Well I have lots of silver I have lots of gold

I have lots of costly ware-o

I’ll divide, I’ll divide with my jolly ship’s crew

If they row me that maid on the shore, shore, shore.

If they row me that maid on the shore.

“Tars! Tars! Tars!”, she thought under her breath, as she started stuffing dried meat and water canisters into a sack. “Why in Holden didn’t I just leave him there. It would have served him right to die of his own foolishness. Or at least dump his body outside his own encampment. No I had to bring him here. Ala-medria, you’re a fool!”.

Redreger woke slowly, with a burning headache, and tried to speak, and found his voice wouldn’t work, his throat and tongue were painfully dry and rasping. Veever was hovering over him like an old woman.

“Doc, he’s comin’ to, “ the engineer barked, and he reached for the water pitcher. “Easy there lad, you’ve had a rough ride”, he scolded as he held the beaker of water to his captain’s lips.

“What the Tars?, Redreger rasped as his tongue began to unstick itself.

“Quiet please, slowly Captain,” the doctor, who really looked much too young to have a degree in anything let alone medicine, cautioned him.

Veever, spoke up, “You had some sort of a run in Captain. When you didn’t come back from hunting last night we sent a couple boys out lookin’ for ye. They found the tracks to those creatures’ nests, and a lot of blood around there, a couple of dead ones too. Filthy beasts were feeding on their own.” He shuddered. “But we lost the rovers tracks over the scrabble. We didn’t know what had become of ye. Then next mornin’ you were on the rover outside in camp, tore up, but cleaned up. Doc here says it was a passable job,  you won’t lose any use of the arm, but you’ll be pretty scarred. Whoever it was fired a shot across our bow,  and left. Seems you gots a friend on this here rock, and ya owe em your life.”

Redreger tried to take in what Veever was telling him, but it seemed his memory was as stuck by the trauma as his tongue was. All he could remember was a hazy vision of deep blue eyes filled with concern, and a halo of soft brown hair. He slipped back into sleep.

It was a couple of days before he was up and about again. He seemed pretty much his old self, accept for the bandages. He was barking his usual impatient orders, and pacing back and forth. Veever however saw something new in his captain’s eyes, it wasn’t just impatience to be back to space, and the war effort that had Redreger pacing.

“Captain, somethin’ be troublin’ ye,“ Veever peered at him scrutinizing, as he brought him a late drink on the third night after he’d first awoken.

“Veever, there’s someone out there. And I don’t like it”, the captain grumbled.

“Well apparently, they don’t mean us any harm. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of em. Even when they brought ye back. They patched ye up pretty like, even if druggin ya was a bit heavy handed. Leave well enough alone Redreger, and we can all just get out of this Tars forsaken place.”

“Veever, I saw her face, there was something familiar about it. It’s hazy, but I can’t get it out of my mind. I’ve thought it over old man, repairs are almost complete, we can spare a couple men, I want her found. I want her found and I want to know just what in the Holden she’s doing here.”

“Captain! Surely it’s nothing more than a drug induced vision. Te’ think there’d be a woman? A young one? Out here? Bahhh it’s gotta be the drugs.”

Redreger turned to his engineer and levelled him with a stare, ”Veever, I don’t imagine things. She’s out there somewhere on this moon, and I want her found.” He unlocked his desk and took out a heavy bag of Imperial credits. “The man or men who find her and bring her in, will be paid well. Do I make myself clear?”

Veveer gasped in shock as he stared at the wealth on the desk, “Captain, ye be mad!”

“Do I make myself clear?” Redreger repeated.

“Aye, Captain, aye” Veever sighed.

Veever stared a moment longer at the captain’s stern face, He considered continuing the argument, but the haunted look, and the resolve he saw in the man’s icy black eyes turned him away. He closed the door behind him as he left shaking his head .

The Sol’s crew were no less incredulous when they were told of the assignment, and the reward, but they’d all be around space docks long enough to know better than to question even the most insane of orders made by a captain. This one seemed straight forward enough, even if it was strange, and the clink of money was enough to make any one of em forget the foolishness of the errand.

