schmuck decides to take the fun out of a little personal confrontation and thinks that they are some kind of god or something--by preventing me from doing what came natural?

This time, I decided to play it safe and let whomever was behind me have the upper hand. The last thing I wanted was a firefight in the middle of a crowded terminal.

Especially with the Praetorial Guard.

That's the face of my worst enemy. The one whom put my father away for something that wasn't his fault.

My scowl deepened--more than a match for the serious expression on this guy's face. Everytime I looked into the eyes of these creeps, it was more of a reminder of my own humiliating failure of not being able to stop them from taking my dad.

Eight long years...

The Guardsman asked me what my business here was. I was tempted to say something else but admirably refrained.

Not when six more Guardman were just behind him--all armed, all meaning business--should the situation warrant it.

But unlike the guy I was dealing with, these guys all appeared to be bored.

I could see why a little trouble on the surface was enough to alleviate any kind of lax activity.

So when the guy prodded me again with his rifle, I calmly devised a way to keep my cool and keep these guys from suspecting anything.

I went through the motions like any other surface dweller. When I was asked again why I was here I said:

"I’m just here on business."

The guard studied me intently, clearly suspicious.

After a moment, he asked: "What kind?"

"Educational." Was my cryptic response.

"ID?" He requested out of habit--letting a moment of exasperation get past my better judgment.

With a sigh, I handed him my piece

"Here. You wanna frisk me to while you're at it?" I asked him bluntly.

The man snatched the card from my hand and read what was printed on the ingrained plastic surface.

"Isis McGowan?" He muttered out loud in surprise.

"Yes." I said, feeling defensive.

"You were the pilot of the Viper X-1 which won last year’s Desert Storm, is that correct?"

When I realized that he wanted nothing more than a personal confirmation of something, I calmed down.

Nodding, I answered, "Barely." But I was also distracted from this line of questioning. Pressed for time, I didn't want to drag this out any longer than necessary.

Thankfully, the guard seemed to sense that and handed back my ID card.

"Very well." He told me emphatically. "You may continue unhindered. But remember: You will be monitored until you leave."

I had no doubt that was going to happen. These creeps were like the worst voyeurs imaginable. Always dogging you no matter what you did--even if you had to take a leak.

Privacy was something of a luxury when you dealt with the turtleheads. (A nickname I gave them because of the way they looked to me in their armored shells.)

The guard stepped back to let me pass, but it didn't stop me from giving the rest of his crew a neutral look. I so much wanted to kick their armored butts!

But I knew that the act wouldn't get me very far.

The armor of a single Praetorial Guardsman consisted of a heavily layered shell molded to the wearer’s specifications in an instant while broken down into segments for each portion of the human body–arms, legs, torso and so forth.

Once on, each part acted like quicksilver, linking up with each other, solidifying completely. This way, there would be no inherent weaknesses to exploit at all.

Another aspect of the armor was its unique durability. Being a next generation design, it was programmed with a mnemonic interface which allowed the armor to react instantly to any given circumstance, changing its molecular density when needed–becoming either malleable and extremely soft to the touch (like velvet) or as hard as any known material or substance in all the universe.

Hence the nickname 'turtlehead'.

I stepped onto the moving escalator and rode my up to my next destination, but my thoughts weren't on the present, but the past. Memories of Trell as a little boy and my father!...

Oh how I missed him terribly!

The escalator dumped me into a much wider corridor--wide enough to accomodate several lines of people if need be.

Looking down, I found the same color schemes in the carpet and walls. Nothing ever changed in these terminals. The construction and paint schemes almost remained the same--in one form or another.

However, that's where the similarities always ended.

But what got my attention here was what appeared to be intricate murals of some kind. Holographics was the word for them. Interactive imagining surfaces which displayed something of interest, either personal or of a historical nature.

In this case, I was witnessing something I have never seen before:

A gigantically smooth-blue skinned creature with a large tail and small flippers arching through one display, plying its way through a holographic representation of what appeared to be a large body of water--and appearing out into another companion panel.

The magnificent creature pierced the surface and used all its muscles to propel itself through the air, before coming down hard–sending up a mind-blowing spray of holographic water in my general direction. The sound of its impact adding to the noise of the water shook me to the bone; leaving me awed by what I had just witnessed with my own eyes.

The blue whale disappeared from view, leaving behind a trail of disturbed sunlight and bubbles. Seconds later, a mournful cry erupted from the display.

Then it seamlessly restarted again a minute later.

I was so totally beside myself; feeling more humble and more awestruck. Such power and beauty was being represented and no one could tell me what it was that I had just witnessed.

I remember placing my fingers up against the panel--wishing there was some way I could communicate to this magnificient animal, but I knew it was nothing more than a silly girl's fantasy.

I could feel the depth and power of the creature itself as it went through its motions--the subtle vibrations tingling my skin. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was being exposed and drenched by this whale's presence--my hair all wet from the spray it exuded in another shot; even as it made another mournful cry--calling out to whatever brethren still remained buried in the depths of this simulated ocean.

I sighed then...feeling strangely at peace with myself.

Isis

THE ROAD AHEAD

2008-02-17T16:46:00.000-08:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 4:45PM, Sunday; February 17th, 2007)______________________________________________________________________

It didn't take long for me to get my brother and go. The day was going to be a long one as it is--and I didn't have the luxury to fart around and take in the scenery along the stretch.

I needed to get to Shark's Bay as quick as possible.

I burned the engines as hot as they could get--using my afterburners for most of the journey. But--in under and hour--I got there dirty and happy; but I had pushed my bike to its absolute limits and knew that--when I pulled in...?--Calis would be giving me an earful about what went down.

Later--as it turned out.

After parking my machine on the side of the workshop, I dragged my brother inside and immediately asked Calis for some Viraxain.

At first, he thought that it was me which needed it--but I quickly put his fears to rest by pointing to my brother; as the culprit in question.

I explained to him what happened and the revelation hit him like a brick. He elected to get the medicine while I was left behind with my brother. I felt an immediate wave of sympathy for him--knowing that what he's going through was something I first went through three years ago; during my training on the Viper X-1.

Eleven years old at the time, I had burned in long hours on Calis's training sim and was in desperate need of something to keep me going.

The first thing you have to realize about the world I live in is that kids like me have to grow up very fast. Moment to moment is spent learning about the world we live in on the surface. Schooling and education comes from things passed down to each family member from the previous generation--where we don't get graded on our aptitudes or how well we did in one subject or another.

We just learned.

And one of the things I learned on that day was a painful lesson in moderation. Being the growing girl that I was--I had come across a box of the same rations my brother currently inhaled in one or more sittings--and grabbed a handful of the delicious-looking bars and began tearing into them ravenously.

I was lucky that Calis had the common sense to install some life-monitoring equipment--because hours later; he had to pull me out after I had completely collapsed.

Stupid ol' me didn't realize what I had done either. I was doing a crash-course in body recaliberation and several energy dumps to force my metabolism back to normal. Only afterwards did Calis manage to acquire some energy-ration paks that were attuned to my growing metabolism.

Looking at my brother, I saw then that he didn't mean what he did. He was just simply fulfulling his role as the second oldest member of the family.

And as a man yet to be.

But I was doing the right thing--because I wanted him to be around when I grew up to be the person I was destined to be.

Calis returned with a vial and a hypo--explaining what it would do and then injecting it into my brother. He would need to stay the night.

While I...?

I was going someplace else. A place that I only dreamed about in days past--fantasized about in dreams future.

As much as I wanted my brother to accompany me to the space complex, we both knew that he couldn't go. The station's boarding system would deny him access due to the fact that it would flag him as an addict.

He would have to wait until his system was clensed and then he could come up. (Though that wouldn't happen until much later--after everything had transpired.)

So Calis offered to take him home on the hauler transport--since his own hoverbike was in storage and needing a new engine manifold. Mine was simply too powerful for him to handle on his own; without the necessarily instruction and supervision.

I was about to take off when he halted me--telling me that I would need a pass card to gain access. It was the same one he had used so many years before; to hunt for the errant shard belonging to the Source of Chaos. (Though from what he regaled to me years down the road--he could never find it. It was simply 'out of sight, out of mind'; as he had put it.)

But the thing had a three-hour limit and I would need all the speed I could get getting to Weasel's Ridge Maze, and not Crater Lake. (Like I always did in the past at Transit Terminal #114.)

And it only worked for that specific terminal.

Calis shooed me off and I told him that I would be back.

Little did I know what lay in store.

Isis

Angst and Improvision

2008-01-26T09:35:00.000-08:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 9:35AM, Saturday; January 26th, 2007)______________________________________________________________________

I didn't want to disappoint my mother by not showing up for breakfast. I wolfed down what was given to me that day, but the problems with my hovercycle still persisted and I didn't know what to do next.

I remember telling my mother this and she suggested that I improvise on the lining issue; as her experience with faulty and stubborn equipment (namely the T-17 Firefly) had given her plenty of insight into how to deal with this particular problem.

And hers was quite simple: "Fix it."

Sure mom! I recall thinking to myself. Easy for you to say! You don't have to travel the 450-mile corridor each day to Shark's Bay!

