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The curve of Throm’s horizon loomed beneath Wilma Deering’s starfighter, its jagged mountains casting long shadows across the scorched terrain. The recon mission had been routine—until now. A strange distortion on her sensors drew her toward a granite ridge that jutted out like a broken fang. She frowned, leaning closer to her console.
“There’s something on this mountain,” she said over the comm, her voice taut with controlled urgency.
Aboard the Earth Ship Searcher, in orbit high above, the message pinged through the bridge. Mrs. Packard, ever efficient at her station, turned from the communications console to face Admiral Asimov. “Colonel Deering is detecting an anomaly near the high ridge. She believes it may be important.”
Admiral Asimov stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back, studying the holographic terrain projection of Throm. The general tension of recent days still weighed heavily on him, and Wilma flying low over an unstable environment—especially one with Buck still unaccounted for—unsettled him deeply. “Tell her to break off and return to the Searcher,” he said, steel in his voice. “That planet is no place for lone recon—especially with The Punisher’s fighter still active somewhere on the surface.”
Back in her cockpit, Wilma ignored the flickering signal to withdraw. Her eyes had locked onto something—two figures, no more than specs at first, slowly taking shape. As she dropped altitude and the haze cleared, her breath caught. One of them—tattered, but unmistakable—was Buck Rogers. And beside him... a figure in dark armor. Stark black, matte in the sunlight. A silhouette etched in menace. “I’m going in,” she said flatly, her decision made. She didn’t wait for a response.
On the bridge of the Searcher, the admiral muttered under his breath. “So much for a controlled operation.”
Behind him, the chrome-clad form of Crighton approached, posture as upright as ever, servos humming softly. The robot tilted his head, photonic eyes pulsing with thought.
“If I may interject, Admiral,” Crighton said, his tone precise but almost cheerfully bureaucratic, “should Mr. Robinson be taken alive—and assuming he is still in his current, shall we say, emotionally unbalanced state—I must recommend maximum security confinement. After, of course, proper medical treatment in the infirmary. His... file makes for compelling reading.”
Asimov scowled, glancing over his shoulder at the robot. “This isn’t the time, Crighton.”
“Oh, but respectfully, sir,” the robot continued, unflappable, “it’s exactly the time."
Mrs. Packard stifled a smile behind her console.
Asimov exhaled slowly, conceding the point. “Fine. Prep the infirmary. And inform security: if we bring Robinson aboard, I want him under lock and key until we’re sure what condition he’s in.”
Outside the viewport, Throm’s hostile beauty glimmered in silence. Somewhere far below, Buck Rogers and Will Robinson—The Punisher—stood on the brink of something no tribunal or procedure could fully contain.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY573zURApf
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The Searcher drifted silently above the curve of the Earth, a solitary sentinel gleaming in the soft light of the distant sun. The vastness of space pressed in on all sides, but within the ship, all focus remained on the glowing sphere below—home, and now, the destination of one long-hunted fugitive. Many days had passed since Buck Rogers and Will Robinson—known to much of the galaxy as The Punisher—had been extracted from the surface of Throm, their injuries treated. The journey back had been slow, weighted not only by distance but by tension, reflection, and the unspoken gravity of what awaited them upon their return.
Asimov, as usual, stood at the central command console, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the main viewscreen. Earth rotated serenely before him, its familiar blue and green marbled surface belying the storm of consequences about to unfold. He turned slowly, addressing the gathered crew with the measured authority of a man who had seen more than his share of interstellar justice. “We’ve done it, team,” he said, his voice firm but tinged with fatigue. “Will Robinson—also known as The Punisher—has been successfully apprehended. It’s time to bring him back to Earth and let the Galactic Council decide his fate.”
Around him, the crew—an eclectic mix of scientists, navigators, and security officers—exchanged wary glances. Relief softened some faces, but unease shadowed others. Justice was near, but whether it would bring closure or chaos remained to be seen.
Standing near the rear of the bridge, Buck said nothing, but the hard set of his jaw and the flicker of disapproval in his eyes made it clear—he didn’t like where this was heading.
