Moon Life

By Hank Fabian and Marlene Fabian Stiles

From a world of disparate beliefs to a universe ripe for discovery, Moon Life explores man's quest for truth. In 2051, the International Space Institute sends astrobiologist Charles Adamson and his archrival Richard Hewitt to Jupiter's mysterious ice moon to search for extraterrestrial life. Such a find could ignite a theological firestorm akin to what Charles Darwin faced, but is the world ready? Moon Life is a lively blend of hard science and mysticism crafted in a thought-provoking, exciting space adventure.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hank Fabian
• Release date: Jul 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201379278

Hank Fabian

Naturalist and retired biology professsor Hank Fabian is intrigued by all forms of life, loves hiking and hates plastic.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

SOMETHING WAS TROUBLING the jungle. The humid air felt electrified as if portending a thunderstorm but not one cloud marred the sky. Damp shadows seemed to quiver in the forest’s understory though there was no breeze.

No bird called—even the high-pitched hum of mosquitoes was smothered by the eerie silence. The weighty stillness disoriented Charlie Adamson as he crept through the underbrush. When the equatorial sun drilled down through patches in the forest canopy, he chided himself for forgetting his hat. Sleep deprivation warped his senses, but as he paused to wipe sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his rumpled shirt, tracks on the mottled path caught his eye. Squatting beside a rain pool that reflected interlocking branches looming high above him, he inspected the mud. Wild boar was a common animal in the vicinity and exceedingly dangerous. He sniffed the air for the beast’s pungent odor but found no evidence of the predator. Still, he couldn’t shake the sense of dread that had overcome him shortly after he left camp.

Why did I ever agree to do this? His gruff baritone broke the disconcerting stillness, the sound of his own voice momentarily easing his tension.

After poring over his data all night, Charlie wanted nothing more than to return to camp and sleep. But Bikman, the local shaman, needed a spokesperson fluent in English to plead his case on World View 2051, so Charlie had volunteered. This trendy news program had sent a special-affairs crew all the way to Papua New Guinea to report on Ngala fish hunters struggling to survive along their polluted tributary of the Sepik River.

Pollution was an overreported story in the middle of the twenty-first century, but Bikman had enticed a major network by promising to revive the John Frum ceremony, an ancient ritual of sympathetic magic that sprang up during World War II. During that time, several tribes adopted an American GI named John Frum as their emissary to the gods.

This ceremony had not been enacted for decades, but now it would serve as a vehicle to draw attention to the Ngalas’ desperation. They were starving, yet the government of Papua New Guinea remained oblivious to their plight. Bikman hoped that focusing international attention on their destitution would shame the prime minister into action. But he needed a spokesperson who was knowledgeable about the Ngala’s situation, so he had turned to his friend Charlie, an American astrobiologist studying microbial species living in the toxic river.

Charlie kept trudging up the slope of Sleeping Woman Mountain. The hike from his riverside camp to the Ngala village was a mere two kilometers, not a great distance for any of the exotic species of birds that bejeweled the trees. But for a man, the circuitous muddy path that wound through the precariously cratered landscape was a challenge. Even though Charlie usually made the trek in forty minutes, today he was exhausted. He had already been at it for a full hour and still had half a kilometer to go. The climb seemed particularly steep and the strap of his bilum, the native version of a grocery sack, chafed his shoulder. He was grateful to be carrying only boxes of saltines and not anything heavy, like yams.

As he lumbered up the slope, the sickening sweet fragrance of moldy logs wafted on the stale air, lulling him into a stupor. He closed his eyes and kept on walking but slipped on a patch of moss. His hands shot out, grappling for finger holds in the rough grooves of tree bark as his knees plopped into mud.

Cursing under his breath, he brushed the mud off his pants then haphazardly wiped his hands on a clump of ferns. When his sweat-soaked hair fell into his eyes, he swiped it back then realized he had just muddied his forehead.

Ah, Christ in tights—what’s next? he grunted as he retrieved the dropped bilum. Then he groaned. The saltine boxes, a gift for the Ngala children he taught at a makeshift school, were half-crushed. As he unpacked the bilum, he found the packet of black licorice he and fellow astrobiologist Gnesh Sandhu had been saving for a special occasion. Gnesh had attached a note that read, You’ll do great without me.