Veever laid out the rules. He couldn’t afford to have every man on the ship combing the moon for some phantom woman and with the promise of the Captain’s private purse as a prize, they’d all go running willy nilly. The prize would be divided amongst the crew, still more than solar cycle’s pay to every man. The crew would rotate, four men, two teams on two rovers per darn. With any luck the captain would be over this nonsense by the time repairs were complete and they could put all this waste of time behind em and get on with business.

Hero, Valerie sat at her computer terminal and pondered the word. She was fighting off a nasty case of writers’ block and trying to restart the creative juices by rethinking all of the things she knew about writing... which honestly wasn’t much. For all the courses and classes and workshops, the bottom line was writing was something that always came from her gut, she never had to “think” about the creative process, the stories were always there simply waiting to be told. But now whatever muses chose to bless her they seemed to be taking an extended vacation, cause the words that normally fell easily from her finger tips just weren’t there and she was left to ponder the art of writing.

                She sat back from the desk took a long gulp from the tumbler of scotch, “Hero..1: a mythological or legendary figure of great strength or ability 2: a man admired for his achievements and qualities 3: the chief character in a literary or dramatic work. Well thank you Mr. Webster, you’re a hell of a lot of help. They say write what you know...what the hell do I know about heroes? And yet what is a story without a hero? Goddess this is ridiculous.”

                “You’re quite right, this IS ridiculous”, muttered a small voice.

                “What the HELL?”’ she sat bolt upright and looked around quickly.

The voice had come from the small stuffed wombat that lived on her desk for the last six months. She set the glass of scotch down hard looking at it rather blankly and then back to the wombat.

                “So, I suppose you’re supposed to be my muse?” she asked in an irritated tone.

                “Muse, delusion, your own particular brand of ‘pink elephant’ does it really matter? Look pour me one of those” it pointed to the glass, “and we’ll talk about heroes.”

                “I thought you were supposed to be helping me write?”

                “No I’m not going to write for you, despite what you may have heard, muses don’t work that way.. or maybe I really am just a delusion in which case you’re just having a really bizarre stream of consciencness and are shit outta luck.” it grinned at her and she swore she could hear it giggle.

She got up and went to the kitchen she shook her head as she took down the bottle of single malt scotch from the back of the cupboard. She didn’t know what the hell this was but it was sure a lot more interesting than staring at a blank computer screen and thumbing through Mirriam- Webster. She turned back to the living room and discovered the small wombat watching her with a bemused look. The glass of scotch was almost as big as it was.

                “Deary, got a straw for that? Diving head first into a glass of single malt is unseemly and disrespectful to that golden elixir. And despite what some muses are doing these days I prefer to maintain my dignity if you please.”

                She got him the straw and then sat down looking at him across the desk, “So do you have a name o muse o mine?” she asked wryly.

                “Only the one you gave me, Violins.”

                “O.K., so tell me what you find so ridiculous about this situation? I know why I find it all a bit unbelievable and absurd, but why do you think it’s so silly?”

                “You, dearest, you. You’re ridiculous, what‘s all this about not knowing anything about heroes? Haven’t they been calling you a hero all your life? You’ve been writing for 20 plus years, and everyone of those had a hero in it somewhere, and all of them were based on you in some way shape or form, no?”

                “Look you little fuzzball, if you know all of that then you know just how much I hate being called a hero. O.K. life dealt me a pretty odd hand of cards, I never asked for them, I never had any choice about it. I’m not trying to save the world, or anyone in it. I just play the hand I was given, nothing more, nothing less. If not jumping off a pier, or winding up in a rubber room somewhere makes me a hero then there are a LOT of people ahead of me in the line waiting for gold medals. When people call me a hero it’s usually a justification to themselves for leaving me hanging on a limb.”

                “Honey it doesn’t matter why ‘they’ use the word, what matters here is why and how you and I use it. Look at the second part of that definition, one who is admired for his achievements or qualities, face it dear people do admire your achievements and qualities, and even if THEY don’t.. you should.”

