Author: Rick Tobin

“Not on my ship! Do you hear?” A giant, hairy fist struck the ship’s control console as Commander Tros rose from his chair, preparing to join the Bay of Death ceremony. His second followed behind, head bowed.

“Your Prominence, my duty is to inform, not agitate. The Alliance Board has ordered the ceremony, regardless of your great victory.” Estes Parlon kept his shaved head bent low, remembering to keep five paces behind the armada’s hero.

“Ceremonies be damned. This should be a time of joyous celebration. Have I not delivered an overwhelming victory over those Saturn scum? Is the Planetary Alliance not all-powerful again?” Crewmen slipped into doorways and alcoves as they heard the roaring anger of the ship’s superior while he and his aide marched through the narrow hallways.

“Yes, great one. Joyous tidings to you; however, it is the Board’s will that all lost in their service be honored in accordance with their tradition for final departure. McKenna’s people were from ancient Scotland, before the asteroid struck Earth. This single request before his release into the void is in accordance with Alliance protocol.”

“Useless fluff, Parlon. Useless. And what rank was this man, anyway?” They moved forward quickly, reaching the entry to the funerary portal.

“A maintenance mechanic, Prominence,” Parlon replied timidly.

“By the stars!! Not even a fleet officer? We would never on Mars. Never.”

“Sir, not all aboard agree with our annihilation policies after victory. This act of respect for a lost crewman could reduce such murmurings.”

“What? Gossiping? Who is complaining?”

“The Alliance is assessing potential risks of mutiny by those whose personal beliefs do not fully align with current military strategies of victory.”

“Do I care? Really? There are thousands of rebellious Alliance corpses still floating between Venus and Mercury. Venusian crews learned the price of revolt on board. Let fools grumble. They can join McKenna in the airlock if they don’t like our eradication of enemies. My fleet fights to win so that we never face our foes or their offspring in the future.”

The two paused a moment as they joined a silent gathering crowded into a normally busy docking bay filled with supplies and weaponry.

“Here we are, sir. If you will stand to the left of the woman in the purple robe, please.” Parlon stood back as Commander Tros moved to his appropriate position. Tros was notably two feet taller than all those gathered, his golden, hairy body reflecting the overhead lights of the shipping chamber.

A delicate, pale Earth woman of compelling beauty strode forward, slowly, toward the shiny metal casket prepared for ejection. She held her hands over the galley’s preparation of a single morsel of fresh bread lying upon the metal tube. She spoke slowly, in solemn conviction, before consuming the waiting offering.

“I give easement and rest now to thee, dear man, that ye walk not down this ship’s hallways or in its path of travel in space. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul. Amen.”

The sin eater gently consumed the artificial wheat in supplication for a final act of contrition.