The Alchemist stood on the precipice of the tallest volcano on the planet they called the Voyager. The volcano belched ash in heavy, rhythmic spurts, like a winded runner. Ash covered the Alchemist, his cloak, hood, and his filigree mask.

"The power of the eruption must match my calculations exactly." He checked his notebook to be sure.

He must also time the eruption to a split second. A mistake was unthinkable. If the strength or the timing was wrong, his world, with its sun destroyed, will journey through space until all life froze and died. Already, the bitter sub-zero cold of outer space bit into his bones through his heavy, protective clothing,

His heavy leather coat whipped in a wind so bitter that it froze the sulfur mist into needles of ice. He raised a heavy glass vessel filled with a swirling, neon-blue alchemical dust against a sunless sky. He watched the ever-changing panorama of galaxies, giant stars, and black holes rushing by. Any minute now …

"Hold. Volcano Man. Step back" A Nomad? The Alchemist looked down, frowning, for he hated the name the Nomads called him by. He looked at the volcano rim opposite, peering through his protective filigree mask.

From the shadow of a basalt crag out stepped Torin, the lead Nomad of the southern Nomadic tribes. The composite bow in Torin's hand was of ancient design, but dead accurate at short distances. An iron-tipped arrow, with its string drawn taut, pointed directly at the Alchemist's chest.

"I mean it, Volcano Man," he said. "Step back. No eruption today."

"Foolish as always, Torin," said the Alchemist. "I act only to save the Voyager. We've found a star at last. Today's eruption will put us in its orbit. Nomads and Colonists will all be saved. Torin glared at him. He said,

"No. My people shall never return to bondage. I fight for their survival." Underfoot, The Alchemist felt a sluggish movement a mile below. It was the dying magma of the planet's core. Cooling over their wandering years, it pulsed sluggishly, the fading heartbeat of a dying world. The eruption must happen soon. There was no time to lose.

"Listen to me," the Alchemist said, voice patient, "my bloodline has perfected these calculations over centuries. This eruption must be massive and happen in the next two minutes. Or, everyone on the planet dies." In response, Torin sighted along the arrow, ready to shoot.

"You are steering us into a cage," Torin growled, his breath pluming in the dark. "The Colonist propaganda says the core is dying, but we know the truth."

"And what is that?"

"You want to anchor us to that star. The moment the ice melts and the surface turns green, the old records will come true. The Colonists will shackle us again. We'd rather freeze free in space than serve in the sunlight."

The Alchemist didn't lower the flask. "If I don't drop this alchemic, there will be no free men left to argue, Torin. The cold will kill all of you in the lower caverns within three winters."

"He speaks the truth, savage!" A sharp mechanical click echoed from behind the Alchemist. Director Vane of the northern Colonists marched forward, flanked by two guards wielding high-pressure steam rifles.

The Alchemist eyed Vane's pristine furs; contrasting with Torin's ragged attire. Vane's eyes locked onto the glowing blue flask. He said,

"Lower the bow, Nomad. The Alchemist shall determine the destiny of this planet, not your superstitious fears. We will have our star and see a new dawn."

"And our slavery," said Torin. "We remember when the world was green. We toiled in the fields like slaves."

"We worked on machines," said Vance. "We wove the cloth; we turned the corn into meal. We worked indoors as colleagues."

"Lies," said Torin, "convenient lies. Step back, Volcano man or I shoot."

The Alchemist looked at the arrow and at the rifles. Tension filled the air, taut as a wire. He was the fulcrum of the Voyager. He used eruptions to steer the planet through the dangerous gauntlets of space. So far, he was the last word; but now, he felt entirely cornered.

"The eruption window is closing," the Alchemist warned, his voice commanding, magnified through his mask. "We have only ninety seconds."

"Then drop the flask into the crater," Vane commanded. His guards took aim at Torin. "Or," he said. "We kill the Nomad and force you to do it."

"If he moves his hands," Torin said, "the arrow flies before he can throw the flask." His eyes were still, and his fingers steady on the bowstring. He said,

"We have survived so long; why stop now? Because the Colonists say so? Never,"

The Alchemist knew it in his bones. No compromise was possible. It was true. If his flask dropped straight into the volcano, it will green the planet. The Colonists will use superior technology to re-enslave the Nomads. But if he did nothing, the star will pass by. They would all die before another star could be found, frozen in the unforgiving void of deep space.

The Alchemist realized his ancestors had never encountered a world so broken by fear. Their past actions were of no use.

He did the unexpected.

Instead of dropping the flask into the volcano, he smashed it against the rock at his own feet.

The flask shattered. Only some contents fell into the abyss. The rest scattered on the basalt rim at the Alchemist's feet. Caught up in the violent updraft of the volcano, the blue alchemic combined with the sulfur in the air. The reaction, as loud as a thousand thunderclaps, blinded everyone with a searing flash of violet fire.

Torin let his arrow fly. But the sudden shockwave deflected its path; it whistled past the Alchemist's hood and shattered against Vane's shoulder armor. The Colonist guards fired blindly into the smoke; the concussive blasts of steam tore through the mist but hit nothing but rock.

The earth beneath them groaned, a deep, agonizing tectonic shudder. The alchemical reaction was uneven. Instead of a single, controlled thrust to push the Voyager into a clean orbit, the eruption moved the planet into the unknown.

The Alchemist was gone before the smoke cleared. He retreated down secret lava conduits known only to him and his forefathers.

Twenty-four hours passed. No sunrise. Clearly, the Voyager was not orbiting the star. Torin and his clan rejoiced. They would remain free to roam as before.

At the opposite pole, Vane was looking up too. One of his guards spotted it first: a faint red glow like a distant sun. The star was very far indeed.

It took a full rotation of Voyager before they understood what had happened.

The unplanned eruption had pushed Voyager into a very long elliptical orbit, with the star at one locus. So, the Voyager spent ten years far away, freezing in subzero deep space. Her surface froze, forcing the tribes underground. Then the Voyager neared the star, to enjoy two years of nearness and sunshine. The ice melted, and the planet turned green, bursting with life.

Every twelve years, this cycle repeated itself over and over.

Neither side had won. The Nomads and the Colonists had to cooperate. Everybody worked two years in the fields, harvesting. Then they worked ten years in underground factories; still together. The brief summer, followed by the very long, hard winter, left them with no other choice.

Secretly, the Colonists plotted. Find the Alchemist. He can calculate an eruption to correct Voyager's orbit. Then the Colonist empire will rise again. But the Alchemist was nowhere to be found.

Somewhere amongst the secret lava conduits, the Alchemist had already calculated how to make the Voyager's orbit shorter and regular. How to make the four seasons appear in their proper order. But he was in no hurry. Let the tribes learn their lesson, learn to accept each other as equals. After that …

The End

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