It was a dream, not a nightmare. For most, this was a normal thing, but for "Kid" Wilder, it was a first. He saw endless green fields and huge, ancient trees, nothing like the small, weak bushes hidden in glass boxes back on his home world. He wasn't alone in the dream, he felt the warmth and the hug of a friendly soul. For the first time, he was filled with strange, unknown feelings similar to love. That alien wasn't a threat, instead, he had become Wilder's shield and a source of calm. Everything had changed because of a single decision: to "embark on the Great Expedition." It had brought him more than just a small hope for glory, it brought a long-awaited inner peace. Unlike his father, Wilder had managed to bring life into Main CP-01, that half-dead, shaking, strange ship. Perhaps he was the only one who had used his knowledge for the better. Now, it seemed to him that his father had do only intuitively, never realizing the hidden talents he had in his crew.
Wilder woke up and didn't recognize his own reflection in the mirror, he was smiling. The ship was already landing, touching the solid surface lightly. Wilder leapt up and rushed toward the cockpit, wanting to share his joy with the crew. But he was met by two completely exhausted faces: Anna, her hair a wild mess sticking out in every direction, and Gabriel, his eyes bloodshot, his face a mask of the tiredness that follows a sleepless night. They were clearly not in a good mood.
"Good morning. If your current emotional state is negative, I am ready to share mine positive," Wilder said.
He said the boring vaguely reminiscent line from a movie with the flat voice of someone reading the instructions on a fire extinguisher. There wasn't a bit of empathy in his voice — only a real desire to use a standard social phrase.
"Oh, it's easy to tell, you're young, actually glowing," Anna said, her voice full of a sharp edge of jealousy. "I used to be able to drink a lot without problems, too."
"You didn't jutht drink, you altho..." Gabriel began.
"He doesn't need to know about my youthful mithtaketh with you," Anna interrupted, giving him a strong hit to the back of the head.
"I didn't mean that, Anna! I meant how beautifully you uthed to thpin thothe moveth... in bed..." Gabriel didn't even have time to laugh, moving just in time to avoid a second strike.
"I have noticed that the general level of energy within the group has dropped a huge amount," Wilder said, attempting to improve the atmosphere. "Probably, you are saving your emotional energy for the trip to avoid wasting it."
"Yeah, Wilder, exactly like that..." Anna replied with great unwillingness and a sudden, sharp feeling of sadness.
Let's face it: several chapters and a few thousand words in, you can see Wilder hasn't a clue when it comes to understanding alien social signals. He's the opposite of an empath, for him, reading emotions is like a difficult quiz show where every question is a million-dollar curveball. But even he could tell the room had still gone cold. Whatever supply of enthusiasm they had yesterday had disappeared by morning. The alcohol had clearly done the main work during the decision-making process, leading them to make a move on... Now that the feeling had worn off, they were looking directly at the hard truth, struggling to admit they weren't actually ready to do it. Maybe it was that one word theoretical, that scared them. It meant he wasn't sure about anything, everything was still uncertain. According to the manual 'managment of succses without suck', aliens needed specifics. You had to describe the win. So, Wilder began:
"Gabriel, are you aware that these unexplored planets have special visual beauty? Huge fields with very thick trees... and most importantly, there hasn't been a single professional camera operator there yet. It creates great opportunities for work."
"Yeah," Gabriel muttered, ignoring the point. "I'll go home and jerk off to that thought. It'th almotht too attractive."
"Ah, so your girlfriend is working the shift today?" Anna smirked.
"An interesting fact: the trade there is not developed at all, wouldn't you agree, Anna?" Wilder continued, ignoring the jokes. "In such a place, do you believe we could achieve total relaxation and finally... hmmm... finish our old business? You with the new business, Gabriel with the movies?"
"Well, I think I'll jerk off to that idea too!" Anna shot back.
"Excellent," Wilder nodded, perfectly serious. "Then I'm joining you aliens!"
The crew unloaded the cargo at the local hardware store with practiced speed. Such shops placed small orders, unable to compete with the massive retail chains. Soon, they were all standing in the parking lot, still exhausted. Wilder divided the cash, Anna walked away with the lion's share. The rest of the crew don't understand and Sam strongly hinted. No, it's not true... He laid it on thick, arguing that since it was Wilder's finger that had confirmed the bet, the loss was squarely on his head. Poor half-cyberg need a compensation. Wilder split his remaining profit and gave it to the rest of them until his own pockets were empty. Journey's the end. A FWB picked up Gabriel. Old Sam headed off on foot; his chitin-alloy prosthetics were so reliable they worked as his own personal transport. He just leaned back, shifting his weight onto his heels, and let the slope take him. Like a schoolboy on a snowboard, he carved a jagged line down the empty dunes on nothing but those heavy-duty prosthetics. He wasn't just headed home; he was surfing the red dust, his metal legs slicing through the sand with a rhythmic hiss that echoed across the empty flats. Anna shook her head, put her supplies into the back of the pickup, and looked at the horizon. She stood there for a moment, just breathing, calming herself before finally driving off. Nobody stayed behind to help Wilder wash the Main CP-01, but he didn't care. On the contrary, he liked the chance to be alone with his thoughts, this time, they weren't heavy, but bright.
