HMS Valediction

Chapter 4

Vibrations pulse over my hand and trickle down my arm, rousing me from my wide-eyed stare-down with the overhead. I let it buzz, tickling my hand until it's numb. The swirl of yesterday's frustrations, today's complications, and tomorrow's unknowns weigh me down like cinder blocks on my feet. Feet that are already so swollen, my boots have become the worst of my uniform troubles.

The vortex of confusion creates centrifugal forces that pin me to my thin mattress despite the roaring agony shooting through my spine. I stretch, my shoulders popping as the un-attended backache flares again. I should see one of the Medics about it, but I don't want anyone to put hands on me — not when my son is growing and my bump is centimeters away from exposing me. But the pain from waking each morning with stiff bones makes sleeping a new form of torture. I glare at the overhead one last time before attempting to sit up.

I knock my head on the shelf above. The worn copy of Brave New World drops into my lap. With shaking hands, I grip it. Since discovering the HEL-HOC program and what Moyra's been up to all these years, an old anger toward Dean flares up like a reoccurring infection. I've been harboring the ire since that day, letting it filter through my blood until it reaches my heart. I've had no time to list the reasons I want to forgive him. I want him here only so I can remind him how his single act of "protectiveness" thwarted my career. I want to grab his shirt in my hands so I can shove him away. I want to slam a mug down so the glass can shatter between us. I want to kick a chair and watch it skitter away when he leaves the room. I want to run up to him and kiss him. Kiss him hard enough to leave a mark. Then I might want to shove him against a wall, leap up, wrap my legs around his waist, and when we're eye-to-eye, pull his hair, flinging his head back, consuming him like a renegade flame down his throat.

I close my eyes and inhale, trying to calm the raging hormones as they curl through my gut to descend between my legs.

Today is not the day to think about this. Today, we put our lives in the hands of our Xani navigators and pray they'll successfully toss us into the tracks of the dark matter super-highway.

Hands? These things don't have hands. Claws? Do we put our lives in their knife-claws? I fling the book away.

I rise, dress, brush my teeth, strap my vest on a little more hard than I mean to. When done, I can hardly breathe. My clothes are too tight, it's not necessary to dress with extra force. The straining buttons work hard enough that I don't need to treat the uniform with more brutal punishment.

I peer down. With my battle dress uniform, plate carrier, and full gear, no one could tell there's anyone in there but me. Twenty weeks along and I can still cover the bump with a few pounds of gear. I consider myself blessed by the Lady and every single pebble on her damn pile for that small miracle. But today, as I adjust the plates in front, I can't breathe. It's too snug. It's too uncomfortable and stiff and hot and I feel like I'm going to lose my shit if I keep standing in my cabin and thinking about how my clothes rub against every inch of my skin. Just go.

"Good morning, Commander," Coodi says as she falls into step with me on the way to the Nest. "We're on schedule and should be ready to hit the tracks in three hours." She's all business today. I don't blame her. This is Earth's first attempt at real space travel.

The buttons and blinking lights of SCOPE panels flicker as we enter the gray-bland control tower. Everyone sits with tense, hunched shoulders over their terminals. Those who click commands on keypads direct units of our crowd control enforcement to their designated places. They speak in low whispers, ensuring all protocol is followed for this, our giant leap across the galaxy. The large window overlooking the marketplace is vacant. I stand by it to stare down at the vendors locking their shops as the procedure document dictates.