The Stuff of Dreams

By Q. Ulysses Chapman

The Stuff of Dreams is a story of choices, consequences, and Gods grace toward those of us who make the wrong choice. It is also a reminder that He gives to those He chooses the chance to choose again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781512713541

Q. Ulysses Chapman

The author’s first real prayer was offered when he was nine years old. That morning his father had a cerebral hemorrhage. That night he asked God to bring him home. By the time the prayer was offered his father was with the Lord. It was nearly forty years before he offered up the desire of his heart again. He chose not to seek God again, and the course of his life reflected that choice and the consequences thereof. Now he lives a life brand new, enjoying the life God gave with his wife and son in Houston, Texas, where they are members of the First Church of Christ (Holiness) USA.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It appeared to be a simple box. It was heavy for its size but simplistic in every aspect of its design. It was reddish-brown in color with a one-by-two centimeter retractable slot on top and made from some sort of incredibly hard Harvonian wood. Its only distinguishing characteristic was an intricately designed symbol of which no one alive knew the meaning. Countless attempts to unravel the hieroglyphic writings of the Harvonians, a fabled people thought to be long dead or simply transplanted to some distant galaxy, had been made. Careers had been risked and ruined in attempts to decipher their language and discover the mystery of their fate.

No one knew for sure just what had happened to them. Whether war, pestilence or some other disaster, natural or self-inflicted had befallen this enigmatic people was anyone’s guess. They were just gone. But every now and again, artifacts worth fifty times their weight in Galactic credits, such as the one that sat on the navigation console of The Charlotte Ann, Kenneth Lamont’s freighter, would show up. A simple box, yes, but inside was the stuff of dreams.

The Charlotte Ann was not just Lamont’s ship. Within its confines existed the whole of his world. He was a man gifted or cursed, depending on the way one cared to approach the ability he had to be consumed by the things of immediate importance to his continued existence. It had not always been his nature to be so tuned to the primacy of the moment. But like the wallflower who loses his inhibitions when filled with liquid personality, sudden and tragic loss had stripped Lamont of a lifetime of calculated preparedness. Counting always on the assuredness of tomorrow and the adequacy of his plan, he was a man whose future had, until that fateful day, been set, secure and welcome. Now, he was a man who lived life moment to moment—not carelessly or recklessly, but moment to moment, nonetheless. The future, especially his future, held no attraction for him. There were no enticements to lure him eagerly into tomorrow. There were no dreams that stirred the caldron of anticipation. There was nothing that caused him to look optimistically or expectantly at the standards that lay ahead. To him, they were as interesting as a dusty road shimmering in the heat of twin suns. The future was a road he traveled only because it was the only way to get where he wanted to go, and that was with Charlotte. Kenneth Lamont was a man whose faith and purpose had died, leaving his future an unloved and barely tolerated orphan.

He had re-christened the freighter The Charlotte Ann on the day he sold all of his belongings, took an early pension from the insurance company for which he had worked for more than sixty-five standards and, surprisingly, only eight days after the original Charlotte Ann had died unexpectedly. Unexpected deaths were almost unheard of on any of the civilized planets of the Galactic Council. Sure, there were accidents in space and on space construction projects. Lamont was well aware of the dangers that still lurked in the darkness of unguarded moments or in ill-conceived safety measures. But unexpected death almost never showed its tragically ugly face to planet-bound citizens; especially when the tragedy was as unheard of as an anti-gravity sled losing its load on a downtown street. Charlotte and four others were lost on that fateful morning. Of course it was an accident, a tragically senseless accident that became the lead story for evening news services. The fact that it was accidental made it no less painful and certainly no less fatal. Human beings had finally learned to appreciate and treasure life since they now had time to really enjoy it.

Medicine had come a long way since the days of R.L. Harris, the eminent biologist responsible for increasing the life expectancy of Homo sapiens to an undreamed of three hundred plus standard years. The Charlotte Ann had been re-christened more than forty standards ago, and though it was a woefully inadequate replacement, it came closest to filling the void losing Charlotte had left in his life. They had been married for more than fifty standards, but the honeymoon had never ended for either of them.