Meanwhile, on the deck below the bridge, the cell door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and two guards stepped inside—tall, imposing figures clad in sleek purple uniforms, their faces as impassive as the steel walls surrounding them.
"You're coming with us, Robinson," one of them said, his voice flat and unwavering. "The Galactic Council awaits."
Will Robinson rose slowly from the bench where he’d sat in silence, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. He gave a single nod, offering no words, and stepped forward with the deliberate gait of a man already bearing his sentence. His hands, bound loosely at the wrists, did not tremble. But each footfall echoed with the weight of a hundred memories.
Through the gleaming corridor of the Earth Ship Searcher, he walked between his escorts, flanked on both sides by authority. Crew members paused as he passed, some with thinly veiled curiosity, others with wariness or silent judgment. No one spoke, but the stares said enough: they all knew the name Will Robinson—and what he had become.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWsc6oCez0N
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The bustling metropolis of New Chicago, the capital of 25th Century Earth, gleamed under the bright sunlight, its futuristic skyline a testament to humanity's resilience and ingenuity. Towering skyscrapers, constructed from gleaming metals and glass, stretched high into the sky, their surfaces reflecting the vibrant hues of the holographic billboards that adorned them. Hovering cars zipped through the air, weaving seamlessly between the buildings, their engines emitting a soft hum that blended into the ambient sounds of the city. Pedestrians moved along elevated walkways, their attire a mix of sleek, modern designs and functional utility, while holographic advertisements projected messages about the latest technological advancements and interstellar opportunities.
Amidst the grandeur of New Chicago, the Galactic Council Chamber stood as a beacon of authority and justice. The chamber was an architectural marvel, its exterior a blend of polished obsidian and shimmering silver, designed to evoke both power and sophistication. The entrance was flanked by towering columns, engraved with intricate patterns that symbolized unity among the galaxies. Inside, the chamber was vast and imposing, with high ceilings adorned with glowing constellations that seemed to shift and shimmer as if alive.
The room was arranged in a semi-circular layout, with the Council Members seated on elevated platforms that formed a crescent around the center. Each member wore regal attire that blended elements of 18th-century judicial robes with futuristic embellishments, their presence commanding respect and attention. Their costumes were a striking mix of navy blue velvet, intricate gold embroidery, and sleek metallic accents, reflecting the fusion of tradition and progress.
Member 1 stood out in a high-collared, indigo shirt that closely fits his form and shines subtly under the chamber lights. His modern haircut enhanced his confident presence, and his attire represents a fusion of historical tradition and futuristic style, embodying a new era of judicial authority.
Member 2 exuded a commanding presence, dressed in a sophisticated dark frock coat that blended historical and futuristic elements. His coat featured subtle circuitry patterns and iridescent lapels, while a shimmering silver vest with geometric designs added a modern touch. He wore a crisp white shirt with ruffled cuffs for a touch of classic elegance, and his hair was styled in a sleek, silvery mane. This unique combination of traditional and contemporary fashion gave him an aura of authority and wisdom, embodying the weight of law across time, while still connecting to the future.
Member 3 exuded a blend of tradition and modernity with his elegant ensemble. His burgundy frock coat, intricately designed and perfectly tailored, conveyed authority and nods to 18th-century fashion. A white shirt with a ruffled collar added a touch of classic elegance. His hair, a contemporary take on a powdered wig, was sleek and silver-gray, symbolizing wisdom. Alongside two other Council members, they presented a striking image in the Galactic Council Chamber, reflecting the balance of historical justice and the need for evolving governance in a futuristic setting.
The chamber was filled with an air of anticipation as the Council Members prepared to deliberate on Will Robinson's fate. The holographic displays around the room projected images of the galaxies affected by his actions, serving as a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. The silence was broken only by the soft hum of the technology that powered the chamber, creating an atmosphere of solemnity and importance.
As the proceedings began, the Council Members leaned forward, their expressions a mix of curiosity, skepticism, and authority. The fate of Will Robinson, The Punisher, hung in the balance, and the chamber became a stage for a battle of words and ideals that would determine the course of justice in the galaxy.
