...To swim (at peace) in my tank, removed, by a lifetime, from the planet that used to be my home. I can go back, when the doctors say that it is safe for me, when they say that I am near the upper limit of my tolerances, when they say all of the things they think I do not hear. They are not foolish, they know of my abilities when I am in deep navigational cognition, they know my addictions and my weaknesses, but sometimes they forget. I say nothing. Except to my brothers. My sisters. And the ones in-between. Other pilots. Other navigators. Other ships. But we don't have to speak among ourselves. We know everything there is to know, because as we swim our ships to the boundaries of known Human space, we ARE the ships, swimming. We sense the universe around us, feeling the prickle of countless radiations on our skin, or the chill of interstellar void. We sense the radio crackle of distant gas giants and the synchrotron wails of black holes devouring all, including time, light, and even themselves, we taste gamma rays, we slough through particle storms, drinking the shaped EM winds that are non-human intelligences, speaking quietly to one another. No mere human can do this. No sane human. That is what the doctors say. They judge sanity by different standards than pilots/ships. (Only Humans of Nemaean blood even know of the other ingelligences...the cool/glacial/alien minds who speak directly to the ships/pilots of our fleet.) (In)Sanity does not matter to me now. Nor do the alien gifts that it brings. We are home, for the first time in years, my escort-brothers and I. Nemaea. I am warmed by the most familiar of suns, I hear the whispers of an entire world. I listen. I swim. And feel the hot, caustic spark of human endeavor here. I am at peace, and soon, when the doctors give me clearance, I will separate from my ship-skin, as will my escort-brothers. I will touch my flesh, and the flesh of my brothers. They will touch themselves, and they will touch me. We will be animals again, though our own company is all we are allowed to keep. No matter. It is enough. We will be men again, nothing more, and in the confining moisture of our own human flesh, we will keep our silence between us, speaking only through the eloquence of touch, and other senses that aren't exactly human. But until such time as that, we will linger beyond the orbit of the largest moon, riding the gravity currents of Core-Nemaea, dizzying ourselves as we drink familiar solar winds. For a time, we will be men--only men. Not for an eternity, but long enough. We will return, in one month's cycle, to our ship-skins and our missions. We will drink solar winds to mark the start of our next voyage. But for now, we drink solar winds to a voyage completed. "Nostrovia," my ship-brothers say to me. "Nostrovia." --From the personal logs of the Nemaean starship/pilot Lev, identified in human aspect as Alexandr Viktorovich Peretolchin. (Translated from High Nemaean by Charles C. Black) ***** Ah...the drama of Nemaea... This image was composed in the pinched hours of late, late night. I was thinking of Nemaea, and the conclusion of it's complicated drama when this image popped into my head. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting...and as always, I hope you enjoy this image as much as I enjoyed making it, and its companion pieces.