He saw scatterings of an ancient grain called oats.
He eventually reached the cockpit door. It, too, was smashed and twisted, but he was able to squeeze his way through to what was left of the flight deck.
There was a body strapped in the pilot's seat, wearing a tattered green flight suit and helmet. Hunter froze. Did he really want to do this? Only compulsion pushed him on. He made his way up next to the body to find it was a skeleton.
Its hands were still locked in a death grip on the plane's control yoke. Its mouth was open, almost as if it was caught forever in a devilish laugh. Hunter felt he had to find out who this person was — or used to be. Very gingerly he reached into the skeleton's breast pocket and found a piece of heavy paper inside.
He removed it and unfolded it.
It was a photograph of a woman.
Hunter felt like a lightning bolt had hit him in the chest. A sizable portion of his past lives had come back to him during this bizarre journey, but at that moment he was suddenly aware of another, much deeper truth. He'd lived lives that a million other souls combined could never hold a flame to. He'd flown faster than humanly possible, he'd invaded a titanic empire, he'd led huge armies and fought gigantic battles. He'd been to Heaven and back, for God's sake. And through all these things, the excitement, the absolute tidal waves of adrenaline, and whatever the hell else was running dirough him, had peaked and peaked again, to the point that it seemed he was always in the middle of some kind of body rush.
But nothing was like the body rush he was getting now. Because the picture he was holding in his hand was the same as the photo he'd found in his pocket when he woke up on Fools 6 that day so long ago. The photo of the mysterious woman that had made the transition along with the tattered American flag.
But this photo was not faded and worn like his. In this photo he could see the woman's face clearly.
And for the first time since coming here, he knew who she was.
Her name was Dominique…
The absolute love of his former Me.
"Hey mister," he heard a voice from below the cockpit yell. "Wanna go see her?"
They were quickly back on the road, he and his driver and the station wagon.
They had driven out of the forest, had returned to the highway, had passed around the mountain, and were heading back into the beach terrain again.
And this time Hunter was being very vocal.
"Go faster!" he was screaming at the kid. "C'mon, boot it!"
And now it was die kid who was looking concerned.
"This thing wasn't built to go that fast, mister!" he yelled back at Hunter.
The driver had simply told him he would bring him to see the woman in the picture, and at that moment Hunter wanted to do nothing more in his entire life. He was caught up in some preposterous game here, some kind of incredibly elaborate charade just to see if he could keep a secret. Well, yes, he could keep a secret. But that didn't even matter anymore. He knew every time he had looked at that faded photograph that the woman behind it would hold more to the key of who he was and why he was here and more important, where he had come from than anything he could find or be tempted with here, be it his airplane again, or even an alternate, better life.
He had to see her.
"If you people are so scary smart," Hunter was badgering his young driver, "why didn't you send the Corvette to take me to this point? This piece of crap can barely do fifty miles an hour!"
The kid was always too busy driving to reply. He just kept telling Hunter over and over, "Just calm down, mister. We'll get there soon. Just calm down!"
They finally did get there. They climbed a beach road that led up a hill and eventually broke out into a small cliff. Now Hunter could see the water — finally it was an ocean. A real ocean. He could hear the waves breaking; he could smell the salty air.
They drove up to a small house — smaller even than the other house on the hill. Hunter knew immediately where he was. This was his house, way back then, way back in that other time and place. It was his farm. His hay farm. He'd lived here with Dominique.
It was called Skyfire.
He jumped out of the station wagon even before it stopped moving. He hopped the gate and ran up to the front door. He went inside. Everything looked just as he remembered it He walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Everything still familiar. He walked to the screen door that led out to the backyard.
And that's when he saw her. She was outside in the garden, picking herbs.
He stood at the back door for an eternity of moments just watching her.
She was beautiful. The photograph did not do her justice. She was wearing a long white gown and a wide-brimmed hat. Even working in the garden, faced smudged a bit, she was gorgeous. The gown was low cut, and he could see her unencumbered breasts. She had long blond hair, delicate hands, delicate bare feet. She was smiling, singing to herself. She did not see him.
He felt his chest become filled with pure emotion. The circle had been completed. Here she was, and here he was. End of chapter. End of book. End of series. He wanted nothing more than to swing mat door open, walk out onto the porch, and call her name.
Screw the battle against the Fourth Empire.
He wanted to stay here with her forever.
His thumb was on the latch of the door. His boot was up against its bottom; he knew he would have to give it a little kick, because it stuck every once in a while.
Her name was on his lips—
But then he stopped. Stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stopped thinking — except about one thing.
He couldn't do it.
He believed this was real and that he could stay here and live with her and never have to fight in a war again.
But a buzz in his brain told him no. He started walking backward, out of the kitchen, turning only when he reached the living room, and then quietly leaving by the front door. He did not want her to see or hear him.
He staggered back down the front path and went through the gate this time. It was loose on the hinge, and he remembered that he was always meaning to fix it.
Too late now, he thought.
The station wagon was gone. He made his way back down the road, walking quietly until he was out of sight of the house. Then he slumped to his knees and put his head in his hands.
What kind of life is this?
No matter what he did, he could never be happy, never be free of worry. Never just be.
Why him? Why had this mantle been handed to him? He had one talent: he could fly machines that went very fast. So what? Why was he involved in all this other cosmic crap? He had bare memories of him having to save the world back in one of his former lives. Now, it was up to him to save the whole freaking Galaxy? And in order to do so, he had to first go through all this heart-wrenching past-life regression. Why? Why was he doing this again?
He found his hand go to his left breast pocket, digging for the other thing he always kept there. Not the faded photograph but the tattered American flag.
He took it out, unfolded it, and ran his fingers along its stars and stripes. He felt a surge of electricity go through him — and then he had his answer. After more than five thousand years, this flag still meant something. Not just on Earth but in the vast Milky Way as well. It stood for basic freedoms and basic truths. It stood for heroes past. It stood for the kind of life where every person has a right to be themselves, to do what they want, just as long as they didn't infringe on anyone else's right to do the same thing. To be a good American was nothing more than that. And the simple understanding of this basic belief was worth defending, worth dying for, so that others could be free, too. That was America. Way back then on Earth, and now, all across the Galaxy.