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Flying outside during a lightning storm was not exactly a safe thing to do on Xanadu, let alone under the influence of a powerful antidepressant like Blissitol. If any of Grover's podmates noticed his pack was missing, he might be in for a bit of a lecture. But he desperately needed a distraction. Life in Pod 17 was damn near intolerable. It would be more than he could stand if he didn't take outings like this now and then.

There wasn't much to see. Xanadu was a gas giant orbiting Omicron Eridani A, 125 light years from home. It was litarally as far as Grover could possibly get from his pathetic life, but he still dreamed about it every night. Sometimes with a curious 20th century twist, yes, but the basics were all there. The lack of space, the lack of purpose, his own pre-ACT-procedure frailty. At least with Blissitol in the mix, the dreams took interesting turns. He could still faintly smell the bear-bee's breath.

The world around him was red-orange, as far as he could see. He kept the brilliant white signal beacon of Pod 17 in sight always, but ventured further and further into the hazy atmosphere. A deep crimson cloud bank was passing far overhead, drifting to the south, occasionally flashing bright greens and purples as lightning pulsed within it.

Grover rose slowly, hoping for a closer look.