I become “aware” although I open my eyes to darkness. A solid flat construct supports the flesh and bone body my spirit is trying to acclimatise to. An unexpected uneasiness rolls over the attempt, like forcing a square peg into a round hole. I don’t want this! I shake the feeling off. There is a more immediate mystery that needs to be solved. Is the body, this alien flesh bag, laying down? Helpless? On a bed?

My thinking is dull, my intellect suffers confinement. The brain capacity, the mind of this non-human flesh … is …. primitive. How could this be? My mission flesh bag should be pristine, a technological marvel grown specifically to succeed. The ideal vessel attuned to accommodate my spirit … yet the heart, other muscles, and nervous system, to name some, are … sub-standard.

I decide upon survival first, answers later. Motor functions. Where are they? Where! Are! They! Moments like years squeeze by … stop, calm, be methodical. This brain can’t process confusion. Assume human-like and work outwards from there. I must start a physical movement as I have a hunch. A razor-thin glimmer of hope and, if not true, I refuse to accept those consequences. With indomitable I cannot fail mental effort, I command the left-hand side of this repulsive flesh bag, forcing an imperceptible rock towards the right.

Caustic smoke. My sense of smell returns.

With this success, hope returns, and I rally my strength of will for another effort. Right-hand side, an imperceptible rock towards the left. The flesh bag’s brain jolts, lightning, thunder, impaling, strangling and then a piercing sound. Did I scream? Am I screaming? Yet within that moment, I realise this flesh bag’s mind grows. With that growth, my intellect expands.

I am certain now the body jostling is the trigger. The proof? All over this body, my sense of touch returns. I don’t lay on a bed. My fingertips scrape a hard surface. My palms drag along a flat surface.

Searing heat.

I can feel my chest ache. This body can suffer pain now. No heartbeat. Then a triple razor-sharp stabbing. Not a heart attack. Three broken ribs reform. As they finish joining, I feel a click in my chest. A clean repair instead of a clean break. Why do I occupy a damaged flesh bag?

I ease off the clenching my teeth. I didn’t realise I had clamped them together until now. The pressure on my lungs reduces to nothing and instinctively I take my first breath. I draw in acrid smoke through my nostrils. The molten heatwave cauterises my airways.

Can I scream? I refuse to scream. An eighteen-mission veteran doesn’t panic when facing the unknown or the different. They get on with surviving and then completing the mission! Foolish bravado, is that all I have now?

How close am I to flesh death after spirit insertion? I need to assess. Search for ways to live and not wait for one of the many ways failures can steal my future, even if dire. First step; as revolting as I can’t imagine, I cease my resistance. In a moment, my spirit completes ownership of this disgusting flesh bag. There isn’t another option.

My first sense is that this fit is like a hexagon peg descending into a round hole. An incomplete fit. My spirit feels dirty forever. Shortly after, this flesh bag’s heart muscle repairs. A thump in my chest, the first heartbeat. The nerves of this body reverberate with pain, spreading out like an echo. This signalling activates what can only be a previously dormant chemical and nanorobot cocktail.

I grit my teeth and refuse to scream. Another heartbeat, and the pain ceases. Left in the dark, I lay prone upon this flat surface, arms by my sides as my hearing returns.

Crackling and snapping.

The heat intensifies. On command, my fingers curl. My toes curl. Strong and quick motor-muscular response. A positive sign, I tell myself. I refuse to take a deep breath as this body demands as the heart continues pumping. Instead, I roll to one side and immediately roll back. The radiating heat is an impenetrable wall. I crunch my abdominal muscles and sit upright. Folds of a heavy covering cloth now rest upon my otherwise naked lap. My eyes are thankfully clear.

Several sharp screeches, a long scream, and the thump of falling bodies punctuate the roar of the blazing fire. The arid smell, burning taste and my stinging eyes register the devouring of the cut and dressed timber beneath me. Through the smoke, I spy several of what must be the natives. Hands on mouths or arms waving, others prone, several running, in short bedlam.