"So improvise." She followed up--after I tried to explain to her that I did not have a spare. But knowing how moms operate, Maye wasn't about to give up on me.

She knew that I was much more smarter and intelligent than this--and I found myself kicking myself in the head silently for trying to back out of this problem; and let my mother come to my rescue like she had a few times in the past.

Maye only did that because she wanted to show that she loved me, but she soon discovered that I had more potential growing up--and starting allowing me to tackle my own problems; without any adult supervision.

This was was one such moment in my life where I had the power to make my own solutions.

But technology was still a pain in the ass and I wasn't known for my patience. Last time my bike gave me this much of a problem, I ended up by putting a blaster bolt into the engine block--costing me my ride for three weeks while Calis pissed up and down Repair Bay #4 fixing the problem and cursing teenagers (and me), in general.

Mom grounded me for 2 months following that incident last year. But I learned my lesson.

No...

This time, I was going to solve the liner problem. I was stupid last year. This year, I was going to use my head rather than my standard impulsiveness.

Good ol' mom...she wouldn't take no for an answer. She told me to use something for a substitute for the damaged liner and then fix it.

Staring down at my now empty plate, I tried as hard to picture what the damned thing looked like inside my head and then tried to come up with a passable replacement.

It needed to be something that would act as a filter; allowing for the fuel and air to come together without interruption--but trap any foreign elements like dirt and sand particles.

But there was too much sand, which caused the compressor to jam on its own accord. I told my mom this and she threw out the notion that their might be a hairline crack somewhere--which would account for the excess build up.

But I disagreed with her openly--telling her that I had already run a diagnostic. Nothing was found.

Mom wouldn't accept that as a final answer and told me to check again.

I told her that I did, but didn't want to fight with me again on this front. She could tell that I was getting steamed and quietly put the dishes in the sink.

Coming back, she told me in no uncertain terms that I would have to look again.

I sat there and stewed. I'm sure that smoke was pouring out of my ears then.

Mom had proven me wrong on this front and I was forced to accept the fact that I may have overlooked something important. After all, technology wasn't impervious.

I relented and told her that I was going to check--just to humor her. Even if I didn't like it.

***

I returned to the outshed while my brother was busy fighting the effects of ration addiction. He was a brave little boy--but he needed to be shown the errors of his ways.

I wished that mom hadn't been so cold in showing mine. I wished she hadn't. But I knew that in the world we all lived in never afforded such luxuries.

I ran an integrity scan on the bike and watched as a pencil-thin beam of light washed over my hovercycle--before shutting off. After a moment or two of ingesting the collected data, I was finally given the results of the scan.

It wasn't good.

Naturally, I expected this. But I wasn't expecting a four-inch hairline crack underneath the engine compartment; which ran lengthwise and stopped shy of the aft hover control matrix.

Of course, I wasn't expecting to see this. The damage was practically invisible when I stood back up from personally inspecting the site in question.

I went back to my tool box and retrieved a special sealent which would instantly bond with the crack and fuse it temporarily together. A cosmetic improvision at best. But repairs would have to wait another time.

I thought about asking Calis for a favor. But given my track record, I was sure that this wouldn't count! (laughing)

After applying the sealant and tossing it back into the tool chest--I sat there and waited for the bonding agents to do their thing while I did mine.

The lining problem was going to be a real bitch--primarily because I didn't have anything from which to work with that could be used as a replacement. (A point I made to my mom--but once she was set in her ways, nothing short of a hovertram accident could shake her resolve loose.)

I thought about calling it quits and finding another fuel pump--complete with brand-new filter linings--while telling the old man that I had failed.

That would certainly make his day, all right. I thought to myself then. This setback didn't sit well with me at all.

I absently dusted the sand off the front of my shirt and noticed how the sand particles didn't stick to the fabric at all.

It was then that inspiration struck me.

My shirt!

I could use it as a substitute!

Running back to the work bench, I fished out an old pair of scissors that were a gift from my grandmother and began to cut into my shirt.

I carefully excised a small patch of fabric from the lower half of my garment--knowing my mom was going to have a fit when she found out. But it was much better than complaining all day.

I reassembled the fuel pumps in record time afterwards--and within 15 minutes--and prayed that this jury-rigging would work. I had nothing else left to give if it were to fail outright.

Installing the pump, I ran the bike through its startup sequence and found everything read green across the board.

It was ready to go and so was I.

Isis

GIRL INTERRUPTED.

2007-12-16T16:00:00.000-08:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 4:00PM, Sunday; December 16th, 2007)______________________________________________________________________

Technology still had a ways to go in my opinion.

At the crossroad I was presently at, I was sorely tempted to get my spare blaster out from underneath the workbench and just shoot the damned bike!

Fuck-! I was so pissed at the thing!

The intake valves were fixed and the filters cleaned, but then something else reared its ugly head and I had even more work to contend with. (Honestly? I didn't even know how Calis did it half the time. The old man was a wizard when it came to machines and stuff like that. Me? I was just a green novice. An ace pilot for the Viper X-1, but a stinkin' greenie with hoverbikes. I remember the times my mom would always yell at me to take care of my "at-home" equipment even better than I did my auto-frame. Calis cautioned me on the same subject many times over--but I was hard of hearing; and often (than I care to admit), I paid for my follies.

No, this time, the fuel pumps themselves were the sticking point. And without them fixed, I had no way of making it out to the Mile Road marker 200 clicks out from the home fort.

My bike would die out in the middle of nowhere squared and most likely I would to--even with the proper precautionary measures.

The tiny valve-compressors and the drive-piston assembly were the problem--with the latter hopelessly gummed up with sand.

Nothing I did could alleviate the problem.

The only solution was to head into Shark's Bay for a replacement. Stratos City was a secondary possibilty, but without reliable transportation, I was screwed every which way towards next Thursday.

And the 450-mile journey on foot was like asking me to commit suicide or something. Roving bandit gangs would pick me off faster than the elements would in a heartbeat.

But I knew then that in order to make the call, I would have to think of a way of improvising on the spot. There just had to be something in this shed that I could use as a replacement for the pump's lining mechanism. This was what caused the fuel pump assembly to conk out of commission.

However, I believed that Calis and I had already shielded the pumps from the harsh elements; but I guess not now. The damaged pumps were proof that more work needed to be done.

I spent some time contemplating the problem--trying to pull a miracle out of my hat. The compressor valve was the easiest thing to replace--I had parts for that. So did Calis.

But it would take me more time to replace the compressor--and that was something I didn't have the time for. So the lining was the only thing which presented itself to be a quick fix.

The only problem was that I didn't have a replacement lining pad which could fit in each of the valve compartments.

Unfortunately, someone opened the door at that time and it turned out to be my brother, Trell.

Naturally, I yelled at him after I threw my jacket on the fuel pump assembly. I didn't need anymore headaches than I had now. I had just spent 4.5 hours working. Trell did apologize for what he did and just wanted me to know that it was time for breakfast.

I had too much work on my hands to worry about eating--and looked at my handiwork in general.

Trell was hoping that I would come so he could take a quick shower and get to work on the comm screen. I immediately turned on him about the whole thing--which he in turn pointed out that I had sent him to bed before he could effect repairs.

Arguing about it was the last thing either of us wanted--even though my youngest bro informed me that he managed to jury-rig the whole thing. The repairs wouldn't last long--as he told me--so I'd better hurry up.

But it made me wonder why mom didn't just scrap the whole contraption and invest in a new comm system. I know we didn't have enough money--and I could've loaned her some for a new comm--but the thought still remained in my head for a while longer.

I offered my next solution as a way of an informal truce between myself and my youngest sibling; informing him that I would join him for breakfast.

'Let's go before mom thinks I've jumped ship,' I recalled Trell telling me on that day.

Of course, I figured that a refueling op might be just the thing I needed to fix the pumps.

So I let my brother take the lead.

At least...just this once.

Isis

LITTLE MISS BIKE MECHANIC.

2007-11-10T13:50:00.000-08:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 1:50PM, Saturday; November 10th, 2007)______________________________________________________________________

The morning was a lot colder than I imagined.

You would think that living on a desert planet, our weather would remain constant and filled with few surprises in this day and age...?

Don't bet on it.

Standing from where I was that morning, the wind was unnaturally cruel to me; biting at my face--causing my breath to vapor?

It was a good thing that I had the common sense to install heaters in the outshed awhile ago.

I'd think it was going to start snowing before too long if this kept up. (Yes, I know much about this rare phenomenon. The South Circle is the only place on this world of mine that has such a thing. A small patch of snow and ice measuring only 500 miles in diameter; shrinks during the summer and grows during the winter. Calis told me once that the world I lived in was much different so long ago. And I always wondered how he knew that; his fantastic tales of a dead civilization filling my mind from time to time. He says that the South Circle is the only remnant left of a world alien to me.)

The wind of course enjoyed playing with my long tresses--messing with each stray strand of hair. Naturally--as days had me--I didn't brush my hair as often as I should.

Out in the Golan Desert...what was the point?

But the skies above me where shockingly clear--devoid of anything.

Even clouds.