For the first week after Charlotte’s death, Lamont had been inconsolable. Neither Butch (Kenneth Jr.) nor Katherine, their children, could reach him. Then, the tears just stopped. He emerged from their bedroom and announced to the kids and the friends gathered at their home his plans to leave Daphne 6 and spend the rest of this turn in space. He had thought long and hard about the irony of having to spend the next seventy-five to a hundred standards, the length of a turn, alone. Had all this happened only ten standards earlier, he would not have had to face all that time without her. He could have simply opted out of the series of injections that would enable him to live, back when Harris the Mage had concocted his life-extending elixir, what would have been considered another lifetime—another chance at life, or as it was now commonly referred to, a turn. The injections had been their anniversary gifts to each other. Nonetheless, this would be his last turn, however long it might be.

Each of his children and friends had, in turn, tried to talk him out of going into space, fearing he might, if he hadn’t already, become suicidal. Truth to tell, it had crossed his mind more than once. He had looked pragmatically at that option. In the cold, clear actuarial light with which his mind viewed the world, he reasoned; on the one hand, if he took his life the pain would be over; on the other hand, he would lose all the wonderful memories of his time with Charlotte. To him, those memories were worth the pain of living.

Lamont had lost his faith in the God of humanity. Nor did he believe in reincarnation of the spirit. If there were a God almighty and all knowing, why would He pluck a flower as lovely as Charlotte and leave the weeds of humanity to flourish? The thought of reincarnation helped him not at all. It was not as if he would be able to recognize, not to mention love, the bovine his wife might return as. No, it was best to simply hold on to the memories he had for as long as he could. They would always be together in his mind; this he knew for sure.

There are only a few reasons why a person gives his life to space, entrusting himself to the fragile cocoon of his ship, it being his only protection from the icy, instant death that is the vacuum of space. For some, it is the ages-old lure of adventure. There is adventure, but seldom is it the type that novelist and planet-bound dreamers romanticize. Space is life or death—every day, every second. There are no second chances or lifeguards in that ocean of blackness. Your only lifeline is the good repair of your ship and the good sense of its captain. Some go searching for riches. And there are fortunes to be made in space, but to enjoy a fortune one must settle on a planet somewhere at some time and there fortunes are lost, stolen or wasted. A precious few get to actually enjoy the fortune they risked all to acquire. Then there are those who are born in space and can fathom no other existence than that of a dixonite-powered intergalactic gypsy whose days and nights are measured in parsecs. If more than a few days are spent on a planet, they begin to get wild eyed and somewhat agoraphobic. There are also those of a criminal bent who see the trackless void of space as the perfect hiding place from which to pounce on unsuspecting planets or careless captains.

And then, there are men and women like Kenneth Lamont, absorbed in personal loss but unable, for whatever reason, to give up on life. They seek the solace, solitude and therapy found in the isolation ward of space. They cast themselves adrift in a world of their own choosing, not needing or wanting the companionship of their like, accepting contact only when necessary, longing always to return to the anesthetizing silence and routine of their purposely antiseptic environment, where they wait out the standards, tortured by their loneliness and consoled only by their memories.

The trip that landed the Harvonian Dream Box in Lamont’s possession had been successful and uneventful, until that night on Asirta. The Charlotte Ann had been off- loaded, reloaded, fueled and inspected. The ship’s stores had been replenished, and a few precious spare parts had been acquired. She was a good ship, The Charlotte Ann, but even good ships get old. Lamont had it in the back of his mind that when she went they would go together, this time. But until then, he would take care of her just like before.

It was one of those rare occasions when Lamont felt he could tolerate the presence of other human beings. After being in space for so long, he had to occasionally see for himself if he still loathed mankind as much as he thought he did. It did not take long to reaffirm his feelings, but for the life of him, he just could not remember why he had developed such an intense dislike for humanity. He promised himself, once again, that he would explore the origins of his deep dislike then promptly dismissed the thought. As he shook his head and sipped his drink, the memory that had been his almost constant companion for the last forty standards came to him once again.

