THE STUFF DREAMS ARE MADE ON Voy, Paris/Kim by James Kythe Walkswithwind The clouds looked peaceful today, or perhaps it was the smell of the rain finally approaching, that made the tension in his body finally begin to ease. It had been hot, lately, much too hot for his frail body to endure for long. Nevermind he didn't have to endure it, nevermind he could have returned indoors where the atmosphere was kept at whatever level he desired. It was much better out here, with all the stifling heat the planet wanted to throw at him. Much better out here, where he could look up and see sky. He had carefully never mentioned his slight claustrophobia. Too many years spent cooped up had made their impression, and though he could have explained away his need for the outdoors easily to a sympathetic doctor, he chose not to. It wasn't their business to know what went on inside his mind. No matter how many times they muttered the phrase 'mental health' and 'psychiatric review'. The staff indulged his requests for attending the large parties thrown by dignitaries for whatever purpose dignitaries threw parties. Every weekend someone took him, in a ground car, to the sprawling mass of the city nearby and let him walk among the hundreds of strangers, smiling and greeting and leaving behind him a trail of whispered conversations. 'That's one of them,' they would tell each other. 'He was one of the ones..' Usually he ignored those whispers. Usually he concentrated on surrounding himself with a thousand new faces, gathering together in this building or that, at this pavilion or that one. Always a new place, always a new crowd of faces. Sometimes he didn't believe it was real. Sometimes he raised his hand, about to ask for the arch, knowing that this program he'd created was too real, too satisfying to be anything but scary. He would always stop himself, though, knowing that any attempt at such nonsense would be greeted with the quick presence of a nurse standing at his side, asking him if he wouldn't rather sit down, perhaps even go home. He hated that. The way they treated him like.. like a senile old fart. He hated the way they smiled patiently, as they indulged his whims- as if the need for such things as these parties, these days spent outside under the hot sun were anything but absolutely necessary. He couldn't explain that to them, he hadn't even tried. No one could understand, who hadn't been there. It didn't matter. He didn't care if they understood, if they wanted to understand, if they even cared why he did these things that he did. He was old, and had "endured".. those two things gave him an immunity like nothing else in the universe. He could do, say, be any damn thing he pleased and no one so much as rebuked him. He grinned. And it wasn't like him not to take advantage.. The girls had found their way home, of course. He didn't know if they had ever found their swimming suits, but in this day and age who cared about a little nudity? Especially the nudity of two such wonderful specimens of the female person. The head nurse had simply shaken her head when she found out, pursing her lips as she always did when she wanted to scold him. But she only told him it was late, and wasn't he ready to go to sleep? He rubbed a hand over his face, and looked up at the clouds. They would bring rain, in perhaps another few hours. He watched as they billowed in still motion, filling the northern half of the sky with their soft grey and white puffs. He had gotten good at reading the weather, here. So very good. It came from spending so much time on the surface, outside the comforts of the nursing home. He laughed at himself. When was the last time he'd flown among those kinds of clouds? When was the last time he'd wanted to? It hadn't taken them seventy years. Despite their best calculations, despite every effort, it hadn't taken seventy years. He didn't know, know, exactly how long it *had* taken. He could have found out easily enough, had he wanted anyone to start whispering again about losing his memory. The last time they'd started whispering that, he had found himself in a room with an interviewer, impassionately explaining how necessary it was to preserve his thoughts, his remembrances for history. The tapes and logs were not enough, they said. They wanted his impressions, his views, his life recorded and preserved for people to read and learn and understand. To gawk at, he'd answered them. Entertained by something they could never hope to appreciate. Amused by the drama, the excitement, the tradegy.. The pretty young reporter had tried to argue for her position. He had an obligation, she'd said. As the only one who'd returned, it was his duty to tell them everything he could. His reply had been short, simple, and had made the head nurse purse her lips when she found out. That immunity thing, again. He'd needed it, that time. He wasn't sure he *could* explain, anyway, why they had done what they'd done. Why some of the crew had stayed behind, why the Voyager's logs had been carefully transferred, why he had been the only one to return on that small, cramped frieghter aching to be let out after so many hours of manuel flying. He'd walked out of the room with his personal history safely inside him. So what if it died, with him. He didn't care. The only things he cared about now were these storms that swept across the land, drenching everything in