In the center of the chamber stood Will, restrained and under the watch of two intimidating guards dressed like medieval executioners in full black suits with hoods, where only their piercing eyes were visible. Their sharp, angular steel masks enhanced their menacing presence. Despite Will's composed posture, his eyes revealed a mix of defiance and sorrow.
As Number 1 began to speak, his voice resonated through the chamber with an unwavering force. Each word carried a weight that seemed to echo across time and space, emphasizing the gravity of the charges being levied against Will Robinson, once known throughout the galaxy as the Punisher. As he addressed the council, he meticulously detailed the extensive list of planets and ships that had fallen victim to Will’s relentless attacks. Among them were Vulcania, Rigel Prime, Alpha Centauri IV and Andromeda IX.
Number 1’s eyes fell upon Will, who stood before the council, his gaze boring into the former space predator’s soul, his expression a mix of disappointment and sternness. The weight of the charges against him hung in the air like an invisible shroud, casting a somber pall over the proceedings. His words carried an undeniable gravity that reverberated through the chamber. “William Robinson,” he began, his voice commanding attention and respect, “you must understand that the charges against you are not to be taken lightly. Your ruthless actions have not only decimated planets but also eradicated the very essence of hope and peace from the hearts of those who have survived. The once vibrant worlds named now lie in ruins, their inhabitants forever scarred by the horrors they endured at your hands.”
Number 1 paused, letting his words hang in the air, casting a shadow over the room and leaving an indelible mark on all present. Buck’s eye, just like everyone else’s, locked onto him, his unwavering gaze intensifying his sense of responsibility. With each passing moment, it became clear that Will’s response would shape not only his own fate but also the course of this crucial council meeting.
As the tension in the room thickened, Number 1 stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Will. A hushed silence fell over the council chamber. With unwavering resolve, Number 1’s voice resonated throughout the room as he declared, “William Robinson, it is now time for you to answer for your crimes.”
Buck leaned forward in his seat in anticipation, his gaze locked on Will. He, like Number 1, like everyone else present, was eager to hear his response, his acceptance or denial of guilt.
Number 1 raised an eyebrow, fixing his piercing gaze upon Will, his voice carrying a mix of authority and curiosity. “William Robinson,” he began with a firm tone, “we stand here today to hold you accountable for your actions. The charges against you are grave and demand justice. I ask you now—-how do you plead?”
The question hung in the air, the gravity of the moment palpable. Will Robinson’s fate now rested on his answer, as the Galactic Council awaited his response with unwavering resolve.
Will filled his voice with his determination and a hint of defiance as he uttered the words that would forever change his fate. With unwavering resolve, he looked each council member in the eye and declared, “I plead guilty.”
Buck was stunned upon hearing Will’s guilty plea to the Galactic Council. The weight of the situation hung heavily in the air as he processed the gravity of his newfound friend’s submission. A mixture of shock and concern flooded his mind, leaving him momentarily speechless.
“Oh my God!” Buck whispered beneath his breath, his voice just barely audible amidst the hushed murmurs of the council chamber. The realization hit him like a meteor crashing into a planet—he knew what he had to do now.
Number 2 leaned forward in his throne, fixing his piercing gaze upon Will. His voice resonated with unwavering conviction as he explained the Council’s duty to uphold galactic law. “Young William,” he said, his tone laced with gravity, “it is our solemn responsibility to safeguard the peace and harmony of the Galactic Federation. We are entrusted with maintaining order across countless star systems, ensuring that justice prevails.”
With each spoken word, Number Two exuded an air of unwavering commitment to their cause. His words carried the weight of generations of interstellar governance and a deep understanding of the consequences that befall those who dared to disrupt the tranquility of the Federation.
“The punishment for crimes against the peace of the Galactic Federation,” he continued, his voice growing even more resolute, “is death.”
“I accept full responsibility for my actions,” said Will, his tone unwavering. “I’m aware of the consequences that await me, and I’m ready to face them head-on.”