                “I’m not saying I’m not proud of what I’ve done, I’m just saying I don’t think it’s any “better” or “greater’ than hundreds of other people have gone through.”

                “O.K., so there are hundreds of unsung heroes out there, you ever think about writing to, or for them?”

                “Yeah , but stories need a beginning, a middle, an end... they need a climax and a conclusion. So my life hasn‘t reached a conclusion yet, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it to have one just yet. We haven’t even gotten to the happily ever after part yet.”

                “What about leaving Michael? You got through that, you got through it in one piece, it’s over now. Don’t you think other women who have lived through that, or are living through it have something valuable to learn from that experience?”

                “You think that story is unique? Hell boy wake up and smell the coffee. Sure Michael was abusive, but he never once laid a hand on me. He just spend 15 years confirming everything I already knew, I was stupid, I couldn’t do anything right, I was useless and I wasn’t worth anything. I walked out of that marriage in less than 3 months with over $10,000 from the property settlement I wound up in a lovely little townhouse. It took me 18 months to get a support judgment against him, but at least the attorney general’s office is able to collect it. And that story isn’t over yet, I still have to face him trying to mess up my life. I still have to face him every two weeks when he picks up the kids. Still have to argue with him over canceled weekends and insurance coverage for the kids and dicking around with the support cheques. I still have to put up with him trying to push my buttons and make me dance to his tune. I ‘m still figuring out that I wasn’t a total screw up, that I didn’t deserve what he put me through. I’m still trying not to judge every man I meet by the standard he set in my life and learn to trust again. But I’ve been lucky, there are women out there who barely escape with their lives, who never see a dime from their ex’s. Some have even had to kill the S.O.B.’s to get out. Those stories in themselves are hardly unique enough to be interesting. Mine sounds like a walk in the park by comparison.”

                “Still”, smiled the small stuffed mammal, “it was brave. You walked out alone, no one and no where to go to with three small children under your wing, two of them with disabilities. Don’t you realize how brave that was? Don’t you know how many people admire you for that?”

                Valerie stopped and sipped her drink and contemplated for a moment, “Brave? Hurrrmmm I don’t know about that. In some ways stupid seems like a more appropriate word. Oh I know it was absolutely necessary, but it was still stupid. I didn’t plan it. Hell I tried to walk out, tried to plan to walk out for 5 years before I did, and what did I do? I chickened out every time. He’d get angry, or he’d cry, or he’d threaten to kill himself, or he’d beg, but every time he’d just hang on to me so tight I couldn’t breathe, and every time I gave in. I said ‘OK I’ll stay’ and why? Because I wanted to? Because I believed it would get any better? No. I stayed because it was easier, because I’d do anything to make all that noise he made at me go away. I stayed so he’d let go of me and quit his begging and pleading and tears and let me get some SLEEP. And when I did walk out, why did I do that? Because I had somewhere to go? Because I had a plan? Because I thought living alone was better than living with him? No. I left because I thought I had someone else to go to. I believed Keith would love and protect me forever, if it hadn’t been for Keith I’d never have left. I jumped off a cliff. Keith said believe in me and I did. I walked out on a 15 year relationship the same way I do everything. I dove headlong into a situation I had no plans no protection no preparation for. It was crazy and stupid and impulsive, because if I thought about what I was doing I couldn’t do it. I was a chicken.”

                “Oh come on! Are you still touting that same old ‘Keith saved me’ nonsense? So what if you needed a Keith? So what if you needed a carrot dangling before your nose to walk off the cliff. You’re right about that, it was a cliff. But we all gotta die child in order to be born again don’cha think? The bottom line is that Keith didn’t do shit to help you. You told Michael you were leaving, you made it stick, you forced him to sell the house so you’d have money to move with, you bought the townhouse, you paid the movers, you cleaned Michael’s puke off the rug when he tried to kill himself. Keith didn’t even answer your phone calls. Do you remember the night the house sold? Michael sick on the basement sofa with a stomach full of Southern Comfort and pills, buyers who were calling every thirty minutes with ridiculous demands, Peter pitching his usual nightly fit, 2 real estate agents badgering you to accept the damned offers and you trying to shove em down Michael’s throat? Do you remember that? Who was holding your hand that night? It sure has hell wasn’t Keith. As I recall the only support you had that night was a bottle of white wine, and when you called Keith after it was all over and you were giddy with wine and relief what was it he said? Oh yeah.. “I’m not in the mood to talk you up or down tonight Val” and he hung up sweetie, he hung up. And you’re sitting here trying to convince me 2 years later that HE was the hero? You’re a real piece of work you know that? Why don’t you try accepting the credit sometimes for the things you’ve accomplished. And for goddess sake quit trying to turn Keith into some kind of white knight, he wasn’t any kind of a hero and you and he know it.”

