Buck Rogers blinked—and in that blink, the universe changed.
One heartbeat he was surrounded by impossible light, otherworldly voices speaking in riddles and revelations. The next, he was back—strapped into the cockpit of his Earth Directorate starfighter, the low hum of the engines whispering through the hull like a lullaby from home.
Starlines streaked past as the ship sailed through lightspeed toward Earth. The familiar constellation of systems ahead told him all he needed to know.
He was going home.
He let out a breath, long and slow.
“A dream,” he muttered, his voice edged with disbelief. “Just a dream.”
But it hadn’t felt like one. Not like the others.
He shifted in his seat, trying to shake the sensation that still clung to him. Like dust from another world.
Flashes came back—scattered, surreal.
A jungle. No... not a jungle. A forest, but wrong somehow. Wild, ancient, echoing with animal sounds and the distant crash of hooves. He’d walked it. Alone. Sunlight streamed through the canopy, casting long shadows across ruins half-buried in the undergrowth.
And then the forest faded—and something colder took its place.
A hall. A strange, somber hall lined with glass and stone.
He saw faces—human faces—behind glass. Frozen. Stuffed. Displayed like trophies.
One of them... one of them wore a nameplate.
DODGE.
His stomach twisted.
He didn’t know how he knew the name, but he did. And the memory hit him like a shockwave—fear, rage, the kind of helplessness he hadn’t felt since the day he first woke in the 25th century.
And standing over the display were apes.
Apes with rifles. Apes in uniforms. Apes that spoke.
They watched the humans not with pity—but with clinical detachment. Curiosity. As if mankind had been reduced to nothing more than a footnote in someone else’s history.
He shook his head, snapping back to the cockpit.
The dream had bled too deep this time. Too vivid. Too specific. Whatever that was—it wasn’t just subconscious static.
It was a warning.
Below, the blue curve of Earth came into view. City and light on one side, endless wasteland on the other. The Inner City still gleamed with all its synthetic promises—power, peace, control. But beyond the dome, the planet told another story.
Scorched plains. Barren ruins. Radiation zones where nightmares had evolved unchecked. Creatures that shouldn't exist. Tribes that refused to die. And maybe—just maybe—something else out there. Something older.
The kind of world where apes walked like men.
Buck tightened his grip on the flight stick.
“Okay, Rogers,” he said to himself. “Maybe it was a dream. But maybe it wasn’t. Either way... you're not finished yet.”
Because some dreams don’t end when you wake up.
Some are warnings.
And some... are maps.
“Starfighter One-Three-One-Four, this is Captain Buck Rogers—requesting clearance for Stargate entry,” Buck said crisply into his helmet mic, his voice sharp and sure, the kind of voice that belonged to a man who'd flown through more than his fair share of fire.
Silence answered for a beat—and then the channel came alive.
“Starfighter One-Three-One-Four, you are cleared for entry. Welcome home, Captain Rogers. We’ve missed your touch out here.”
The words hit harder than Buck expected. Home. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that.
A slow grin tugged at his lips. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, threaded with fatigue and quiet pride. “It’s damn good to be back.”
For a moment, memories flashed—mission briefings, dogfights, faces he hadn’t seen in years. Some he never would again. But right now, that was all behind him. Right now, he was flying home.
He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his flight suit, the gesture automatic, worn in by habit. But just as his hand dropped, his eyes snapped to the Stargate.
The four anchor stars flared to life—four piercing points of light, locking into a perfect diamond pattern like celestial sentinels. Then, without warning, the stars pulsed. Light erupted across the void, flooding the black with a brilliance that seemed to bend reality itself.
A thunderclap split the silence—not through air, but through the very bones of space.
The flash nearly blinded him.
And then… silence. Stillness.
Until Earth filled his view.
He didn’t need to pass any planets. He was already past them. Past the waiting. Past the wandering.
The blue marble came into sharp focus, wrapped in swirling clouds and broken promises.
Beneath him, the world divided like a scar: desolation on one side—twisted metal, ash, and the raw aftermath of wars humanity had lost against itself. And on the other… the Inner City.
It rose like a monument to survival, its domes gleaming with cold brilliance under the high-orbit sun. Sterile. Controlled. A cage of comfort.
Buck’s hands tightened on the controls as his starfighter screamed through the upper atmosphere, friction flaring across the hull like the trail of a meteor reborn.
He was coming in hot—and not just through the sky.
The future was waiting.
And this time… he wasn’t coming back the same man.
