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the way they laughed or got angry, how their bodies had moved under their clothes. It got so that I thought I would be ecstatic to see even a single, other breathing female, regardless of her state. Just someone I could hug, and who could hug me back, and who wasn’t old enough to be my grandma.
    I grew distant from Howard and Tabitha both.
    I got sick of them, and I think they began to grow sick of me.
    We began to go days or even weeks not speaking to each other, and eventually I retreated to the privacy module almost entirely, forcing Howard to monitor and tend to the observatory all by himself, with Tabitha’s declining help.
    Which was fine, at first, because Howard had always done most everything anyway.
    Then, one day, there came a beacon.
    It was faint. No more than a weak radio signal, sending binary.
    Howard couldn’t make sense of the message, which seemed truly random—ones and zeroes in an endless stream, without pattern.
    That was okay. It was a sign that we were still on the right path. It was also enough to shock me into a forced detox.
    By the time we reached the comet from which the transponder was sending, I was sober enough to take out a dory; and human enough to actually be pleasant to Tab for the first time in too long.
    On the surface of the comet, I found a tunnel.
    At the bottom of the tunnel, I found a grave: sixty-eight bodies, all perfectly frozen, and arranged with dignity.
    I spent days examining the site. I reverently combed the dead for anything that might indicate where the other survivors had gone. They were of mixed racial heritage and gender, and if I’d had to guess, I’d have said they were Americans. And whether or not they came from the group of Outbounders that we’d been specifically pursuing was uncertain. But their presence was the first absolute proof that humanity had survived to that point, so far from its now-dead home.
    And that was enough. I reverently went among the dead, recording their names from the steel tags attached to their bodies and taking digital pictures.
    When I ultimately got back to the observatory, I was calm.
    Almost too calm for Tab’s taste.
    But the dead of the Outbound had helped me cross a threshold I hadn’t known needed crossing, and at once filled me with renewed resolve.
    Quickly, I flushed out the privacy module and dumped every last drop of grain alcohol.
    Next, I began an exhaustive catch-up on all my neglected duties, interspersed with profound and heartfelt apologies to Tab and Howard alike. I couldn’t tell whether or not the man inside the computer could feel pain, but I knew my behavior over the last few months had scared and hurt Tab. Certainly I’d treated them both badly enough. I hoped that I could make it up to them, given time. And they certainly seemed grateful and relieved to see my renewed sense of purpose.
    “Forgive?” I finally said one day, when the observatory was back in order and Tab and I were sharing a meal for the first time in ages.
    A very long silence.
    “Forgiven,” Tab said, slightly smiling so that the corners of her eyes wrinkled warmly. She reached out a shaking, gnarled hand, and I took it gratefully, squeezing.
    • • •
    During the tenth year of our flight, we found the first ship. It was abandoned. Ransacked. Every last usable part, taken. A skeleton of a vessel, accompanied by another mass grave.
    At year fourteen, we found three more ships, also stripped, and also serving as a memorial to more people who had apparently lost—or given—their lives for the cause.
    This time, I also found children; each far too young to have been born on Earth. The sight of those little ones brought up disturbing memories. They reminded me far too much of Irenka.
    For Tab, who had become so old that she never left the observatory anymore, the children were actually a sign of providence.
    “The day God takes away our ability to make babies, that’s the day when we know we’re truly cut off from His