Radiating heat prickles my skin. I pick out the first vacant spot beyond the flames and climb to my feet. I know I must jump and drape the length of white cloth around my shoulders instead of my loins. Taking one stumbling step back, I fling an arm out to recover, then tense and release my thigh muscles to test my chances. Blistering heat reaches through the thinning platform, teasing my feet. With three rapid paces, I leap off the end of the plank, a combination of long jump and high jump.

The flames roar and flick towards my fleeing body as the wooden planks of the platform fall inwards, kicking up bright embers. Mid jump, my hands claw back to me for any modicum of extra distance. My legs kick outwards in support, attempting ungainly flight to clear the inferno surrounding me. Upon landing, my arms and legs tangle as my bodily control is imperfect.

Behind me, the flames engulf my former wooden bed. The conflagration rises high in protest, venting its displeasure because of my escape. I half stumble, cursing my mission’s primitive flesh bag as I do.

Sucking in a shallow breath, I rest on my haunches, laying my hands upon the ground to keep balance. This pause allows me time to collect myself, the flames enough to separate me from the inquisitive, I hope. I eye the remains of the bonfire. Stacked logs, cut into lengths, support the platform on high.

The white cloth is now a toga about my body, previously draped over the length of my future body. I blink and spit at the flames. Dribble runs down my chin instead. I curse this flesh bag, yet I can’t deny the evidence. Before me is this flesh bag’s funeral pyre. The white cloth a shroud and therefore, my flesh bag, was once a corpse.

Pouring a Spirit into a corpse … I cough, unable to drag in enough of this fresh cool air because of shock. I fall back, quickly adjusting my hands to steady myself … I shake my head … a corpse. As I think about this, terror momentarily grips my mind. This possibility is beyond my comprehension, yet explains this singular, impossible truth. A rationale for the sub-human mind and spirit to body ill-fit.

I must accept I am a corpse returned to life. The funeral pyre audience bearing witness to the occurrence. This result is not only scientifically improbable but against all the Galactic Planet Agency rules. My eyes attempt to search beyond the sky, into the black of space while I internally vent.

“Against the rules!” I bellow. The body’s voice is a deep, harsh growl. The first agreeable function of this flesh bag, I decide.

This is wrong. Yet I am the truth this can happen. Moisture gathers in my eyes, and I swallow, knowing the consequences. The red-raw throat lights up in pain, instantly breaking my descent into self-pity. I must try to come to terms and accept this truth I find myself in.

Fact—someone didn’t engineer this flesh bag for me or even another agent. This leaves the only remaining possibility that it is a native inhabitant’s corpse. There is no spin, pretence, or alternative explanation. My spirit now inhabits once dead flesh … how is this possible? Did the GPA transport the corpse off-world, complete modifications, and then return? When did Spirit insertion occur? Does that matter?

If an Agent’s spirit inserts sufficiently, then one of the first things any would try to do is move. Not showing such a basic sign of life would strongly suggest failure. Here, they would dispose of the flesh bag in the pyre and therefore destroy all evidence. Nobody would know. They could then try again when another suitable corpse becomes available, a convenient rinse and repeat.

The burning of the dead must be cultural for the GPA to depend upon the ritual. My mind turns over the questions to test my analysis. The activation of the chemical and nanorobot cocktail at the first sign of life, for example. They planned such as trigger to lock in as much enhancement as possible into the primitive flesh bag. Conclusion? My mission isn’t official. There is no sanction and no committee oversight—worse than a covert grey op.

No clean flesh bag is the real clue. The GPA registers all the grown flesh containers. The GPA then assigns them to an Agent and associates it to a Mission. I am alone and singularly dependent upon my mystery agent provocateur. Hopefully, this generous benefactor will keep the promises made to me. Why me? I don’t ask out of self-pity. I ask because somehow, I became the Agent of choice …

Turning my eyes away from the roaring flames and climbing to my feet, I realise no one has approached me. There is a total lack of concern, not even an offer of basic aid, such as food, water, or clothing. A strong breeze feeds oxygen to the flames, causing my blazing bed to rise and radiate heat over me. On instinct, I retreat a couple of stumbling steps. The pyre collapses shortly after. A last gasp.