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The gleaming starfighter sliced through the cloudless sky, its sleek silver fuselage catching the sunlight like a blade. Twin exhaust ports flared briefly as the ship angled downward, descending toward the defense squadron spacefield nestled at the edge of the Inner City. The approach was flawless—every maneuver smooth, precise, controlled. The computer guidance systems did their job well.
Buck watched the landing data scroll across his HUD with detached familiarity. Gyro-stabilizers. Altitude regulators. Heat dispersal grids. All of it light-years ahead of what he’d known in the 20th century—when flying meant gauges, grit, and gut instinct. Back then, you fought the sky. Now, the sky bent to the will of technology.
He smirked. Sure has come a long way from the old Saturn V.
The fighter’s retractable gear deployed with a soft hydraulic hiss. A moment later, the landing skids touched down on the polished tarmac of the Earth Defense Directorate spacefield—silent, clean, clinical. No sparks, no jolt. Just a whisper of contact, perfectly executed by a machine that didn’t sweat.
Buck let the onboard systems take over post-landing protocols. The blue glow of the control panel reflected in his eyes as the ship’s computers began their shutdown sequence—power cells venting, coolant levels recalibrating, the diagnostic feed already blinking with routine maintenance flags. It would be serviced, refueled, and rearmed long before it was called into the black again.
But Buck? He was running on fumes.
He popped the canopy with a practiced motion and hauled himself out of the cockpit. Every muscle in his body let him know just how long he’d been in that seat. He climbed down the access ladder, boots hitting the deck with a metallic thunk.
“Man,” he muttered, stretching stiff arms and rolling his shoulders, “I’d trade a week’s pay for a hot shower and something that doesn’t come in a nutrition cube.”
His voice was nearly drowned out by the low hum of hover-tractors towing support gear across the hangar floor. White-uniformed technicians bustled beneath the overhead lighting strips, their faces half-lit by the cool blue glow of wall consoles and status screens. Beyond the launch bay, a series of gleaming white corridors extended into the heart of the Inner City—clean, clinical, and controlled, like everything else inside the dome.
Buck paused, letting his eyes sweep across the expanse. Fighters lined up in perfect formation. Gravity cranes hanging from the ceiling. Drones gliding along maintenance rails. Everything humming with the quiet efficiency of a world that had rebuilt itself from ashes.
And yet… somewhere beyond those walls, outside the domes and the comfort, Earth was still broken. Still wild. Still waiting.
Buck’s jaw tightened slightly.
He was home.
The hangar bay stretched out in front of him, a gleaming monument to Earth’s 25th-century technological rebirth. The ceiling arched high above, disappearing into a latticework of glowing overhead lights and retractable gantries. Starfighters sat in pristine rows, their silver hulls gleaming under the cool white glow of maintenance floodlights. Even the largest combat ships looked small inside the massive space.
The scent of ozone, metal, and ion fuel hung in the air—clean but unmistakably mechanical. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the complex, a maintenance drone whirred to life, its distant echo ricocheting through the emptiness like the tick of an invisible clock.
Buck’s boots clacked softly against the polished floor as he stepped away from his fighter. His gaze drifted toward the far wall, where a row of data terminals pulsed quietly. Blue-and-green graphs crawled across transparent screens—schematics, diagnostic readouts, load-balancing rotas for every active ship in the fleet. A few even displayed prototype configurations that hadn’t yet left the drawing board.
Buck couldn’t help the slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Now that’s a bird I wouldn’t mind taking for a spin,” he muttered, eyeing one of the sleeker designs.
But the smile faded as he slowly turned in a full circle, realizing something strange.
The bay was empty.
Too empty.
No techs. No engineers. No drone crews scuttling between ships.
“Hey!” Buck called out, voice echoing off the gleaming walls. “What happened? Did the Directorate give everybody the day off?”
A pair of rapid footsteps echoed from behind a bulkhead.
Then a figure jogged into view—tall, wiry, dressed in Earth Defense Directorate crew whites. The insignia patch marked him as senior hangar operations.
“Captain Rogers!” the man called, hustling over, a datapad in hand. “Captain—I was just looking for you. Dr. Huer’s convened a meeting. It’s all hands.”
Buck raised an eyebrow. “Raddick, you know I just got in from deep space, right? I haven’t even caught a shower, let alone a news brief.”
Raddick gave a sheepish half-smile. “Believe me, sir, you’re not the only one who’s been called in cold. Whatever this is, it’s priority-level stuff.”
