“Zero three
seventeen hours. Requested Alarm time,” the computer announced in Flynn’s
quarters. “Zero three seventeen hours. Requested—”
“Dismiss alarm,” Flynn said.
“Alarm dismissed,” the computer
confirmed.
Flynn was already awake, and had
been for hours.
Don’t
know why I keep setting the alarm. Not like I can ever forget this day.
He was beyond the early stages of
replaying what happened in his mind. Now he was hearing the transmissions, the
sounds of what happened on board the battleships. The hulls shook, the captains
issued orders for maneuvers and firing solutions. Then the explosions started
to happen. And the screams.
A knock on his cabin hatch,
somewhat urgent, brought him out of the memory.
“Take it to Eltie, today,” he said.
“Sir, it is Eltie.”
She
knows that today is. The rest probably do, too, well, except for Ann and Doc.
Flynn stood, setting the folded
bundle from his lap on the bed. Still dressed in pajamas, he went to the hatch.
“Eltie,” he began, but she held up
a hand.
“I know, sir. I won’t intrude, not
today, and neither will anyone else. But I would like to have one drink to
their memories.”
“Am I even worthy to do that?” he
mumbled.
“Yes, sir, you are. It’s your duty.”
Duty.
I suppose so.
He stood aside, letting her in. She
wore her usual fatigues, and surveyed his quarters the way a gunnery sergeant
would, but said nothing. She stood with hands clasped behind her back, and said
nothing, not even about his pajamas.
“Pick out a bottle,” he said,
closing the hatch behind her.
She opened up his small liquor
cabinet, chose a bottle, and poured them each a drink in a metal tumbler. A
shatterproof transparent ceramic glass would have been preferable, and what he
would have had if he was still in the Alliance Fleet, but metal would suffice.
From the aroma, it was the spiced,
Antares bourbon. They spiced it because that was the only way people could wash
the rotgut down.
She handed a tumbler to him. He
held it up in salute. He should say the words, but he couldn’t get them to his
lips, so Eltie said them.
“Remember Semnos.”
They both drained the drinks in one
gulp.
Flynn closed his eyes, hearing the
transmissions again.
He dropped the tumbler, holding
hands over his ears. It didn’t stop the memory. More screams, explosions, over
and over. Worse, silence. No more transmissions. No more ships to transmit.
Flynn scrubbed tears away from his
eyes. Eltie was gone. The tumbler had been picked up, and the hatch was closed
as if she had never been there.
“Time?”
“Zero three thirty-nine hours.”
Eighteen
minutes for the battle, three minutes of silence. Twenty-two minutes on the
dot. Another year gone by. Only three. Will this happen for the rest of my
life? Do I deserve for it to go away?