Charlie’s colleague often showered him with small acts of kindness and he resolved to split the licorice with Gnesh when he returned to camp. Giving up their last sweet extravagance was too great a sacrifice for his friend to make. Gnesh was like family to Charlie, the only family he had.

For a moment Charlie considered returning to his camp for undamaged crackers but he didn’t have enough time. After reshaping the boxes so they were straight again, he decided they were presentable enough and resumed his ascent.

As he stepped into a clearing, a colony of small birds hidden in the treetops broke the jungle silence with their soft call, "Ts ts ts tee."

Charlie immediately recognized it as the muted twitter of pygmy lorikeets and shielded his eyes from the sun, searching for the tiny birds. He caught flashes of a male’s crimson underwing as it darted through the dense verdure. Since he was a veteran birder, hearing lorikeets put him in a cheerful mood that eased his fatigue.

Eventually he reached a plateau where he could catch his breath. The sound of men singing from the Ngala village caught his attention. They were singing in Tok Pisin, a common vernacular in a country that had hundreds of distinct languages. Much was lost in translation, but Charlie recognized the tune, Those Caissons Go Rolling Along.

That meant the John Frum ceremony had already started; he had better hustle. Still, he couldn’t help but smile as he listened to his friends. They were probably marching now, hoping to draw cargo planes from the sky.

As he brushed back the foliage, he caught a glimpse of the ramshackle, corrugated tin huts of the village. His friend Bikman was inspecting his troops in a nearby clearing. Standing at attention, the Ngala mimicked World War II soldiers, their upper arms painted with yellow and green chevrons. They assumed a military stance and positioned their wooden rifles against their shoulders although they were dressed in tattered jeans and their broad feet were bare. Bikman stood only a meter and a half tall but he seemed to tower over his men thanks to his massive headdress fashioned from the feathers of several species of birds of paradise. On his command, the men saluted smartly.

A television camera crew hunkered in a pool of shadow, recording Bikman’s soldiers. The crew looked entirely out of place with their baseball caps, expensive sports shoes, pressed khakis, and an armory of digital equipment.

Charlie picked up his pace. A short woman dressed in black and yellow with blonde hair dyed black on top hurried up to him as he tromped out of the forest.

Dr. Adamson, I presume? she said.

Don’t you mean Dr. Livingston? he replied.

She stared at him blankly. His humor was apparently lost on her.

Just kidding, he said. I’m Charlie Adamson.

Deb Pilarski, assistant director, the woman said, stretching out her hand. An American goldfinch flashed through Charlie’s mind as he studied her. Or maybe a yellow wagtail. Her hair, yellow blouse and open black slicker resembled this bird. Is Dr. Sandhu coming? she asked.

Afraid he can’t make it. He’s been up all night analyzing a microbe we just collected. Charlie pointed to the mud stains on his knees. Sorry about this.

Don’t worry, they won’t see anything below your waist. Let’s just get the mud off your face. She took out a wipe and bobbed about as she dabbed at his forehead.

She certainly moves like a wagtail, Charlie thought. He often equated people with birds but generally kept his analogies to himself, having learned from experience that few people found his comparisons complimentary.

The wagtail stepped back and asked, Sure you’re up for this, Dr. Adamson? You look tired.

Bone tired was more like it. His smile turned into a weary frown. I’m alright. Let’s just get this done.

Let me introduce you to Mr. Kent.

After fitting Charlie with a small, transparent headset, the wagtail escorted him to the journalist who would interview him. Dapper and thin-boned, Gallagher Kent’s broad shoulders didn’t quite fit his lanky frame. He had a salon tan and dark, wavy hair swept back in a contemporary style and spiked with mousse, while his sideburns were dyed a frosty white. A crested berry picker! Charlie mused. The man’s regal bearing reminded him of this particular bird that, despite its amusing name, presented itself like royalty. Further enhancing the resemblance, the man was dressed in azure blue as if attending a posh garden party. Feeling shabby by comparison, Charlie self-consciously smoothed back the worn collar of his faded shirt, then glanced down at his muddied cargo pants.

The wagtail continued bobbing enthusiastically. Dr. Adamson, this is our anchor, Gallagher Kent. Mr. Kent, Dr. Adamson.

The men traded greetings and shook hands.

Mr. Kent will ask the questions we rehearsed on our conference call, the wagtail burbled, but please don’t worry if you repeat yourself. We’ll edit it.