The Galactic Council Chamber was silent, save for the tense rhythm of footsteps echoing across the polished floor. Buck stepped forward, eyes blazing with desperation beneath the high-collared indigo shirt that marked him as a man out of place yet unbowed. The three Council members regarded him impassively from their raised dais, their costumes casting long shadows in the chamber’s cold light.
Buck's voice rang out, raw and urgent. "Wait! Dammit Will, speak up!"
Will remained silent and stone-faced.
Buck stood for half a minute beside Will. "Wake up!" he shouted. "Say something to defend yourself, mister!"
But still nothing out of Will.
"Don't you understand? They are about to sentence you to death! You have given them no other choice!" Buck's gaze snapped to Number 2 but found no comfort there. "William Robinson, you are the stubbornest, arrogant---" Buck swallowed, holding back tears of admiration for the first son of space. "......most prideful man I ever met." Buck turned to Number 1. "I don't know anything about your legal system, Your Excellency, but there is more to this story than meets the eye. You can't put Will Robinson to death because, in some ways, he's already died. That's the most crucial point in these proceedings!"
Number 1's eyes narrowed, his expression revealing a hint of curiosity. "How so, Rogers?"
Buck took a deep breath, his mind racing to find the right words. "You know that a drunken spaceman slaughtered without mercy the last living legacy of the Ancient United States…. the first American family into space!”
Number 1 scoffed, his arrogance resurfacing. "Yes, we do. But what of the innocent lives he has taken? Are they mere casualties in his quest for vengeance?"
Buck's voice grew firm; his eyes locked with the council member's. "Aren't they? It is the history of the inhabited galaxy that tells stories of war and bloodshed, for his presence before you is a sad commentary on the fact that the galaxy's history also tells the stories of the terrorist acts committed against innocent people and families. And now I stand before you to make an impassioned plea for the life of William Robinson. I implore you to consider the more tragic loss he has already endured."
Number 2 leaned forward and addressed Buck in a booming voice that resonated throughout the chamber. His voice was louder than Number 1's, demanding attention and respect. "What else has he lost to justify the violent path he chose?"
Buck took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on Number 2. He knew he had to choose his words carefully to convey the gravity of the situation. "Will Robinson has also lost someone irreplaceable, someone who was at the very core of his being: his only surviving sister, Penny Robinson."
A hush fell over the council chamber as Buck's words sank in. The council members exchanged glances, their expressions showing a mix of surprise and understanding.
"Penny Robinson was not just a sister to Will," Buck continued, his voice filled with a deep sense of sorrow. "She was his confidante, his companion, and his source of light in the darkest of times. They shared a bond that transcended blood, a bond forged through countless adventures and shared hardships."
Number 2 leaned back in his throne, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed Buck's words. Behind him, Number 1 listened intently, his face etched with curiosity.
"With Penny's untimely demise, Will Robinson has now been pushed beyond the limits of grief," Buck pleaded, his voice tinged with a touch of anger. "He's now alone, stripped of everything he ever cared for....his sister, his family, planet Earth as he once knew it, and, thanks to the alien monsters and trickers that have plagued and persecuted he and his kin ever since their cosmic voyage began half a millennium ago, stripped of the most vital asset of the human soul.....the ability to relate to, communicate with, and trust those different from himself."
The council members exchanged glances again, their expressions now reflecting a mix of empathy and concern. Number 2 nodded, acknowledging the weight of Buck's words.
Number 3, his voice more contemplative and softer than that of his colleagues, leaned forward and bore his flint hard eyes into Buck. "Are you suggesting that we should overlook his savagery because of personal tragedy?”
Buck’s eyes burned with fierce conviction. "We can't kill him, even if he's a savage, because he's the last of a unique bloodline and represents living history. I've seen his love for his sister, and I understand his pain. If you want to kill him, you might as well kill me too, because I would have done the same in his place. We don't execute someone for fighting back in war, and he sees this trial as another threat like those he's faced before. In the century from which he----and I---came, true justice was served by those who understood the context of crimes, not just the law. We of the Searcher, who know him best, should judge him, or else history will remember the Galactic Council's cruelest decision."