A hand slams down upon my shoulder, and somehow, I don’t collapse. The strike is a test I suspect. The prevailing breeze turns the trailing smoke away in my favour. I draw in a deep breath of fresh air. Oxygen floods my bloodstream, and my mind can focus. I decide at that moment to grow a spine. I will find those responsible and wipe their Spirits. My Spirit animates a corpse, a flesh bag previously alive. This insult cannot go unpunished. I no longer care why they chose me.

A grunt. “Alive then, back to three Hobs. Good … good.”

He continues marching away from me, leaning on the support of a walking stick, not even breaking his stride. A Hob? Masculine voice, bald, dark green skin, large ears which end flat and wide at the top, with heavy-set barrel body type. He marches away from me, and I don’t need a mirror to know I must look similar; I must also be Hob.

I don’t call out; he would talk to me if I were of any interest to him.

I scan my surrounds. Rustic cottages, slapdash stone, and wooden walls with tree bark tiles upon the peaked roofs. Only the best of rudimentary living then.

Standing to one side of the pyre are three short, thin, light-green skinned humanoids. These, I regret to identify, belong to the base humanoid race of this planet, goblin. All ugly females by any measure, angular faces with large, long noses, the tips of which curl down to almost touch their top lips. A notable feature of my cursory assessment.

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I sigh. As certain as the sun rises on any habitable planet, they pre-program the designer flesh bag. The native population will romantically and sexually attract the occupant. The time to fully succumb is a function of time and association, but necessary. Otherwise, making romantic or long-lasting attachments to a non-human species would become problematic for mission success.

My only question is, will this happen sooner than otherwise, given my flesh bag is an actual native? I will never know, of course, unless no attraction develops for this very reason. I swallow, without pain I note. A possible deeper problem awaits, going native. The boffins suggest that there is a rare possibility of an Agent developing deep romantic feelings for a local inhabitant because their way of life captivates them.

An Agent loses their true selves and the mission objectives, because of this almost unbreakable infatuation. They choose to live out their flesh bag’s natural life, planet bound. In effect, beyond their control, they muster out of the Agency. The more missions completed by an Agent, the more susceptible they are, and this is apparently incurable.

Going native results from some spark of the primordial need for natural physical attraction is the best explanation the GPA scientists can arrive at. They swear, of course, they can’t correct this condition and yet somehow, I believe this impossible problem is an artificial control. They don’t want to find a fix because of convenience. Worse, they have orchestrated a conspiracy. They know everything and manipulate the native attraction level in a designer flesh bag. The boffins are in full control. They influence or worse case force an Agent to go native.

I recall one from my graduating class, double zero five, for example, who skipped every third leave life, taking another mission instead. They were one such agent who went native. Double zero five is an Agent I can’t forget. I thought our time spent as a married couple throughout one leave life something special … I feel the tug on my heart; her smiling face, our sincere words promising forever.

Yet inexplicably she found true love with an alien during a mission and thereby mustered out, conveniently saving the Agency the liability of her future life pensions. My memory is still bitter, the sting of lost love echoing across each mission and leave life since. This one as well. I wipe some smoke irritant out of my eyes using a piece of cloth from my toga.

Agent relationships are genuine because agents spend quality time together. Agents, being able to live their leave lives in designer flesh bags, aren’t bound by the impost of physical attraction as both can design their own perfect bodies. The long-haul attractions such as personality, emotional maturity, and intellectual development carry the joy and burden of the relationship. Time is immaterial.

I thought double zero five, and I held such a deep connection. A bond which easily transcended missions. Because we could spend every leave life together in new twenty-year-old bodies which would age gracefully multiple times.

A sharp urine scent assaults my nostrils and smashes aside my idle thoughts and lingering reminiscing. The damp ground around their bare green splayed feet catches my attention. Two of them tremble under my gaze while the third one remains frozen, with her head down.

Hobs are near five feet tall, Gobs according to the nanorobot implanted Planet profile, in the main are four feet tall. These are shorter, which puts the rest of the Gob crowd into perspective. They are a similar height. In conclusion, the goblin race is degenerating. Crud. How am I to grow a civilisation from such pitiful seed?

