He hears the surf.
But the sound comes from a ways away.
He tries to move.
But the pain prevents him.
He is unable to open his eyes.
He is in a bad way. He knows this.
Yes, he’s helpless to do much about it. He remembers nothing. His recollection is a patchwork of vagaries. Out of focus, mostly.
The surf. The repetitious sound is comforting. The waves on the broad open beach.
He is cognizant of a presence near him. A soft hand on his forehead. The delicate touch of a woman’s hand.
She takes her fingers and wraps them around his fingers of his left hand. He smells her now, she’s that close to him. She smells clean. She smells of soap and a hint of lavender.
She squeezes his hand.
“Can you hear me?” she says.
He does not know her voice. Does not know her.
He musters his strength. He squeezes her fingers.
“Good,” she says.
Her voice is neutral, emotionless.
He tries to speak.
Nothing.
Suddenly, he smells the salt air from the beach.
“Rest,” she says. “You’re in a bad way. You’re safe. For now.”
He closes his eyes.
He dreams of a time away from this place when life offered all. And he dreams of her.
***
They sit side-by-side on the balcony of her residence in the City.
Overhead, the stars are bright.
“The Stigmata,” she says, “from a purely scientific point-of-view is Nature’s marvel.”
“And the end of our species,” Yama says. “You look like a boy with that haircut. It’ll take a while to get used to it.”
“One less thing to deal with.”
A rueful smile from her. “You don’t like it? Careful, or I’ll be the one on top from now on.”
This drew a laugh from him. “Missionary is not exactly ‘our’ position.”
“True,” she pushes her hair back. “Who knows? It could be the start of something new.”
“New for me?”
The rueful smile. “Sure. New for you, too.”
This is before, when he became aware he was falling in love with her. And she would soon be his wife.
“Something to hope for,” he says. He takes another sip of the synthetic gin.
“You have to have hope,” she says, “otherwise, what’s the point of it all? And…”
He is quiet. For a moment, then: “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to hope.”
She smiles at him, the City’s lights illuminating one side of her face in half-glow.
“I’m pregnant.”
***
Yama awakes.
A klaxon sounds.
He dresses. Standard uniform. No sidearm.
He opens the hatch of his quarters. The sergeant stands erect, at attention, in the gangway.
“What’s up,” Yama says to her.
“We’ve lost the primary desalinator,” she says. “And, there’s another body.”
Yama nods once.
“Let’s get going then, sergeant.”
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