The cleaning of the Main CP-01 was done by a robotic arm, but in some spots, Wilder had to guide the chimic stream by hand. In inside, that nuclear stain wouldn't move an inch. He tried every possible trick, but they only made matters worse. He eventually had to take a sponge in his own hands. After soaking it in foam, Wilder stared at his palms. He remembered a dream from the night before unknown hands grabbing his, fingers locking together. The warm breath on neck. There are way hands slid down to his waist. Pleasant chills ran down his spine, hm. And now shocks, ugh. Things were getting hard in his pants, and a warm feeling started to soft in his soul. Birds chirping in a field, the wind blowing a fresh breeze. Then the sponge hit the floor. Sharp, irritating sand caught the wind. The face of the pretty stranger male was replaced by Bucks. Even here, the bastard managed to interrupt his romantic moment. He started to feel lust instead of tenderness. He wanted to clean Bucs clock with his cock, spit all over his face, anything to turn back the clock that moment of love, instead of... it's hard to tell, hate felt like falling in love, but listen to this! It was a fiery kind, not a warm kind. Wilder covered his face with his hands, trying to wipe out the image and bring back the "beautiful" one, quickly rubbing his face.
'Rough trip, huh? I feel for you, son,' his father arrived.'
"Not exactly... Just some bad thoughts, completely unrelated to our work, suddenly entered my mind," Wilder said. "I believe we are prepared for departure. Let's head out."
"How about a drink, son? To celebrate that first bit of profit!" George let out a loud laugh.
"I cannot do that because I have absolutely no cash left. I have given all my money to the crew to encourage their motivation," Wilder said dryly.
"No problem," George grinned. "It's on me, then!"
They headed to the diner, the father to hold one's head high, the son with his head hanging low. It looked like a prisoner being led by a master. Listening to George, you could tell he'd been dreaming of this day for years: the day two partners on equal levels would finally sit down together. Not just any partners, but the founder of the company and his successor. Or more importantly, a father and a son. He used to dream about starting a tradition — every time he returned from a trip, he and Wilder would go to a café and then watch a local game. But George always arrived on weekdays while his son was still at school.
Now, they were finally sitting there, with the father talking constantly about the past while they waited for their order. George started searching in his pocket for something, then, with a mysterious but proud grin, he slid a holographic sheet across the table.
"Wilder, do you know what this is?" George asked, his face beaming.
"My reading skills are still working perfectly, thank you," Wilder said. He looked at the document as if it were a poisonous snake. "It says: 'Royal Patent for Arms Delivery.' Are you seriously suggesting I become a part of a system of murder and political games?"
"No," his father replied. "It's a patent for a carefree life! Your father didn't spend a lifetime living in poverty, saving every cent, for nothing. Now, you're going to be rich."
The situation was both simple and cynical. The Kingdom was getting ready for a massive war over the routes to the Far Planets, but a conflict was growing within the King's own inner circle. Global corporations had their own plans, supporting the King's younger brother. The military, however, strongly supported the older brother — a natural soldier.Following his ministers' advice, the King began putting all his resources into the army. To keep level of loyal, all major military contracts were given to trusted noname businessalien like George under the false name of "small business support." For them, a golden age had begun.
But not for Wilder and two images. On one side was Bucks, screaming from the screen, threatening to destroy everyone. On the other was the ghostly possibility of leaving this star system entirely of escaping the power of kings to finally find himself. Now, his "business" was directly feeding the very monsters who promised to ruin him.
"So, how's my... I mean, how's your crew doing?" George asked with a satisfied smile.
"I am observing a standard repetition of behavior patterns. Samuel is destroying all his money through betting. Gabriel continues to show a commitment to his sexual habits. And Anna's level of social rudeness remains constantly high." Wilder muttered, doing his best not to reveal what he had discovered for himself.
"Wilder, they're actually good alien. Just give them some time to be comfortable with you," George replied. "In the future, Sam will be a perfect family alien. Gabriel loves beauty, which is why he's so... loving. And Anna? She's a natural leader who just needs her own business."
"Curious analysis, Father. Did you use a specific method, or did they simply give you their psychological files during your first meeting?" Wilder became visibly bitter of envy. He had thought he knew his crew well, but his father saw same.
"I'll be honest with you. Sam wasn't the kind of person who cared much about his own safety. He even tried to stop a two-ton load with his bare hands while it was falling. The cargo would have been fine anyway, but he lost an arm. If I hadn't found him a goal in life, he probably would've turned into a complete cyborg — at best. And you probably noticed he took special care of you, didn't you? That's because I asked him to. I told him it would be a way for him to learn about being a father."
