*                   *                   *

The idea was control. Complete control. As if having unlimited say over our every waking action wasn't enough, they also had to have our minds. "They," of course, being the omnipotent group known only as the government - united under the guise of democracy and built around those elite entities that knew the least about the universe and the most about warfare. Without the patience to construct an army to fight their wars, they instead made due with an abducted one - children of the poor or children of their enemies made to forget all that mattered, including their names. No, especially their names. Whether or not the average soldier had the emotional capability to kill innocent bystanders in cold blood without an upward of fifteen years of brainwash was undeterminable. Somehow, as I sat in a motley pub of a sad arid planet eying the outpost's collection of braggart soldiers, I very much doubted it.

The planet was called Zerecna, a sphere of blazing heat and water shortages situated uncomfortably in orbit twenty light-years from any place claiming to strong a bond to the government. The guards in the pub were merely scouts sent to look for some indiscernible prize among the outlaws and scum who usually furnished such places. I watched them and felt that all-too-familiar uneasiness in recalling how recently I counted myself among them. This, accompanied by the slight fear that they had finally come to take me away. Silly, I knew, the military had far more important ways to spend their time that collecting their lost and escaped soldiers. I sloshed my drink nervously, bringing my mind back to the days when I, too, wore a military number stamped on my chest.

I have no memory of life before the military, only brief shreds of color and emotion that occur when one is said to possess a mind. I knew only a life of drills, ranks, and orders - no remorse, no doubts, no memory. Only years later did I realize fully the extent of the horrors I had committed. Complete control. The passage of time was measured by my changing reflection.

"Those pigs," YuFour grumbled, drawing my attention out of my drink and back to the guards and their roughhousing. After the months of silence that would pass between us, YuFour's voice never ceased to surprise me with its softness. For decades we had known each other, and a few words every other months was all we required. His voice was flawless and managed to express the depth of everything he said. Over time I had guessed that maybe he had come from a long line of singers or actors. Fine ones. But there was no way to ever know - he certainly didn't remember. Or if he did, he never told me. I think I would have made a good poet - but that's neither here nor there.

My last military mission was a supply run to a prison planet. The armed ship was nearly in orbit when my squadron and I were rocked by the determined blasts of an approaching vessel. We ran to our posts only to be thrown away by sudden cabin depressurization. TL-135, a sprightly fellow, for a soldier, clung to his seat while he prodded the view screens to power. He yelled that our ship had been boarded and declared our attackers to be "ugly pirates". It was a stupid statement to make under the circumstances, but my shipmates and I found that we agreed: if they had to be pirates, at least they were ugly ones.

Once we were boarded it was a truly pathetic battle that ensued. Having no gravity in the ship, we soldiers floated softly in whichever direction the artificial-gravity-suited pirates wished us to go. Within moments the entire platoon was either captured or dead in the effort.   The slow and lightweight trip from military vessel 22-44K to the pirate's treasured Minced Dreams must have been one of the saddest moments of my life, though it didn't begin to compare with the fifteen hour wait that took place after we were brought on board.

Due to the gigantic Minced Dreams being as cluttered as it was, the pirates left us in a tiny supply bay that smelled vaguely of burnt space slugs. The fifteen hours spent there changed the lives of the five of us who remained. This haunting effect was achieved by the usually silent ST-421, who broke into shrieking tears and yelled repeatedly that he could still remember his name. As his continued screams filled the miniscule cabin we soldiers were plunged into the deepest recesses of our minds, somewhat envious. . .

He was killed by strangulation; a generous service given freely by TP-32C, the squadron commander. As the shrill cries of the military man faded, the silence that pulsed in our ears became more frightening than the original, and supposedly named, terror. Hours later, though it seemed like days, the bay doors opened to show the giant silhouettes of two tremendously ugly pirates. They were surely men who had likely donated sections of their brains to science, but the size of their muscles and the presence of weapons gave us no desire to test our own cunning. They stepped aside suddenly; revealing a much smaller man who introduced himself as Captain Tuckos.

Still shaking, we were led by the captain to a dimly lit dormitory where we were asked, quite genially, to share our identities. We immediately yelled our identification numbers in his face before realizing what he had really asked.

"Stav," said TL-135 slowly, still looking haunted by the hours spent wondering that very question.

"Carl," said KY-890, "I think."

But TP-32C would have none of it. He pulled himself up to attention, saluted the pirate captain, and told them, in clipped tones, that he was a military squadron commander, second class, and demanded that he be returned to his ship. It seemed for a moment that Tuckos was considering the demands, but seconds later he sighed, saying a resolute, "Very well", and made a motion that was quickly followed by a gun shot from one of the giant pirates to the chest of the proud squadron commander.

As the two larger men pulled the limp body from the room, Captain Tuckos rounded on me, asking for my name. I searched my memory, like I had in the tiny room, knowing that I would never find the simple word that had been my identity in another life. I hung my head, shielding my eyes from the retreating feet of the familiar, unnamed commander, and told the captain that I had no memory of a name. The armed men took a step towards me, looking at Tuckos for instructions. There was a long silence in which I knew death was assured that ended with an uneasy laugh from the pirate in front of me: "You'll have to work on that."

