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Leaning  back in the plush captain’s chair inside the throbbing spaceship,  General Allistair McCaulley tried to look casual. He started to sigh,  but the sound evolved into an abrupt belch, the way an air bubble  suddenly pops to the surface. He glanced around to see if he should  pretend to be embarrassed, but the control room was empty except for  Thurgose, the ever-vigilant robotic horse run­ning the ship. McCaulley  promptly blamed the outburst on humsta, the gooey puree that tripled as  breakfast, lunch and dinner on this vessel. It definitely wasn’t a  donut. He had not eaten one this morn­ing. His supply was rapidly  dwindling and could be indulged only on special occasions.

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Surrounded  by the steady hum of the engine, McCaulley could see the glimmer of  stars as the craft sped through the eternal night. Everything on the  thick screen in front of him shimmered, appar­ently warped by the speed  of the vessel and slightly out of focus. At times, the view was clear;  other times, it blended into a thick soup with nothing distinguishable.

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He  folded his hands across his ample chest. In just a few hours, he  thought, this ship had managed to burst beyond Pluto and Eris, through  the Kuiper belt and the Oort cloud, and head into deep space en route  toward Dalia on the far side of the Milky Way galaxy. He was stunned by  the pace of travel and engrossed by the view.

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It  was better than any of the mind-numbing video games on Earth although  equally draining on McCaulley’s limited energy. On Earth, as a 3, he  filled his hours by talking to media, attending appropriate ceremonies  and strutting. Keeping a stiff back and an elevated head expended  energy, particularly with his ever-expand­ing girth. Here, he just sat  and ate, a mind-numbing process that accentuated exhaustion. Then, too,  he could not sleep that much, not with having to protect his store of  immortality pills.

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Anton,  the glum prince and lone Dalian male aboard, had located them after  McCauley’s aide Sinone stole them. However, McCaulley demanded their  return as the rightful owner. Anton, a victim of his own sense of  justice, had reluctantly returned them.

Regardless  of who controlled them, the pills were a hot com­modity on board since  every member of the crew coveted them. Unfortunately, Thurgose had been  unable to analyze their ingredi­ents or synthesize one compatible to  Dalian genetics. While Anton lost interest in them, the humans on board  did not concede so easily.

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From  the corner of his eye, McCaulley saw Anton wander in. The prince  maintained his dour appearance and didn’t say anything. McCaulley  wondered if Anton, in the quiet of his bedroom, didn’t manage to smile  before putting on his sour mask. Of course, the general mused, Anton had  a right to be depressed since learning his planet, Dalia, had destroyed  its neighboring planet, Kajia. He had once thought the reverse was true  and had been devastated to learn a different reality.

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McCaulley  roused himself. Anton seemed ready for a kind word or two. McCaulley  smiled. That was his bailiwick. After dec­ades as a 3, the chubby  general knew how to spread around the manure.

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He  heaved himself and his bulbous stomach from the chair with some effort  and wandered over to Anton, who was staring through the opaque shield at  the rapidly passing stars. “Not long now,” he said, patting the younger  alien on the back.

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Anton turned. “How would you know?” he snapped.

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“Patience,” counseled Thurgose in its mechanical voice.

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“I  don’t mind,” McCaulley said cheerfully, taken aback by the response but  determined to play his part. After all, he wasn’t doing much else other  than providing ballast for the speeding ship. “I admire an alien with  spunk.”

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“A Dalian must display patience,” Thurgose continued unabated.

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“Be quiet,” Anton retorted. “I’ll unplug you.”

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“Nor reflect anger,” Thurgose promptly added. If the little horse could have smiled, McCaulley was sure it would have.

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“We’re supposed to be dutiful little frignants,” Anton contin­ued. His yellow face hardened, shifting toward gold.

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“No,” the horse corrected, “frignants do not think. Dalians think.”

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“They  think angry, impatient thoughts,” Anton said sourly, but he began to  calm down. His harsh yellow skin tone eased into a more-familiar pastel  version. He glanced at the chubby general and muttered something in his  own language quickly under his breath. Thurgose turned bluish in  response.

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“I  missed that,” McCaulley said with the forced smile on his face. The  tone alone told him he probably didn’t want to know what Anton said.

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“He was just quoting a well-known philosopher,” Thurgose reported calmly.

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“Snoop Dogg?” McCauley asked, while struggling to conjure up the name of a single philosopher of note.

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“Eudilis,”  Anton replied sharply. “Only a child need not be concerned with time,  but a child always asks anyway,” he recited in English. “1412.”

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“1386,” Thurgose corrected immediately. “It is my fault. I con­tinue to be remiss in my pedagogy.”

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“Snoop Dogg said, ‘We want people who hate to lose, like my­self. Now marinate on that,’” McCaulley offered hopefully.

“Who cares?” Anton snorted.