A breathless pause fell over the chamber.
The third Council member inclined his head slightly.”
Silence. No audible reply.
Finally, Number 1 spoke with calm finality, "Thank you, Rogers, for shedding light on this matter. "We must take Will Robinson's pain into consideration as we deliberate on his actions. This tragedy has shaped his path, and it is our duty to seek a resolution that brings both justice and healing. This court will reconvene in one hour.”
Buck nodded in gratitude, knowing that his words had made an impact. The council chamber began to buzz with discussion as the council members debated the best course of action.
Just then, Dr. Goodfellow bustled down from the spectators' platform of the Council Chamber. His face beamed with unabashed admiration as he approached Buck, who still stood at the center of the vast, echoing floor, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. "Bravo, Buck! Bravo!" he exclaimed, his voice a warm tremor that broke the solemn air. He reached out and gave Buck a hearty pat on the back, his aged fingers pressing through the fabric of Buck’s uniform. "A most stirring defense, my boy—unquestionably in the finest tradition of human decency and intellectual courage!" His eyes shimmered with emotion as he added, “I daresay, if reason still holds sway in this galaxy, you may have just saved a soul.”
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The Earth Ship Searcher remained in silent orbit above Earth, its gleaming hull catching the soft light of the planet’s sun. Deep within its decks, in the quiet privacy of the VIP suite, Will Robinson sat all alone. It was spartan, but comfortable—more hospitable than the brig, at least. A single guard stood by the door, expression blank, posture rigid. Will barely noticed him. Since the trial, time had begun to stretch, turning minutes into hours, days into vague, drifting shapes. He sat with his shoulders slightly hunched, not from pain, but from something heavier—an exhaustion of the soul.
A soft chime preceded the door’s gentle hiss. Dr. Goodfellow entered with his usual mix of awkward energy and quiet reverence, cradling a small stack of materials in his arms. “I’d just like to have a moment with Mr. Robin—oh, oh, dreadfully sorry… Punisher,” he said, hesitating mid-step, his face reddening.
Will looked up slowly. His face, once hardened by rage and solitude, was now marked by something softer----remorse, perhaps. Or resignation. He studied the old man for a moment, then nodded. “It’s all right,” he said, his voice low but steady. “You can call me by name again.”
Dr. Goodfellow’s eyes glistened, and he stepped further into the suite. “I hope, my dear fellow, you won’t consider this an intrusion,” he said gently. “But I brought something with me I thought might interest you.” He held out a thin case filled with archival glossies—high-quality copies of old microtransparencies. Will took it without a word, fingers trembling slightly as he opened the container. “These are the logs your father left at the old Space Lighthouse F-12,” Goodfellow explained with quiet excitement. “I had them copied from the archival transparencies. I hadn’t reviewed them myself, mind you, but Crighton tells me the originals still exist—and rather miraculously, they’re in the possession of Silas Bogey’s heirs. Isn’t that marvelous? And the book—it’s still in pristine condition, after all these centuries, preserved despite the passage of time.”
Will stared down at the text, his father’s words laid bare before him, crisp and familiar. His throat tightened. “The genius of a man,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Written down into a book… and now all that remains of him is the book.”
Silence fell between them, thick and sacred. Goodfellow placed a hand gently on Will’s shoulder but said nothing more. Outside, Earth turned slowly below them—a blue sanctuary, scarred and shining, waiting.
The door panel whispered open with a soft sigh.
Will Robinson looked up from the tabletop where he’d just set down the archival glossies, his father’s words still echoing in his thoughts. His voice was calm but edged with the weight of uncertainty. “What are they going to do with me?”
Admiral Asimov entered first, his hands clasped behind his back, face drawn tight with a commander’s careful neutrality. Buck Rogers and Wilma Deering followed close behind, their expressions more readable—Wilma’s composed but watchful, Buck’s etched with something grimmer. “The Galactic Council has agreed with Buck’s argument,” Asimov began, stepping into the room with measured pace. “They believe your actions are best judged by those closest to the matter. Meaning Buck, Wilma, Dr. Goodfellow… and myself.”
