by Jarod K. Anderson
My gut says that stepping out into hyperspace would be the same as suicide, but I've lost my hold on what that might mean.
Thinking is hard inside the ship. My brain chemistry is not what it once was. Chemistry is not what it once was.
We were proud to enter the program, sitting in the terminal, waiting for the sustained electric tone that invited us to enter the ship. We boarded with pure, childlike faith, our winter coats and carry-on bags in hand, departure papers crisp in white envelopes.
At work, they threw me a retirement party. I remember a flying saucer cake, "Safe Travels Spaceman," in blue frosting.
I thought it was a good thing I was doing. A brave thing. Vital.