glistening patterns. These storms brought him the feeling that perhaps, somewhere, some part of his life could make sense. That perhaps, somewhere life would continue. That perhaps, somehow, they would forgive him. Sometimes he thought he heard *his* voice in the winds, telling him he was dreaming, telling him he was imagining things, kidding himself. But most of the time the storms simply came and went, dropping their bundle on him and going about their way, fading and regrouping as storms are wont to do. Most of the time his memories carried the voice away, as well, into the distance. Like the memory of the first time he placed his hand on his friend's cheek, tenderly, feeling that warmth suffusing his skin. Looking into those clear, bright eyes gazing back at him with just the barest hint of confusion, of disbelief, then the way they shined as the realisation struck them both. The huge stretch of that smile, as that realisation was accepted, embraced, just as he was then accepted and embraced.. Or the memory of the first time they made love. The awkward way they'd undressed, both of them not sure if they should turn away, give each other some privacy, or if they should boldly stare in naked lust and appreciation at the body each was about to explore. Finally he smiled, than laughed, and soon they were collapsed one on top of the other in a tangle across the bed. The laughter had given way quickly to passionate kisses, and fumbling hands removed the remainder of clothing without further delay. A thousand memories of the taste of his lover's skin, the smell of his body as they writhed together, naked flesh pressing tightly. The way his fingers would curl through his hair, pulling him forward, easing him away, guiding sometimes, sometimes simply carressing as they joined. The feel of those firm muscles, tensed beneath him, beginning their rapid trembles that bespoke of a torrential rush of ecstasy. The sound of their voices moaning together, the contented sighs afterwards, the gentle laughter that often punctuated their lovemaking. There was the memory of the time, a long time before those memories, when they had sat across a table in the mess hall, saying things they weren't sure the entire meaning of, but already knowing they had to discover their hidden truth. The way he had quietly spoken of his feelings, couched carefully in terms of their long-standing friendship. The way the other man nodded, agreeing, not yet saying more but with the signs obvious to anyone looking back on them after. Obvious the way those glances, those gestures, spoke of more than simple friendship. Perhaps even the memory of the day they announced their engagement. That stunned surprise which gave way to delighted laughter - for everyone on board had known, and had been waiting patiently (and in some cases not so patiently) for the two to come to their senses and admit what they felt and do something constructive about it. The happy smile on the Captain's face as she accepted the duty which was the most favourite duty of ship captains everywhere. The bachelor's party, the night before, carefully divided into two holosuites, but with a generous mixing of attendees from one to the other- only the bachelors themselves were kept in their respective parties, adhering to some tradition no one remembered the reason for. Or the ceremony. The long nights spent designing the holoprogram, fixing details with the friends who had volunteered to coordinate, arguing over whose culture and which traditions to follow. Making up after those arguments and realising the entire ceremony was for the diversion of the crew, since they already had everything they ever wanted. And then standing side-by-side, finally, looking past the Captain at the backdrop of stars, wondering if any of those stars would ever look familiar again, wondering if this fantasy would ever give way to reality. Wondering if when they returned home, this marriage would remain. There was the last memory of that voice. The last moment he had heard his husband speak to him, the last time he'd felt his hand on his arm, that light brush of his lips, feeling the promise of more to come, later, after this duty's shift. The gentle smile untempered by the years, the bright flash of mischief he still, still had never learned the reason for.. His last words he knew by heart, there was no need to repeat them now. It was most often the other memory, that served to rend the need for distraction from him. The smell of coming rains overcame the stench of burning circuitry, the sound of the wind drowned out the glaring klaxon of a red alert. The sight of the soft, dark clouds covered up the dark red blood, spilling all over the carpet down here in the personnel quarters where things like this weren't supposed to happen. Damages and injuries should have been confined to the other areas of the ship like engineering, the bridge, perhaps even hallways but not in the rooms where people lived and laughed and loved. The rythmn of the falling rain changed the pattern of his cries, the rising and falling of his voice as he wailed in denial. The pressure of the storm removed the pressure of those hands, pulling him away, holding him back from holding that crushed body one last time.. The storm was coming tonight, and would be here just as the sun was going down. It was a good time for a storm. The day had been so hot. the end