Day 678

Day 678

April 29, 2024

It is lonely out in space.

The Anfaq Confederacy admired my piloting skills. They did not admire my political opinions. Couple this dichotomy with my severe stubbornness and I am the ideal candidate for long voyage transports.

Thus, I have an indentured contract for a one way haul from Homeworld to Andros-5, in a sublight freighter. My ETA is 30+ years and my cargo is high level radioactive waste that (should) become low level radioactive waste (mostly higher weight transition elements). My bulkheads are sealed as well as my fate. I will spend the majority of my life alone, childless, and (eventually) contaminated. I have a recycler for breathable air, a water reclamator with a few spare parts, and a freezer for recycled food. I can maintain all three with a little skill and a lot of hope. Should I require assistance, I might be able to fix the transmitter.

Then again, I cannot fix the apathy of the people who would need to listen.

In essence, I am persona non grata.

Except on Day 678.

My nav system detected another ship on an intercept course. It was a light raider class, used in the Dacryn Wars. Standard protocol was to answer the hails to identify my point of origin and destination so as to avoid a boarding party search and pillage. Since I have no working transmitter or receiver, I await the inevitable.

The raider pulls adjacent, matches speed, and begins its docking. I stand with my hands in a surrender position awaiting my fate.

I expect the worst to begin in less than a minute.

It is now thirty minutes and there is no boarding party. I keep hearing a tapping on the outer hull. The pattern repeats itself, two taps - pause - three taps - pause - two taps. I could break contact and suffer blaster fire if this is a ruse. Or I could don an EVA suit and meet the party (and my fate) half way.

I opt for the latter and am all the better for it.

Within ten hours, I have Lt. Simmons asleep on my bunk. He was wounded with proximity heavy blaster burns and must have made his escape in the raider. I can balm these with little difficulty. What I cannot treat are the scars from edged weapons and the blunt force trauma (hits/impacts) to his abdomen, legs, and arms.

In essence, Lt. Simmons has seen some combat.

His ship fares a little better.

His nav system works, but is incompatible with mine. His fuel system has failed, but his fuel tanks are full. He has no working transmitter, provisions, or supplies.

If he did not encounter me, he would have died in the ship.

Alone.

The good lieutenant awoke for a hardy meal of recycled carbohydrates, rehydrated in a salt water bath awash with a sprinkle of freeze dried vegetable matter. He thinks it is delicious. So did I on days 1 through 10.

He tells me of his life fighting for the side I was fighting against. He speaks of how things should be and not how they are. He thinks I am a volunteer for the Confederacy.

He is enamored by my circumstance and sacrifice. I am enamored by his build and blue eyes.

My bunk was engineered for one. Perhaps, one day, I will transmit a message to the manufacturer that the bunk's capacity may be doubled under “consensual” circumstances.

I have given birth to three sons, all who died in some war, somewhere. I know when I am pregnant. Today, I will tell Lt. Simmons the good news and the bad news.

First, the good news. I will no longer have to be lonely. Life has a purpose.

Now, the bad news. Life has a purpose only for me.

The good lieutenant is dying from blood poisoning, courtesy the Anfaq Confederacy. Any soldier not in contact with command will be poisoned (most likely from his helmet, through his skin) preventing desertion or imprisonment.

It has been 10 days since he escaped and 10 days with me.

Lt. Simmons is dying fast.

Thus, I salvaged all I could from his raider. I have to think for more than myself. Even if I kept him on my freighter, someone would track my position and notice the error in my navigation. Even a first year cadet could calculate the mass required to make this error. When calculated to be in the range of 50 to 80 kg, first suspicions would be “stowaway”. First corrections would be annihilation.

Lt. Simmons is already dying. There is no need for the two of us to die also.

I gave him just enough fuel to maneuver away from me. He could overload the engines and await what was to come.

I pitched his singular “option” to him at knifepoint (his blaster did not work).

He understood his position. I walked him to the tethered airlock. He asked for a final kiss and received as good as he gave.

He might have given better had the knife not been pressed against his groin.

“What will you name the child?”

“If it is a girl, Misty. If a boy, then Bryan.”

“I like Misty. It is a strong name. Bryan, not so much. Perhaps Edward. That’s my name.”

He leaned close despite my southern hemisphere knife placement.

“Edward it is.”

I watched him enter his raider and disengage from the docking post. His face appeared in the window as I began moving away.

I know a little lip reading, a skill I learned while being a forward observer.

I pointed to myself and mouthed, “Misty”.

As he floated away, I did not see his reply.

In retrospect, It no longer mattered.