Sea Fighter

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With the sun down, the small and overstressed air conditioner set in the housing module’s window at last started to make headway against the equatorial heat. Still, the Marine utilities she wore, the smallest set available within the task group, felt tentlike and oppressive. Ignoring the chafing discomfort of the perspiration-damp camouflage cloth, Amanda Garrett studied the screen of her personal computer, reconsidering what she had composed.

There was no more to be said. Or there was far too much to say in the time she had remaining. Amanda initiated “File Save” and downloaded the sterile words. Two other letters, one to her father and a second to Christine Rendino, were already on the disk in her laptop. Chris would know where to find them and would see they were delivered.

This was the last task she’d set for herself. Everything was as ready as it could be made.

Amanda allowed herself a moment of quiet neutrality, staring past the screen of the personal computer to the dull white painted wall of her quarters. Somehow, even after five months, it still didn’t feel right to call it a “bulkhead” on this ship that wasn’t a ship.

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