Intending to return to my cabin, I took the long way around the ship’s circular habitat. I needed the walk, needed time to blow off steam and stomp off the tension that had me knotting my fists and swearing under my breath. Unfortunately, I realised with deepening unease, my route would take me past George’s room.

I slowed my pace as I approached the threshold, reluctant to face any more reminders of my failure. I’d already been here once today with Preston, and that was enough. I didn’t want a second look at George’s possessions sitting where he’d left them: the photographs of his daughter and grandchildren taped to the bulkhead; the keepsakes upon his shelves. I didn’t want the reassuring, homely smell of his unwashed sheets. Instead, I brushed my hand against the door’s cold steel and moved on, past all the hundreds of other unlit and unoccupied cabins, my stride quick and purposeful in order to ward away the emotional lump building in my oesophagus.

I’d done what I’d thought best, and what I’d thought the situation required. If I was found guilty of negligence, I wouldn’t contest the verdict; I’d spend my last pay cheque travelling to Earth to find George’s daughter, so I could apologise to her in person. And, after that… Well, I hadn’t planned that far ahead. Right now, all I knew for sure was that a liner was in trouble. Nine hundred people were out there somewhere in the dark, praying for rescue, and it was up to us to come to their aid. We were the nearest ship. Until we reached them, all other considerations could take a back seat. For the moment, I was still a captain of the House of Reclamation, pledged to help the citizens of the Generality in their times of peril and distress, no matter their race, religion or political affiliation. That was the ideal for which George Walker had given his life, and adhering to that was the very least I could do to honour his sacrifice.

Ten: Trouble Dog

TEN

TROUBLE DOG

Made as I was from ingredients taken from both humans and dogs, I have an understandable curiosity concerning the history of life on Earth. While indulging that curiosity, I have seen recordings of base-jumpers hurling their fragile bodies from the tops of cliffs and the summits of skyscrapers. I’ve seen the wind tear at their clothes, imagined the roar of it in their ears, the cold blast of it against their faces, chests and legs. For a few, ephemeral instants they free-fall unsupported, mapping the perilous frontier between existence and obliteration, trusting their parachutes to catch them before impact and land them without death or injury.

I tell you this because it’s the human experience I imagine to be closest to that of leaping through the hypervoid.