Read Asimov's SF, October-November 2011 for Free Online Page A

wasn't a few volunteers who had paid the price over the years. It had been hundreds of people, most of whom hadn't volunteered at all, unless their induction into the Enterran military counted as volunteering.
    "Only this time,” she said, “no one died."
    "That you know of,” he said.
    "I do know,” she said. “In fact, I'm certain. That's why I left last. I made the computer system check for anyone else."
    "And if someone else was on that station, what would you have done?” he asked. “With five minutes left, what would you have done?"
    "Something,” she said, knowing her answer was inadequate, knowing that it was probably wrong. What would she have done? What could she have done?
    At that point, nothing. Maybe opened a few corridors, prayed that whoever was trapped would get out on their own. Could get out on their own.
    "Something.” He snorted. “Don't lie to me, Rosealma."
    Amazing how all of the old patterns came back as if time hadn't passed at all. Time was such a strange thing—fluid and rigid all at once, existing in different dimensions at different speeds, and yet happening right now, this instant, moving forward, never backward.
    Or at least, not backward yet.
    "How come you didn't go to your evac ship?” she asked, then felt a moment of panic. They hadn't waited for him. Had they?
    She made herself take a deep breath. They hadn't. She had checked, made certain that all of the evac ships had left before she had.
    She wondered if he saw the thought flick across her face. It had been decades, but he still knew her too. And it was taking him a long time to respond to her question.
    "I wanted to make sure you got out,” he said, and she felt a surge of anger. Even the anger didn't dissipate over time. It was like being an alcoholic—one drink, one surge of anger—and everything came back as if it had never disappeared.
    "Don't lie to me, Quint,” she said in the exact same tone he had used.
    He tilted his head. The expression used to be attractive on his unlined, youthful face. On his older blood-covered face, it was a bit ghoulish.
    "I'm not lying to you, Rose. If you'll remember, I tried to get you out earlier."
    "I do remember,” she snapped, “and I told you to leave. You did. But you didn't go to your evac ship, and now I want to know why."
    He stared at her.
    "What if I hadn't come here?” she asked. “You would have died. This ship is tied to me. You couldn't have gotten it out of the station."
    "But you did come,” he said softly.
    And he had known she would. She had asked the wrong question. The answer to her initial question was simple: he had come here because of her. What she should have asked was this: how did he know she would be here?
    She stared at him, feeling a tug. She wanted to continue the fight—it was familiar, it was comfortable, it was how they related—but she also wanted to get him the hell off of this ship. She had no idea who he really was now. She had changed a lot in two-plus decades. He probably had, too.
    "The ship is registered to you, Rose,” he said after a moment.
    She felt her breath catch. She hadn't expected him to answer her.
    "You still use my name,” he said.
    She shrugged a single shoulder. She used his last name because it was her last name, at least in the Empire. Quintana. Young and naive and supposedly in love, she had taken his name and had become the wife of Edward Quintana, better known as Quint. He had had a nickname then. She hadn't.
    "I saw no reason to change it,” she said.
    "Never remarried?” He didn't ask if she had ever fallen in love, ever had another relationship. Quint was about the legalities. He had always been about the legalities.
    "No,” she said.
    He remained silent so that she could ask What about you?, but she didn't.
    "Me, either,” he said after a moment.
    She nodded once, then swiveled her chair away from him, and looked at the control panel. She tapped the coordinates, altering them. She couldn't go to the