Before leaving Tuckos gave us three commands: change out of our military uniforms, report to the repair deck at seven, and to sleep well. The menacing looks on the faces of the other two pirates also told us not to step out of line. We stared at them all, shocked at their apparent trust, but we were only later to learn that the ship's crew had recently found itself greatly reduced, and additional hands, even those once clad in military regalia, were needed.

And so began my life of piracy. I started work immediately, doing repairs on the other damaged space vehicles. At first I was greeted with suspicious glares and malicious scowls, but I proved myself a diligent worker and the animosity towards me died away. I even found a friend in a young pilot named Jillian, who, as I discovered over a lukewarm bowl of cyberworm stew, had lost his family at the hands of military men like myself. Surprisingly, he didn't blame me, as I would have. Instead, we spent lunchtime discussing the dangers of space flight and the strange shortcomings of the group I had joined. Though the pirates had no problem with killing the soldiers that resisted arrest or selling the other troublemakers to the slave yards, no one on board really had the stomach to call me by a number.

So they called me "Bud."

It was only upon returning to my room that I remembered the other two soldiers who shared my peculiar situation. They had planned an escape - and had generously given me a part. So the next morning I headed to the medical center with skin-swelling cream on my face and peppermint schemes of stealing deadly chemicals in my head. Unfortunately the plan did not make it into the room - I had only to open the door to have the entire plot erased.

Standing inside was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen (not that I'd seen many). She took a quick look at me and immediately asked if my face had come into contact with gigumn gum. Flustered, I nodded, not able to take my eyes from the dazzling angel named Bernie. With a smile she asked for my name and I answered in a daze that I didn't remember. She giggled, "That's what they all say."

Upon my empty-handed return, my partners in crime were angry that I had failed so dismally at my task. I gave the quick excuse that there were innocent men and women aboard, to which Stav replied, "bother the innocent!" before setting off in a huff for the medical center. I felt like a coward, not having the guts to fulfill my duty, but memories of a broken leg in training camp (in which not a single soldier had hesitated to leave me) jarred me from any sense of guilt, and I left the remaining relics of military life for the cool hum of pirate ship hallways.

I soon met with Jillian who hurriedly pulled me to the flight simulator room where Tuckos was waiting. Wanting to see my aviation skills, and more importantly my aim, they stuffed me into the severely modified cockpit and left me there for quite some time to fight simulated battles against very familiar military ships.

They declared me an excellent marksman, but were a bit disturbed that I had targeted none of the military vessels. Later, through much practice and the strangely familiar task of trying to forget, I would learn to shoot the enemy vehicles while doing minimal damage to my own. But for the moment the simulation came to an abrupt end when a gigantic pirate ran to Tuckos with a single message - poison!

Carl and Stav had barricaded themselves in the kitchen and were involved in a bullet war - soldiers vs. pirates - due to the fact that their attempts at poisoning had failed. To some it may be sad to say that the soldiers didn't win that day, but I'm proud that, in the battle for possession of my mind, they never did again. As the bodies of my lost comrades were dragged away, the kitchen door slammed with an angry, "Dinner's gunna be a little late!"

*                   *                   *

It was two days later, after having moved into the pilot dormitories, that I found the courage to seek out Bernie again. Since charm is the first thing beaten from the minds of soldiers, and since at my age it wouldn't do me much good anyway, I simply asked if she would care eat cyberworm stew with me. To my surprise, and the obvious surprise of those with me, she agreed.

The food was horrid, but the company made up for it and by the end of the night I was madly in love. We spoke to the wee hours of morning, discussing politics while the cafeteria closed and recalled famous battles during the trek to the observation deck. As the white giant rose over Algora 10 a silence fell on both of us, too struck by the ethereal beauty to so much as move. Moments passed before I heard the soft voice next to me ask if I was happy. I tore my gaze from the face of the brilliant sun to look at an even brighter one and replied that I couldn't be happier seeing as how I had met the love of my life.

She leaned back and smiled, "Congratulations Bud, I hope she's good enough for you." My mind swam and I blurted out that she was absolutely perfect. "You use the word too loosely," she shook her head, "I've yet to see anything near that quality. Name one thing that's perfect."

I gazed into her daring eyes and answered with all honesty, "This moment."

Taken aback, she looked at me questioningly, and I felt a sudden urge to do something that I knew might ruin this moment and all moments to come. I kissed her.

I realized immediately that she might not feel the way I did, and I saw myself through her eyes as a terrible monster who had taken many lives. Completely disgusted with myself, I pulled away.

Apologizing profusely, I backed off, hanging my head. In response to my words of self-annihilation she asked me sweetly, "So, I am supposed to slap you now?"

Glancing at her quizzically, I answered, "You should, I'm horrible."

She walked to meet me and clasped my hands firmly, "Have I slapped you?" This time she kissed me. All the colors and emotions within my memory seemed to gather in one place and I felt as content as if I had remembered my name. I jerked away once again, this new thought captured in my mind; "Can you love a man with no name?"

