Part 3:
In the deep reaches of the space, the MITUS-11 rocket remained in orbit as we circled Venus.
All systems functioned normally.
All except for the nervous systems of the crew.
Arc’x’vestula and I had lapsed into an artificial sleep, plunged into a dreamy stupor.
Our minds blended; we were somehow linked. Making me privy to the visions of my colleague.
There was no question of privacy, no chance look away.
We experienced the rarest of chances: to share in another’s secret yearnings.
I could ignore them no more than my own.
Her dreams poured into mine, like ingredients combined in a messy, mental milkshake.
Our thoughts came together as one.
All systems functioned normally.
All except for the nervous systems of the crew.
Arc’x’vestula and I had lapsed into an artificial sleep, plunged into a dreamy stupor.
Our minds blended; we were somehow linked. Making me privy to the visions of my colleague.
There was no question of privacy, no chance look away.
We experienced the rarest of chances: to share in another’s secret yearnings.
I could ignore them no more than my own.
Her dreams poured into mine, like ingredients combined in a messy, mental milkshake.
Our thoughts came together as one.
Arc’x’vestula’s dream:
Inside skyscraper hives, thousands of four-armed beings perform drone-like duties.
Some of them squeeze liquid from bundles of reeds.
Some collect the output and filter it for impurities.
Some heat and cool the filtered liquids into solids.
Others assemble the solids into building materials.
Still others process the solids into food.
There is no chatter. No variation.
Only routine.
Without warning, the aliens stop working.
They flood out of the hives, eyes lifted in awe.
She’s here!
Arc’x’vestula the Sun-Jouster.
Atop a crimson sun she flies, her legs obscured by the fiery corona.
All four hands at the ready, a jousting stick in each, flags whipping from every handle.
The crowd gasps at a second jouster atop a tangerine sun, also carrying four staffs with flags.
Arc’x’vestula’s mouth widens with emotion.
The clacking of staffs and the clatter of battle!
Tangerine rider down.
Arc’x’vestula victorious!
Yet another jouster soon emerges, swooping in on an indigo sun.
Arc’x’vestula swivels, her staffs whipping, flags flapping.
Indigo rider grounded. Beaten!
Victory once more.
Cheers from the crowd!
Arc’x’vestula eases downward, her crimson sun decreasing.
Now it becomes a flickering ball in her hand.
She takes a bite of the sun.
Making sure it has cooled, she picks up two infants and gently feeds them.
Fireworks erupt overhead.
The sky lights up with geometric shapes, shapes filled with thoughts and questions and ideas.
Fellow four-armed drones gather around bronzed podiums.
Soul-stirring poetry is spoken, legendary tales recounted.
Ovations break out in spur-of-the-moment delight.
Life is grand and full, drudgery banished, for the duration of Arc’x’vestula’s fantasy.
Inside skyscraper hives, thousands of four-armed beings perform drone-like duties.
Some of them squeeze liquid from bundles of reeds.
Some collect the output and filter it for impurities.
Some heat and cool the filtered liquids into solids.
Others assemble the solids into building materials.
Still others process the solids into food.
There is no chatter. No variation.
Only routine.
Without warning, the aliens stop working.
They flood out of the hives, eyes lifted in awe.
She’s here!
Arc’x’vestula the Sun-Jouster.
Atop a crimson sun she flies, her legs obscured by the fiery corona.
All four hands at the ready, a jousting stick in each, flags whipping from every handle.
The crowd gasps at a second jouster atop a tangerine sun, also carrying four staffs with flags.
Arc’x’vestula’s mouth widens with emotion.
The clacking of staffs and the clatter of battle!
Tangerine rider down.
Arc’x’vestula victorious!
Yet another jouster soon emerges, swooping in on an indigo sun.
Arc’x’vestula swivels, her staffs whipping, flags flapping.
Indigo rider grounded. Beaten!
Victory once more.
Cheers from the crowd!
Arc’x’vestula eases downward, her crimson sun decreasing.
Now it becomes a flickering ball in her hand.
She takes a bite of the sun.
Making sure it has cooled, she picks up two infants and gently feeds them.
Fireworks erupt overhead.
The sky lights up with geometric shapes, shapes filled with thoughts and questions and ideas.
Fellow four-armed drones gather around bronzed podiums.
Soul-stirring poetry is spoken, legendary tales recounted.
Ovations break out in spur-of-the-moment delight.
Life is grand and full, drudgery banished, for the duration of Arc’x’vestula’s fantasy.
Lincoln’s dream:
My dream begins at a place I know well.
My dream begins at the Oak Sands Trailer Park.
My sister and mother sit at a picnic table.
Darlene, my sister, looks just as she does now – mid 30’s, red hair.
My mother appears as I remember her from childhood, not the gray-haired matron of today.
