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sweat
around the contours of his eyes. They could have been mistaken for
tears if not for his poise. “You know, your dossier doesn’t say
everything. Not enough about the man. You see, she and I weren’t
exactly copasetic when I left. I doubt I could have left if we had
been.”
    Cyrus stood there, perspiring. It seemed like
he wanted to speak, but the effort to stand without assistance drew
all his strength. Dr. Tanner paused uncomfortably, looking past
Cyrus at his own reflection. “We’re having dinner in the Common
Hall at the twentieth hour for all those who can physically make
it. Dr. Fordham and Dr. Villichez want this to be the first of a
regular week cycle gathering. I don’t know what the Shipmate is
serving, but it will probably be liquid, per Fordham’s orders.”
    There was more awkward silence. Cyrus had
turned back to look at himself in the mirror. Another, less violent
wretch broke his composure, but his own thoughts, cavernous and
secluded, did nothing to arrest the stillness.
    “I’ll see you at the gathering.” Dr. Tanner
said as he took his leave, steadying himself on the wall as he
went.
    • • • • •
    Dr. Tanner sat at table, his left hand cupped
over his right fist, his face bowed over his tray. He mouthed
thankful, reverent words, twisting the lines of his face into an
expression of solemn meditation. The others sat quietly at the
table, either in observation or in deference to Dr. Tanner’s
personal rite. This was the third meal Cyrus had shared with this
man whose tactful intuition and inoffensive manner were glaring
opposites of his own sometimes abrasive demeanor. It was the first,
however, where anyone other than Dr. Tanner, Dr. Fordham, and Cyrus
had been present. Dr. Villichez had shown up on the first day, but
had respectfully retreated to his own sleep chamber when he saw
that most of the scientists had not made it. The last occasion was
an informal meeting where Tanner, Fordham, and Cyrus discussed when
the physical training could begin on the ship and how the gravity
waves would affect their bodies. At that time, Dr. Tanner had also
spent the moments before drinking his pint of blended essential
nutrients, which tasted remarkably like smoked turkey, in
genuflection. Cyrus had then wondered if the man was truly pious,
or reserved this quiet devotion for more trusted company. Now, with
eighteen other members of academia looking on, Cyrus realized that
although two-hundred years of hurtling through the universe
suspended by a thin thread over the gaping maw of death had sapped
their bodies of physical strength, this man possessed something
that not even the stench of the reaper’s breath could overwhelm.
Even as Dr. Tanner bowed his head, he seemed like a kneeling giant
as his gaunt and gangly spectators afforded him his pause. To
Cyrus, it seemed whatever Dr. Tanner revered, whatever his vigil
stood for, these others had lost long before the Hyposoma nanocytes
began depleting their fat cells for the energy to sustain their
long catatonic stasis. He could see that even he had begun to lose
it before he had set foot on this vessel.
    Dr. Fileas Winberg, the least gaunt of the
lot, spoke first as Tanner raised his head. Dr. Winberg’s cheeks
jiggled awkwardly as he talked, and his hair, dusted with as many
gray hairs as black, seemed to shake in the same rhythm as his
cheeks as he reached for his pint and spoke, “So it seems some
antiquated conventions have stowed away with us on our grand
exodus.” Cyrus noticed that Dr. Winberg had positioned himself at
the only seat that could be considered the head of the table.
    Dr. Tanner finished a long sip from his pint.
At first, he seemed either unconcerned with or unaware of Dr.
Winberg’s comment. He set his cup delicately on the table as his
eyes moved to Dr. Winberg. “I feel a certain amount of antiquation
helps keep us balanced. Move too far, too fast and eventually you
will lose your footing. It would seem in our reaching