Kent introduced Charlie to a lean young man with a courtly bearing who wore his mass of wiry black curls in an ornate crown. Joseph Tano, camera operator. You see this light? When it turns green, he’s recording you.

As Charlie shook Joseph’s hand he remarked, You look Ngala!

Joseph beamed and nodded.

Charlie laughed. Mr. Kent should be interviewing you, not me!

No, I was only a boy when I left here, Joseph said. About what has happened since, I know nothing. Besides, who would record you, sir?

As Charlie took his place on a low, plastic stool across from Kent, his gut tingled with adrenaline. It suddenly dawned on him that within seconds he would rocket from an obscure scientist studying microbes in a polluted river to an international celebrity, at least for three and a half minutes.

The green light flashed. "This is Gallagher Kent for World View 2051 coming to you from Papua New Guinea. My guest today is Dr. Charles Adamson, an astrobiologist conducting research here. Dr. Adamson has lived near the Ngala for eight years and knows them as well as anyone. How are you, Dr. Adamson?"

Exhausted.

Cut! The green light went out. Now the wagtail drilled her eyes officiously into him. Just tell us you’re well, please.

So much for reportage. Charlie tried again. On cue he said, I’m well, thanks.

What can you tell us about the Ngala?

Charlie gestured toward the mountain towering above the rickety tin huts. Over the years, the Ngala had found it necessary to move their village further up the slope as floods eroded the riverbank. To begin with, this is their ancestral land—they returned after being forcibly evicted.

Gallagher leaned forward. Why were they forced to leave?

When gold was discovered on Sleeping Woman Mountain fifteen years ago, all of the Ngala were relocated to slums in Port Moresby. For ten years, Aureus Incorporated worked this open pit mine. Five years ago the mine played out, so the company abandoned it. That’s when Bikman, the Ngala chief and their shaman, led his people back to reclaim their territory. Charlie pointed toward a broad crater, barely visible through a curtain of fishtail palms and still bleeding chemical waste. You can see for yourself that the mining operation left very little arable land.

So there’s been no reclamation?

Charlie explained that the mine was still polluting the river. Fishing is impossible, so the people grow what few crops they can in this rocky soil, but they are fish hunters, not farmers. They barely survive.

For a moment Kent assumed a sympathetic expression. Then he asked, What brought you to Papua New Guinea?

Ironically, that mine did. Its pollution has produced an astonishing number of extremophilic prokaryotes.

Please explain.

We were looking for microbes that can live where nothing else can, particularly from the domain Archaea.

Archaea?

Yes, they were once thought to be bacteria but because they have very different biochemistry, they now have their own domain, Charlie explained. Archaea were probably the life forms that gave rise to complex organisms. Extraterrestrial life may have similar biochemical pathways so I―

Kent interrupted. I understand that you will be participating in the upcoming mission to Jupiter sponsored by the International Space Institute, the world-wide consortium for space exploration.

No, my colleague Dr. Gnesh Sandhu is the astronaut, not I.

Cut, please. Gallagher turned to the assistant director, who dabbed pearls of sweat from his forehead. I don’t know how you put up with this heat and these mosquitoes.

Charlie grinned. You get used to the heat. And, as to the mosquitoes, if you’re going to be here for a while, Mr. Kent, tropical disease vaccines are more effective than soaking your clothes in mosquito repellent.

Please, call me Gallagher. When Joseph resumed recording, Gallagher said, It seems strange to be discussing life on Jupiter here in this rainforest.

Not on Jupiter, Charlie corrected him. Nothing could live on Jupiter—but its moon, Europa, has an ocean that might support life. That’s why Gnesh is going there. Charlie paused to gather his thoughts. Here was a golden opportunity he couldn’t pass up. We hope discovering life on Europa will validate a certain theory that Dr. Sandhu and I have been developing... Charlie’s professional nemesis, rival astrobiologist Richard Hewitt, hotly contested their theory. But this interview was about Bikman, not about Charlie. Besides, it would be professional suicide to divulge their theory before they were ready to publish it, and publication might be years away. Perhaps we can discuss this at another time.

Just then Bikman’s nine-year-old daughter ran up to Charlie. Giggling, she crawled into his lap.

Joseph stopped recording and gestured for her to leave.

No, wait a minute. Gallagher turned to Charlie. What’s her name?