                “Oh you’re a real sweetheart aren’t you?” Valerie leveled a cold stare at the figment of her imagination, “I needed a hero, Keith needed to be one, who the hell did it hurt to make him the hero huh?”

                “You, dear, it hurt YOU! It cost you to give him all the credit, you couldn’t or wouldn’t accept yourself. You didn’t have to admit how strong you were, that was really very selfish you know? You get to play the victim for that much longer, everyone feeling sorry for poor wee Valerie. If you admitted you did it all by yourself then you’d have to admit what a powerful and strong woman you were and that would make it pretty tough to go around begging folks to take care of you wouldn’t it? It would make it hard for you to play it all superior, ‘look how much better I am than those terrible men who deserted me’ Tell me having all those people focus on poor little you, all those people feeling sorry for you, you got off on that didn’t you?”

                “You’re not a wombat you’re a rat”, Valerie threw her pencil at him, “You’re supposed to be my muse. You’re supposed to be helping me write. Not picking apart my psyche. That’s not very nice you know?’

                Well honey first off, you’re the one who’s decided I’m your muse. I’ve pled no contest to whatever you decide I am. After all it’s your brain that’s cooked me up. Secondly, you really don’t expect me to buy this “muses are supposed to be nice” crap, do you? That’s weak, real weak. You and I both know that muses are rarely, if ever, nice guys. Usually they come bearing great big butcher knives and they’ll carve your psyche to hell. Consider yourself lucky I’m only poking a few sore spots instead of doing my cuisenart imitation. Now either you want to write, and the only way you’re ever going to really be able to do that is to really look at yourself. Or you want to climb back into your little hole, take your bottle of scotch with you, pretend this never happened, and go on spending the rest of your life pretending you’re a mediocre hack. Your decision. You created me, go right ahead and uncreate me.”

Maid On The Shore

There is a young maiden who lives all alone

She lives all alone on the shore-o

There’s nothing she can find to comfort her mind

But to roam all alone on the shore shore shore

But to roam all alone of the shore.

The moons of Dögen 5, weren’t that particularly inhospitable, but there wasn’t much to recommend them either. That, and being rather small, and attached to an only marginally significant and uninhabited planet, they didn’t see a lot of traffic.  Ala-medria liked it just fine that way. Oh sure occasionally there’d be the odd traveller who’d stop, take a look, decide there was nothing there to see, and move on. For the most part the twin moons provided her with everything she needed, but mostly they provided privacy.

Ala-medria ran her hands over the generator with a practiced hand feeling and listening for any anomaly that would spell disaster. As she patted the machine lovingly, glancing over its gauges absentmindedly, she was satisfied once again that all was as it should be. She closed up the doors to its inner works and moved the fake rock door of the small cave that hid it back into place, camouflaging it from the prying eyes of those few wayward travellers who might wander by.  She climbed the rock scrabble away from the generator cave, and wandered aimlessly along the top of the hillock. The morning was misty and damp but not overly cool perhaps she’d do a bit of hunting today. There wasn’t much to do at the shelter, the weather had been so poor for some time now, that she’d been confined to the small cabin, and she’d scrubbed and cleaned it until it gleamed. Keeping herself busy was crucial to not letting being confined to the shelter get to her, and becoming overrun with the memories. So as she crested the hill, she turned out toward the plains rather than toward the sparse scrub and her home.

T’was the young captain who sailed the salt sea</em>