Welcome to the Journal of Now and Forever. This Journal is a collection of my Star Control and Star Control 2 fiction. Note: Some of this material is, by necessity, extrapolation from the slim information provided by canon sources.

New fiction is posted first at My Livejournal before it appears here. This story is in response to 15 Minute Ficlets' Challenge #58.

It had been a very long time since he'd set foot on earth. Not Earth, or Sol 3; earth meaning the ground, solid and unyielding under his feet; yet he couldn't help but think of it still as a slowly spinning ball, always in view of the starbase, or a bright point of light against the backdrop of the Vulpeculaes.

He needed to undergo a mental evaluation before they'd allow him to pilot again. It was nothing unexpected; he still walled off most of his thoughts about his deceased crewmates. Almost as though the Revanche were simply in drydock, under repair, retrofitted, while Cory and Will and he and the rest were on their own recognizance for the time being.

Even then, he hadn't gone down to the surface. He was at home in space now, used to it, even as his hair slowly bleached to the color of old bone and his skin darkened in defense from the radiation of myriad suns. He didn't expect to be chosen to reproduce; none of the spacers ever would, at this point. Oh, the new ones might – the groundlings who got pressed into service – but the old hands, they knew and accepted their fate in that respect.

He found himself dreaming of hyperspace again, like he used to before the Voice talked to him on that one trip. There was just a feel to it, to that other dimension, that called out to him, made his blood sing, drenched him in the blinding liquid sense of it all, even though there was nothing visibly different about hyperspace between him and the next Androsynth.

He'd go down to the planet, get evaluated, and with luck be back in space soon. Reassigned to a new ship, of course, and new crew; he'd have to adjust to that. He wanted to adjust, wanted to be judged fit. Piloting was his life, would always be, until his luck finally ran out. He must've used a lot of it on the Revanche's last journey, though.

Otto stepped out of the lander, into unfamiliar, irregular warm breezes, natural, all-enveloping sunlight, and blinked at the alienness of it all.

Comments? Email me: laridian at aol dot com