"Here's to us who serve, who make the last stand for humanity. Who go where they don't know enough to want us. Who do what they don't know enough to know they need. To the questions we raise and the answers we find."
"To those who serve," was the toast as the glasses were drained.
Ray roamed the
Second Chance
as she accelerated out at one gee, slipped through one jump to exactly the system the map in his head said they'd find. He visited with every spacer, petty officer, and midshipman.
It seemed half of them had pictures of wives, sweethearts, kids, and grandkids they wanted to show him, that they couldn't wait to get back to. Ray had a list of everyone on board and went down it meticulously. Anyone who could get what he was carrying got a full half hour in a closed room with him. If there was any way being around him could give it to them, Ray did his damn best to do it.
Every two days the doc did a blood test on the entire crew of the
Second Chance
. All checks came back negative. The ship's air filters turned up no virus samples after the second day out.
Ray locked himself in his stateroom as they made the final jump into Wardhaven space. He didn't dare be on the bridge as the stars changed. If the stars came out wrong, he couldn't trust himself to keep the bland face the code required of an officer.
There was a long pause after the final jump. Ray stared at the blank wall of his room, hardly breathing.
"Ray, we're insystem," Matt finally called. "The right one."
"Thank you, Captain," Ray sighed. "Please patch me a call to Wardhaven."
Ray waited as the call went through to Rita Nuu-Longknife, wherever she might be. The screen went from blank to show her face sitting behind his desk at the ministry.
She recognized the message immediately as a ship's call. "Rita Longknife accepting any incoming message. Over."
"Rita. It's me. I'm home," was all Ray could get out.
For more long minutes he watched as she did her job while his message covered the distance to her and back again. Then her head snapped up. Her eyes sparkled. A smile more beautiful than sunrise touched her face.
"Of course. You said you would be."
About the Author
Mike Moscoe grew up navy. It taught him early about geography, change, and the chain of command. He's worked as a cabdriver and bartender, labor negotiator and data analyst. Now retired from building databases about the critters of the Pacific Northwest, he's looking forward to a serious study of human folly and glory.
He lives in Vancouver, Washington, with his wife and her mother. He enjoys reading, writing, watching grandchildren for story ideas, and upgrading his computer-all are never-ending.
You may reach him at
[email protected]