Her eyes glistened in the sunrise as she moved towards the immense window and into the pools of light from the white giant. She spoke of her home planet and the terrifying events orchestrated by the Government that allowed its capture. "They stole your identity, just as they stole my family and countless others. One day the people of the universe will come together and return the terror to them tenfold. And when they're defeated you'll find your name."

It was the passion in her voice that night that inspired me to strike out against the military. Within months I earned the money to buy my own ship and I quickly joined the attacks on government bases. Our large pirate fleet was known as "the scourge of the military", bringing hope to the million victims and fear to the ruthless leaders. It was a constant circular trap - insulting them and later running from their superior forces, but we became more than just a stitch in their side - on our best days we may even have a headache. And through it all, Bernie was there with me, her eyes full of pride and victory.

It surprised me that I had the capacity to love, and I often asked Jillian how a man with no identity could feel something so human. Love reminded me of breathing, for, as our souls entwined, it seemed as essential to survival as air itself. Yet, with all the glory and happiness, I lived in constant fear that I would die before remembering my name.

*                   *                   *

And so it still seems today. I could sit here forever dreaming of those few months where I had everything but a title. I thought then it was tragic, to have lost a name, but soon after I lost much more, and I knew truly that I would never escape the government's control. Planting my drink gently on the table, I watched as a tear created waves within the cup, and allowed my mind to return to the battle that stole the love of my life.

At least she died in a blaze of glory. She would have wanted it that way.

I have stated previously that the fifteen-hour wait in the smelly cargo bay was the saddest event of my life - and I still hold to that. Bernie's death wasn't sad - it was devastating. I have yet to begin recovery.

It was a space battle of which epics are written, and Bernie had the unfortunate idea of joining me for the capture of the military ship. We raged on board to find it strangely empty and a sudden sense of foreboding caused many to double back towards their escorts. The silence broke when hundreds of soldiers, through holes in the ceiling, dropped upon our bewildered heads. I quickly regained my battle senses and stepped protectively in front of Bernie, pulling the trigger like a man possessed. In all my frenzy I failed to see what Bernie did - a barrel aimed my way. She gave her life to save me - a middle-aged man playing pirate without so much as a name.

As her soul retreated from the body in my arms, she smiled at me and insisted, "You'll find your name". The rhythm of her last words repeated in my dazed mind and I heard the long-dead voice of ST-421 saying at the same tempo, "I know my name."

"You are my name," I whispered into the din of shrieking voices and blaring sirens, accompanying my words with the first tear I ever remembered crying.

*                   *                   *

I do not recall leaving the military ship, but I remember waking to find myself hurtling through space. Jillian, piloting my vehicle, mumbled incoherently about the death of Tuckos and the destruction of Minced Dreams . I began to laugh hysterically, in all my misery, as I found myself stumbling to reach a decent location to expel my lunch. My spine came in sudden contact with the ceiling of my ship as we were blasted from the sky by the ever-present antagonist whose only goal was to ruin my life. Tangled in a mass of cloths, blankets, and mattresses, I lost consciousness once more while my wounded ride spiraled towards a sea of burning gold.

I'm told that the crash was horrifying. Residents of this little desert planet ran quickly to my aid, some crying to see the child-like pilot angled limply halfway through the cockpit windshield. As I drifted back to consciousness, aided immeasurably by the terrified voices, I smelled Bernie on the fabric that enfolded me, cruelly mixed with the pungent odor of regurgitated cyberworm stew.   My sobbing reached such volumes that I was discovered within minutes, cut free of my trap, and carried to the pleasant home of a generous local.

My memories of the next few months are vague, though they tell me that I would barely wake for weeks and I could do little more than mutter, "You are my name," before losing consciousness once more. In a final attempt to aid my recovery, they sent me to work as a mechanic, hoping that the hands-on nature of the job would keep my tormented mind busy. Though grateful for their kindness, I spent all remaining hours in the local pub where I joined fellow galaxy rejects who had who suffered similar antagonists, and together we drowned our sorrow.

At least I did at first. As time passed I found myself simply staring at the glossy surface of the drink instead of inhaling it. I could not fathom an existence spent in numbing alcoholism, but it seems that I could only lose my life once, and my hollow shell is now doomed to survive though all my dreams are dead. Another tear disturbed the calm liquid and I forced myself to look away from the distorted reflection of my unnamed self.

It was only then, after being so immersed in my memory, that I again noticed the soldiers, who, with all their brainwash, were now threatening a little boy attempting to relieve them of their table scraps. It seemed that yelling at the meager thing was not enough - they felt he was dangerous enough to pull out their guns. I rose immediately; fueled by the horrific stories of those I've loved and lost. Shielded the child, I received the bullet in my long-broken heart. As I fell I saw the boy run into the bustle of the streets, safe in the mob.

*                   *                   *

It is said that people feel either content or scared when they die, though I must disagree because I felt both. Her love was with me to the end, taking away all my fears, and I was contented to know that I had died a free man saving an innocent child from a certain death. However, moments later, as my vision spotted black, I felt a sharp panic seize my body as the stunningly familiar, long-silent voice in my mind screamed:

"No, wait! My name is Adrian Warner, please don't let me die!"