Buck nodded slowly, the easy charm returning to his voice. “Alright. I’ll stow my gear and head up to Command. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”
As he turned toward the decontam corridor, the smooth voice of the hangar AI announced a new launch sequence being queued in Bay Three. Buck paused just long enough to glance back at the sleek rows of starfighters.
Something told him he’d be back in one of them sooner than he liked.
Buck moved through the pristine corridors of the Inner City with his usual purposeful stride, the soft hiss of automatic doors and the hum of recessed lighting accompanying him. The walls—immaculate white with gleaming chrome trim—reflected his silhouette as he passed, every step echoing just faintly against the polished floor.
He approached the sliding panel that marked his quarters. Even after all this time, the place still felt more like a hotel suite than a home. A high-tech one, sure—but sterile, calculated. The kind of place built by people who didn’t need homes, just modules.
The door whispered open.
Buck stepped inside... and froze.
The lights flared on—not the soft white glow of normal illumination, but a burst of color and movement.
“Surprise!!!”
He blinked. For a moment, he wondered if he’d stepped into the wrong room.
“Happy Anniversary, Buck!” Lieutenant Adams grinned, leaning casually against the console near the environmental controls. His uniform was immaculate, but his eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Hard to believe it’s already been a year,” said Corporal Bennett, stepping forward with a bright smile, her voice warm with genuine affection. “Time flies when you’ve got a legend on staff.”
Buck opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Around him, familiar faces were emerging from every corner of the room—Specialist Carter with his ever-measured nod, Lt. Davis clapping a firm hand on Buck’s back, and even Specialist Evans, whose quiet demeanor was matched only by the sincere glint in her eyes.
“We just wanted to say thanks,” Evans said, voice soft but clear. “You’ve made a difference, Captain.”
Buck’s eyes slowly scanned the room.
The normally spotless quarters had been transformed. Colorful balloons—soft, translucent, and gently bobbing—hovered near the ceiling, their smooth surfaces catching the ambient light. Streamers in vibrant shades of gold, blue, and crimson crisscrossed the ceiling, anchored discreetly to the chrome beams. A small display panel near his dining console had even been reprogrammed to flash a pulsing message: "One Year with the Directorate – Welcome Home, Buck!"
There was laughter. The faint sound of a 25th-century orchestral synth ensemble playing something festive. The table held a spread of rehydrated delicacies presented in elegant chrome platters—clearly rations that had been requisitioned from above-standard protocol.
Buck finally exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He smiled. Not the cocky smirk he gave Draconians or the half-grin he used when outmaneuvering starfighter patrols.
This one was real.
“Wow,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You guys sure know how to sneak up on a guy.”
Lt. Adams raised a cup. “To Buck Rogers—the best thing to come out of the 20th century since jazz and rebellion.”
“Buck!!!” someone else called cheerfully from the back, where another tech was wheeling in what looked suspiciously like a replicated birthday cake.
The voice cut through the din of the bustling crowd like a perfectly tuned signal—sharp, warm, unmistakable.
Buck turned, instinctively scanning the sea of Directorate uniforms and civilians flowing through the Inner City’s central plaza. The soft pulse of synth-music and the rhythmic hum of anti-grav trams echoed overhead. Lights glinted off chrome surfaces. But all of that fell away the moment he saw her.
She was moving toward him with purpose—each step confident, fluid—cutting through the crowd like she owned the space between them. Her uniform, crisp and form-fitting, gleamed under the corridor lights. But it was the woman inside it that made time seem to stutter.
Her hair, golden and sunlit, flowed in gentle waves past her shoulders, catching flashes of light like polished metal. Her eyes locked onto his—bright, focused, alive. There was familiarity in that gaze. The kind of look that said she wasn’t just happy to see him—she’d been looking for him.
Buck raised an eyebrow, a crooked smile playing at his lips.
“Well,” he muttered under his breath. “They sure improved the welcome committee.”
And still she came—steadily closing the distance, her smile widening, carrying with it a warmth that cut straight through the chrome and circuitry of the 25th century. The sleek black dress uniform she wore was cut with military precision—flawless seams, burnished gold trim, and regulation-perfect boots that clicked smartly with every measured step. Golden buttons gleamed under the overhead lights like medals of honor, catching the reflections from the polished titanium panels that lined the Directorate's war room.
