Jack McDevitt: Firebird

There really are miracles.

Rowena and Michelle came in, and they all embraced. They thanked her, then were quickly swept off by their fellow passengers. Lisa showed up minutes later, and there was another minor celebration.

When everybody from the Intrepide finally was present, a woman in a commander's uniform spoke to them, again in French, welcoming them formally to the Christopher Robin. She passed out guides, in French, of course, which laid out information on compartments and menus and code numbers to be used by anyone needing help.

Two women, dressed in jumpsuits, stood off to one side. They were considerably older than Dot, but were still on the right side of middle age. One of them caught her eye momentarily, and smiled.

Dot raised a hand in acknowledgment. Then Emil appeared beside her. “You okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine. What's going on? Are they trying to explain to us what's happened?”

He nodded.

Dot saw disbelief, anger, tears. The people from the Intrepide would never see their friends and relatives again.

Several became hysterical. Some stared out through the viewports at the stars as if confirmation lay in that direction. They embraced one another, pleaded with the uniformed officers, no doubt to tell them it was all a misbegotten joke. But they knew that it was true, that their rescuers were not kidding, were not lying, were not deranged. They had arrived in the far future.

Lisa was staring at Dot. Her teen eyes were wet, and she was trying not to break down. Had this really happened?

Dot walked over to her. Embraced her. “I'm sorry,” she said.

A French-speaking lieutenant commander, a man who'd trained more than a year specifically for this mission, told her later that the question most asked, after how did it happen, was this: Is there any way we can go home again? Are our homes still there?

They also, many of them, swore they'd never ride an interstellar again. Not ever.

Many of the passengers came over to thank Dot, to embrace her. One or two seemed to think it was her fault. And the Fleet people also took her aside and shook her hand. Several asked her to sign copies of the French guide.

The ship's captain literally beamed when he introduced himself. “If you need anything at all-” he said.

The world was spinning. It was too much. The emotions were running too high, and she couldn't sort out how she felt. It was a roller-coaster evening.

A door opened, and the father of Cori and Sabol entered. He was carrying a drink. “His name,” said Emil, who was more or less functioning as an escort, “is Chaveau. He is a police inspector.” He looked dazed, and one of the women who'd been performing translator duties went over to speak with him. Chaveau listened, and the appearance of disorientation intensified. The translator smiled gently and looked toward a side door, where the two women in the jumpsuits were engaged in a conversation. They were being screened from Chaveau's view by two officers. A signal passed between the translator and the officers, and they stepped back out of the way.

The women saw him immediately. They both waved and hurried in his direction, laughing and crying out as they went.

Chaveau gasped and seemed momentarily paralyzed. He shook his head violently, no, no, until suddenly he stopped and a smile dawned. And they were screeching with joy as they fell into one another's arms.

Emil put a hand on my shoulder. “You know who they are, Dot?”

“Hard to believe. But yes. I know.”

Emil also seemed emotionally caught up in the moment. But he was watching Dot. “You okay?”

“I'm fine,” Dot said.

“Good. Something else you should know: This isn't the first rescue we've done.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “I'm glad somebody made it happen.”

“I'm sure you are. I should mention that the initiative came from an effort mounted by the Dot Garber Foundation.”

Everything was moving too fast. He had to repeat what he'd said, and even then she wasn't sure she understood.

“It's okay,” Emil said. “Hang in there. You're a hero, you know.”

“I don't think heroes get as scared as I was.” Then, finally, the question she'd been afraid to ask: “How's Melissa? My daughter? You have any idea?”

He nodded. But those eyes told her everything. “I'm sorry,” he said. “She passed away about ten years ago.”

Her knees buckled and Emil eased her into a chair. “I'm okay. I-”

“It's all right. Just relax.”

More people came in. Some brought more donuts. Somebody else was handing out fresh clothes.

Dot sat in her chair, staring at the table.

“If it's any consolation,” he said, “she knew you would be rescued. She had a lot to do with it.”

“Thank you.”

“And there's something else.”

“What's that?”

“When you're ready,” he said, “a couple of your friends just got here.”