Not Every Dream         Not every dream is just a dream.   And if it wasn't something it was always something else.         He lurched out of his notoriously uncomfortable bed and dragged his exhausted body from the bedroom into the living room.   A warm morning light washed through the blinds and onto the wreck of an apartment he called home.   He'd been dreamingÖ imagining.   The ashtray on the coffee table was overflowing with emptied butts and the rings from sweaty cans or glasses dotted a little end table beside his couch. The last thing he remembered was calling the police department late the night before.   Upon returning to Panuska, Tyler Patrick noticed his car wasn't in the place he'd left it.   Was he dreaming?         No.   There on the couch sat a small fliptop notebook on which he'd scribbled the number he was to call this morning with a claim number the police gave him.   It wasn't stolen, but towed by the city as the body politic commenced its bi-weekly ritual of scrubbing the streets free of the vomit and terror that coated them in the meantime.   Tyler didn't see the sign or two they posted on W. Whittier St., and so completely forgot that yesterday was the day.           He'd even gotten a bad haircut just before returning; a haircut he absolutely hated, a near-buzz.           Ninety-three GP just to have access to his car.   It'd be another seven to be able to drive it off the impound lot.   He had fourteen in his checking account ñ enough to eat for maybe a day or two.   Certainly not enough to pay for such unnecessities.         He walked down his short hallway, past half of a broken bathroom mirror.   He'd closed the shower door a little too hard a few days back and the mirror came tumbling off the wall.   After cutting his hand moving it, he placed the top half into the hall and left the bottom propped up behind the sink.   He drearily pushed open the bathroom door, bent over to look at his sorry complexion in the dirtied broken mirror, and proceeded to the toilet.   He flipped up the seat ñ unsure of why it was down ñ andÖ         "I don't smoke," he scratched his head with his free hand.   "Am I dreaming?"         The air conditioner rattled overhead as he flushed the toilet.   He washed his hands and dried them, leaving the water running so that he could splash some water on his face.   He pried his eyes open as he couldn't shake the feeling thatÖ something was wrong.   Was he still dreaming?   *         *         *         *         *         *         *         *         *         * "Terrible was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack upon the gods; of them is told the tale of Otys and Ephialtes who, as Homer says, dared to scale heaven, and would have laid hands upon the gods. Doubt reigned in the celestial councils."    -Speech of Aristophanes; The Symposium         Three hours and a bluish rain fell, splashing on him as he watched the cool colors of the nighttime sky swirl and the flowers sway in the light breeze that carried with it the intoxicating milieu of aromas of the flower fields of Marabon.   It wasn't a clearing so much as a hill, rolling as it were, surrounded by over-sized flowers with a penchant for the primary color palette.   Daisies and snapdragons peppered the area canvas, all adding to the quiet majesty of the evening.   The fields were a unique kind indeed, a place where a man could come to think in undisturbed peace.   A place where poets dreamed and lovers wandered.         A casual cricket pranced onto the knee of Master Sergeant Charlie Frakes, in full military dress he sat with his jacket unbuttoned and cap at his side.   A special agent in logistics and explosives and hero of the lower ranks of a covert operations division of the Grand Army, Frakes had been through a lot since he ëd enlisted three years prior.   It was muddy but tolerable, as he knew full well that the rain would pass in short.         The cricket chirped a somber tune and hopped away, landing on a nearby petal and splashing a drop of water or two onto the ground below.           It's disturbing that in these times a man can give his all for naught, struggling to maintain some semblance of identity and purpose.   It's equally disturbing, I think, that a man can offer all for the respect, love, and worship of a woman; and that the temptations of a well-drawn chin and a strong chest may sometimes prove more powerful.         Charlie looked up at the sky and wished for a star to fall, carefully botting his eyes as the rain trickled down his forehead.   In his hand was a metallic ballpoint pen; in his lap were two half-written letters, soaking in the heavenly shower while he pondered what to write next and in which letter.   One was to his old friend, Tyler Patrick, having grown up in the city of Panuska in old Carrion.   The two had fenced together through their high school years, and then competed while attending opposing colleges for a semesterÖ Charlie left Truce College for the GA.   Tyler left PASA for other reasons.         He smiled, always a content if not always happy man, rubbing his shoulder as he thought about the day he had.   