Helenia, she promptly answered, lightly biting her thumbnail.

Gallagher seemed impressed. She understands English.

Charlie taught me. Helenia smiled shyly, digging her toe into the dirt.

After giving her a hug, Charlie opened his sack and handed her the boxes of crackers, telling her to share them with her friends.

Thank you, she said.

Okay, sweetheart, you can stand over there if you like, Gallagher said then gave Joseph a thumbs-up to continue. I have one more question for you, Dr. Adamson. What kind of life does Dr. Sandhu hope to find on Europa?

Charlie shifted uneasily. I can’t predict that. The only model for life that we have is life on Earth. Europa is an ice moon. If it happened at all, evolution must have been very different there—

Cut that! Gallagher said. Everyone looked embarrassed. Charlie was flummoxed.

Gallagher looked distinctly uncomfortable. Can you make your point without using that word?

What word?

Gallagher paused, twisting his mouth as though he were both ashamed to say it and ashamed not to say it. Evolution.

Charlie raised his voice. Evolution is the paradigm of all biology. There is no other word.

Not everyone thinks so. Remember, we have sponsors, so we need to watch our ratings. The Firsters are a big part of our audience.

Charlie fumed. One of his motivations for conducting research here was to escape political influencers like the Firsters, fundamentalists who had long denied evolution. Their motto, Earth First was both a rallying cry and a point of contention. Firsters were adamant that life would not be found anywhere in the universe except on Earth. Dismissing scientific evidence as opinion, they hired bloggers, academics and think tanks to flood social media with the message that the Earth was first in creation and that the rest of the universe was mere decoration that did not support life—anything else was propaganda.

Kent was sweating more than ever. He threw a glare at the wagtail whose face betrayed her awareness that the single most important point when prepping an interviewee in biology had inexcusably slipped her mind. We have to respect the sensibilities of our audience. I’m sure you appreciate that, Gallagher said.

You mean you have to respect their stupidity... Charlie put a lid on his accusation. Aloud he said, No, I don’t appreciate that! You’re a reporter. Truth should be important to you.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Helenia opening a crushed box of crackers. She pulled out a handful of crumbs.

Sorry, Charlie said, genuinely contrite.

Helenia gave him a forgiving smile with a mouthful of crumbs, then tilted her head and jumped up. Hey! She looked up at the sky. Listen!

A faint whirr grew steadily louder until it was a strong gust tossing the treetops. Within moments a helicopter appeared, coming toward the village.

Charlie recognized the huge propeller and the aggressive government logotype of a red and black military carrier. Then a second, smaller helicopter arrived. It was Prime Minister Jahuara’s personal helicopter which he piloted himself when he canvassed various parts of the country during election years, making unexpected visits to consolidate his support and intimidate his opposition.

The choppers circled above the village, then descended slowly, hovering at thirty meters like giant hornets.

A hatch in the prime minister’s helicopter opened and a cascade of money fluttered through the air like an enormous flock of paper birds. Joyful tribe members broke rank, yelling and leaping wildly into the air, snatching at the falling bills.

Gallagher could be heard faintly above the din as he addressed the camera. This must be a very special moment for Bikman. Prime Minister Jahuara told me he’d make things right—he’s a leader who keeps his word. He turned to his camera operator. Joseph, are you getting this?

Of course, sir.

As Gallagher and his crew hurried toward the villagers, the reporter called over his shoulder. They got here earlier than expected. We’ll have to finish this later, Dr. Adamson. I’ll be in touch.

Not if I have any say, Charlie muttered. Stupid bastards. To hell with them, I’m getting out of here. He was still fuming about being censored for saying evolution. And he was suspicious about this blizzard of money swamping his friend’s people. It was just as insulting as Gallagher’s censorship.

Slinging his empty bilum over his shoulder, he stepped back into the forest shadows and paused to check his cell phone for any texts from Gnesh. The two scientists still used old-fashioned cell phones while nearly everyone else on Earth had updated to devices called Global Communicators or GCs. But there was no satellite coverage on Sleeping Woman Mountain, so they didn’t work. Charlie often remarked that whoever came up with the term Global Communicator was clearly guilty of hyperbole. He and Gnesh solved this problem by rigging up a small feed tower which allowed them to exchange texts when they were in the field. Now, to Charlie’s astonishment, his phone began to buzz.