But I could still see the whispering bands of sand in the distance and the recalcitrant cloud bank some 500 miles distant. All light brown as one looked up--before vanishing into the skies--but at the bottom?

Dark and uninviting!

Not the kind of thing I would go joyriding in first thing in the morning.

But gauging the distance between me and that cloud bank, I would say it was not even close to Shark's Bay. Maybe in the Rail Mine area--where Old Coy used to sit. (Now abandoned.)

So no immediate danger to me.

That was a good sign.

Looking around, I saw that last night's action didn't do a whole lot of damage to the area around me.

The last one (from my childhood memories) took out a whole side to our old maintenance barn--leaving my father to rebuild it from scratch. Two years ago, another storm like it stripped off some paint--leaving it with an odd two-tone coloration that I couldn't fix in a moment's notice.

It still stood there--a lone and proud sentinel to a time filled with happier memories. But now, it was just a lurking ghost. A reminder of things lost and forgotten.

The outshed was built to withstand anything that Mother Nature could throw at it.

And that's where my destination was to be today. The storm may not have done any appreciable damage to the surrounding landscape, but my bike took a beating like none other.

Especially with all that sand still gummed up in the intake valves and filters.

I was sure that it wasn't running at peak efficiency. And the last thing I needed (as I jumped down the small flight of stairs--taking off towards to the outshed), was to be stalled halfway to my goal.

And that would really suck!

Getting the latch off to the door was easy enough. But the sand had piled up during the night and so I spent the next couple of minutes shuffling out as much as I could with my feet.

The winds picked up on my little game and played along with me--blowing what I shoveled back and around. For a small while, I was surrounding in a golden cloud of glittering sand.

Opening the door became easier after that--as I turned on the overhead light--bathing the place in a soft yellow glow.

Closing the door behind me, I heard the wind thumping miserably against it--desperate to come in and play some more. But I would have none of that.

If I was going to fix my bike, I didn't need anymore havoc for the time being.

Technology had made it so that fixing any problem would be a cinch. (That is, if you lived up in Stratos City.)

But down here on the surface, technology had become hardened and a stubborn mistress. It only worked if you paid loving attention to it and cared for it on equal terms.

With that in mind, I dragged my machine over to the diagnostic platform at the center of the shed: A circular dias next to a metal pole with a mushroom-shaped plunger button built right into the control panel beneath it.

Simple enough for me, no? Here, I didn't have anything fancy past the diagnostic computer. I couldn't afford it anyways. But out here, fancy and attractive technologies either was stolen underfoot, or...?

Killed by the harsh and unforgiving environment.

These days, I needed the hard stuff. I couldn't have survived without it. The luxuries up in that burnished top above my head would have to wait for a later time.

Hitting the button, I watched as the platform rose to a grinding halt--reminding me (later on), that I would have to oil the chassis beneath it.

Or fix it.

Whichever came first.

Stopping at eye-level, I reached over to play with the small interface on the junction box--which brought the back end of my bike to face me.

Nothing wrong there, I saw. So I changed positions again--this time, revealing the small access panel on the left side of my ride.

Instead of opening it, I went to the farthest corner of the outshed and lugged out a wheeled diagnostic computer terminal. The wheels screeched horrendously, but I was used to it. If they didn't...?

I would worry.

After a final visual inspection of my bike, I turned on the computer terminal and went to retrieve a connection probe off the work table close to the door.

Walking back, I undid the panel above the hover control chassis and jacked in one end of the connection and uncoiled the connector leads--carefully working out the kinks as I went.

I attached the leads solidly into the side panel of the computer terminal and entered an experimental command into the interface.

Everything checked out.

I then imputted another request into the system and asked for a Level 1 diagnostic of my hovercycle.

The machine hummered and whirred to itself in response--as it accessed my bike's onboard systems--and I had nothing to do for the next few minutes but wait.

(I hated this!)

A beeping noise grabbed my attention back to the present, and a beautiful tri-visual image resolved itself before me: An internal schematic detailing every aspect of my hovercycle.

The thing was in a green and blue overlay, which made things even more breath-taking. But the angry red flashes on some areas made me shit my pants--and I swore as a result.

What the hell did I do to piss off the gods with this bullshit???

This was really getting on my fucking nerves! I was expecting some minor problems--some things that the computer could correct on its own--but this...?

Stomping back to the work table in a huff, I grabbed my personalized tool box off the top shelf (the one adorned with a plethora of cute stickers and headlining sayings), and started back to my bike.

Piece of shit! I silently called it--as I popped the access cover off the engine housing--and set it down carefully. I undid the side panels as well: Exposing half of my bike's insides to the outside air and stray elements.

And sighed.

I was right: This thing was a piece of shit!

So what if I had too much faith in my bike? It was the only thing I had--besides my Viper X-1.

And I was the only one who could fix it!

Though...it would most likely take a few hours.

From my points of view, the engines and their manifold intakes of the Strokov-623 didn't look at all damaged.

Plus for me!

Carefully, I probed the divide seperating the two together--making sure that nothing out of the ordinary would present itself; once I began systematic repairs here.

I didn't need any more headaches than I already had.

Pulling my hands free, I ventured deeper into the machine, past the thrust initiators, past the various energy relays, some of the connection leads, and other things critical to the bike's operation, I quickly found the problem where the computer still displayed it as.

Certainly no easy task. That was for sure!

After untangling myself from the guts of my own bike, I placed a repair probe on top of the spot (to mark it) and then went back for my tool box.

I grabbed a magnetic decoupler and its companion auto-rotator head out of the tray (of specially designed tools), and undid the instrument probe attached.

I carefully threaded the decoupler through the maze of wires until I hit the spot in question: The connections holding air intake valves and the fuel-mixer components together.

The first connector was easily dispatched from where I sat hunched down--and I pocketed the six lead heads. Then I carefully plucked the tubing apparatus with a box-like shape attached to the end connectors on both sides.

I sat it aside carefully. And then repeated the process with the other three.

The engine core took on the appearance of a partially gutted fish--and I'm sure Calis would have a field day with me for doing this on my own. But I knew enough about my own road hog to take it apart and put it back together in one piece. (Luckily for me, the terminal would tell me if the thing was functioning--if and when I put it back together in working order.)

I removed the housing covers for the two fuel-regulator pumps and found the first to be okay.

The second?

Shit!

The computer was right: The internal components operating the micro-pumps had jammed from too much sand again.

But at least they weren't fused. If they were...?

I'd be shit out of the luck.

However, I wouldn't know the extent of the damage to the pumps and the surrounding filters themselves until I took the whole thing apart. But what pissed me off sorely was that the fuel pumps didn't come cheap. They were the second most expensive piece of machinery outside of the hover conversion system.

And as such, it was going to take me a hell of a lot longer to fix than just screwing something on and plugging it back in.

I fished out the delicate pumps from their snap-on foundations and set them on the driver seat.

Then I grabbed one of the air intake valves and began to work on the problem at hand--knowing that my day was shot to shit as it is.

Isis

MORNING REFLECTION

2007-09-29T22:56:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 10:57PM, Sunday; September 29th, 2007)______________________________________________________________________

You think that by now, I would've remembered to shut off that damned alarm clock--again!

Duh...um...nope. >shakes head<

I'm always thinking that one of these days, my lazy brother would get off his duff and give me something that didn't have to involve committing homicide against the infernal noisemaker. But I remembered that Trell was still in trouble from last night and no amount of pleading from his camp was going to change Mom's mind one iota.

I stayed up late at night--getting some chores done and spending time in my room cleaning my blaster and practicing up on my martial arts. They used to have a name for what I was doing--but the Old Ways had died so long ago--that Calis doesn't even know. He just showed me some study discs of his own one day and told me to start practicing.

Right after I turned 10 no less. The holo-projector and the mono-tone voice would be my teacher for the next three years--until I had progressed well enough on my own to consider being self-taught.

My weapons' training came at the hands of my mom shortly after my dad was imprisoned. It made sense--seeing how I was the oldest in the family. My youngest brother still was too young to properly weild a weapon of any kind; and I didn't know what my mom was thinking--giving a loaded blaster to a 7-year-old girl.

But Calis told me later that it was "better to be safe than sorry."

In the Barren Wastelands, you had no second chance. People had died being unprepared and unprotected these days.

I didn't want to be just another forgotten memory or a land-based statistic.

My birthday was in two more months. And being 15 would take on a whole new dimension by then.

But it left me wondering if I would go gray early like my mom had when she was young?

Life on the surface was no picnic. Let me tell you. People had a habit of aging more quickly in some cases and slower in others.

It depended on their trade in life. Most of scavengers and foragers did. So did a few pilots.

I was the exception to the rule. I wore my age well on the corner of my sleeve. So I figured I would be be mistaken for someone much younger--once I got to a certain point. (Let's hope!)

At any rate, I managed to get up and unplug the alarm clock; silencing it's racket once more.

I stretched and yawned--feeling how tired I was. Not just me. But my whole body.

I ached in places I didn't think was possible. But yesterday's encounter with the storm was more than I bargained for. Not only did I get beat around like an insolent child, but I was almost hit by lightning on my way up the stairs.

