Author: J. Edward Hamilton
Fragments of shattered glass float elegantly before him, and as Cameron imagines the glittering specs are stars in a little microcosm galaxy, he realizes this scene is the last beautiful thing he’ll ever see.
It’s growing warmer now as their ship plummets into a foreign atmosphere. The railgun projectile that tore through their ship had left them in reduced electrical, and for a while, Cameron had been freezing, but no longer. To some extent, the warmth is comforting, but Cameron knows it’s only a sign that death draws near. “But that’s how we live,” he thinks, “knowing we are going to die…”
Cameron sees her in his mind, in alternating scenes. In one, they embrace and he doesn’t hold back like he always does, he holds her with everything he’s got, and she does the same. And he can hear her breath, delicate and fragile, like she might cry, and he can feel her heartbeat against his chest. They are surrounded by people they know, all talking and celebrating around them, but for that one moment, it as though everything else goes quiet, and in the darkness of the world, they are alone.
In the second scene, he leads her outside away from another party, and he tells her everything he felt in the first scene. He tells her how much he’s loved her and for how long. He tells her that she’s the only one he’s ever loved. That he feels it burning inside him. That her smile is the only thing that’s gotten him through each day for the last year. He tells her how smart and talented and brave and funny he thinks she is and how beautiful her eyes are and how he’ll love her forever whether she loves him back or not.
The first scene is a memory. The second is a fantasy.
The ship is vibrating now. He can see it in the walls. Drops of sweat roll down his face. And soon tears join them.
Cameron sticks his hand out and scoops up some of the tiny glass shards so that they pool gently in his palm. “If I could have altered the universe,” he thinks. “I’d have talked to her every day. I’d have seen her smile every day. I’d have never served on an orbital intelligence collection ship with no windows and no contact with the outside world, ultimately sacrificed for the furtherance of some asinine cold war about to go hot. I’d have said the words. I’d have told her…”
His body grows heavy. He pulls himself into a chair and straps in.
They could have surrendered instead. They would have been held captive, maybe tortured. But at least there would have been a chance, however remote, of seeing her again. Of making that second scene come to life. Or at least of sending a message. But it was the captain’s call. Now their ship is burning up in the atmosphere, and everything on board will burn with it. There will be no record left. Not even a scrap of paper.
The air around him feels like it is boiling now. The sound of tearing metal resonates through the hull. He isn’t ready to die. He closes his eyes and sees her smile, and the pain of knowing he’ll never see it again is even worse than the burning sensation he’s about to feel. “But this is how we live each day,” he thinks again. “Knowing we are going to die…” and yet somehow he’s arrived at the end, hounded by regret, consumed by a timeless and horrifying question–what if?
Ah, regret. The tripwire that waits within every quiet moment – even the near-death ones.
My particular story had a roommate saying in plain words what I had not, so I know my answer to this half of the story’s particular “what if…?” Been married this last decade and counting.
I think that the beauty of science and speculative fiction is that the stories transgress the genre. Change a word, a location, a gender even and the stories still resonate. Science fiction has long borrowed from others (and indeed paid back the favour), like I said, for me, that is the beauty of this art form.
I thought that your particular story, is surely speculative science fiction, and you did a great job of not over sentimentalizing the piece. I remember speaking to my grandfather, a WW2 veteran, about dread and the creeping horror that they would never again see those that they loved. It is far from a mundane narrative. In my opinion, for the 35 cents that its worth, trust in your art form, take guidance from those who helped birth this genre but write how J. Edward Hamilton writes.
Apologies, Edward, don’t take this personally. But… this trend has been bugging me for a while and your flash just triggered it. 🙂
This ain’t science fiction. In fact, strictly speaking, it only just barely qualifies as speculative, due to the mention of a fictional cold war, rail gun strike and atmospheric re-entry.
But at its core, this is a piece of ‘mundane’ (in a narratological sense) literature. The same sentimental regret could be attributed to a 1950s bomber pilot over Korea, strapped into his crashing plane. Adding zero G doesn’t make it SF.
Again, I’m not criticising you personally, but rather voice my wariness of the general tendency to drag spec fic towards mainstream emotive discourse and thus away from the dispassionate word-building that marked the likes of Borges, Asimov and Stapledon as masters of the genre.