Gnesh had sent a cryptic, one-word message, Eureka!

Charlie’s heart thumped with excitement. He began typing, What did you―?

Before he could finish, a pair of Blythe’s hornbills, large-billed birds the size of geese, flew crazily toward him from out of the forest below, knocking him to the ground. He dropped everything in a bed of ferns as they veered back into the forest.

Hornbills never attack people, so this behavior was bizarre. But Charlie had a more pressing vexation. Where was his phone? As he fumbled through fern fronds searching for it, he heard a Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

He looked up, thinking, Was that gunfire? Where’s it coming from?

Charlie peered into the trees, then looked up at the sky. Was an assassin targeting the prime minister in his private copter? Were soldiers in the military transport firing back at the assailants? No! They’re shooting my friends! Beads of sweat ran down his face. Why?

More gunshots. In the village clearing, several tribe members toppled like felled trees, blood spurting from their bodies. Others ran in panic. Further away, Bikman assisted a fallen villager. Joseph tackled Gallagher and shielded him with his body. He kept his camera up, as if he was still recording.

Ragged men with automatic weapons emerged from the forest, shooting at random. Bikman’s troops threw their wooden rifles like spears but they were no match for bullets. Women and children screamed as they ran for shelter, their cries muted by the roar of gunfire.

Time turned glacial in the intense pandemonium.

Freeze! Charlie’s body commanded. Stay where you are! Against his visceral judgment, he scrambled to his feet. His first reflex was to protect himself; his next one was to help his friends—but how? Villagers and film crew scrambled for cover as the helicopter’s thundering blades drowned out their screams.

More gunfire—this time coming from the direction of his field station. Charlie’s breath caught in his throat. Gnesh! Fear for his colleague overrode self-preservation.

Bolting down the forest path that led back to his camp, Charlie dodged a strangler fig wrapped around a dying tree. Branches scratched his face and he tripped over several slippery logs. Shafts of sunlight broke through the forest canopy, stabbing his eyes which stung with sweat. He fell more than once, pulled himself up, and kept running. Fueled by adrenaline, he ran faster than he had ever run in his life.

The sound of gunshots was directly below him.

Charlie escaped the trees and skidded down a rocky slope. Covered in sweat and mud, he finally reached the makeshift field station at the far end of his campsite. The eerie quietude returned.

Gnesh! he shouted.

Silence. He swung the field station’s door open on a single hinge like a broken jaw.

Gnesh, where are you?

Gun smoke stung his nostrils as he stepped through the tattered mosquito netting. Journals, field notes, Petri dishes and lab equipment were strewn helter-skelter; computers and backup drives were shot up and smashed. The field station was in ruins. Eight years of research gone...

Charlie felt himself shivering. His knees weakened. Who would do this to us? Where’s Gnesh?

He stumbled outside the station and was momentarily blinded by the harsh daylight. Then his heart leapt to his throat. Gnesh’s broken body lay flung across a bloodstone—this large rock had been the site of human sacrifice long ago, when the Ngala had practiced cannibalism. Its dark, pocked surface seemed to mock him as if lusting for more blood. Stifling a sob, he knelt beside his friend and felt Gnesh’s wrist—there was no pulse.

Charlie cradled Gnesh’s bloody head; his friend’s lifeless eyes stared up at him. Charlie gently closed them, choking back his tears. Why hadn’t he stayed here ... Why hadn’t he come back for the saltines—what the hell had he been thinking?

I’m sorry...Gnesh...I’m so...

Heavy boots tramped behind him.

With an ear-splitting report, a bullet tore through his shoulder, jerking him forward. A rifle butt slammed into the back of his skull.

Charlie plunged headlong into a pool of Gnesh’s blood.

The world went black.

CHAPTER TWO

IN HIS ROLE AS SHAMAN and healer and tribal chief Bikman tended to the wounded, working well into the night. The wailing of women mourning the dead villagers tore at his heart, but he had to concentrate on the injured. Tears of the children fueled his anguish. He was responsible for this attack though he had no idea what the gods expected him to do. They must have forsaken him because of his hubris. Even his ancestors had forsaken him. He would have to make amends with them and their guardian crocodile spirits. But how?

