Descending Road - EPITAPH by Dana W. Paxson

EPITAPH

6163 CE

Two hours later, Doug stood at a viewport in the outermost passage near the entry point of the metal mass, staring out into a dead night of pinpoint lights. No solar gleams offered illumination here; everything was in deep-space shadow. He had dimmed his suit light to save power. There were no refreezers available that worked; he had found two defunct units with Thomas and Alyssha dead in them, and he knew now that he was going to die too, out here between the stars.

Idly he picked up a plasma torch, trimmed its beam down to the thickness of a pen point, and began to write in the steel bulkhead. When he was done, he would find a lock, and find his way outside, and take a place next to the ship, hanging on a tether, riding beside it. He would let his air run out, and he would die in the space he had grown to love even in the worst of times. The ship would keep him company.

My name is Douglas MacNee, he wrote. The ship woke me in 6163. The spark of his plasma torch danced and flickered as he moved its point across the bulkhead, leaving a fading red furrowed script in the steel. Turning his full attention for now to the guiding of his torch, walling off the unblinking stars outside, he wrote on.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	EPITAPH 6163 CE Two hours later, Doug stood at a viewport in the outermost passage near the entry point of the metal mass, staring out into a dead night of pinpoint lights. No solar gleams offered illumination here; everything was in deep-space shadow. He had dimmed his suit light to save power. There were no refreezers available that worked; he had found two defunct units with Thomas and Alyssha dead in them, and he knew now that he was going to die too, out here between the stars. Idly he picked up a plasma torch, trimmed its beam down to the thickness of a pen point, and began to write in the steel bulkhead. When he was done, he would find a lock, and find his way outside, and take a place next to the ship, hanging on a tether, riding beside it. He would let his air run out, and he would die in the space he had grown to love even in the worst of times. The ship would keep him company. My name is Douglas MacNee, he wrote. The ship woke me in 6163. The spark of his plasma torch danced and flickered as he moved its point across the bulkhead, leaving a fading red furrowed script in the steel. Turning his full attention for now to the guiding of his torch, walling off the unblinking stars outside, he wrote on.