Hugh Howey - Company

I try to talk myself down as I wait for the supply ship to get the hell into hyperspace. I try to picture some bald man with a beer gut over on that other beacon, scratching his neck, chewing on a protein pack. That’s the truth. Hold on to that. Don’t get your hopes up.

The supply ship ramps up its drive and vanishes from my screen.

I squeeze the mic.

“Beacon 1529? This is beacon 23. You read me? Over.”

I wait.

There’s no response.

I switch my scanner back to get a visual on the beacon.

The lifeboat is still there. Still attached.

“Go ahead.”

The words are clipped. Came when I wasn’t paying attention. But it was her. I’m pretty sure it was her. Pretty sure.

“Claire?” I ask.

“Go ahead,” she answers.

I take a deep breath. I steady myself with one hand on the dash. Cricket is there, leaning against me. She puts her mouth on my arm and squeezes, threatening to bite me if I make the wrong move.

“I know,” I tell Cricket. “We both do.”

And I can’t remember the last time I said the words and meant them like this. Can’t remember the last time.

But I’ll always remember this one.