Colonel Wilma Deering was every inch the image of 25th-century command—poised, intelligent, and absolutely unshakable. Her gaze swept the tactical display wall, analyzing starfighter positions and training rotations with the intensity of a woman who didn’t just serve the Defense Directorate—she defined it.
Under her leadership, the Intercept Squadron had become the most formidable force in the Inner City. Maneuvers once deemed theoretical were now drilled with sharp efficiency. Simulations were completed with record-breaking results. No pilot under her command dared to be anything less than excellent.
And yet, one name continued to challenge her limits.
Buck Rogers.
.Buck Rogers hadn’t just joined the Intercept Squadron—he’d turned it upside down. From the first moment he climbed into a Directorate starfighter, it was clear he didn’t fly like anyone else. His instincts were razor-sharp, his reactions borderline impossible. He outpaced veteran pilots with ease, pulled off maneuvers that left even the simulators scrambling for recalibration. The man handled a fighter like he’d been born in orbit.
To the analysts, he was a once-in-a-generation asset.
To Colonel Wilma Deering?
He was a tactical miracle wrapped in a walking headache.
It wasn’t just the rule-bending or the constant improvisations—though there was plenty of both. What weighed on her was something harder to quantify. Buck had a way of keeping people at arm’s length. Pilots respected him, admired him, even cheered his name at the mess hall. But few really knew him.
He flew solo—even when he wasn’t.
And that made him unpredictable.
Which is why, when Buck stormed into his living quarters----uniform wrinkled, boots still dusty from his last landing—Wilma didn’t flinch.
“Wilma,” he said sharply, his voice tight with frustration. “Was that your idea? That Nebulon-9 patrol?”
She didn’t look up immediately. She adjusted the data crystal in her console, took a measured breath, and then met his gaze.
“Is that what’s bothering you, Captain?” she said coolly. “The assignment—or the fact that someone gave you one you didn’t like?”
Buck took a step forward, jaw clenched.
“You said it yourself,” he said, tone rising. “Quote—‘Since you obeyed my orders so well, your reward will be a month-long patrol in the Nebulon-9 system.’ End quote. Sounded pretty personal from where I was sitting.”
Wilma arched a brow, her voice steely. “It was earned, Buck. You took three squadrons off-script without clearance. Again.”
“And we won,” he shot back.
“Yes, you did.” Her eyes softened—but only slightly. “But you also made yourself the center of the mission. Again.”
There was a beat of silence. The hum of the wall console filled the room.
Buck exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to make your life harder, Wilma.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
“But you do,” she replied. “Effortlessly.”
He glanced at her—just long enough to notice the flicker of something else behind her eyes. Worry? Fatigue? Maybe even concern.
“Look,” Buck said, his voice quieter now. “I know I’m not always easy to work with. But I’m here. I’m not running. So if you’ve got a problem with me, say it.”
Wilma stood, folding her arms. Her posture was military-perfect, but the edge in her voice had dulled.
“You’re the best pilot I’ve ever seen,” she said. “But you still think you’re in this alone. That’s not how the 25th century works, Buck. Not anymore.”
He nodded once, absorbing that. Then, with a half-smile:
“Still doesn’t explain Nebulon-9.”
“That,” she said, returning the smile with one of her own, “was also earned.” There was pride in her eyes—clear, steady—but true to form, she tempered it with humility.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” she said, brushing off the credit with a wave of her hand. “Just a suggestion at the right time.”
Buck tilted his head, clearly not buying it.
She continued, trying to sound casual. “You must really like it here, though. You always come back, Captain. No matter how many times you say you’re done with the Directorate, with the duty… you show up anyway. And now—” her voice softened, “—you’ve made it a whole year.”
Her eyes lingered on him a second longer than protocol required.
Buck leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth curling into that signature, self-deprecating grin. “A whole year,” he said, as if tasting the words. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” A glint of mischief danced in his gaze. “You know,” he added, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, “I still remember that first day. You were all polished boots and perfect formation. I was a guy who’d just woken up from a five-hundred-year nap, trying to figure out which end of the blaster was the business end.”
Wilma’s smile faded into something quieter—reflective—as her thoughts slipped back to that day. The day Buck Rogers stopped being just a relic from the past... and became a force the 25th century couldn’t ignore.
It started in the war room....
“I’d sweep that flying palace stem to stern before letting it within range of the Stargate,” Buck had said, voice sharp with conviction.
Wilma had bristled. “That’s an insulting way to open an alliance built on good faith.”
