Puck unclipped the iron shells clamped around her boots, the buckles agitating her already blistered fingertips.  She stepped out of them, groaning in appreciation; they weighed a good stone and a half.  Once freed, her eager feet began to hover above the wash-worn, wooden deck of the Caliban.  Tugging at her shoulderline, she coiled three meters of rope loosely around her forearm, careful to keep it untangled.

              With one foot, Puck pushed off, taking advantage of low-grav, leaping the steps to the quarterdeck.  Landing near Watch Commander Lennox, “Tally tally,” she called.

              “Tally ho,” he replied. “Why you up so late?” He was a short man, almost as wide as he was tall.  She used to joke with Fenton that he didn’t need the anchorlines to keep his feet on deck.

              Puck shrugged. “Anything good?”

              “The usual,” he replied vaguely, and they lapsed into the awkward silence of two people who didn’t really care for each other. “Fenton’s in the nest.”

              “Right, thanks.” She managed the barest smile before pushing towards the mast.  Three moons lit the deck in an eerie silver blanket, and a distant sun cast a wary ray on the bow, the flecks of paint still clinging to the ancient rail glittering like gold. Spun sugar ribbons of light from distant stars cut through the darkness like cobwebs; several branched downward across the deck, wandering uselessly until they disappeared, but one curious thread darted upwards around the mainmast.  Slacking her line, she bent her knees, watching the twinkling web playfully appear and disappear until finally she tripped the light just as it came too close to her heels.

              The speed always made her stomach leap. The thrum of power followed by the whoosh of space around her ears.  She may not be the best Raider, but no one tripped the light like she did, and she took great pride in that. 

              The nest rushed towards her and, at just the right moment, she shoved off, grabbed one of the hand-holds, and clambered up and over.

              Fenton, her best friend, was a string-bean, with knobby knees and arms too long for his body, both traits common to children born in low gravity. There were only a few kids Puck’s age aboard the Caliban, and she considered herself lucky that one of them was Fenton.  The rest were the daughters of servicemen, and they tended to travel in packs.

              “Nice watch-out,” she commented, prodding him with the toe of her boot.  He sat with his back against the nest’s wall, a book in hand. He looked up at her over his wire-rimmed glasses with all the superiority he could muster, being a year and a half her senior. “It’s space,” he said with a shrug, looking back down at his book. “Chances are it hasn’t changed much since the last time I looked.”

              “You sure of that?” Puck asked, raising an eyebrow, and nodded pointedly over his shoulder.

              “You’re kidding me.” Fenton scrambled up, managing to loose his line, tangling it around his knees. Sure enough, just within eyesight, a crack in the darkness. Pink and purple lights radiated from it like a neon disco, clashing with each other and creating new colors, long, unidentifiable shapes inside made the light show wink and wobble.  “Oasis!” Fenton called.  He brought up the mounted HUD on the long-see, swinging it around towards the lights. “321 to port, 230 angels, 16.2 in-flight.” He rattled off the display readings.

              “321 to port, 230 angels, 16.2 in-flight.” The Watch Commander called back, adjusting the Caliban’s heading.

              Puck let her line loose and bobbed above the nest for a better view, catching hold of a halyard to steady herself. “Well, it’s shiny,” she offered her professional opinion. She brushed a strand of hair off her forehead; it stuck to the thin sheen of sweat that always clung to her skin, making everything damp and humid.  The soap bubble that kept the air in and the crush of space out was nice, but she always felt a bit like a naive lobster slowly boiling in a pot.

              Below, she heard the creak of the keel, sending vibrations through the ship, and up her rope, rattling her shoulder bones.  The rudder was turning.  The Caliban was an old ship, still made of spine-wood instead of iron.  It made her faster and more maneuverable than the Iron Ladies, but more reliant on the Oasis’ power to keep things chugging.

              At about 150 meters long, the ship’s hull was shaped like a cradle, or a very narrow U with a wide trough at the top to accommodate the masts, which were quite tall.  Her sails were silk; Puck didn’t know how many times she’d had to tat them when the worms got uppity.  A hodgepodge of colors, stripes, and patterns, the sails were bought for functionality rather than fashion. Puck liked them; she thought they made the ship look like a traveling circus, her shipmates floating acrobats performing for the stars.

              Below, Lennox called for the sails to be turned. The deck crew scuttled to the two sail-cranks, each a head taller than Puck, and shaped like thread spools. The seaman grabbed hold of the attached pegs and began pushing, rotating them, coiling the sheet line, and causing the great, silk sails to angle towards Oasis, drinking in the power.

              The ship lowered the starboard star-anchor just above the open scar of the Oasis. Looking over the side of her ship, Puck gazed into the mirror-world reflected from the other side of the universe.  There, 45 degrees askew from the Caliban, was another ship, a great Iron Lady painted gray and armed with nasty weapons.  The number “65” was painted on the hull of the ship, which dead-sticked silently through still water.

             The smell of sweet cigarette smoke tickled Puck’s nose as she watched the silent memory-ship glide forward, leaving only a minimal wake.  Though it was a mean-looking thing, there was a very real feeling of love in it, as though the dreamer felt truly at home.