The damned bolt came close to blowing my face off--instead was content in knocking me flat on my ass in the process. I could not remember if I had been knocked out or was stunned, or what. But I came to after a few minutes and had nothing but stars before my eyes and an earnest ringing in my ears.

I changed clothes as quickly as I could--knowing that I couldn't afford to stall much longer; not when Calis was expecting me this morning.

Putting on a pair of faded blue jeans, I felt the patch ride up on my leg--a reminder of a hovercycle accident not too long ago.

I smiled at the memory invoked by my own actions and continued to dress myself. Once I finished, I hopped out into the hallway--bypassing some familiarly-frame photos of happier times with myself and my family.

I stopped next to the one that showed me after my hard won victory at the Desert Storm last year--parked right next to three photographs of my father; a man I worshipped greatly in my heart.

And the pang of absence which still lingered. Oh, how I missed him!

I reached out to touch the features of his youthfully framed face--marveling on how happy he was back then; during a family photo session. We were too poor to afford holographic pictures, so we opted for the film prints.

They lasted longer than anything currently on the market--but they didn't have the staying power as the optically-transferred, digital reproductions had.

200 years at least. By then, one of our descendants would have to get replacements.

The picture of me was such an impish one. I could not believe that my mom allowed me to dress in such a hideous outfit! (I shuddered at this point.)

But I suppose it was one of the sacrifices one had to make for an eternal memory wrapped up by time itself.

My mother looked younger than she did these days. I could see a little bit of me in her and I was left wondering if that's whom I would like look like as I grew older with each passing year.

My baby brother looked so adorable in his little sailor's uniform--leaving me to sigh.

No matter what, the most thing I missed in the world was a family. And no matter how hard I tried, I could not recapture those lost moments in time.

Resentment and anger filled me then--as I blamed the Praetorial Guard for what happened to us.

To my brother.
To my mother.
To my father.

And especially...me.

No matter what happened--even if I got my father back--I would still hold the Praetorial Guard responsible for stealing all those years away from us. That much was a certainty.

Of course, people would tell me that I had to take responsibility for my own actions and stop blaming others.

Naturally, that would be the appropriate response.

But this world and the one I live in are so vastly different. Blame was assigned to one thing and not one person. We lived a much different life than the one you know.

The Guard was formed as the answer to humanity's problems. And even though things started out well enough, shit went south for the winter real fast--and we started looking at the Praetorial Guard as the bane in our lives.

Not our saviors as some claimed them to be.

That's the reason why I objected so strongly in going up against Calis's wishes. I did not desire another encounter with the Guard.

I'm sure that they didn't like me, but the feeling was mutual.

I had no love or trust in those stupid turtleheads!

But a promise was a promise nonetheless. And I could not back off now.

It was 5:30 in the morning by the time I went into the kitchen and grabbed some leftover pepperstew (or chili as my mom sometimes called it), and I wolfed it down as quickly as I could; worrying about the heart burn later.

After taking care of my dishes, I left the house soon after.

Isis

STANDING UP FOR WHAT YOU BELIEVE IN

2007-08-26T20:12:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 8:14PM, Sunday; August 26th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________

I guess--from my perspective--Trell had it coming.

Mom yelling at him and all.

But I could have none of that. I simply could not. After all, the little shrimp is my brother. And since mom didn't have any kids after Trell was born, it would make no sense killing him for doing what he did.

But grounding him did.

Again, mom didn't know from what. We had very little as it was, and Trell was very much needed around the house while I was out doing my things.

And since Dad wasn't here to pick up the slack...?

However, that didn't stop my mom from chewing him out. I got the distinct feeling that Maye took great satisfaction that she could still carry weight and authority with her voice.

Like her, I was also worried about my brother becoming an addict.

After all, there were no documented reports of someone remotely surviving after eating 3 cases of energy bar rations. Especially those that are tailored to my metabolism. (Maybe it was because he was younger--and his body still had yet to get rid of all that energy?)

My own battles with addiction is fairly evident--and it was so much easier becoming one in the world I now grew up in. Nobody I knew didn't have a dark and secret past--one tinged with embarrassment or scandal.

We all had something to hide from the outside world. Humanity may have advanced technologically in some areas over the last 10,000 years--but there were still some arenas which basic instinct was still very much the barbarian.

Cruelty, selfishness, depravity...?

They still had their place. This world of mine just made them all that much stronger.

And harder to ignore.

I partly listened to my mom still going on about her own worst-case scenarios involving my stupid brother--until I hit on an idea.

“I can go into town tomorrow and get a vial of Viraxain from Calis and give it to Trell by injecting him with a hypo spray.” I recall volunteering. “It should shut down the excess energy and jumpstart his body back to normal.”

(Heh. Whatever the hell that was. But I said this to calm my irate mother--and shock her back to her senses. Nobody was in any real danger of dying. My brother ate the 3 cases over a period of a month or so--not all at once. But even that much excess was too much for the average human body.)

I waited until Trell finished eating and then watched him scoot off for bed. I took care of the mess he left behind on the table and got myself something to eat--then sat down.

What I was going to tell her was damned difficult as it was.

When I did open my mouth to tell her--my mom blew everything out of proportion by instantly thinking that I had become addicted!

Worse...

She thought I was pregnant! (laughing here)

I may be naive at times, but stupid I wasn't. There was no way in hell I was going to get knocked up at such an early age! (But you know moms these days...?)

I tried to soother her fears by letting her know that I was neither--and then told her what Calis wanted me to go an do.

Like a bomb going off, my mother laid down the letter of the law:
“You are not going!” She told me in a tight voice, one that spoke of heavy menace. “And that’s that!”

(Moms...you gotta give them points for being up front with their feelings--especially those that involve their kids.)

Naturally, I agreed with her. I thought the old man was crazy too. But what else could I have done?

Mom told me all the "horrible" things that go up in Stratos City (y'know: The horror stories which adults use to scare kids with), and I told her not to worry. I had a blaster, my martial arts--I could handle myself in a pinch if needed.

Typically, mom wasn't convinced. But I told her that I was going anyway. I had to.

Maye asked me why.

I told her about the things which Calis told me. Things which made sense to my ears. Mom blew it all off as some 'wishful thinking' and 'an old man's fantasy'.

I countered her of course--as any good daughter would. I may be upstart and 14-years-old, but I never backed down from a fight or a challenge.

Even those from my own mother--no matter how much I loved and respected her.

Mom thought I was just gulliable, but I told her I wasn't. But her remarks sowed some self-doubt in me. I asked her what I should really do.

She told me it was up to me. I was old enough to make my own decisions (even though in the modern world--that was usually reserved for teens 18 or 19 years of age. Not those who were just on the edge of turning 15--like me--for instance.)

I told her that I would go--seeing how a surface dweller hadn't been up there for 300 years or something to that effect. Mom corrected me--of course--but I had always been under the distinct impression that nobody from the surface had actually visited the space complex in so long. (Of course, Calis would later tell me that it had been no less than 50 years since he last visited.)

Maye grew concerned over my lack of accurate historical knowledge--and asked me what it was that Calis was using for my study periods. I told her what we had gone through--and it confirmed my mom's earlier suspicions.

She told me flat out that my views were skewed and I fired back with some logic of my own--dropping me into an argument which borderlined on surface dweller prejudice. I used everything at my disposal--which set my mother back a bit.

I guess she wasn't expecting me to debate her in such an adult manner. But my outbursts with her reminded her of herself--when she was my age. However, nothing could change the time-honored friction which lay between both mother and daughter.

And that's what made me and my mom so...different...in our views of the world around us.

Isis

MY BROTHER'S FOLLY

2007-07-27T17:38:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 5:36PM, Friday; June 27th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________

My brother's room is a disaster in the making. I could not recall the last time Trell actually spent cleaning his room. Mom rarely gets on his case long enough to get him to do anything about it. I do recall the times either she or I strong-armed him to do any cleaning--both of us were subjected to a litany of complaints and mutterings (which lasted the better part of the week) about how he couldn't find anything of stellar importance. (Much like the author of The Starchild. Everytime he cleans up, he can't find anything either! :0P )

Mom would give up on him often; citing that "little boys like him are impossible to deal with."

I tried to reassure her that this wasn't so.

She looks at me sometimes with a curious expression and asks me the obvious.

I said, "Little boys like him get a butt-kicking from me--if they don't toe the family line."

My mother would pat me on the head at times, smile, and even chuckle at my choice of options. She knows that I am just playfully jesting when I threaten physical violence against my brother.

However, there are moments that I wished I wasn't. And this was one of them.

I nearly tripped over some of his shit getting into his room--thanking whatever higher power was upstairs that I didn't die on my way to the corner of my brother's crowded and disheveled workstation.

"Do you ever clean up?" I wanted to bark at him--before I settled down to wring his neck for traversing this dump of his. Instead of that, I scared him badly with a rambunctious: "HEY!"--and caused him to almost electrocute himself in the process.

(Yes, there were some things I enjoyed most of all: That being a big pain in the ass. Sister's perogative and all that.)