Buck didn’t flinch. “Yeah? So is promising a future to a population you’ve locked under a dome while pretending the rest of the planet doesn’t exist.” He gestured toward the Inner City’s transparent ceiling, where the scorched sky glowed with artificial twilight. “You’ve got a shiny plastic bubble and a whole lot of hope. But outside—it’s a graveyard.”
He stepped closer to the central console, his finger jabbing the holographic map where the wastelands flickered in red.
“We need to meet them with full squadrons, ready to act. If they’re peaceful? Great—we spin it as a security sweep. If not?” His jaw tightened. “At least we’re not caught with our thrusters down.”
Wilma crossed her arms. “You’ve been awake for what—four months? You sure have a lot of opinions for a man who slept through the apocalypse.”
Buck snapped back, “You think I want this? My generation dropped the ball. Then we disappeared. I got frozen, and the world just kept going—to hell. And now I wake up and watch history repeat itself behind a mirrored dome. I didn’t build this world, Colonel. But don’t expect me to salute while it collapses.”
He turned—sharp, decisive—and headed for the hangar.
“Where are you going?” Wilma’s voice rang out, firm with command.
Buck didn’t break stride. “Somewhere that isn’t under glass.”
She followed, boots echoing across the metallic deck. “You step one meter beyond that gate and you’re dead, Rogers!”
Buck turned on his heel, eyes burning. “I need answers, Wilma. About what happened. About my people. About what’s left.”
“It’s restricted territory,” she snapped. “No one enters Anarchia without clearance.”
Buck’s expression hardened. “You can’t be serious. This was once a free country.”
Her voice dropped, cold and official. “Captain Rogers, you’re under my command. You go out there—you’re a deserter.”
“You can’t stop me.”
She took a slow step forward, hand resting on her sidearm. “I can, Buck. Don’t make me prove it.”
He stared at her—at the tension behind her eyes, at the duty and fear colliding in her expression.
He turned away.
And started counting under his breath.
“Ten…”
A footstep behind him.
“Nine…”
She didn’t follow.
“Eight…”
Silence.
“Seven…”
His back was still to her.
“Six…”
Then—
A soft, broken sob.
“Five…”
His chest tightened.
“Four…”
Halfway across the hangar, the shadows grew longer.
“Three…”
And then—
Nothing.
No warning. No sound. No light. No sensation.
No explosion. No flash. No forcefield.
Just darkness.
A void that swallowed Buck Rogers whole.
And the world blinked out.
In a sudden shift of emotions, Buck's mood took a serious turn as his flashback came to an end. The once festive atmosphere surrounding him quickly dissipated, causing his ear-to-grin to transform into a pronounced frown. His eyes narrowed in concern as he addressed Wilma, his voice filled with a mix of disappointment and apprehension.
"You could have killed me, Wilma," Buck said, his tone laced with a hint of accusation.
In response, Wilma maintained her calm demeanor and met Buck's gaze steadily. With a slight smirk playing on her lips, she replied, her words dripping with a hint of mischief.
"True," she admitted, "but who got you off the Draconia before the magazine detonated?"
Buck's frown softened, a glimmer of gratitude appearing in his eyes. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he recalled the events that had transpired.
"You, of course," he acknowledged warmly. "And that was just the beginning."
Wilma's attention returned to the celebration, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Oh, I almost forgot," she exclaimed, reaching into her pocket. With a mischievous smile, she pulled out a small envelope and handed it to Buck.
Curiosity danced in Buck's eyes as he took the envelope from Wilma's outstretched hand. He carefully opened it and was greeted by a series of pictures neatly arranged inside. His heart skipped a beat as he realized they were pictures of his family---his parents, his siblings, and even his childhood dog.
A wave of nostalgia washed over Buck as he gazed at each picture, memories flooding back like a tidal wave. He couldn't help but smile at the sight of his parents' proud faces and his siblings' playful antics frozen in time. It had been years since he had seen them all together like this.
But then something caught his eye---a picture that stood out from the rest. It was a snapshot of him, Wilma, Dr. Huer, and Twiki.
Just then, Buck's mind raced as he remembered an important detail that he should have asked about earlier. His eyes widened with curiosity as he turned to face Wilma, his voice filled with urgency.
"Wilma," Buck began, his tone laced with a mix of intrigue and concern, "where on earth did you manage to get your hands on this?"
"Remember that night we stayed up talking until dawn?" Wilma asked, a nostalgic smile playing on her lips. "I know you always will. You talked about your family and how much you loved them."