I am dressed in my Lincoln costume, yet wearing a tattered baseball cap.
“Frankie! We were just talking about you.”
“Come here, boy, sit with us!”
And in this dream?
The gulf between us no longer exists.
The feeling is like the old days, before I’d become Lincoln.
No tempers flare. No anguish. It’s even better than the old days.
My sister. When we were kids, no one was closer than Dar and me. All we had was each other. That special bond is again in place.
And my mother. She's not the bitter, spiteful woman she’d become. Her smile flashes warmth.
Before the accident? I was merely Frank Haynsor: selfish, petty, ignorant in basic humanity.
After the explosion at Fazo Labs, among the charred remains of the toilets I’d once scrubbed, my mind expanded.
The world opened to me.
I became someone quite different from the man they knew.
In my dream, my family did not pressure me to use my new powers for financial gain.
They did not mock the name Lincoln, which I took in honor of the former president, one of the few topics I ever liked in school.
In my dream, the three of us basked in the delight of our shared company.
The scene changed.
Instead of the feeble lawns of the Oak Sands Trailer Park, we now stood upon synthetic grass.
In our hands were putters with black grips.
Around us smiled the statue animals of the Carnival-Time Mini Golf Course in South Bassenon, Kentucky.
We had visited once prior, back when I was eleven or twelve.
Mom had driven us there on a summer afternoon.
We’d golfed and laughed, just like the family in the commercial.
Darlene even got a hole-in-one in the alligator’s mouth.
I remember riding home in the car feeling truly happy.
And yet ... we never went back again.
Don't know why.
I’d heard they’d since torn the place down, replaced by an auto parts store.
But in my dream?
Carnival-Time Mini Golf stood eternal.
Windmills and castles gleamed in the sun.
The animals smiled just as newly as the day they’d been made.
Every game offered the hope and promise of family.
Darlene, Mom and I golfed forever.
My dream begins at a place I know well.
My dream begins at the Oak Sands Trailer Park.
My sister and mother sit at a picnic table.
Darlene, my sister, looks just as she does now – mid 30’s, red hair.
My mother appears as I remember her from childhood, not the gray-haired matron of today.
I am dressed in my Lincoln costume, yet wearing a tattered baseball cap.
“Frankie! We were just talking about you.”
“Come here, boy, sit with us!”
And in this dream?
The gulf between us no longer exists.
The feeling is like the old days, before I’d become Lincoln.
No tempers flare. No anguish. It’s even better than the old days.
My sister. When we were kids, no one was closer than Dar and me. All we had was each other. That special bond is again in place.
And my mother. She's not the bitter, spiteful woman she’d become. Her smile flashes warmth.
Before the accident? I was merely Frank Haynsor: selfish, petty, ignorant in basic humanity.
After the explosion at Fazo Labs, among the charred remains of the toilets I’d once scrubbed, my mind expanded.
The world opened to me.
I became someone quite different from the man they knew.
In my dream, my family did not pressure me to use my new powers for financial gain.
They did not mock the name Lincoln, which I took in honor of the former president, one of the few topics I ever liked in school.
In my dream, the three of us basked in the delight of our shared company.
The scene changed.
Instead of the feeble lawns of the Oak Sands Trailer Park, we now stood upon synthetic grass.
In our hands were putters with black grips.
Around us smiled the statue animals of the Carnival-Time Mini Golf Course in South Bassenon, Kentucky.
We had visited once prior, back when I was eleven or twelve.
Mom had driven us there on a summer afternoon.
We’d golfed and laughed, just like the family in the commercial.
Darlene even got a hole-in-one in the alligator’s mouth.
I remember riding home in the car feeling truly happy.
And yet ... we never went back again.
Don't know why.
I’d heard they’d since torn the place down, replaced by an auto parts store.
But in my dream?
Carnival-Time Mini Golf stood eternal.
Windmills and castles gleamed in the sun.
The animals smiled just as newly as the day they’d been made.
Every game offered the hope and promise of family.
Darlene, Mom and I golfed forever.
The totality of the dream had left me completely pacified, the same as my compatriot.
If we’d been awake, we would have noticed.
We would have checked the screen and seen the Radiatron soaring our way.
But we did no such thing.
And the man known as the Radiation – Dr. Roger Farrington – succumbed to the same force that held us enthralled.
My message of warning had failed.
His mind reached out and intertwined with ours.
Humanity’s last hope closed his eyes, sinking blankly into dreams.
If we’d been awake, we would have noticed.
We would have checked the screen and seen the Radiatron soaring our way.
But we did no such thing.
And the man known as the Radiation – Dr. Roger Farrington – succumbed to the same force that held us enthralled.
My message of warning had failed.
His mind reached out and intertwined with ours.
Humanity’s last hope closed his eyes, sinking blankly into dreams.