Wrapping my shroud around the naked lower half of my body takes several fumbling attempts. I flick my hand at the three during my mid-third attempt and shout, “Home.” The frozen one urinates. The other two scamper away. Holding my shroud by the hand, I growl, approaching the last. The head of the frozen one darts about, a sudden body jolt and then she is away sprinting after the first two.

I look down. My body took a blow to the chest. The force required to break three ribs didn’t come from any of these three. The shock of me returning from the dead to terrorise their lives once again was obviously too much and instantly emptied their bladders. Is it the fact I am a Hob or was my former flesh bag self not kind to or perhaps care for these goblins? Whatever the rules of this primitive society, these three goblins are bound to me. No other goblins offered them alternative shelter after my death or rebirth.

I tie off my shroud. I deliberately don’t remember what attempt number this is.

There is also the quandary of where I live and who I am. The first resolving before my eyes as I stumble, jog after my goblin property. I doubt anyone has treated them as individuals their entire lives. Three Hobs in this cesspit of a village and we are the undisputed masters of every creature weaker than us, specifically goblins. Given the low number of Hobs, where do we occasionally come from? Questions without answers aren’t helpful, I need to find some answers and quick.

My pyre is on the southern side of the village, it would seem. My scampering goblins lead me north-easterly on a soil packed path which weaves between occasional cottages. We shortly after reach the extreme eastern edge of the village. My feet splash through shallow river water flowing over a ford and, once across, I discover a touch of civilisation.

The trail beneath our running feet is narrow, yet the base is timber providing a firm surface. I glance back at the water, and I am drawn back. I lower my mouth into the river against the current and drink until my stomach bloats. Yet this corpse, now my body, demands more. With effort, my force of will overcomes instinct. Jogging out of the river, I am back on the wooden path. Each step I take is more certain, stronger.

Picking up my pace, I was in time to sight my three goblins disappear over a rise. Reaching the rise shortly after myself, I take in the view. Twenty goblins? More? Like lightning, the muddle of skinny green bodies dart into action, sneaking an occasional glance in my direction. Given their reaction, they must be mine as well. Perhaps they didn’t think I would return either.

I chuckle at their reverse of fortune, my self-amusement priceless and a notable moment. My first hint of happiness. A fit of inner anger attempts to obliterate my joy. I blink. I must be mistaken …

I jog to the middle of them. “Where are the rest?” An assumption, of course, but when the boss is away and all that.

Skinny arms point in a few directions, although the majority favour at least three. A light forest. A field with tall grass. The third, somewhere over there, which isn’t the low grass field in that direction but perhaps beyond it.

“Fetch them. Now,” I command.

They look at each other, so I step forward, real close, so as not to miss. I pick out volunteers with a slap behind their heads, three for each direction. Another mystery, my female property pauses down the trail taking an interest or simply taking this time to gulp down several breaths and try to recuperate. While waiting, I want to scratch at my flesh bag, rough and primitive. My spirit grinds against this inadequate host and my impatience grows rapidly.

The light forest, the closer hiding place, disgorges at least ten naked goblins, an equal number of males and females, sprinting for their lives. Instead of scratching my flesh bag, I release my frustration by slapping each goblin as they return. I aim for across the face, some strikes are near enough, so shoulders, necks and tops of heads also count as intended targets, I decide. No matter where I strike, there is enough force to dump each of them on their bony arses. When they try to stand, I growl.

Growling works like perfection—a Hob ‘thing’?

Twenty or more emerge, with clothes on, from the field and I treat them to the same reception, my aim improving with practice I note. Most satisfying. The naked goblins utilise the disturbance of new arrivals to clothe themselves.

A large goblin leads the last group to return, his clothes at least cut and sewn, not a piece of cloth front and back, a hole for the head and another two holes opposite for the arms like his brethren. His escort, all females and I note in the distance his jaw drops and his swagger vanishes as he now hurries. The rumours of my demise … now proven false with his own eyes. A frightening confirmation.

Upon reaching me, he drops to a grovel. “Great Hob, we work hard always for you.”

