The view coheres as we decelerate. Stars go from lines to points and the migraine stops in the same instant. Heads shake, someone vomits. Unshielded warp is neither advised nor immediately lethal.
Three other shapes resolve near us. Only three. Ten minutes pass with scanners on full but none of the rest appear.
We power down a full 15 minutes before the cutoff. The minutes tick by filled with thoughts of our lost friends, overshot or off-course or lost to the radiation pressure.
Our ships sit in an almost starless void, past the edge nebula, hollowed out by a massive, starving black hole. This place draws everything into entropy and oblivion. As we will be if we’re here too long.
We won’t be. A massive bulk appears in the undifferentiated difference, right at the time we paid for. Almost invisible, sliding black on black, visible only where it blocks the distant stars.
The comms light flashes. Someone flips a relay. The screeching sounds of poorly tuned equipment and political lies pour out. We hear the names we’re waiting for, but they are six and we are four.
Justifications have been made. Lights flash at the front of the bulk and those names are launched toward the guillotine star.
Without slowing, the prison bulk rolls and accelerates away. In its wash we light our candles and streak after the names.
Two are retrieved quickly. Cells dragged on board and peeled open while their ships continue pursuit.
Two more are taken, then one more, their ships moving to gain distance from the gravity pit. The last is falling faster, deeper. One of our ships, the last without success on the day, pursues at reckless speed. Catching the last cell awkwardly, the two bodies tumble, their momentum carrying them past the point of escape. The black hole will eat this day.
We have five, on three ships. We have saved the names.
My ship has two. We are celebratory. We join in the cargo hold where they have opened the cells. The names are joyous, to have been saved at the last moment from the crushing eternity of the guillotine star. Our ships link up so we can all meet.
They tell us their names, and we sing their names. They tell us of their journey, of the reason for their imprisonment. To their surprise we repeat their story back to them, to show them we have learned them. We add our journey and the names of the lost crews.
We wait expectantly. The youngest comes forward, says his name again, and repeats the new fuller story, not missing a name. We are joyous, they are hesitant. He looks at his people and turns back to us. He tells it again and we can feel the breath of a Storyteller in our ears. We are joyous, we are joyous.
It cost us one name, 2 ships and 6 friends, but we have saved five names, and one who will lead.