Trell accused me of trying to kill him out of spite, but I knew that he was just exaggerating. The crossed voltage wouldn't be permanently damaging.

I told him that dinner was ready and that he should come--but Trell wouldn't come just yet.

Knowing that I got something out of him, I disappeared for a second to go retrieve my pack. I had almost forgotten about it--being so wrapped up in my own past--and the implications that I would eventually uncover from my little brother.

It's odd--as I write this--that I know what will happen, before it happened. But the memories of this day was too strong for me to ignore. There was simply too much anguish and pain to be had.

But I came back and gave him his power convertor. Overjoyment isn't what I had in mind when he jumped up suddenly and grabbed me in a crushing bear hug! (For a second there, I swore I saw my life flash before me! I couldn't believe that my scrawny fence-post of a brother had that much strength in him!)

"Oxygen!" I recalled croaking out. "Oxygen!" When that didn't work, I began smacking Trell on the head.

I was close to passing out from the lack of it and being dizzy all that the same time. I accused him of trying to kill me, but Trell feigned innocence. I really wanted to kill him myself, but I decided to let it pass and get the two of us to dinner.

Trell refused and I threatened to kick his butt right then and there.

I asked him how long it would be before he keeled over from a lack of food. His deflection of the subject suggested something else. Something which I later kicked myself mentally for: I had left a spare box of rations in the laundry room--within easy reach for anyone to get into; should they want something to mosh on.

But I never knew that my own flesh and blood would take the entire box and eat it!

He said two words and I just about lost it: "Energy rations."

Correction: I did lose it!

On him!

Oh, I railed against him for a few seconds before cooler heads prevailed. Then I started doing some damage control on the situation by asking him all sorts of questions. Trell answered them in kind, but I could tell that--by some further grilling--that he was scared.

My brother believed that he somehow killed himself--or he was in mortal danger of dying.

(Judging by how many wrappers were on the floor during my search of his room later on--I was surprised that he hadn't kicked off yet.)

I tried to reassure him that he would be fine.

But I was certain that my mom would be wanting a piece of him at any rate.

Once she found out what he had gone and done.

-Isis

MY OWN BATTLES WITH DRUG ADDICTION

2007-06-30T00:16:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 12:17AM, Saturday; May 30th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________

I must be quite frank with you on something. Something upon which the author of The Starchild had never touched based on: My own battle with drug addiction.

While I am going to tell you what happened with my brother Trell, first, I must tell you something about me. Something so personal and painful, I had completely shut it out of my mind.

In the world you live in, you have to constantly battle with all kinds of problems stemming from substance abuse. And it can take so many forms. Some of it more obvious than others.

For myself...? My world is a much more dangerous place. And it's not just the perps and thugs which I have to deal with on a monthly basis. There are days when I have to deal with the local drug runners, spacers, and e-dicts (those people who are so hopelessly addicted to the E-Net, that nothing can bring them around to the reality in which they live in).

When I walked in on Trell--to get him to come to dinner--I didn't know what kind of a deadly secret he had been keeping from both mom and me. And while I love my brother to pieces sometimes, his recent choice in snacks had me floored.

E-rations!

And not just the type which is made for the civilian sector of the planet, but ones that pilots like me were conditioned for!

And the fucking idiot had to eat one case after another--while almost starving himself to death doing it! I was furious!

But it also brought back fleeting memories of an earlier time--almost five years ago--when I had gone with Calis to a place called Rock Point. It was supposed to be a pilot's hangout/staging area.

But all it was, was a large mesa area full of sand, hazards, and plenty of rocky protrusions which had been sheltered so nicely

At least that's what Calis told me.

Here, he said, "Isis. This is where you will be testing your skills early on--in a Seacord T-5."

I was ten back then--so full of vim and vinegar--eager to prove myself as an apprentice pilot.

And that's where I met Snake Eyes.

The local drug runner for this area of Plaines Bluff. Of course, he didn't care who his customers were. To him, money was money.

(And if I had the ability to go back in time, I would've shot the fucking sleazeball for doing what he did to me that day.

It made me feel so horrible, dirty, and ashamed of myself, I still wanted to run away from home and hide myself from the world in general!)

Calis didn't introduce me to him--which is what I suspected pissed off Snake Eyes. Instead, we went straight to one of the racing coordinators for Rock Point and signed up for some training exercises on the old Seacord.

I did fairly well--for a beginner--which I suspected caught the attention of ol' Snake Eyes.

Of course--while I was being congratulated for a good start--Calis had only seperated from me for only a moment or two to get me something to drink.

One minute he was there, and the next...? He was gone.

Naturally, I didn't think too much of it. I was too much engrossed in the after-race adrenalish; the moment all pilots speak of when the world opens up and reveals itself to you in just a few fleeting seconds.

Where the open skies above and the whispering sands below come together in harmony and speak softly to you in a singular voice.

I remember thinking then: 'This is what I wanted to do.'

Become a legendary pilot in my own right.

I felt a tap on my shoulder then and turned--thinking it was Calis; coming back with my drink.

But it wasn't.

It was Snake Eyes.

The man's pasty oily sheen complexion reflected brightly in the hot desert sun--that much I can remember.

He handed me something--which I thought was a drink.

"Here." He sneered to me. "You need this."

Not knowing completely right from wrong, I took the proferred bottle.

And sipped.

Almost immediately, whatever was in the bottle hit my young system immediately. The alcohol I could taste, but there was something else, something...I could not identify. It had a bitter taste. Much like the aspirin you take to get rid of a headache.

Within a minute of ingesting, I started to feel weirded out. (To borrow a phrase.) The world about me spun lazily around. For awhile, I believed it to be just the heat finally getting to me, but it wasn't the heat.

It was what was inside the bottle!

"Stupid little girl." I heard Snake Eye's voice chide me hautily. "You should know better than to take something from complete strangers. Didn't your parents teach you anything?"

The world went nuts then; colors swirling around me.

Even Snake Eyes form started to distort, started to change. And that's when I really, really, really started to panic!

I remember screaming. Screaming because I was scared, screaming because I didn't know what was happening to me.

People were running towards me then, while Snake Eyes stood there and laughed his head off at my reaction.

"Good?" He asked me. "Here: Drink some more." And with that, he ripped the bottle out of my hand and then forced the rest of the drink down my throat.

I had no choice but to drink the concoction down on a reflexive level. I thought I was going to die...
***

I remember the trip back--hours later--after Snake Eyes had been arrested for assaulting a minor with an illegally-laced sports drink. (Some kind of LSD-type inhibitor with a shot of a Kaon-3 mental enhancer. The type which is used to condition oneself in the hard grip of vacuum.)

Calis was trying to apologize to me for had happened. The whole affair had left him deeply shaken and tramautized. Even to this day, I had never seen him like this.

All I know is that I told him it was, "Okay. I'm okay." But the old man wouldn't accept that as an answer from me.

In the end, it took me six months for the powerful drugs to run their course. I had the shakes and the "bloosies"--as my mother called them; reality-altering phantasms that only existed in the depths of my own consciousness.

And what I saw...?

Let's just say that I was a terrified little girl for some of those long six months. And the others-?

I just didn't want to talk about it--despite Calis's best efforts. I didn't want to relive the nightmares I saw.

I just didn't.

But seeing my brother the way he was...?

It just brought back all the pain, all the anguish. And everything that I had left dead and buried from so long ago. From my perspective anyways.

I wanted to hurt him--because all it did was resurrect ghosts from my own past. But hell or high water, I was going to teach the little vermin a lesson in humility.

Isis

A STORM'S FURY & CHILDHOOD REFLECTIONS

2007-05-27T16:45:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 4:45PM, Sunday; May 27th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________

Getting home proved to be a giant pain in my ass. Right after I had left Calis's workshop, the storm proved to be much worse than I first thought. Of course, when you're a surface dweller like I am, you expect the worse.

There are no second chances with the life I live. You either adapt or you die. It's as simple as that.

Visibility for myself was next to zero. Even the bike's forward and rear-mounted lights could not help dispel the colossal fury of the storm. I sped on alone--and on instinct--hoping that I could remember where I lived in the Golan Desert.

By the time I got home, the storm was at its peak and I could see (and hear) nothing but a black darkness, roiling clouds, thunder, lightning, and high winds. I wasn't sure if we were sucked into the middle of the thing by now, or just a victim of circumstance.

Unfortunately for me, my hovercycle cut out just a few hundred feet from the house. I hopped off soon after and discovered that the intake vents were filled with sand.

I cursed at my own misfortune--even as the storm continued to rally against my best efforts to get home. This was definitely going to set me back a bit. But there was nothing that I could do.

I had to get home and the only way I saw it, was to trek the last few hundred feet by foot--pulling this lumbering hog of mine to the outshed. Of course, it was nothing more than a classic game of tug of war--between me and the storm--but I managed to win out at the cost of myself and all of my energy.

By the time I got the hovercycle inside the outshed, I was pooped! Never before had I to fight the elements just for the sake of one's own innocent sanity. But I did. Only because my machine wasn't just for my own personal entertainment, but my only source of transportation.