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“He  used to be popular on Earth,” McCaulley said in a wounded voice. He  gathered himself and tucked his ample shirt into his slacks.

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“I will add him to my memory bank,” Thurgose said. “He sounds very wise. Do you know his marinate recipe?”

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McCaulley  ignored that. “Come, my boy,” he said, putting his beefy arm on Anton’s  thin shoulders. “We’re on our way back to your planet. This is a great  adventure. I feel like a child again.”

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Anton  turned to face him. McCaulley froze. He was invariably surprised how  human the alien appeared. Even his DNA was simi­lar to humans, although,  along with some chemical differences internally, there were exterior  variations in facial structure and col­oring. The result always seemed  to stunned him, no matter how familiar Anton became.

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“You have many years,” Anton said coolly. “I have few unless those pills can be converted to Dalian use.”

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“Do not get caught in another’s web,” Thurgose recited. “Ngia-Fon, 256.”

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“Not that long ago, you wanted to commit suicide,” McCaulley said lightly. “You are fickle.”

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Once again, Anton muttered something in his native tongue.

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“My  Brubiscon,” Thurgose interjected quickly. “Such man­ners. I have  neglected that portion of your education, too. I should be short  circuited.”

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“It’s  okay,” McCaulley said. He went back to his chair and plopped back down.  It wheezed beneath him. He smiled up at Anton. “You are not being  logical.”

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That,  too, clearly was not the right thing to say either. Anton’s face turned  a dark green, like the flash of light just before a sunset. Gold  flecked his thin, black eyes.

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“How  dare you?” he snapped. His hand curled as if gripping an imaginary skla  stick. He was in no mood for trading barbs with this obese human. How  could McCaulley understand? He held a trove of pills that extended his  life by clearing away debris in cells. They meant nothing to a Dalian  unless some usable copies could be arranged.

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“Pipe down, pipsqueak,” McCaulley said, pulling rank he didn’t have.

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Anton seethed.

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“Look,”  the general continued, “when you have no idea when life will end, you  seek adventure. You want to make each day matter. But, when you know you  will be around hundreds of years, you get cautious, careful. One  mistake can cost you a lot of time. But, that gets old quick. It  definitely has for me. Now, I’m happy to do some­thing new.”

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“Try a different kind of donut,” Anton snarled and stalked away to stare into dark space.

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Thurgose  was blue again. “You must excuse the crowned prince of Dalia, chief  flower among the eastern skies, god of youth and firmament, first son of  the great Frighem Laren, son of the great queen Rena, Brubiscon of the  Gorean festival and bearer of the Whiten bushels at the festival of  Alain.”

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“You  have misidentified me,” Anton said without turning around. His voice  echoed off the hard wall. “I am simply a klokla. I am mere fodder.”

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McCaulley gave a wry grin. “Touchy, isn’t he?” he asked Thurgose.

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“He  is concerned about our crewmate,” the horse said, refer­ring to Sinone,  who had been gravely injured in a battle that left Anton in the hands  of his Kajian counterpart. “Such worry can mis­direct thoughts.”

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Anton simply turned and walked out. His sandals banged against the steel flooring.

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“I  should check on Sinone, also,” McCaulley said. At least, it would be  something to do. Space flight lost some of its charm amid the endless  hours. He stood. “By the way, how are we able to go so fast?” He spoke  casually, as if it didn’t matter, but had been eager to find out. The  military portion of his brain still sought secrets, even though anyone  he could share them with now existed multiple light years behind.

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“The  universe is traversed with electromagnetic waves,” Thurgose said  without hesitation. “I simply adhere to one of the lines in the grid.  Here, speed of light has no meaning.” It glowed tan. “The waves propel  the ship and also replenish our energy supply.”

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McCaulley  considered that information. There would be a lot to report whenever he  returned back to Earth. He would have to live a long time for that to  happen. The 80 pills still in his possession would take care of that.  One every five years was all he needed to stay youthful.

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“I thought these things were supposed to be round,” he noted, referring to the elongated shape of ship.

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“That would amplify resistance,” Thurgose told him.

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McCaulley nodded silently. The horse sounded so confident. It was always right, too. Oh, well, McCaulley thought. All those old-time sci-fi movies had it wrong. He toddled off, cheerily looking forward to spreading his good cheer somewhere else.

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~ * ~

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Thurgose  used his sensors to watch the fat human leave. The visible disks  whirled inside its head, and its color shifted to a dark, almost  sinister brown. Current surged through its small frame as it settled  over the controls. There was no reason to tell McCaulley anything  resembling the truth. Cosmic strings and warped space would mean nothing  to him anyway. Besides, it realized, mention­ing electromagnetic waves  would be more than enough for the gen­eral’s limited brain to absorb.

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A  glint of metal was already detectable on the ship’s sensors. Thurgose  eased back on the speed. Slowly, although still far behind, the  spaceship chasing them inexorably drew closer.