“Where are we headed, Partner?” Proto asked, watching Astrid’s brisk strides from a few yards behind. “Another forest?”

  She seemed to prefer this to walking two abreast. He’d considered complaining. But, observing the sway of her frame and, with each step, the slight shift and wrinkle of her jumpsuit around her curves, he decided he’d let her have her way.

  “Follow and learn, Slow Bro,” she replied.

  “You already called me that one.”

  “Yes, that’s how names work, Slow Bro.”

  Yesterday, after some time at the lounge, he’d been shown to his new room—a simple square that, like the hallways, had blue walls and a row of silvery patterns at chest height. They were strangely evocative, almost like script. He’d passed out quickly in his simple bed, already feeling half-asleep on his feet. Somnus had insisted that he try six different drinks.

  When he’d woken and made his way back to the lounge, he’d found others there—a blonde woman in a Victorian robe, reading a thick book through a monocle, and a slim young man in a leather jacket. His hair was pink as that bubbly drink Lilac had poured, and it was pomaded to look like Elvis circa 1959. The lounge smelled of coffee and tea. Each of the two was holding a mug.

  Before he’d had a chance to meet them, Astrid had appeared and swept him away for “today’s visit,” as she’d put it.

  On the way there, she’d given him a briefing about the dreamer they’d be visiting. He was a late-middle-aged forest ranger, apparently. An ancient grove in the woods where he worked was being chopped down to build a condo development. He’d been advocating against it for years and suffered loss after loss.

  “So, we’re off to whomp some lumberjacks or something?” Proto asked. “Go all Avatar on a bunch of rapacious capitalists in giant tree-shredding machines?”

  “Do you have one subtle bone in your body?” she replied. “You’re really struggling with this ‘work within the dream’ thing.” She turned and tapped a door, which slid open.

  “Also, how do you make these doors open?” he asked, ignoring her insults. Like contrary winds, it was best to just let them blow by, rather than swinging back and inevitably whiffing. “They don’t move when I touch them.”

  “On the off chance you’re still here in a few weeks, maybe you’ll learn.” She strode beyond the threshold into the swirling mists.

  He followed her silhouette through the passage. From ahead came the sounds of anxious debate and electronic beeping. The floor shuddered with a far off explosion.

  Advancing to Astrid’s side as she slowed and halted, he saw ahead what looked to be a spaceship’s bridge. Men and women in jumpsuits rather like Astrid’s were huddled over instrument panels with flashing lights. Some of them were running to and fro, tending to one emergency after another. Each had an emblem of a tree over his left breast.

  At the center of the hubbub stood one man with a fist at his side, clenched so hard it was shaking, facing a huge glass wall. Beyond it loomed the starry expanse of outer space and a single planet, swarmed by a fleet of jagged-looking starships. Country-sized explosions of orange-red were blossoming all over its surface as he watched. “Direct all fire toward the bomber at 2 o’clock,” he ordered firmly.

  “Aye, Commander!” answered a gawky but intense looking fellow in thick glasses. He tapped away at his panel.

  “Yes!” murmured Proto to Astrid, raising a fist eagerly.

  She made a disgusted noise, but her lips curved up—only to quickly return to a frown when she saw him looking at her. She waved him onward, and he stepped from the passage into the bridge.

  Almost immediately, one of the crew members noticed him. “Commander, Ensign Shyteman is back!” she called.

  Ensign Shyteman? He turned to Astrid. You did that! he mouthed. She nodded twice happily, and he sighed, then turned to face the Commander, who was regarding him intently.

  “Ensign Shyteman reporting, Sir!” said Proto.

  “The rear flux generator, Ensign. What’s the situation?” demanded the Commander.

  “The flux . . . ” Proto stared for a moment.

  “Stars above, Shyteman, the flux generator!” repeated the Commander with a handwave of impatience. “The prototype. The one you helped install.”

  Proto was clueless, so he just went with it. “Sir, still holding up! That blast a half hour past shook her up a bit, but the damage is superficial, Sir. She’s humming again and ought to hold out for now.”

  “A half hour past?” The Commander stared at him. “We weren’t in combat thirty minutes ago.”

  A mist started swirling up from the floor, just as it had in that first dream.

  Uh oh. Think. Proto—or Ensign Shyteman, rather—stared back stupidly for a moment, as mist curled up around his legs. “Oh, you didn’t hear it, Sir? The strain on our engines temporarily overloaded the flux capacitor. That’s why electricals have been shaky. It wasn’t enemy fire. Just strain, Sir.”

  The Commander stared, seemingly struggling to parse his Ensign’s words. The mist kept swirling—but it gradually receded, till it was merely lapping at their feet. He nodded and turned to face the space battle again. “Very good, Ensign. We’ll hold out for some time, Powers willing, so long as the flux capacitor continues—wait.” He turned around again, frowning. “We were talking about the flux generator, not the flux capacitor.”

  The mist abruptly rose to waist level. No one seemed to notice it except Proto—and Astrid, who was hissing something to his rear.

  “Uh! Just misspoke, Commander!” replied Proto quickly, lifting a hand above the mists to itch his head. “Ran the whole way here, got a little lightheaded. I mixed my words up.”