It was one of those parties that are far too crowded to enjoy. As he stood by, trying to protect his much-trod-upon toes and avoid another drink being spilled on his moderately expensive jacket, he happened to look toward the door just as she entered. She had not seen him, and if she had she did not know him. But he saw her smile and wave at the host, that simple but portentous first sight of her is what had sustained him for all these standards. That memory played like a looped info-light, its information continuously repeating over and over in mindless automation and crystal clarity. That moment was burned on his brain like the signature of a solar flare on a radiation shield.

It was not her laugh, although it, too, was precious to him. The sensuousness of her throaty laughter, the pure joy of a woman secure in herself echoed in his memory like the barely audible sounds of a crystal wind chime, causing him to strain to capture every note. But that was not what came to him over and over again in moments like this. Nor was it the way she would use his full name when he did something that especially pleased or exasperated her, though the memory of the sound of her voice was sometimes so real to him that he would turn with a start hoping to see her standing before him. It was neither of those uniquely personal treasures nor any of the ten thousand or so others that he had recalled in the last forty standards, each of them demanding to be looked at in awe and wonder of their uniflorus beauty. Like a sun’s reflection on water as it gently laps a secret shore, they glistened in his mind’s eye.

It was always that smile and the brightness of her eyes in that perfect moment when he first saw her framed in the promise of an unfamiliar hope. He had come to understand, after standards of reflection, that in that moment he became aware that he was ready to learn to love and appreciate a good woman, a woman like her. He came to know in that moment hope was born full-grown in his heart, and it was that realization that arrested his thoughts and hauled his mind away in shackles of loss and remorse. But that is how he would always remember her. That moment in time would be forever frozen in memory’s amber. But unlike some unfortunate fossilized creature trapped forever in a hardened chunk of resin, this bit of the past was lovingly preserved and kept close, not for cold, clinical examination but for wholehearted adoration.

A raucous round of laughter intruded upon his reverie and instantly the acute sense of awareness that had kept him alive on more than one occasion was fine-tuned and focused. Most bars on these outpost planets catered to a variety of carbon-based beings and even some non-carbon based beings. It was difficult to mix the two, but some enterprising entrepreneurs would go to great lengths to get all the Galactic credits to be had. It was in such a place that Lamont was approached by what must have been the oldest, the smelliest and irrefutably the dirtiest space hag this side of Red Russell’s Galaxy.

He had noticed her the moment he entered the Super Nova Bar and Grill. There were four or five spacers laughing loudly and taunting her. Lamont was too far away to hear what the commotion was all about, but it seemed to center around a space bag that was seemingly just as old, dirty and smelly as its owner, who was clutching it to her sagging breasts as if it contained a million credits. Not wanting any part of the scene being played out in the center of the bar, Lamont moved to a table as near to the corner of the room as he could get.

The commotion, however, lasted only a few minutes more before the barkeep finally intervened and restored what passed for order. Lamont watched the Hag go from table to table, exchanging a few words with the occupants of each before moving on. He followed her with a casual, disdainful eye as she boldly approached his table. He was in a mood to observe humankind, but company was out of the question. Particularly the company of a spaced-out bag lady with a life story probably as full of holes as her clothing appeared to be. So, before she could open her crud-infested mouth, he quickly flipped a five-credit coin on to the table and turned his head in the universal sign of dismissal. To his surprise, she did not reach for the money or move. Just as he was about to insist, she surprised him even further by tossing her tattered and grimy treasure on the table in front of him.

He had replayed the scene in his mind since that fateful night in the Super Nova some four months ago, and still he had questions. Was he doing the right thing by becoming involved in this mission? Could he still trust his own judgment? Could he really trust someone as cold-blooded as Vaaca Jaanu to deliver on her promises? Or were they all just carrots on a string? Was her wild account of how she came by the Dream Box true? Had she cast some sort of spell on him? No, this cannot be a spell. The proof is right here in front of me. He had seen some incredible things during his standards in space but none like the things she had shown him. She promised it would be the answer to his prayers, the fulfillment of his dreams no less. Only a fool would believe that kind of promise. Was he being foolish? Had his desire created in him a gullibility that might cost him everything?