He spent the entire afternoon in an Arythian jewelry store searching for the perfect stone and the perfect band with which to present Meredith.   Meredith Wickliffe, the angel on the shoulder of young Charlie, had made the impression he thought he'd never feel.   He loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, traveling, seeing the beauties and wonders of the web of worlds.   She was one of those girls you loved not for her heavenly body, but for the endless conversations you could have. The silent moments of complete bliss were signature to him; tells that made it very clear that she was the one.   He believed in fate and the ways of the gods, and he knew he was meant to be with Meredith as much as she was meant to be with him.         "Ugh," he laughed, picking up the half-folded letter to Tyler.   He'd only written three words thus far: ëI'm sorry, Tyler.'   From there he was having trouble explaining what he was sorry for.   He dropped the letter back into his lap as a tiny fairy-like creature fluttered past, a trail of sparkling dust floating behind.   Charlie leaned back on his hands, tilting his head and closing his eyes.   His mind was immediately filled with images, and thoughts of his joys and travails sailed through with no measurable pattern or orderÖ ----------         Just as he was in the streets of Panuska, waiting, stalking like a feline and rolling his eyes, calmly contemplating enemies as well as friends.   He made it quite intelligible to anybody, even from a distance, that whoever attacked him would be likely to meet with a stout resistance ñ for this is the sort of man who is never touched in war.         A fierce battle against a division manned by Colonel Jonathan Popelka had resulted in heavy losses for Frakes' force.   His commander killed by a billow of shrapnel, Frakes' had reluctantly been thrown into command of the unitÖ a group charged with overrunning a complex said to be home to the experimental "Molior Gate" technology.   A method and a machine, essentially, for the mobile construction of artificial Gates; Molior had caught the concerned ears of many in the GACA fearful of the effects of such a technology being widely disseminated.           Suddenly, a blast rang out in the afternoon shadows.   Shots everywhere echoed notes up and down the lines. As waves of sweat-soaked soldiers rolled forward, the high defiance of the attacked pierced the gloomy woods.   Popelka`s division erupted from the trees and sent the astonished GA unit reeling. "Destroy them all," cried an opposing soldier, "and let them taste the fires of hellÖ!"         Most of Frakes' men fought bravely, drawing three additional battle lines across Popelka's path. But the overmatched GA regiment occupied an untenable position. The screaming green legions overwhelmed each Alliance stand and eventually drove the Thirty-Seventh Regiment completely from the field.         Sunset and the inevitable intermingling of Frakes' brigades compelled Popelka to call a reluctant halt to the advance about 7:15. He summoned Major General Wausau's division to the front and, typically, determined to renew his attack despite the darkness. Popelka hoped to maneuver between Dorn and his escape routes across the rivers and then, with Irvin`s help, grind this unit of the Grand Army into oblivion.         A crossfire of bullets and plasma blasts andÖ the memory dimmedÖ ----------         Frakes' regiment would go on to win the limited skirmish but not without great cost.   The travails of conflict, so often overlooked in favor of the heroism and triumphant spirit of victory, weighed heavily on the Master Sergeant.   While Wausau brought his brigades forward, Popelka quickly traveled ahead of his men to survey. Frakes promptly flanked his men to the left in an area of brush a few hundred yards from the complex.   When Popelka attempted to return from the direction Frakes' men had been stationed, a few of his soldiers mistook his small party for GA infantry. Two volleys burst forth in the blackness and Popelka tottered atop his speeder, suffering from three wounds. Shortly thereafter a GA shell struck Irvin too, incapacitating him, and direction of the division devolved upon an opposition member of a lower rank.         "Molior," Charlie grimaced, reaching over to massage a crick in his left shoulder.   The complex that the technology was being developed in was heavily guarded, Popelka generally considered by those in the know as one of the "great unknowns" of the web when it came to armed defense and combat.   It was a testament to the wealth of the corporation developing the technology that it could afford such protection, requiring the strength of the Grand Army to halt further research outside of GACA control.         He had little idea of where the information he and his men ripped from the grasp of the opposition had gone; assigned to a unit with higher security clearance or a different specialty in the operations division, no doubt.   He found it interesting however that only a year after the raid on the complex he and three of his men were called forth to handle another Molior-related incident.   