             The dreamers, the ones with the memories, were called “Sources” because the energy that was siphoned from their dreams was the power Puck’s people relied on to survive. Not everyone in that other place was a Source; most weren’t.  No one knew why, but the Sources dreamed so powerfully that their minds literally pushed through the thin spots in between space, reaching out like they were looking for someone to listen to them. 

            The first hints of dawn appeared in the Oasis, the sun barely peeked over the horizon like it was waiting for permission to rise, turning the deep purples and inky blue-blacks of night into pale lavender, pink, and then orange.  The Source was on deck, watching as the morning dhows cast their hungry nets.  Surrounding islands, like spindly mountains, sprouted from the glassy water, vibrant green, and home to the morning songbirds.

             As the sun continued upwards, lazy and cat-like, the azure sky was still tinged pink on the horizon.  The water shone clear down to its bed, rippling with bright fish and twinkling diamond sea rocks. The mist above the ocean began to burn away, leaving the heavy scent of dew in the air. The Iron ship slowly sailed through.

             On Puck’s side of the universe, the star-sprites were drawn to the vivid memory like moths, dancing around and through, their jewel-bright skin glittering in the borrowed sunlight. As they appeared in the Source’s mind, they became schools of flying fish, skipping gracefully across the placid water.

             The constellations themselves even moved, drawing towards the Oasis.  Puck felt Fenton bob next to her, watching closely.  It was uncommon for the ancient stars to wake up long enough to take notice of anything.  They spun loose ovals, circles within circles, spirals and corkscrews, breathing in the emptiness around them. Diving through the dream, they were dolphins, following in the ship’s wake, each vying to see who could jump the furthest. Their eyes were liquid black like the empty sky, their hides wet and slick; they chittered and whistled, singing as they played.

             “I wish we could just leave it alone,” Puck murmured, the moment seeming a little too heavy for full volume. Like a temple, or a cemetery.

             She felt Fenton shrug next to her, “It’s what we do.  You know, cosmic balance, ouroboros, all that.” He waved his hand around in directionless circles, “it’s like—like a turn-to, a big wheel.  We play our part and they play theirs, round and round.”

             “I know that, smartass.” Puck shot him a withering glare, “I’m just saying it’s pretty, okay? I’m not looking to move in.” There was a long pause between them. “How long does it take, anyway? For them to really forget?”

             Fenton shrugged, “It depends, really. On them, the strength of their memories, on us.” He sunk down on the edge of the nest, coiling his line around his shoulder. “Some of them never forget.  But—they do always die.  One way or another, this is all they are.” There were distant voices as other people joined the Source on the deck of her dream-ship, chatting idly, lighting cigarettes, and breaking the magic.  The Oasis slowly began to fade.

             “If this is all they are, it’s not that bad.” Puck sat next to him, watching as space began to stitch itself together.  Already, below them on deck, she heard the sail-cranks move, sails readjusting. Fenton tapped his knee with two fingers, a habit he’d picked up from his father, the musician. “What is it?” She asked.

             “They die so quickly…” He seemed to shake himself, looking over at her.

             Knowing that he wanted to talk, which was rare enough, Puck leaned her head against his bony shoulder, “explain it to me, then.  The way you explained it before.”

             “You told me I was full of it.” He pointed out.

             “You still are. Tell me anyhow.”

             “It’s about the stories.” He began slowly and begrudgingly, like always, his fingers tapping his knee again. “That’s what’s left. Their lives are short; all they have are stories.  Sometimes those stories are so…big that they can’t help but explode out of them.”

             “And that’s how the Oases happen.” Puck supplied.

             “Yeah.  Then we come along, drain the power, make the Sources start to forget.  So they start telling the stories to their kids, their grandkids, their—parakeets, anything that’ll listen. And sometimes those stories become other stories, or fables, or songs, traditions, whatever, and they’re never forgotten. Until they’re a part of the ‘human condition.’”

             “But why does it matter? They’d keep on going without new stories.  They have all the old ones anyway. I never really got that part.” Puck looked up at him.

             Fenton smiled thinly, his eyes far away; the tapping stopped. “Stories are more powerful than people. Stories are living memories, passed down until there’s nothing left. I guess it’s—something for them to hold on to, a connection.”

             “So they create the memories, we make them forget, and then they—"

             “Make art.” Fenton looked down at her, his grin relaxing into something real. “That’s why we can’t just leave memories alone.  We’re all parasites holding on to each other in the dark.”

             Puck snorted, leaning her elbows against her knees, “You’re a real ray of positivity, Fent. Anyone ever tell you that?”

             “C’mon, we’re moving.” He slid back into the nest, rescuing his book as it tried to float away.

             “What’re you reading, anyway?” Puck asked as the Caliban pulled anchor and began to drift away.

             “What else?” Fenton asked. “Stories.” 

 

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this and all is mended,

That you have but slumber’d here

While these visions did appear.

                            W. Shakespeare