I also did this because I had no choice. I wasn't about to come back when the storm was over and find my ride buried in a twenty foot sand drift again. (I had experienced this many times over the last several years. The last time--9 months ago--was at the behest of my mother; whom insisted that I could retrieve it later after the storm had passed. I found it--through Calis's own generosity. He had a mind to have a locator beacon installed inside the machine's engine housing before hand. I used a device of my own devising to find it--though I had to endure my younger brother's ribbing after digging it out. I solved the problem of getting it cleaned easily enough by forcing Trell to clean out all the sand caked inside my bike's blocked engine manifold. I don't normally torture him, but in that case, that little worm of mine deserved it nonetheless. My mother of course gave me some piece of her mind, but I told her that my brother had to learn a little respect for his older sister!)

After securing the outshed, I proceeded towards the house--thinking that I was going to get inside before anything else happened.

How wrong I was!

I had completely forgotten about the conductive nature of a human body lathered in static electricity after riding naked and exposed out in the storm like this one. Not only that, I had completely forgotten to ask Calis for anti-static flak jacket to cover myself in before I left the workshop.

(I sighed.)

Damn...!

Too late for that now--I supposed then.

A giant bolt of lightning nearly struck me in front of the house--just six feet from the top of the stairwell. The sudden explosion of light, power, and thunder knocked me off my feet and I landed hard on my back.

I remember the storm howling around me--as I lay there in a daze. The sand particles swirling around and washing over me like crazy. I don't recall much after that. The force had knocked me partially unconscious. It took me some time to come to and gather my wits about me.

But when I rose to my feet, I was extruciatingly sore and in a bit of pain as well. My ears had an odd ringing to it, and I couldn't discern anything else but that sound, and the distant roar of the storm.

Whatever happened, I was lucky enough to be alive. Strikes like that had a bad habit of killing people in the Barren Wastelands, and I would've been just another figure--had both luck and fate not stepped in to shield me from Death's grip.

I managed to climb the stairs more easily this time, but my body still ached from earlier. I'm sure my mother would think it was the storm's doing--if she ever asked me why I was hurting so--but she would never believe me if I told her the truth.

And if she did, she would accept it as part of life. There was nothing that could be done. Surface dwellers are a much hardier bunch than our sky dancer counterparts. We've lived the life of the destitute, the unwanted, and sometimes, the forgotten. But we didn't just roll over and die when the going got tough. We adapted, we lived, and we flourished.

Much like our ancestors did when they first came down from Stratos City some 5000 years ago--after the complex was constructed.

I opened the door to our modest home and got inside--but the storm wasn't finished with me. Not by a long shot. It still had its quirks and mischievous pranks to play on an unsuspecting girl like me: It blew the door open and then turned it around and smacked me in the butt when I least expected it!

I yelped in pain--where it had hit me--and my mother asked me then what was going on. I told her it was just my pride being injured and nothing more. She then asked me if I got the part I went out for and I told her that I did.

But every part of me was filled with sand. My boots, my socks...

You would think that having desert attire would spare me the worst of the onslaught by the storm, but...?

Naive, I suppose--that, or putting too much faith in my own invulnerability. (heh)

I stripped off my boots, socks, and shook out my pant legs, before tossing my socks onto the back of the sofa. I put my boots--where the others were in the entry way, cleaned up the mess I made--and joined my mother in the living room.

I asked her where my brother was, and she told me that he was in his room--still messing with the broken down communications array.

Privately, I was amazed that my brother could do such things at his age (12), but he was never really into auto-frame racing like I was. Trell was a master tinkerer. It all got started when he was seven years old; when Calis introduced him to a failed power modulator stripped from a 30-year-old Crescent J-18 auto-frame.

Of course--from what I can recall from way back when--the old man was naturally frustrated with the thing, and so he told my brother he could mess with it. (Assuming that it was lost cause and there was nothing that he could do.)

Being ten at the time, Calis introduced me to what would later become my Viper X-1. The machine was a shell of its former self--literally--and its chassis had been suspended above my head; as he worked on the under carriage.

He said that this was a design that him and my father had been working on prior to his unfortunate jailing--but the project had been killed on the account that my father had kept most of the design plans secret and under wraps.

It was only a trip starside that Calis was able to get the okay from my father and begin construction of the massive auto-frame. But he said that it would be a couple of years before it was ready.

I remember asking Calis if I could pilot it--since I had a fierce (and secret) love of auto-frame racing by that time. Ever since my father was taken from me, I vowed to follow in his footsteps (but not my mom's), and wanted to know everything there was about what he did in his spare time.

It was only through Calis's relenting assurances, that I began to understand what it was my father had been--long before I was born. Fifteen years in fact.

My father was a legendary auto-frame pilot, and he had commanded that Crescent J-18 which my brother was working on--in part.

Calis had reservations about my request. He didn't want to think he was going to force me to pilot his newest creation (or my father's--it was hard to tell), and I was sure he was thinking that my mother wouldn't allow it either.

He told me he would think about it. But he also told me that pilots are normally trained at a much older age than I was now. Having one so young was virtually unheard of. Fortunately for the two of us, there were no laws or rules regarding the absolute age limit one could participate and enter in.

I myself had seen plenty of kids toy around defunct and broken auto-frames--and a few times, hear them begging their parents to pilot a neighbor's working one. Just for shits and giggles. But these were kids much younger than me! I can recall the days playing on my father's old dilapidated Hydra sand racer--while listening to my brother go on about how much he loved that thing.

So I asked when I could start my training--and Calis made no promises on that yet. He said that I would have to undergo a strict regimen and a kind of combat conditioning--which is common with all pilots. It was done so that they could withstand the amount of stress and wear that is always there when they jump into their machines and took off like a bat out of hell.

I had to be patient.

After talking with Calis, I went back to the other room adjoining the hanger bay, and discovered that my brother was immersed in the guts of the power modulator. He had systematically taken it apart and laid each piece side by side, and was busy tinkering with the insides of the more critical components inherent in these bulky pieces. (No one ever said that each part to an auto-frame was ever graceful or fluid. Just what you see on the outside...)

I remember Calis's surprised expression and his utter bafflement when I called back to him--telling the old man that my brother had broken it! (lol) When he arrived, he took in the scene and just shook his head in amazement. He had never thought to doing such a complete strip down with this particular component. He told me on that day, he was just considering having the workshop's computer do a diagnostic on the piece and then try to do a remote repair job.

But never like this!

My brother--of course--looked at us both with a "What?"-kind've expression. But neither of us punished him for doing what he did. Nor did my mom--when she found out about the whole episode. It was a while longer before that discovery eventually blossomed into my brother's fondness for broken down shit and other electronics. A specialty which sometimes came in quite handy during some of the more trying times in all our lives.

Which brings me back to the present.

I told my mom that I had been hung up coming back from Shark's Bay--but I never told her what happened to me. She had more than dinner to worry about--and my own safety was only secondary to that.

Maye asked me to go get him for dinner and I postulated as to why? What's the point? He eats everything off the table as it is.

Naturally, my mom always puts her foot down. And when it comes down, that means the argument is over. I lose. End of story.

She points out that my brother is a growing boy and he needs to eat. Just like I do. But I don't make a pig of myself like he does. I've seen him eat so much at one time--I wondered if he was bestowed with a second stomach or something when he was born!

Looking at my mother, I can almost see an older version of myself standing pat in 20 years or so--holding a bowl with a laddle, and making the sauce for dinner--wearing nothing but long brown pants, a shirt, a wrap-around white apron, small sandals on my feet, with blue eyes, and deep auburn-red hair tied off in a pony-tail. (Mine was a fiery red--nothing like my mother's. But I don't think that will last long. With time, I'll be like her.)

But Maye broke my concentration and personal reflection on that day, and told me to go get my brother. I made no promises I would be successful, but my mom was adamant. What she said translated in my mind to: "Twist his arm if you have to--but I want you both at the dinner table."

I was resigned to the fact that I wasn't yet old enough to freely make my own decisions in life--and I was still going to be a little girl in my mom's eyes--long after I had grown up.

So I went to fetch my brother--as an obedient daughter should.

Isis

ALWAYS WEAR PROTECTIVE GEAR WHEN PLAYING TAG

2007-04-24T00:38:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 12:29AM, Saturday; April 24th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________

Okay, so as you might already know, the trip into town was no picnic for me. The place I called my personal stomping grounds was little more than an old and dilapidated outpost which had clearly seen better days. But Shark's Bay had its proud century-old heritage to uphold to, and nothing--not even the storm--could easily erase that; despite past successes.

Home to approximately 1,500 people, the town was clearly one of the most run down places in the Barren Wastelands--even worse than the city of Hallis.

But I never complained. I liked gallivanting into this place when I was a little girl. Every place held a story, every building had its secrets--and I enjoyed uncovering them all.

Even as I approached the outskirts of the town, I could see a plethora of run-down buildings and other smaller shops arranged in simple colonnades, but well protected by a broken concrete wall lining most of the town’s 12-mile parameter on the outside.