At three in the morning, after his last patient fell asleep, he walked outside and leaned against the doorway of a tin shack, exhausted and deeply troubled. Tilting his head, he listened to the buzz of cuscus—pudgy marsupials whose radio-static-like drone muted a chorus of frogs in a pool nearby. A breeze washed over him, soothing his tired muscles that wilted on aching bones. Nothing could calm him. He slumped to the ground, overcome by doubt.

Perhaps he should have stayed in Port Moresby rather than lead his people back to their ancestral home. But that city held its share of sorrows, too. As hunters of fish and small game, the Ngala had no skills adaptable to city life and had to subsist as best they could as day laborers. Disease and malnutrition took their toll on every family. Bikman’s wife Siphera died of cholera shortly after their daughter Helenia was born.

He loved Helenia dearly, and not just because she reminded him so much of his wife whose memory he cherished. Helenia was a bright-eyed girl whose face blossomed into a disarming smile at every opportunity. Although she was small and thin, as fragile as a wren, her fingers were amazingly nimble and she was particularly adept at weaving plant fiber into fabric.

At times it saddened Bikman that Helenia was not a boy. Tradition forbade him from tutoring her to become a shaman like himself. Still, he had decided not to remarry even though that meant he would never have a son. Seeking a wife required wealth, and in tribal Papua New Guinea, wealth meant pigs.

Pigs required constant attention, so Bikman wanted no part of them. He preferred to concentrate his energy on being a healer for his people. It was for the sake of Helenia and the rest of the children that he had brought them back to their tribal land. At first, he felt their ancestors would be pleased but they were obviously angry. Why else had the river risen so high that traditional pole houses no longer protected the villagers from flooding?

Bikman understood the Earth was sick; what Charlie referred to as climate change. He also realized the gods were displeased with them. For generations the Ngala had hunted fish, but now they were forced to settle on higher ground, away from the water. As village shaman, Bikman was bound by duty to fix this. Although he was grateful the ancestors had allowed them to return to Sleeping Woman Mountain, it now seemed uncertain that the gods would ever favor them again.

This was all his fault. He begged too often for help. But survival was a constant struggle. Men hunted small animals in the forest while women harvested sago palms to augment their garden plots of yams. Sometimes they followed the river upstream to fish for pacu in untainted water, although it was imperative that they not cross tribal boundaries. Each tribe claimed and jealously guarded their ancestral land. Trespassing was strictly forbidden and often lethal.

When Charlie and Gnesh had first set up camp at the edge of the forest, Bikman hoped they had brought magic to help his people. The scientists operated many strange new instruments, but none of their magic seemed to work. Worse yet, they were poor—not a single pig between them! Still, Bikman had liked them the minute he saw them. He intuitively felt the scientists had been sent to him on a mission they apparently did not understand since they only seemed interested in dredging the murky river water. But what the ancestors had planned for them, Bikman did not know.

Bikman’s head nodded over his bony chest as he contemplated his predicament. What could he possibly do...?

Eventually, he nodded off and slipped into a troubled dream. He found himself worming his way down a dark tunnel to his ancestors’ resting place to seek their advice. Lively shadows pulsed all around him as he crawled down a narrow passage until he reached the burial chamber. Great rows of dingy skulls lay before him, all grinning maniacally with fleshless mouths—leering as if sitting in judgment.

Bikman fell to his knees. Speaking in his native tongue, he pleaded for help.

Phantom shapes rippled across the rough cavern walls as if a stone had been thrown into still water. Spirit voices rustled like dry weeds. Your wish has been granted. Wealth has rained from the sky.

People have died! Bikman cried. The rest are in great danger.

The voices hissed, Of course you are. You wished for unearned wealth. Accept the consequences!

Bikman’s jaw fell open in dismay. He wanted to remind the ancestors that their people had suffered much in Port Moresby. Their land had been ruined by the miners who had come from far away, lusting for gold. Money, much money, was the only way they could improve their lot. But he knew better than to argue with them. Instead, he said most humbly, I beg your forgiveness. I meant no harm.

Harsh laughter stung his ears as the skulls’ macabre grins broadened. "You try our patience. We do all we can for you, and still you are not satisfied. Do you not know that it is gift enough to be alive?"

Bikman trembled. Please, do not abandon us!

As the spirits began to deliberate, their breath softened like susurrating dragonfly wings.

A faint voice finally whispered, You must help the one who seeks the stars.

Bikman was aghast. Who seeks the stars? No one can do that!

The voice scoffed, "You claim to be