One Between the Stars

Chapter 9

"You have to go," Arthre said from the cockpit.

Carson crossed his arms. "But it's so boring!"

Arthre raised an eyebrow. "Five million other gallivanters gathered on one planet, celebrating what they do, is boring?"

"You know what I mean, Art," Carson said, giving a role of his eyes. "The people there are so uninteresting. All they ever talk about is the latest solar sword model and whatnot."

"You've enjoyed years past, haven't you?"

Carson waved his hand in dismissal. "I merely pretended to be interested. I really quite despise it."

Arthre switched Evie to autopilot. He turned around in his chair and sighed. "What about the jousting? The hall of fame? The parties? The sickening-but-still-amazing fried food?"

Carson waved his hand again, but did not say anything, as if this was enough to prove a point.

Arthre sighed again. "Well, we're going anyway. I, for one, would like to at least stop by to see the museum. I heard they added to the thirty-second era stuff."

Carson snorted. "You and your nerd stuff. Very well, we'll stop by for you to geek out, but nothing more." And with that, the gallivanter strode off to his bedroom.

Arthre shook his head, but told Evie to set their destination for the planet of Byrn, the headquarters for the Gallivanter's convention.

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There are two kinds of sick people that you will meet in your life. Three if you're lucky. Or rather unlucky, depending on how you look at it.

The first are those who are sick and face it with a sort of grim reality. And you, you have to face it too. Whether or not either of you are that good at keeping straight faces or pretending like everything is okay. These are the ones labeled as 'fighters'. And this may be true. You see them in hospital beds, smiling at you even as both you and they know that they are dying.

The second is those whom you have to be aware that they are sick. You know these people. Likely they are the majority of sick people you encounter, or hear about. They are friends of friends, they are very distant relatives that you have probably only met twice in your life, both times at a family reunion and you were too busy worrying about the hideous sweater you were forced into that morning to really care to get to know this person who is now on their deathbed. You may not even remember them at all, but you feel obligated to show concern, and feel guilty inside that you do not feel the heart-wrenching agony that others do.

The third kind, however, is a very small group. Some never even experience it. These are the people who are sick, but you cannot believe it. Your brain simply does not have the capacity. Even though you see them, right before your eyes, you stand there, your brain like a skipping CD. It takes a special kind of person to have this kind of impact on the illness-free. These people were, or perhaps still are, the most alive people you have met. You know them well, and they give life a sort of magic that can't be extinguished. And when they end, you still cannot conceive that they are gone. Years and years go by, and still your brain is stuck on that scratched CD mode. You don't know whether to think back on them with bitter grief, or tender remembrance. Sometimes both. But mostly neither. You simply remember in an infinite sense, like you are dreaming and will wake up soon to find them smiling at you as if nothing has happened.

For Myran, the diagnosis of Henry was like the third. For the next few weeks, he would constantly look over his shoulder, expecting to see the boy there, for he was always by the captain's side. He would halfway call Henry's name, only to have the word die on his lips while he chided himself and reminded his skipping brain, He's not here. He's sick.