Buck's eyes sparkled with fond memories as he nodded in agreement. "Ah, yes. My family," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. "But---the picture. How---?"
"We used a special process which photographs mental images," Wilma replied, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and nostalgia.
Buck's curiosity piqued as he tried to wrap his head around the concept of Cerebro-photography. He had heard of it before, but only in passing conversations and scientific articles. It was a groundbreaking technique that allowed individuals to capture their mental images and preserve them in a tangible form.
"But... why?" Buck finally managed to ask, his eyes searching Wilma's face for an answer.
Wilma's gaze softened, her eyes reflecting the depth of emotions she felt. "Because you became so much a part of me," she said softly, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "I felt I knew them."
Buck's heart skipped a beat as he absorbed her words. The realization washed over him like a wave crashing onto the shore. In their time together, they had shared countless memories, experiences, and emotions. They had laughed together, but now he couldn't help but wonder if their connection was starting to fade.
Around midnight, Inner City time, the celebration ended, as all celebrations must, and Captain Buck Rogers was left alone with his thoughts. The echoes of laughter and music slowly faded away, leaving behind a profound sense of emptiness. He found solace in the memories captured within the photographs Wilma had given him, but one picture stood out among the rest - the image of his beloved family.
As he gazed at their smiling faces frozen in time, a bittersweet wave of emotions washed over him. It had been years since he last saw them, since he embarked on his interstellar journey to protect Earth from impending doom. The weight of his duty had kept him apart from those he held dear, sacrificing personal happiness for the greater good.
Buck Rogers stood still, eyes locked on the cityscape beneath the translucent dome. The glow of the Inner City’s towers shimmered, but his mind was far away—drifting through half-formed thoughts and unanswered questions.
That’s when he heard it.
A sound—no louder than a breath—brushed past his ear. It wasn’t wind. It wasn’t a voice. Not at first. It was more like a memory pretending to be sound.
Then it came again.
“Hello, Buck.”
Soft. Calm. Familiar.
Buck’s heart gave a jolt as he turned instinctively. There was no one there. No one that should be there.
But he knew.
“John?” he said, barely above a whisper. “That you?”
A shimmer of light danced near the edge of his vision, then coalesced into the faintest outline of a figure—tall, composed, otherworldly. John. As pristine and enigmatic as the day they met aboard the Ship of Lights.
“Keep your voice low,” John said, his tone measured. “Only you can see me, Buck. No one else.”
Buck’s brow furrowed. Whatever was happening, he was the only one tuned into the frequency. “Okay,” Buck muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “That’s new.”
But there was no time to marvel.
“You know, John… about that warhead—” Buck began, lowering his voice, urgency bleeding into his words. “If what you told me is true, I’ve got to report this. The Directorate needs to know. I can’t just—”
“What is the Fourth Dimension?” John's voice cut in—calm, but insistent.
Buck blinked. “What?”
“The Fourth Dimension,” John repeated, stepping closer, his presence glowing faintly at the edges. “Tell me, Buck—what is it?”
Buck hesitated. His mind spun—physics, theory, time, space… none of it seemed to match the tone in John’s voice. This wasn’t science class. This was something deeper.
“John, if this is another one of your riddles, maybe now’s not the time—”
“It’s exactly the time,” John said, firmer now. “You’re closer than you’ve ever been. But you have to understand, Buck. The moment is coming. Everything depends on your answer.”
Buck looked into those eyes—ancient and knowing. Somewhere deep inside, he felt the pull again. That cosmic weight pressing on his shoulders. A sense that what lay ahead wasn’t just a mission… it was destiny.
And the question echoed in his mind like a ticking clock.
What is the Fourth Dimension?
Buck furrowed his brow, jaw tight, as the question echoed through his head like the tail-end of a sonic boom. “Give me a second, will ya?” he muttered, holding up a hand like a traffic cop in rush hour. “Let me think.”
The seconds stretched. His mind moved like a targeting computer on overdrive—firing through images, impressions, fragments of memories. Equations. Starfields. Echoes of the Ship of Lights.
Then, the puzzle clicked.
He opened his eyes.
“It’s time,” he said, almost surprised to hear the words aloud. “The Fourth Dimension… is time.”
A moment of silence followed—then John's presence pulsed with approval, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.
“Buck, I daresay you've outdone yourself,” he said, the compliment wrapped in that otherworldly calm that always carried more weight than mere praise. “Your answer not only reflects clarity of thought… but it proves something else.”