  “Ah.” The Commander’s lips curved up in a weary smile. “Very good, Ensign.” He turned away, and the mists sank back to knee level.

  As his gaze fell again upon the red-orange flowers of light blooming upon the planet before them, the Commander sighed, then looked at Proto again, as the crew bustled about and worked at panels all around him. “She’s lost, you know. Centauri III. Yesterday, the new hope of humanity; today, a blasted waste.”

  Proto opened his mouth. He felt he should say something. But the mists weren’t rising yet, and the Commander just looked thoughtful. He let his lips close and kept listening.

  “Sir! Enemy bomber down!” called the gawky crew member with thick glasses. “Redirecting fire to their cruiser at 11 o’clock.”

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  The Commander did not acknowledge this, instead continuing to stare upon the dying planet. “Have you seen the trees there, Ensign? The trees!” he spoke on, eyes shimmering as he waved toward the green-blue planet. “They really soar, with gravity at 0.8 g. And the bark’s so red it’s almost like blood. Something in the soil, I think.” He sighed again and his stare fell to the floor. “Almost like blood. Or so it was. What life is left there will be gone in weeks. Radiation, blast clouds, and so forth.”

  “Ha! Got him!” cried the gunner in glasses, as explosions rocked a craggy ship to their fore, disintegrating even now. “What next, Commander?”

  The Commander turned to Proto. “What do you think, Ensign? Will the flux generator hold up long enough for us to take down a few more? Or shall we start upon our collision course now?”

  Proto stared, struggling to sift through his words. “Collision course, Sir?”

  “You don’t . . . ? Hm.” The Commander regarded him sadly. “I’m sorry you have to hear it this way. But do you recall Directive 85-Q? And what we’re required to do when there’s a risk that a command vessel will fall into enemy hands?”

  Proto pondered, wondering what to say to that.

  The Commander stared for a moment, waiting, then smiled grimly and turned away. “I’m sorry, Ensign. I’m sorry, everyone,” he murmured quietly toward the floor. Then, he raised his head and faced the violence outside. “Lieutenant, ready a course for that dreadnought at—”

  “But Sir!” broke in Proto, still unsure what to say but feeling he had to speak now or never. “What about Directive 1-A?”

  “Directive 1-A?” The Commander squinted as though trying to recall something. The mists started swelling up again, from knee height to waist height. “Odd . . . I can’t seem to . . . ” The mists were at chest height now.

  “Yes, Directive 1-A!” blustered Proto. “‘These Directives exist to serve life and humanity. All other Directives are subject to this one.’ You remember, Sir?” The Commander’s head tilted as he peered at Proto, who was desperately making this up as he went along. “If we self-destruct, what will happen to all the seeds and life samples from Centauri III that we have aboard? A world’s worth of life will be lost forever. We need to survive to preserve it.”

  “But . . . ” The Commander shook his head and held two fingers to his grey temple. The mists had risen to neck level now. “We tried, Ensign. We fought the battle and we lost.”

  “Maybe so,” Proto replied. “But this is a war, not just one battle.”

  “So bloody cliché,” Astrid muttered, but he ignored her.

  “We have a chance here, Commander! We can plant those seeds again,” affirmed Proto, struggling for a tone of bold certitude. “That’s the thing about life. So fragile. So easy to lose so much. But all it takes is a few seeds to bring it all back again.” Astrid scoffed again, but he ignored it and kept going. “Whether it’s one little bit of woods or a whole world. All we can do is plant new seeds and wait. But as long as we do, in the end, that will be enough.”

  The Commander stared at him in silence. Nothing changed on his face. But after several seconds, the mists began to sink. “Yes. Quite right, Ensign. Forgive me, I lost myself,” he finally said, then turned to the crew. “Direct all fire at that dreadnought! Give it every torpedo we’ve got. Then, Lieutenant, ready the warp drive. Set a course for our outpost at the Wise system.”

  “Yes Sir!” came the reply.

  “Yes, that’s what we’ll do,” murmured the Commander, staring again at the planetary bombardment before him. “Yes, indeed.”

  The dream was starting to shift strangely before them—first losing some details, then shrinking in their prospect, like they were staring on the world through a porthole window. Around their shrinking world was grey-white mirk.

  Proto felt a hand seize and tug at his. He looked behind him.

  Astrid’s wide violet eyes were regarding him from behind her windswept tresses. “Time to go!” she whispered, pulling him backward.

  “But what about—?” he started.

  “When will you learn to just do as I say?” she interrupted, rolling her eyes and turning away. Suddenly, she was soaring into the encroaching mirk.

  With an arm still in her grasp, he was yanked headlong from his feet. He literally flew in her wake.

  And then they were emerging into the blue hallway—Astrid landing nimbly on her feet, and Proto tumbling head over heels beside her.

  “Ugh,” he grumbled, rubbing his tailbone. “I take it there’s a reason that was necessary?”

  “Yes.” She delicately picked a violet nail, then turned and started walking away.

  He forced himself to his feet and hobbled after her. “No comments, huh? No, ‘Neatly done! Attaboy, Partner! Quick thinking!’”