These and more were the questions that occupied every available moment of his time. Sometimes they came in rapid-fire succession, like the accusations of a completely corrupt prosecutor eagerly railroading her current victim. And sometimes they oozed out and froze on his consciousness like liquid nitrogen leaking into space from a ruptured hose and crystallizing in the frigid void. That was how they came now, frozen and fragile as he contemplated the innocent-looking box that sat on the navigation console of The Charlotte Ann, wondering what to do next.

CHAPTER 2

I shall die tonight, was the first thing she said after throwing the bag onto the table in front of him.

This so shocked him that he looked for the first time into her eyes. The speckled gray-and-black eyes of the Altgailians were rumored to have a hypnotic effect on all but their own kind. Shortly after returning to The Charlotte Ann, Lamont gave this aspect of his encounter some serious thought. From the very first time he looked into those eyes he believed every word that came from her mouth. Each sound that wafted to his ears on horrendously bad breath had had the ring of truth.

I give you this and the coordinates to a planet’s ransom in Harvonian artifacts, she said. It is not a gift but a curse. I give it in hopes that the strength and resolve I sense in you will be enough to save you and the unsuspecting people of the Council from a fate that I have eagerly but foolishly sought. A fate that has literally fed on the life force of my very being.

She sat down without invitation or protest from Lamont. As she sat, an odor akin to concentrated pine assaulted his nostrils. Her speckled eyes never left his face as she sat, and thus she noticed the telltale flare of his nostrils. I am Vaaca Jaanu, she said in a surprisingly strong and confident voice, and like you I was once a child of space. I was, however, obsessed with the Harvonian riddle. My obsession has cost me everything. My ship, my dignity and at times even my sanity, and tonight I shall pay the ultimate price.

For more than an hour, she talked without interruption. It was a tale rife with the adventure and intrigue that planet-bound novelists would have sold their souls to capture, with one exception; Vaaca Jaanu’s story was not an adventure spiced with romance, timely escapes and unsuspected humor. Vaaca Jaanu’s story was a tragedy.

According to her, the Harvonian riddle was no longer an enigma. It too was a tragedy, complete with the all the requisite self-deception, decadency and mistakes of fallen empires throughout history. The Harvonians had simply succumbed to too much of a good thing, according to her. But to their credit, once they realized their predicament and the fact that it was too late to save themselves, they did the next best thing. They tried to save all those that would someday reach the worlds they had settled by destroying all of their essence-actuated devices. Since each device could be tuned to the individual owner’s biorhythms and thus tap into the force that is the essence of life itself, they had become an intricate part of each day’s activities. The Harvonians, for all of their creativity and innovative technology, had somehow miscalculated one of the primary concepts of mechanization; fuel, once consumed, must be replenished. It follows, therefore, that the continued practicality and or usefulness of any device is commensurate with the limitations set upon it by the continued availability of its source of fuel.

They overlooked the fact that God, or whoever, in His infinite wisdom, gave us just enough of the stuff we need to connect all the dots for however long we are able to connect them. We have been able, as in the case of Dr. Harris, to develop ways to retard its consumption, but no one has been able to replicate that which gives us life, not even the Harvonians. Though they had managed to tap directly into the source, the problem became replacing that which they used.

Slowly, irrevocably, they became more and more dependent on their devices until they were unable to perform the simplest tasks for themselves. Just as they began to realize the toll being exacted upon their society, a greater and more destructive reality was revealed to them. Insidiously, with seemingly deliberate malice and forethought, the seeds of catastrophe had been sown in the very heart of the people. The devices were addictive—far more habit forming than the most powerful drug, and once addicted, escape was impossible. To use them was to invite death to dinner. Before the meal was through, the guest became