Some reinforcing had been done here and there over time--that I knew from what Calis told me. I easily caught a passing glimpse of familiar steel support beams. But I knew that--from past inspections, there wasn't much left of them. Time and nature were cruel hosts and they did nothing to spare the sentinels which were swallowed up by those unforgiving and shifting sands. Of course, I went much farther back on occasion and found some relatively intact ones.

But upon further excavation, they turned out be nothing more than twisted shadows of their former selves.

Ghosts of a long buried past.

I rocketed into Shark's Bay easily: Choosing a predetermined--and favorite--path of mine.

But as always I was coming in much too quick. In the next few seconds, I would end up pasted on the walls beyond my limited range of vision. (I didn't think either Mom or Calis would appreciate me spending another seven hours in the regeneration tank--explaining why I was in another accident so soon after leaving!)

So I had to do another speed dump--which let me alternate forward and rear thrusters--and I squeezed through the space I was in with inches to spare.

Or so I thought.

And ear-splitting shriek of metal, and I sensed that I had taken some paint off with that last pass. If I was lucky, my port thruster assembly would only have a few dings which I could easily buff out. A dent or two, and I would be spending the next ten minutes explaining to Calis what happened to my hovercycle--as he doesn't like having to overall my bike without sufficient reason.

Like any good teenage hotrider, I'm supposed to take good care of my equipment. Money and parts don't exactly grow like trees, y'know. (Something I picked up from Calis--during my long hours of personal schooling. The old man is so full of quirks and nuances! But I love him dearly for it...)

So anyway...

Where was I?

Ah, yes: My little trip into Shark's Bay. (I swear: My attention span problems are only getting worse as I get older!)

I had ended up inside the town parameter with space and speed to spare. The area in question was so small, I could technically get in this way, but would have to come out the other side just to make one complete loop. (It's not like I could simply back my ass up and turn around. This place didn't have the inches to spare for me and my sleek machine.)

I passed the Great Fountain which had withstood the testament of time--if little else. Calis tells me that this used to be a great tourist attraction, but I never saw the attraction in this rusted piece of junk.

But it was shielded by a piece of metal hanging overhead like a loose lip--held together by a dizzying array of dead power leads and other wires. (Each crisscrossed a bit--once in each pass--but the rest simply snaked underneath and out the other side: Only to be connected to some parts of the run down buildings on each side of my cyc.)

And this area was probably the only place not affected by the storm. A lull if you will in the eye of some monster hurricane. But it didn't offer full protection from the elements. I still ate my fair share of shitty sand grit and everything else--each time I opened my mouth to get in a good lungful of fresh air.

But the air itself was tinged with ozone and loaded with static electricity. Every breath burned my lungs and made me gag with absolute regret.

So I had to assume a fetal position to shield myself from the worst the storm could throw at me, but my goggles took a fucking beating to beat the band. In less time it took me to whip out my blaster, I was left blinded to the world around me.

At this point, I had to hop off my bike blindly and wipe the crap out of my goggles--then hop back on and motor down towards the lower sector of Shark's Bay. This place was as desolate and barren as an old woman.

There was no sign of any living soul which I could see. So I guess I was the unofficially elected dummy to go braving this part of the burg during one of the worst blows of the season.

Duh!

Of course it would have to be me! Who else would be this daring in a 168mph gale? Not anyone else, I can tell you this much--though I did envy those who sought shelter; cause the skies above me looked like they were going to puke black shit on me in a fleeting second.

Lightning discharges were roiling over my head, and I felt their explosive reports rattle right through me like my Viper X-1 on a flash burn turn over at Sherman's Pass.

As such, the building in front of me suddenly collapsed like my father's deck of playing cards--something of an old relic from times past; a gift from Calis when I was three. I could never make out what those funny pictures were, but he let me play with them because it kept me out of trouble half the time.

At any rate, the structure went down faster than I was going towards it. But that wasn't the only one to finally succumb to the power of the storm. Three more caved in--and suddenly an odd wailing sound filled the air.

Unused sirens belched out their ancient noise in an effort to warn the other residents to stay clear of the area in question. I thought it was something to warn of an impending Praetorial Guard attack from the last spat of wars to hit this region in god knows how long.

Calis once told me that these things were used as a defense against the unknown, but nobody knew from what exactly.

But I past these buildings--these structures which sometimes housed the homeless. In retrospect, you would never know how many actually fit that description: Fit the profile of roving and desperate bands of human beings.

I knew that some of these places housed them--as a caveat--but little else I recalled about them.

I shuddered then--thinking about how lucky I was with what meager shelter I had left to me. It was never much, but it was a place I could proudly call home.

I came across some more of the same two-story structures, finding that life still existed inside a few of them, but didn't see anyone out and about. Of course, they would be as stupid as I was suicidal in the next second: A gust of wind had suddenly sideswiped me and my bike sideways!

I struggled against my unseen foe then, my engines fighting against the pull of the wind--as I tugged the other way--all in a vain effort to free myself.

My display panel was in the red-zone, but I wasn't going to give up this fight without, well...a fight! (lol)

But stupid me...

I had completely forgotten that my bike had other built-in safety features. It deployed them: Shutting down my engines in a heartbeat.

With no force to act against it, the wind promptly picked up both my bike and me--and tossed us 30 feet into the air. I acted immediately and overrode the other safties, and deployed a parachute/drag system.

This allowed the bike to come to a complete (and jerking) stop without question.

And save my ass from a serious bruising!

I also engaged full thrusters and tried to maneuver my metal pig into a soft landing, but I ended up smashing the rear right into the side wall of a vacant building--buckling it with so much ease.

I also ended up smacking my noggin' too in the process. After my head cleared, I swore I would get a freakin' helmet!

But after a time, I found that I had suffered no serious injury to myself. My bike was okay.

So I continued to my destination unhindered.

Isis

ONE WILD RIDE INTO TOWN!

2007-03-10T00:10:00.000-08:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 12:10AM, Saturday; March 10th, 2007)
___________________________________________________________________

Desert life is something else.

Apart from the stillness in the air and the absence of life, the panoramic views of the Golan Desert is a vision to behold.

Sharply rising dunes of golden sand, the marble blue skies, and the flat expanses between my place and Shark's Bay, gives me something to reflect on--making me feel like I am alone and insignificant out here in the middle of nowhere.

My trip into the old town settlement was going to take me awhile to get there--and it wasn't because of any problems with my custom-build Strokov-623 hovercycle.

Nope.

This time, it was the storm in back of me which was the problem. Did I forget to mention something? Life out here is no picnic.

Aside from the usual run-ins with what my mom and I call prairie bandits, we also have to deal with the usual hurricane-styled blows which Old Mother throws at us every month.

Some of these storms are unlike anything you would normally associate with hurricanes and thunderstorms--gathering from what I know from my host's memories. No, these storms pack a much larger punch and can last up to a week--even two--in some cases.

And it usually isn't healthy to remain out here.

Without the proper protection, many unfortunate souls can easily die: as the heat robs precious moisture from the human body.

So when you've lived out here as long as I have, it is vital that you wear the appropriate desert-style clothing. Special long pants, turtleneck shirts, tees, rugged socks, and desert boots are the name of the game.

Most travelers wouldn't be caught dead without such attire. The worst thing you have to worry about besides the storms are yellowback scorpions. These things are about a foot long when mature and have an 8-inch tail with a large stinger protruding from it. Despite its ungainly size, this critter is deadly--and is lethal within 3 weeks after being born. Anti-vetox is the standard anti-venom derivative, but on the surface, it is the most precious commodity for thousands of miles.

And as such, it is usually stocked and sometimes hoarded for obvioius reasons--seeing how I almost died from one such encounter when I was a little girl.

As for the storm itself...?

>Sigh<

I really hate racing in the desert. Don't get me wrong: I live for speed. But when you're talking about being out in the open and traveling The Highway at speeds of 150+mph, and you have a monster barreling down on you from the west...?

It doesn't...um...pay to stick around.

No sooner had I left my place, did the storm finally catch up. In most respects, it is a beautiful phenomenon which is usually captured with paints and canvases--portraits which normally fetch a pretty credit these days--only to be mounted on some rich stiff's mantle starside in Stratos City. (I don't like the rich for what they are. To me, they are a drain on society, and only serve to remind people like me why the poor and struggling castes of the surface continue to rebel from time to time against all odds. To me, money is to be spent on the living and on anything which will further your goals to survive in life. If it isn't used, it's a waste.)

Outracing it would be a test of my mettle and superb skills as a pilot of the Viper X-1. Of course, I gauged it to be about 20-30 minutes behind me, but the leading edge of the storm usually stretches for tens of miles ahead of the core front. And as such, it likes to play with anything caught out in the middle of nowhere.

(Fine time for me to go hotdogging out on The Highway this morning. But I did promise my brother I would get him a Type III power convertor! And Calis is expecting me at any rate. No need to let the old man down so early in the day.)

I poured on the speed--opening up the afterburners on this old cyc--proud of the job that both me and Calis did on the old girl. She may look like your average Harley Davidson, but it's what is under the chassis which counts the most: A Havoc-4 fuel injection/turbo-charger.

Of course, I should've known that the G-Shock acceleration would've done me in at this point. I never worry about having to wear a helmet--let alone a seatbelt.