"So, according to you, Sam's care is just a fake version of honesty?" Wilder felt a sharp sting of jealousy.
"Why would you say that? I'm not saying I forced it on him; I just found him a purpose. Just like with Anna. She's smart, in a tough way. When we worked for Stoltz, she saw everyone as a rival, took on more than she could handle, and couldn't accept criticism. It actually hurt me to buy the ship — she was staring at me with that cold look of hers. That's when I found a way out: I started telling her about the benefits of owning a grass business. You should've seen her eyes soften... though, of course, she was never good at actually running things."
"And in which specific sources did you get these 'psychological skills'?" Wilder was barely hiding his envy now.
"Watch it in contents somewhere, took some from experience, and some of it just came to me. Take Gabriel, for instance: he saw everyone around him getting excited about something and decided to find himself in movie. He didn't even buy a camera, he just laid eyes on mine hobbies. Plus, it was a solid way to pick up ONS."
"And for us, he performed not a flight, but a crazy path in the clouds. It felt like an illegal experiment on my view of the world."
"Well, that's a habit from his younger days when he used to fly ONS around. He's not that young alien anymore, and the older ONS are tired of those rides."
"I understand."
"And listen, Wilder... with this military contract, they'll finally be able to reach their dreams. But make sure the money goes into the right place. I know them: as soon as they get a large amount, they'll waste it. But keep those poor guys close to you. You can't buy loyalty for any amount of money."
Their order arrived: the same old pills, only this time with more fat, paired with a drink full of fast carbohydrates. It was a moment of complete happiness for an alien who had dreamed of this his entire life; George had imagined this perfect scene exactly this way. Sunbeams from the windows, a happy son...Except Wilder sat there, filled with a deep sadness. Yeah, the picture was completely ruined. It's like someone played a sick joke and took a dump right in the tube of brown paint. It's brown but doesn't smell like it. It worried his father, and after a quick meal, they headed for the exit. Wilder was breathing hard, almost bumping into everything in his path, so George didn't risk letting him drive.
Instead home, he drove his son to a comic book store. He remembered how a young Wilder used to search the shelves, picking out his favorite characters. Back then, he would smile a real smile, and it was on that day George realized his son could truly be happy. Dad had always wanted Wilder to pick the "Mighty Ranger" instead of the "Lone Wanderer." Damn, that's a rare find in these parts.In a place where cows usually pass gas, you're unlikely to find anything rare, just like on the Red Planet.In a world choked with testosterone, there was no room on the store shelves for crybaby heroes. In a world choked with testosterone, there was no room on the store shelves for crybaby heroes. Also, an action figure is a way of thinking, and George didn't want his son to be a sad loner. Back then, the father tried to convince his son to pick one of those 'strong' guys, but the boy didn't change his mind — he wanted the Lone Ranger! Now, Wilder has outgrown those toys. He stepped inside, looked over the shelves, and looked directly at the clerk. Without saying a word, he turned around and walked right back out. George had to apologize to the staff and run after him.
On the way home, George desperately tried to start a conversation. Sports, politics, art... He remembered how he had once found that rare "Lone Wanderer" figure for his son. To find it on the edge of the Kingdom, George had purposely taken a losing contract just to get to that area, then spent a month moving between other spot just to make it home with the gift. Yes, it had been a struggle, but he was still proud of that find. Every time he came back from a trip and saw the Wanderer on his son's shelf, he almost cried. It meant it hadn't all been for nothing.
"I understand," Wilder said flatly, staring out the window at the depressing landscape.
George turned onto the street where Wilder had once gone to school. The car pulled over at the start of the path. The father turned to his son.
"Wilder, I wasn't blind. I saw the scratches and the bruises. But you know... no pain, no gain. I didn't want to worry you with my own problems, and honestly, I didn't want to hurt your alienhood. Sometimes a alein just has to deal with it."
"Your arguments are logical, Father," Wilder replied. Inside him, an absolute, ringing void took hold. He felt nothing anymore.
"But now you see how this patent changes everything! Those who bullied you will be jealous. And you... you'll fulfill our 'Red-Planet Dream.' You'll be rich, successful. Our winner."
"Hooray," Wilder said, his voice hollow.
They sat at the holiday table that evening. The glasses didn't hold some cheap "wine product," but a premium label that actually contained wine product. Synthetic steaks sizzled on the plates, with a five-percent mix of real meat. His mother was glowing; now she could finally go on the world tour she had wanted for years. His father, already tipsy, pulled out an old digital camera and began showing off his shots. It turned out he had been into photography since he was a kid. Career, a license to have children, the business and hidden somewhere in between, there was this camera. Wilder felt that if he stayed a moment longer, he would hit his head through the wall. He looked at his mother and wondered: did she really dream of this trip, or was it just another page in the "family plan"? He sat there, covering his face in his hands, when the cheerful voice of a coach came from the television screen:
"Ask yourself: what do you actually want? What is your real dream?"