Buck raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“That had your life taken a different turn,” John continued with quiet admiration, “you might have redefined temporal mechanics instead of just outrunning them. You could’ve written the textbooks instead of dodging the missiles.”
Buck gave a lopsided grin. “Guess I’ve always preferred the seat-of-the-pants approach.”
But even he couldn’t shake the weight of what just happened. There was more to this—more coming.
His voice dropped. “Alright, John. Don’t leave me dangling here. I don’t see the connection. A warhead buried in Anarchia… and a physics pop quiz?”
John stepped closer, his gaze narrowing with purpose. “Then let’s find that connection together.”
A beat passed. Then—
“What do you know,” John asked gently, “about one particular astronaut who came before you… a man named Colonel George Taylor?”
Buck blinked, the name hitting like a whisper from another time.
“Taylor…” he said slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. He was before my time—even before things really hit the fan. They called him a mystery. A loner. Not exactly a warm-and-fuzzy kind of guy, if you catch my drift.”
John leaned forward, the glow around him pulsing faintly as if drawn closer by Buck’s thoughts.
“And?” he asked, his voice smooth but insistent—like a teacher nudging a bright student toward the right answer. “Is that all that comes to mind?”
Buck paused, arms crossed, one brow arching as he dug into his memory.
“Well... I know his ship was called the Icarus,” he said slowly, the name alone stirring up fragments of half-buried rumors. “Telemetry just—lost it. No trace, no return signal, no debris. They said it vanished clean off the map.”
His voice dropped a register, and something flickered behind his eyes. “Nobody ever figured out where Taylor or his crew ended up—if they ended up anywhere.”
Even saying it gave Buck the chills. The Icarus wasn’t just another lost mission—it was the blueprint for every ghost story whispered in deep space. Reports of anomalies. Shadowy transmissions. A name that resurfaced like a ripple from the past.
John’s tone sharpened.
“What was their mission?” he asked, a hint of authority slipping into his otherwise serene demeanor.
Buck straightened. “They were part of the old deep-range exploratory program. The big dreamers. Real pioneers.”
He took a breath.
“Their job was to break through the limits—go beyond Earth’s reach, find a new star system. Maybe even a new home. They were supposed to plant humanity’s flag out there… take the best of who we were and start again.”
A beat.
“To spread life. Survival. Hope.”
John nodded, his expression unreadable. “And yet... what if the seed did take root, Buck—but not in the way we imagined?”
Buck’s brow furrowed.
“You’re telling me Taylor made it?”
“I’m telling you,” John said quietly, “that Taylor’s story and yours are about to intersect. And when they do... the fate of two civilizations may hang in the balance.”
As Buck spoke, his gaze drifted—eyes no longer on John but somewhere far beyond the chrome and glass walls of the Inner City. His voice carried a reverence that was rare in him, laced with a kind of quiet awe. “Think about it,” he said. “Men and women strapping themselves to a steel needle, pointing it at the stars, and just… going. No backup. No second chances. Just guts and gravity.” He took a breath. “After six months onboard, the plan was for the crew to go under. Suspended animation. Some kind of stasis system that basically hit the pause button on human biology. They used a drug—synthesized for deep-sleep space travel. Put ‘em in pods, let the ship handle the rest.”
John watched him carefully, then leaned in.
“Do you remember,” he asked, his voice low and deliberate, “why they said the Icarus was at least a decade ahead of its time?”
The question cut through the room like a silent laser blast.
Buck froze.
The words settled around him, heavy with something unspoken.
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes narrowing in concentration. “Yeah… yeah, I remember people whispering about it. Back in flight school, even the instructors treated it like legend. The design—sleek, silent, self-sustaining. It didn’t just push the edge of technology… it jumped it.” He shook his head slightly, like a man brushing dust off an old file in his brain. “But it wasn’t just the hardware. That ship meant something. It was a symbol. A leap forward. Like—like someone had broken the rules and written a whole new playbook.”
John stepped closer, his tone gentle but urgent. “And who wrote that playbook, Buck?”
Buck’s eyes lit up as the name surfaced. “Hasslein,” he said. “That’s it. Dr. Otto Hasslein.” He paused, the name lingering in the air like static. “Bit of a legend… and a punchline. He had this theory, right? About time dilation. Said if you pushed a spacecraft close enough to light speed, you could break through—not just in distance—but in time.”674Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡteiTGlw8La
Buck scoffed lightly, shaking his head at the memory. “Nobody took him seriously. Called him a madman with a lab coat and a blackboard full of squiggles. Said he was chasing ghosts.” He looked back at John, his expression shifting. “But maybe… maybe he wasn’t.”
John didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. He simply nodded once.
And in that moment, Buck felt it—something ancient, something electric threading through his veins. A connection between the past and future, drawn tight like a bowstring.
Whatever came next… he was in it now.
All the way.
"You’ve only solved part of the riddle," John’s voice echoed like thunder cloaked in velvet, not in the air but within the corridors of Buck’s mind. "There is more. There’s always more."
Buck spun around, fists clenched, heart hammering in his chest.
“Then tell me!” he snapped, desperation rising to the surface. “Please, John—whatever it is, I need to know!”
John’s form shimmered, his outline flickering like a reflection in turbulent water. He looked weary, the weight of unseen cosmic boundaries pressing against him. “There are limits, Buck,” he said, shaking his head. “I warned you—I’m not omnipotent. I can’t give you all the answers.”
Buck turned away, teeth gritted, hands trembling. He struck the edge of a sleek metal nightstand with the flat of his palm. The clang echoed through the chamber like a signal flare. “Try carrying five centuries of rusted history on your back,” he muttered bitterly. “It’s not easy being the only 500-year-old man in the 25th century.”
A silence followed. Heavy. Weighted.
Then John’s voice returned, quieter now. Steady.
“You’re not.”
Buck froze.
The words landed like a silent detonation.
His breath caught. “What did you just say?”
“You’re not the only one,” John said, his expression unreadable. “Another walks this century’s soil. A man who sailed through time before you. A man named... Taylor.”
Buck staggered back a step, the air seeming to vanish from the room. “Taylor... George Taylor?” he whispered. “He’s alive?”
John didn’t answer directly—but he didn’t need to. The truth had already surfaced. Hasslein’s theories. The Icarus. The broken statue on the beach. It all made sense now.
“My God,” Buck murmured. “The mad scientist was right.” A flood of possibilities surged through his thoughts—but they were quickly overtaken by a new emotion. Not wonder. Not hope.
Resentment.
“Why?” he demanded, his tone suddenly sharp. “If Taylor’s here—if he’s survived all this—why not recruit him? He’s seen more than I have. Maybe he’s earned it more than I have!”
The question hung in the air like a challenge hurled at the stars.
“Because Taylor’s not like you,” John said at last, his voice heavy with something that wasn’t quite judgment… but wasn’t far from it either. “He’s a man who turned his back on his species long before his ship ever left Earth. You, Buck—you fight for people. You believe in them. Taylor? He despises them.”
John’s image flickered slightly, casting longer shadows across the room as he continued, more solemn now.
“He boarded the Icarus not to explore, but to escape. In his eyes, Earth was already a lost cause. Humanity? A cruel joke. Every handshake, every promise, every institution—he saw them as hollow. To him, people weren’t worth saving. Just noise and failure bundled into flesh.”
John let the silence hang for a beat, letting the words settle.
“His mission wasn’t about planting seeds among the stars. It was exile. Self-imposed and long overdue—at least from his point of view.”
Buck stood quietly, arms at his sides, as the weight of that sank in. The silence wasn’t empty—it was dense. Thick with the kind of realization that made you question everything you thought you knew.
“He’s brilliant,” John continued, “and tenacious. But to us, such beings—ones who’ve given up on their own kind—are of no use. We chose carefully. We analyzed everything—every moment, every pattern. We know both of you.”
Buck exhaled hard, the hope he’d been riding on slipping away like air from a punctured helmet. “Yeah…” he said quietly, voice edged with weariness. “I guess you did.”
The vibrant lights of the room dimmed, as if echoing the weight pressing down on him. John’s form faded, leaving Buck standing in the growing stillness, surrounded by futuristic comforts that suddenly felt cold and impersonal.
He turned away and walked slowly to his bedroom, each step dragging like he was hauling gravity itself behind him. The building was quiet. Too quiet.
By the time he reached his bedroom, the isolation had settled in like a second skin.
He lay down on the edge of the bed, staring up at the smooth ceiling above. So much knowledge. So much responsibility. And no one to share the weight.
No one… yet.
But Buck Rogers wasn’t a quitter.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Tomorrow… I talk to Huer.”
His eyes stayed open long after the lights dimmed. The stars beyond his window twinkled like distant questions, waiting to be answered.674Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpFQ9SYiuol
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