“You mean he’s to go free?” Goodfellow asked from the side, brows lifting in cautious hope as the door slid shut behind the new arrivals.
Asimov exhaled slowly and stroked his chin. “Hmm. Not quite free, I’m afraid.” His gaze shifted to Will, serious and searching. “You see, Mr. Robinson, I had to give the Council certain assurances. Namely, that you would not be released from custody… unless I could personally guarantee your conduct.” He paused deliberately. “But how can I do that?”
Will rose slightly from his chair, his voice sharp and edged with long-held bitterness. “You can’t,” he said flatly. “And I refuse to be bound by restrictions on my freedom.”
Wilma stepped forward, her tone calm but firm. “We can’t blame him for that, Admiral. Living under constant surveillance—he’d feel like a criminal for the rest of his life.”
Dr. Goodfellow, ever the peacemaker, adjusted his coat and looked from face to face. “Yes, quite. We mustn’t allow that. There has to be some sort of middle ground, surely—some compromise?”
Buck, who had remained quiet until now, stepped in with the quiet certainty of a man who had spent too much time navigating impossible choices. “There is a compromise,” he said. “But only if Will agrees to it.”
Will turned sharply toward him, his voice rising—not in anger, but in wounded disbelief. “Why should I agree to anything, Rogers? You don’t know how I feel. You couldn’t possibly know.”
After several minutes of silence among the group, Buck said, “Actually, I do.”
Again, Will’s eyes blazed and his heart felt resentment and righteous anger. "You told the Galactic Council about what I've lost, that's true, but you don't really know anything about having your family, your life stripped away.” He gazed into Rogers’ eyes and saw something that surprised him. He saw a deep sadness in them, not pity, but sadness, as though he, too, had lost someone dear to him. Will wondered at a few things he had heard, and a few strange things that Rogers had said, things that made no sense to him. But he said nothing, knowing that no one could even begin to understand the pain he was feeling.
In a calm voice, Rogers said, “I can’t remember what I said since we met, but apparently not enough for you to fully know my background. You see, I was born in the twentieth century, just like you and your family, in the year 1957.”
“If you're trying to say you were put into suspension like we were, I don't buy it,” Will retorted. "The Jupiter spacecraft were the only ones of that time able to utilize cryogenic technology."
“It’s true," said Rogers. "I was born and lived during the years before the Nuclear Holocaust. I was sent into space on what was supposed to be NASA's final deep space probe."
Will searched his memory, remembering a bit of space exploration history Don had shared with him. "The Ranger 3 manned space probe," he muttered. "Lost in space in the year 1987, ten years before we left. You were its pilot?"
"I was. There was an accident; I got caught in a freak micrometeorite storm. I was frozen by a combination of gasses that had been released by my malfunctioning life support system. I was sitting like one dead, not to be awakened for over five hundred years.” Buck leaned forward and gazed deeply into Will's dark hazel eyes. “By the time I was awakened, my family was dead, my people were gone, my life as I knew it was totally changed. I was alone. Sometimes I still feel alone, even though I've been in this century for almost a year now.” He rubbed his hand across his face and then continued. “I saw the graves of my parents and brother and sister, the graves of people that I had seemingly seen only a couple of days before. My home was in ruins, my fiancé dead, my old life gone, buried beneath the ashes of radioactive rubble, in a place called Anarchia where my home used to be."
"Anarchia? Yes, I've heard of it," Will said. "I'm surprised the mutants living there didn't kill you when they first saw you."
"They would've. Except that…." He paused and took a breath. “Look, the important thing is that I had to face the same problem; trying to reach out, having to learn to get used to a feeling of being alone. How to make a new life, adapt, find something to make living worthwhile. At times it was tough, but I think I have. If you'll let us, we can help you do the same thing.”
Will saw the intensity of the man’s passion, his feelings and his concern for him, and he paused, not giving the ready retort that was on his lips. Finally, he said, “I feel your emotions; your caring for my welfare. I won't contest that, since I have great respect for that and for you.” He studied Buck even more intently and saw something, something that made him wish he had met these people here on the Searcher before he had met the bigoted and callous Aliens on Throm. He sighed. “In a way, you have a family of your own, Rogers. The people who love you now are still alive.”