Two agents working on the project were planning to sell the secrets they'd learned to agents from a fascist government.   Charlie and his men destroyed an entire cafÈ, incinerating it in its entirety, to destroy the men, the information they carried, and those they were dealing with.   A brief explanation of the incident to his friend Tyler had inspired him in his own writing.         He didn't want to, but he couldn't help but confound himself with thoughts of Molior on this particular eveningÖ he kicked one leg over the other as he shook some of the rain from his hair.   He remembered the writings of Belthasar who explained, "The phenomenon of Gates has been chalked up to the existence of a rare red metal called "Vosium"." How then could a Gate be constructed without the vast presence of the metal?   Or did the people considering the technology also own depositsÖ perhaps a deal with Guardia had been struck?   The questions bounced around his head, filling his mind with an endless array of clamoring voices all jockeying for position in his conscious thought.           A religious man, he believed the gods arranged things as they were for whatever grander purpose or design they envisioned.   What confused him further was the one Gate in Aryth that was presumably portableÖ the fussÖ the confusionÖ Charlie knew this wasn't the time or place to be concerning himself with these questions.   He'd certainly had his fill of suspense and intrigue.   Now all he desired was an answer, a final link to the circleÖ love.           The flower fields were capable of doing strange things to the mind of a man.   On some they acted as an aphrodisiac; depending on where in the field and what flowers you were surrounded by you might swear you saw visions of the future or vivid glimpses into the past.   One woman once claimed to have virginally conceived a child while dancing through the maze of tulips and multi-colored rosesÖ that story, of course, headlined every tabloid cover and earned the woman a scarlet letter for "insanity." None could argue, however, that the flower fields of Marabon were an interesting place.         His thoughts again turned to Meredith.   And then, he heard a soundÖ soft footfalls stepping lightly through the flowers.         "You came," Charlie looked up and smiled.   The rain began to let up as a silky blanket of stars poured over the flower fields.   Meredith, holding her skirt up with one hand and keeping her balance with the other, stumbled over in front of him.   She looked good, a little disheveled after walking in the rain, but with her long eyelashes and heart-melting smile made his heart shutter for a moment before it moved on.           "Did you think I'd pass up a chance to slosh through the rain and mud to see you?" she smiled.   "Get out of here."   She looked at him sweetly.   "SoÖ"         Charlie looked down at his lap.           "Is thatÖ?" Meredith paused, following his eyes down and seeing the two pages of paper plastered against his lap.         Drawing his legs into an Indian-style position he leaned forward.   "This is for you," he nodded, handing her the letter he'd been contemplating.   A tear ran down her cheek, mingling and blending in with the beaded raindrops that covered her face.   The letter had but four wordsÖ ëI love you, Meredith.'         "OhÖ Charlie," she smiled.   She looked down at the letter and then back at him again.   His smile dropped momentarily.         "But I know now that you don't feel the same," he shook his head.         "ÖCharlie?" she looked up, the confused look of the caught unfaithful in her eye.         "I would rather be able to appreciate things I can`t have than to have things I am not able to appreciate."   Silently he dropped his pen and raised a balefire pistol.   He pointed, took aim, and with a single shot young Meredith fell limp into the chaotic entanglement of flowers behind her.         "To hell with your punishments," he murmured to the gods he was positive would be watching.   "To hell with you."         He raised the pistol to his head and fired once. It wasn't a clearing so much as a hill, rolling as it were, atop which two young lives ñ soldiers and lovers ñ came to an end. *         *         *         *         *         *         *         *         *         *    "You can't urinate in dreams," Tyler shook his head.   "Can you?"         He shut off the water and looked over the countertop into a small trashcan sitting between it and the toilet.   He noticed something other than the usual affair: an envelope torn open and a folded letter partially visible.   He reached down and pulled it from the wastebasket, withdrawing the letter and leaving the envelope to coast to the floor.   As he unfolded the piece of paper he noticed that the writing on the envelope was different from that in the letter itself.   The letter was wrinkled as though it had been soaked in water beforehand; the writing not quite smeared but certainly weathered.         "I'm sorry, Tyler.   'MSCF' is all that it said."         Was he still dreaming?