See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

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The Leveret rose into a haunted sky, her pilot more confident in its understanding of the astrocielo than Jorge had been.  The corsario unfolded her wings and soared through the turbulent atmosphere adroitly.  Blasfemia took what she could of the front port view from her position – not much.  Just flashes of the light show.

“Is this the astrocielo?”

“Hoho, I’m not touching that until we get a good damn distance from the planet.  It might take hours.”

“Why so damn slow?”

“Ever wanted to see a burning angel the size of a small planet?  Dodge a random twitch of its hand?  I don’t even want to contemplate how many people are dying right now.  I was born in the astrocielo, but sometimes the physical world looks like paradise by comparison.”

“Long space is some bullshit, bro.  Are you sure?”

“I don’t even want to risk taking a peek, thank you.”  The corsario tried to relax, and spun the seat to face its captor.  “Try to relax.  This turbulence could last a few hours.”

Blasfemia did her best to ride it out.  In a way, it was soothing.  The rattle of the hull shook the tension out of her muscles, and she almost passed out.  And when the rattling stopped – when the atmosphere was breached – she did.

To her surprise, on waking, she hadn’t been jettisoned as so much space trash.  The corsario walked back to her, no need for safety belts then, and handed her a brown wooden ball.  It stood close by, one hand on the low ceiling.  “Show me where you want to go.”

She examined it.  A globe of Corazon 2, of course.  Beneath its smooth translucent lacquer, the world map had been burned into the wood.  “Easy.  North pole.”  She pushed the globe back into its hand.  “Josefina went to her abuela.”

“Am I better off not knowing?”

“Not a real abuela.  The crone taught her how to be a witch.  It’s the only place she felt safe…  Say, you really don’t recognize me?”

“No.”

“They had me on the tele when I … did my rampage.  I called myself Blasfemia, and the Church loved it.  I was the anti-poster girl for their whole shit.”

“Maybe it was just global news.”  It pressed the ball into the compartment and slunk to the front of the ship.

Blasfemia unbelted herself and followed the duende this time, getting a good view of the stars.  “It doesn’t look fucked up anymore.  You wanna go astrocielo yet?”

“Looks are deceiving.  We’re still in Dio 6’s gravity.  I don’t care how weak it is at this range; still closer than I want to be to that whole situation.”  It sat down and spun in its seat to regard her.  She found it strange, making eye contact with a cyclops.  “So I drop you off at the north pole of Corazon 2, fuel up, and I’m free, right?  No more you?”

“Unless Josefina is on another world.  Then I’m still gonna need a ride.”

The corsario pressed a paw into its forehead.  “Maybe we should be discussing recompense, Blasfemia.”

She patted it on the arm, with a mostly clean hand.  “It’s OK, Corsario.  This is what you were made for.”

The corsario considered the comment.  “Might be…”  It trailed away in reflection.  Life as a spirit was confusing.  This isn’t a problem for most of their number, as they are not very introspective.  The more familiar one becomes with humanity, however, the more one can see of one’s self.  That self, especially for incorporeal spirits, was very subject to change.

Ectons and ectonic energy took forms that reflected ideals – not ideals in a wholly abstract sense, but the mysterious patterns that caused ectonic aggregation in the first place.  No scientist had yet isolated the physical form of those ideals, but the most learned agreed they must exist.  The ideal or ideals that initially form a spirit can be altered, added to, or lost, which results in an alteration of the spirit itself.  And when the incorporeal mind alters, so do memories, personalities – from the spirit’s perspective, entire life histories.

The corsario’s mind had become corporeal, when it chose to pilot the Leveret into long space, and in so doing, its sense of self had resolved – become less subject to change.  But its memories before that time were awash in contradiction.  The most clear vision of its early life was the cartoon image of fuzzy black goblin lassoing a wild machine spirit in the silver void, and taming it like a horse.  The space vaquero, as she had said.

But had that all been rewritten to craft the ideal of a corsario?  Which came first, the pilot or the Leveret?  The creature regretted the curiosity that had made self-awareness into part of its being.

The stars of long space were so steady, so firm, suspended in nigh-infinite darkness.  That appearance of steadiness was an artifact of time; a sufficiently long view of the fourth dimension would show an exploding mess made of exploding messes, racing toward its own extinction.  But the corsario found its own narrow view of space-time to be soothing, and it admired the stillness with its huge pink eye.

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