“Call me Buck, please,” Rogers said, repeating the same thing he had said every time they had been together.
“All right—Buck.”
Buck looked at him in quick surprise, and Will felt a quirking of amusement. That was the first sign of familiarity Will had shown him since they had first met.
Quickly returning to the matter at hand, Buck said, “That's right, Will. But even for me there are differences; the people of Earth are different from what they were over five hundred years ago. I still feel alone and often lonely.” Buck got up. “Will, all I ask is that you listen to what I'm about to say. It’s possible to make a life here and now and among those you once considered your enemies and I'm going to tell you how."
Will calmed down. The scowl on his freckled face faded away. "I’m listening."
“Dr. Goodfellow,” Buck asked, his eyes wide with curiosity. “How many uncharted solar systems are there in the vast expanse of our universe? Are we merely scratching the surface of what lies beyond our known galaxy?”
Goodfellow fixed his eyes on the ceiling as he delved into the depths of his mathematical mind. The room fell silent, save for the soft hum of the life support system. Time seemed to stand still as he pondered the question at hand. As seconds turned into minutes, a faint smile tugged at the corners of Goodfellow’s lips. His mind raced through countless calculations, traversing numerical landscapes that few could fathom. The weight of his answer carried immense significance; it had to be precise, yet awe-inspiring. Suddenly, a spark ignited within him, and he sat up straight with newfound determination. His fingers danced across an invisible canvas, sketching out equations and formulas in mid-air. The room seemed to come alive with an ethereal glow as numbers materialized before him. “One googolplex,” Goodfellow began, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and reverence. "Followed by enough zeroes to encircle the Earth."
“In other words,” Buck mused, his eyes glimmering with a mix of awe and curiosity, “the boundless expanse of undiscovered life stretches far beyond the reaches of our feeble human imagination,” Buck turned to Asimov, “Admiral,” he began, his voice filled with newfound hope, “I have incredible news to share. Will’s Celestial Fury has been salvaged from the depths of oblivion. With some meticulous repairs and unwavering determination, she can rise again, ready to conquer the vastness of space. What do you say, Admiral? Is it alright if Will joins us?”
Admiral Asimov’s eyes widened in disbelief as Buck’s proposal hung in the air. He struggled to find words to express his shock and concern, his voice trembling slightly as he responded, “Buck, are you out of your mind? You can seriously be suggesting that we bring someone like him onto our ship!”
Buck’s response came with a calm determination, his voice steady and resolute. “Admiral, I understand your concerns, but hear me out. Will Robinson may have a checkered past, but he possesses an intellect far beyond his years. His knowledge of alien technology and his ability to adapt in unpredictable situations could prove invaluable to our mission. We need fresh perspectives and innovative thinking if we are to truly explore the universe and uncover its mysteries. Don’t underestimate the potential that lies within him.”
Will’s expression tightened as he turned his gaze to the stars beyond the porthole, their cold brilliance stirring something deep and restless within him. “It’s a generous offer,” he said quietly. “But why should I trust it?”
Buck’s tone grew serious, his voice taking on the authoritative demeanor of a seasoned guidance counselor addressing a wayward adolescent. “You see,” he began, pausing for emphasis, “if you were to adopt our cause, your mission would inevitably align with ours.”
Will’s gaze remained transfixed on the porthole as the Earth’s majestic moon slowly came into view. The sight filled him with a sense of awe and wonder, his mind racing with thoughts of their mission and its purpose. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Buck and asked, “What exactly is your mission?”
Buck drew a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. “Dr. Goodfellow,” he began, his voice steady yet filled with anticipation, “could you please kindly explain every intricate detail of our mission profile to him?”