But I wish I did!

The damned machine almost dumped me on my ass--as I took off like a rocket!

In mere seconds, I screamed across the open expanse clocking in at an impressive 608 miles per hour.

I sustained a myriad of bumps and bruises in the excitement, but I came through okay.

As a result, the 450-mile journey ended much sooner than I thought.

Shark's Bay was just visible over the rise.

Down the inclining gultch I went, and I motored for the town settlement--with the storm licking at my back.

Of course, I still need to get Calis to install a seatbelt and give me a helmet after this ride! (tee-hee!)

Isis

MORNING REFLECTIONS...

2007-02-04T21:27:00.000-08:00

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 9:29PM, Sunday; February 4th, 2007)
___________________________________________________________________

So much is going on today, I don't know where to begin. Last night, I promised my mom that I would go and grab a power converter for my pesky younger brother, Trell, this morning. But you know...?

I hate mornings.

I woke up this morning, irritatingly aware that the alarm clock was going off again. I thought my brother had taken care of the problem which plagues its archaic functions, but I guess not.

I silenced the damn thing with my boot--knocking it off with one clean shot. (Don't fault me: I've made it my life to be a pretty good shot. This life of mine is unforgiving and therefore doesn't offer much in the way of a comfortable quarter.)

Afterwards, I got up and began to move on my own accord--well aware that early mornings did not improve my mood much. I usually preferred to sleep in; and worked much better when I got a full night's sleep (as my host memories typically pointed out many times), but this morning I would have to make an exception to the rule.

It was my choice. One that I would have to live with.

My own room is bare of anything you would recognize. There isn't anything like what you have in terms of personal items or something symbolic which would reflect the times we all live in.

My time has sheltered me in ways that you couldn't possibly comprehend or guess at. But it is a world which I had grown up with--living on very little and making every things we have count.

In some ways, my host's living conditions and mine aren't all that dissimilar. We both have been raised in poverty, we both had to struggle to make a living, and each of us faced insurmountable odds to get where we are today.

By far where he is a writer and a dreamer of things, I am a teenager whose own dreams stretch to the mundane and obvious: To become a legendary auto-frame pilot.

My father, Kelin, is a great man. As far as I can recall, he was also an auto-frame pilot like I am now. And though--when I look at the pictures in the hallway from time to time--I wonder if there was something more about my father which I don't know myself. Don't get me wrong, I remember my father being a wise and strong man; someone I could grow up to emulate to some degree. (Which I have. My mother tells me often that I have adopted the same stubborn streak that my father had when they first married so long ago. It's a worrisome trait--for children to inherit from their parents. But in this world of mine, it's always better to have something which will either protect you or assist your at every step of the way in life--than to have nothing at all.)

I became an auto-frame pilot in part to honor my father's memory. No, he isn't dead. Just...gone.

Torn from my life so callously, without reason, without word. And leaving both my family and myself without a father figure in which to grow up with.

And like my host, I also retreated into a world of fantasy and make-believe--all in an attempt to make a desperation connection to the world I live in now, to events of the past which seems so far apart from the life I know.

It's silly...being caught up in childish dreams of make-believe, wishing that there was something that you could've done to change events.

But I guess that--in my case--there was nothing I could've done to stop the Praetorial Guard from taking my father away from his little girl. It crushed my mother, but had a devastating effect on me.

I felt powerless!

There were days when I wish I had the power to change events, to rescue my father, and to really put the scare of God into those who have wronged us so. But I keep finding myself shaking an admonishing finger at my younger selves--and telling them that it isn't just so anymore.

People and this desolate world I live in...doesn't give much in the ways of opportunities. We all have to make our own destinies.

And like me, my host is doing what he can to make his own--though I get the impression that not many people understand his overall objectives.

Believe it or not, my mother did not understand my desire to become an auto-frame pilot the first time out either. She said that I lacked the training and full understanding of what becoming a pilot really meant.

I had always believed that becoming one would entail me to riches and fame beyond my own dreams of wanting and avarice. But I've found that--in life--things didn't always turn out the way we've wanted or originally thought.

However, I'm pleased to say that I've managed to make a comfortable living myself in a short time. I don't have much in the ways of money or material possessions.

As I've stated before, my room is pretty much devoid of that. In fact, I don't think I would know what to do with such things if I had them to begin with.

A sentiment shared with my host. He has led a life of living with the bare essentials. I wonder--if he had more money available to him--what would he do if he had the option of acquiring such things.

Based on the fact that he has a book to sell in a few years, he may get that chance.

But even if he doesn't, I know that it doesn't matter.

Wealth and fame can be a useful tool, but as I know all too well, it can also be very destructive.

I'll post some more later as soon as I get dressed. There's a lot going on, and I need to think with a clear head if I'm going to make it Shark's Bay by myself.

Isis

INTRODUCTIONS FROM A TIME-DISPLACED SURFACE DWELLER

2007-01-11T18:14:00.000-08:00

August 13th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 6:18PM, Thursday; January 11th, 2007)
__________________________________________________________________

I don't know how to use these things very well. I've never heard of blogger.com or what you people call the internet. We usually don't have these sort of things were I come from--say about 10,000 years into your future?--but I guess I have to make do with what I've got at my disposal.

It sucks because I remember going to bed last night--getting ready to go to Calis's first thing in the morning--and I wake up in the body of this cute guy with long brown hair; using his obsolete computer terminal with an equally odd-looking something...(what was that? It's called a what again? A keyboard?)...to type what I think is either a good dream gone bad, or the known fact that I shouldn't have had that extra helping of pepper stew before going to sleep.

>shakes head<

Oh, well. I guess while I'm here, I might as well tell you people who I am.

My name is Isis McGowan. I'm 14-years-old--going on 15 in a couple of months or so. (And since I have access to my host's memories, I am suddenly aware that there are a lot of perverts out there who think that it is okay to hook up with pre-teens like me on this internet thing of yours for sex. Well, I'm not the least bit interested, so don't bother asking me!)

I live in the Barren Wastelands area, on the outskirts of Shark's Bay--in a place called the Golan Desert with my mother Maye, and my obstinate brother, Trell. (And yes, having a brother can be a pain in the ass, but I love him very much.)

My father, Kelin, is currently serving a prison sentence up in the orbiting space complex called Stratos City. And even though the trial was a farce, I hope that some day I'll be able to see him again.

There are times when I am torn apart by guilt because of my failure to keep my father safe, but I resigned myself to the fact that there was nothing which I could do to keep those stupid turtleheads from taking him away from me.

And by 'stupid turtleheads' I mean those bastard Praetorial Guardsmen! I can't begin to tell you how much pain I felt at the hands of those uncaring assholes--when I saw my father being led away.

But each day that passes by, I find myself fantasizing about how I would rescue him. And so far, I haven't been able to come up with a way to do it. Every avenue, every option, has led me to a dead end.

And all I can do, is sit here...frustrated and pounding away on my host's keyboard, and just tell you what I feel right now.

Normally, I wouldn't be trusting anyone to anything these days--because where I come from, trust usually ends up with you having an unsuspecting blade in the chest or back.

You don't trust people where I live. Everyone is out to get you. It's a sad and savage world I live in. And sometimes, you have to be cruel right back--whether you like it or not.

I'm not a bitch by any means. I tend to be trusting and a good confidant. But there are those kinds of people I'd rather take a blaster to or plant my foot up their ass--than just look at them.

I have what you call a basic education. From what I can assimilate from my host's memories, we have no school institutions, or anything which would resemble civilization for that matter. But I know enough to function adequately--and independently--on my own.

Of course, Calis thinks otherwise, but the old man doesn't know jack shit these days. I am my own person--whether he likes it or not.

I love him like any student of his would--his only student so far--but sometimes his methods of philosophical debate really piss me off. He expects me to learn everything the right way--"because it's a big and uncaring world out there Isis" (no shit old man!)--and I simply think that there are other ways around it.

I even tell him this at times--when I'm not being a royal pain the ass--but the old coot is more patient with me than my mom would be.

I sometimes hate that about him. But what can I do? I am a slave to his teachings. And if I don't start buckling down, some asshole is going to tag my unsuspecting ass one of these days.

Sigh...

I hate being a teenager. The adults are always ruining it for me--even though I hold a Class A liscense as an auto-frame pilot.

I thought being a pilot for the Viper X-1 would grant me some special reprieve and allow me some flexibility in my life, but nooo....!

People around me still treat me as though I'm some kind of uneducated zero. Like I don't know anything, and I keep asking myself: "What more can I learn that I already don't know?"

Well, I'm going to post this and see what happens. I don't expect a lot of people to respond, but anything would be nice. Maybe someone can tell me what the secret to life is besides the one I already am familiar with.

I dunno.

I'm hoping that people will understand my side of story as a teenage girl and all. Don't get me wrong: I find that having a good education is important, but sometimes I think the adults are trying too hard to impress things upon me which won't have any relevant importance later on in life.

But gauging on what my host's memories have shown me, I'm beginning to think along different lines here already.

And for me, that's not a good thing.

I'll be posting more stuff later.

Isis