The creature at my feet would reach four feet in height when standing. Of sixty-plus goblins, one is the racial height, the rest, male, and females are runts. What chance do I have for success? Generations of improvement will be required, yet most designer flesh bags endure for fifty earth years in optimal condition before a rapid decline. The boffins say this is a limit within the technology. The suspicion of most Agents is the limitation is by design. For me, this is mute. How many years do I have? My flesh bag was once a corpse.

I reach down, grab him by his throat, and drag him to his feet. He gasps for breath as I intend. Like growling, this seems like another Hob ‘thing’, which I agree with because my aim is true and the result effective. This raises a question. Did the Hob corpse I live in trigger this, or did I exercise my free will? If Hob, then why no help with the slapping? I shake my head. I am overthinking this … the easiest explanation would be muscle memory. My corpse remembers Hob actions and apparently throat strangling of goblins, one favourite.

“When will you finish my road?”

Gasping and spluttering half words, issue forth. A slight release of my hold, which I note I need to exercise my willpower to achieve. My Hob corpse resists. I think, why? There isn’t an answer. There is an almost overwhelming impulse within to crush the neck in my grasp.

“Ten days Great One …” he gasps.

I close off his throat and raise what I hope is an eyebrow. His eyes bulge as he tries to speak again, and I release my hold until he can form words. Each action elicits an impulse from my Hob corpse, supporting one action, not supporting the other.

“Eight days, Great One … yes Eight, mighty, will we work for you.”

I shake my head and squeeze. This hand’s fine motor control is now a test. This corpse is mine. I intend to exercise control as I see fit, denying all interference.

“Five,” he yells, with a rasping breath.

I nod and release him. “Today is day one.”

Striding off under a mid-morning sun, my gaze fixing on my three goblin ladies who blink and scamper away. I hear his platitudes and reaffirmation of his promise. I ignore him. There is much to do and the previous me probably relied upon this Goblin Overseer too much.

It is a mistake I can’t afford to repeat. I don’t wish to remain here a single day longer than is necessary. Every creature under my command or yet to be will toil and sweat to within an inch of their lives or beyond, without exception. I sense my Hob corpse agrees, although the strongest emotional feedback aligns with “to within an inch of their lives”. Odd.

My three goblin darlings, I realise, upon reaching the top of the hill, stand at the end of the wooden trail. Beyond is a mush of drying mud, the sort where you take a step and upon lifting your foot mud clings underneath. I try the long mile grass on each side of the trail, a mistake as lacerations from the long grass crisscross over the naked skin on my legs. Nasty.

Late afternoon, almost dusk, and each step forward now brings my holdings clearer into view. Several buildings, all log construction, walls, and roofs. Maybe I undervalued the former me. The farm was his to manage. The work crews answered to the Overseer. This lack of awareness makes learning about the former me more imperative. Fortunately, I have three handy witnesses. Although their loud panting and abundant sweating signals, I may have pushed them beyond their limits to reach our home before nightfall.

Ignoring their condition, my thoughts wander off to consider several possible methods to best extract the truth. Then a sharp pain skewers my heart, which I grab at. My body warms. Something is wrong … excess chemical and nanorobot release … spirit injection complication … body or should I say corpse rejection?

I force myself to walk. One step taken; I force another. Beads of sweat springs from my skin. My three exhausted ladies line up as best they can, forming an honour guard of sorts on one side of the open cabin door. The silent shadow within beckons me. I try to cover up my critical condition by leaning against the doorjamb. A pretence. I take a moment to assess the interior.

I slide in and grab for the door, slamming it shut. A staggering shuffle across, then I slide to the floor, my body a backstop to the only entrance to the cabin. Well, the one I know about. Despite my efforts, my head lolls about. I notice, despite out-of-focus eyes, beads of black tar popping out of the pores of my dark green skin. As I lose consciousness, my brain flashes an odd memory.

{Mission Parameters: Planet Name: Restricted. Race Name: Hobgoblin Body Name: Klug the Tenderer

Synopsis: Goblin races are the primary sentient race on the planet. They are transitioning from Earth equivalent cultures of Primitive hunter/gatherer to Nomadic and/or Barbarian cultures.

Mission: You must guide the Goblin race to the Earth's equivalent culture of Civilised. Avoid technology, promote religion and magic use.}