Dr. Goodfellow smiled warmly as he began. “Ah, Will, let me take you back to May 4, 2004—a pivotal day, more than four years after the survivors of the global war left Chicago. Two hundred made it to Alpha Control, miraculously intact. The old launch pads and Vehicle Assembly Building still stood, weathered but proud. And hidden deep underground was their salvation: a fleet of spacecraft—Jupiters 3 through 10—secretly built in the late ’90s, defying orders to end the extracolonization program.”
Will’s head snapped up in utter disbelief. “You mean there really were other ships just like ours? Major West always insisted that it was nothing more than a mere legend,” he exclaimed, his voice filled with astonishment.
“Oh, not at all, William,” Goodfellow said. “Recently, our scientists discovered a locked safe containing documents from Dr. Peter Packer, the visionary behind the extracolonization program. In secret, Packer had built a fleet of seven advanced Jupiter spacecraft by 1998, to continue the original mission of colonizing a distant planet. Despite the loss of his family and the program’s apparent failure, he preserved the ships and detailed blueprints, hidden from Congress and the President. After a year of effort, the survivors finally extracted the ships from their underground hangar, finding them fully intact and ready for flight. On May 20, 2012, they left Alpha Control and the Earth, their destination, the Moon. They stayed for a brief time, and then they left the solar system for good."
"As the centuries passed," Buck picked up where Goodfellow left off, "those who were left behind lost contact with them. Only now, with Earth finally at peace, do we have the time and the resources to search the universe, to try and make contact with the rest of our race. That's what Searcher is for…to find the passengers of those ancient Jupiter spacecraft, whom we know as The Lost Tribes of Earth."
Will glanced at Buck, and then turned back to the porthole, still reluctant to make eye contact with him. "Sounds interesting but I just don't understand what it's got to do with me?"
Goodfellow had his heart on his sleeve. "Can't you see it, man? It's got everything to do with you. Everything."
"He's right," Buck chided. "Look, suppose you're not the last of the Robinson bloodline? You might have living relatives in this time!"
Wilma walked up to him and put her hand on the black lycra-encased shoulder. "Technically speaking your family constituted what we're searching for…a Lost Tribe of Earth; and only a handful of people at that! Didn't you have an uncle and an aunt?"
Will became sullen. "Yes, I did. My Uncle Craig, Aunt June…Cousins Tim and Tam."
"What if they're still alive?" Wilma pleaded. "I'm sure they'd be very pleased to meet you."
"Now do you see why your mission could be exactly the same as ours?" Buck said. He glanced back at Asimov. "What do you say, Admiral? Do you think the Galactic Council would accept Punisher's working with us as a sufficient guarantee of his good conduct?"
Asimov sighed. ethically, Punisher was a mass murderer, and he was uncomfortable with having someone like that in the ship's company. But then, the authority of the Galactic Council was final, and not even he could oppose them. "I would say yes," he said, "but it really depends on what Mr. Robinson has to say."
Buck approached Punisher, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. "Why don't you come with us, Will? Leave behind your deep-seated grudges and join our quest to uncover what lies ahead. It's time to shift our focus towards the future, not just for ourselves but for everyone," Buck urged, his voice filled with genuine concern. He continued, emphasizing the importance of embracing a new perspective, saying, "We must all look forward, Will. That's what Penny would have wanted – for us to move beyond our past and strive for a better tomorrow."
Will stared hard into the wispy nebula outside the ship. Right before his eyes its gaseous tendrils seemed to writhe and blend, to shape and change colors. Eventually to become a face, the face of an almond-eyed girl with long luxurious brunette hair. Penny's face. He watched as a smile formed on the thin lips and the mouth moved, forming the words Join them. He turned away from the porthole, his heart heavy with grief and determination. He had received Penny's final request from the Great Beyond, a plea that he couldn't ignore. With a deep breath, he looked into Buck's unwavering blue eyes, finding solace and support in their depths.
"Today," Will began reluctantly, his voice trembling with emotion. But then, as if fueled by an inner fire, he found strength and conviction. "This day... The Searcher gains a new member of its crew. Namely... me."
Buck's face lit up with an infectious grin, his eyes sparkling with pride and admiration. "Godspeed Will Robinson!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine excitement.
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THE END
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