The Weaver, my adopted mother, has ordered me to create a record of my thoughts and actions for future generations. I cannot imagine that the recollections of an orphan and lowly Captain would be of much importance, except perhaps as a footnote to the record of the deeds of my Lord and Master. The Weaver insists that it will be of help to my people in the future, as they look back on this most tumultuous time in their history. Perhaps my words will help them better understand how they came to be civilized, and why my Lord has done what he must to help them. It is difficult to look at one so great directly, so perhaps, in seeing him through my eyes, they can better understand him. If this is my mission, then I must be honest in it and hold nothing back from this record, no matter how poorly it might reflect on me. For I am a flawed vessel for my Lords mission, but I am his to command.

I was born to be sacrificed on this savage world and would have died from exposure if I were not saved by my Lord’s grace. He came to this world from a great Empire that spanned the stars. His mission is to make the people of this world into citizens of the Galaxy. How could he have known that the people of this world would prefer to live on their own little rock like hermits, clinging to fantasies. The xenophobic people of this world, my people, as my Lord so often reminds me, resist civilization, technology and diversity. They would prefer their old ways, leaving infants out to die in the winter in deference to their imaginary gods.

Weaver tells me that when my Lord came to this planet, he found me wailing at the forest edge, naked and exposed to the elements. He was astounded at the cruel savagery of my people, to abandon a healthy infant to death. He decided to take me in as his own, to show the natives that they need not follow their old folk-ways. His compassionate action has earned him no favor among my people, neither he nor I can walk freely among them unarmed. When I go through the village, I am never without a companion and a sidearm. The people part for me as I pass, avoiding my footsteps as if they were poison.

Though some of my people have learned to accept his gifts, there are still rebels that seek to punish him for my life, to wreak the vengeance that their gods are too weak to do themselves. These insane rebels take refuge in the forest or hide among the people who are too stupid to understand that they are sheltering terrorists.

They say that among my people, I am beautiful, but all I see is weakness. I have no claw, nor fang nor scale. My hands are soft and my teeth are flat as those of a cow. My skin is pink and parts like sand under a knife. Unlike so many of my Lords servants, I do not have any magic inside me, nor can I change my shape. My eyes are water blue, and my hair is yellow as the second sun, and grows irritatingly fast.  I would shave it, but that my Lord finds it difficult to identify me among my people without it, as we all look very much the same to him. But weakness is no excuse for defeat, weakness only means that you must try harder than everyone else, to rise above how you were made to what you can become. There is always a way.

Ah, the alarm of the shift change has sounded. It is time for me to sleep. Unlike many of the others, I require as many as six uninterrupted hours of sleep to function. Another weakness. I am lucky to have a Master that tolerates this much.

READ ALL                                                                           PART TWO