  “You want comments? Sure.” Her silvery-blue hair swished behind her as she kept walking, not turning around. “You’re more cliché and melodramatic than an offbrand comic book. You’re lucky our forest ranger here was receptive to that stuff. Personally, I’d have crashed the ship in sheer disgust. Attaboy! How’s that?”

  He sighed and rubbed his new bruises.

  “That said,” she went on, “I admit that Directive 1-A thing was clever. A little goofy. A little easier-than-life. But it worked. You can spin a good yarn, Yoyo.”

  “Ha, ‘spin.’ Like a yoyo. Ba-dum-tsh!” he exclaimed, slapping his leg. “She does it again!”

  “Don’t get too excited,” she replied. “Getting excited about minor success is the way of mediocrity.”

  “Like an arctic wind, she coldly snuffs out all warmth. Gone, that brief ardent flame!” declaimed Proto. “Once again, she is the Icebox.”

  Astrid gave him a frosty glower, then strode away. But she reached up to smoothe her hair as she did so.

  When they emerged from the misty corridor into the lounge, the robed blonde woman was still reading through her monocle. She had three empty mugs of coffee beside her. She was holding a fourth below her lips and blowing steam from it.

  “Things slow at the Shadowcaster today, Dahlia?” asked Astrid.

  A couple seconds passed before the woman looked up and blinked. “Oh, you were talking to . . . ? No, not slow. Quite busy. But I finished an hour ago.”

  Astrid gave her a tilted gaze. “I could’ve sworn we were working the same hours last week.”

  “Yes, probably.” Dahlia shrugged. “I stay up twenty hours and sleep seven each day. And somehow the math works, as long as I have enough coffee.” She sipped at the steaming beverage.

  “Brilliant,” said Proto.

  The woman squinted at him like a stink bug that’d just buzzed its way into being noticed. “You,” she observed matter-of-factly, “are not like the rest of us.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” he replied. “I’m Proto. But you can call me whatever you want. I’m used to it by now.” He thumbed over at Astrid, who shrugged and nodded.

  “Yes, I will then,” said the blonde woman. “Sparky.”

  He looked at Astrid, who was beaming, and nodded grimly. “From Partner, to Yoyo, to a pet dog. How much further can I fall?”

  “Much further,” replied Dahlia. “Spunky.”

  This time, Astrid giggled.

  “Two new terms of endearment in thirty seconds!” he admired. “Is that a record, Daisy?”

  Dahlia opened her mouth as though to correct him, then frowned.

  “No need to blush, Rose,” he went on. “Embrace your creativity, Tulip.”

  “Is he always like this?” Dahlia asked.

  “Yes,” sighed Astrid.

  “And you’d best remember it, Forget-Me-Not!” he admonished.

  Dahlia eyed her coffee. “Lilac, I suddenly feel a migraine coming on. Could you top this off with rum, please?” She laid the mug upon the bar.

  “How literally do we mean ‘top off’?” asked the pale bartendress.

  “Let’s start with ‘totally literal’ and see where things go.” The blonde woman idly flipped her monocle and caught it like a coin. “So, Somnus thinks this one has something to offer us?”

  “Something altogether unapparent,” shrugged Astrid.

  “Good laughs and bad livers.” Proto grabbed Dahlia’s new rum and coffee from Lilac and slid it to her. “Cheers, Petunia.”

  “And migraines.” Dahlia closed her book and drank deeply of her brew. “Stand by for another top off, Lilac.”

  “Leave some for the rest of us, Marigold!” chided Proto.

  The women shook their heads at each other grimly.

  Proto felt like he was acting out a caricature of himself—a version of himself who didn’t worry about the 90% of things he wished he didn’t have to worry about. One who lived life like a dream, following wherever instinct led. Well, so be it. This likely was a dream, if strangely long and elaborate.

  But if it wasn’t? If he’d permanently given his new companions the false impression that he was a vapidly playful simpleton?

  Somehow, as the two women eyed him, then shook their heads again at each other—lips curving up, despite their best efforts—the thought didn’t bother him all that much.

  “Aha. I see what you’re up to, Iris,” he accused, seizing the now-empty rum bottle from the bar. He set it on its side before Dahlia, drawing a blink and arched brow. “Looking to play games, are we?” He gave the bottle a spin. It made several wobbly rotations on the smooth table before stopping just past Dahlia and pointing at—her book.

  She inclined an eyebrow. “A fellow lover of literature?”

  “Show your love, Pro Beau.” Astrid lifted the book and bopped it against his lips—and rather roughly, at that.

  “How was it?” Dahlia asked.

  “She’s a little . . . thick.” He eyed the heavy tome and pursed his sore lips.

  “Don’t judge a book by her cover!” chastised Dahlia.

  “We’ll take it page by page,” he replied.

  Yes, he’d take things here page by page and see where it led. No grand plotting of his future. No musings on the arc of his life. Just living the dream by the seat of his pants.

  “Look at that slaphappy look. I think he wants another one,” declared Astrid.

  “Wait till he meets her sister!” said Dahlia, lifting an even thicker volume from her bag.

  “I am so ready for the sequel!” He leaned in.