THE HOMECOMING
Barry Longyear
Lothas draped his heavy green tail between the seat cushion and backrest. Extending a claw on a scaled, five-fingered hand, he inserted it in a slot switch and pulled down. The armored shield on the forward view bubble slowly lifted as the control center went to redlight. Lothas felt the strange pain grow in his chest as he looked through the filter at the target star, now no longer a point of light but a tiny, brilliant disc. He leaned against the backrest, his large dark eyes glittering as they drank in the sight of the star.
It has been so long. Even though I have been out of suspension for only a total of six star cycles, yet I still know it has been… seventy million star cycles. A third of a galactic cycle.
Lothas noticed his own reflection in the filter, turned his long neck left, then right, and marveled at the absence of change. The large eyes, occupying a fifth of the image, were clear and glinted with points of red, blue, and yellow light reflected from service and indicator lights. The skin, gray-green and smooth, pressed against and outlined the large veins leading from his eyes down the elongated muzzle, with its rows of thick, white, needle-sharp teeth. His focus returned to the star as he reached and pressed a panel with one of the five clawed fingers of his right hand.
"This is Lothas Dim Ir, on regular watch." He paused and examined the navigation readout, then switched to a display of the rest of the cluster formation of ships. "The formation is normal; no course corrections necessary; the homestar Amasaat now at—" he examined an instrument "—four degrees of arc."
He pressed another panel, signaling to all the watches on the rest of the ships. The display showed all but three of the two hundred ships answering. Lothas studied the display, slightly confused that he felt nothing about the missing ships. Automatic recording systems had shown the three ships wrecked by the same meteor.
But that was… millions of cycles ago. Difficult to feel pain for deaths that old.
He pressed another panel, and the display began filling with life unit survival-percentage figures transmitted by the watches on the other ships. Automatically an average was made and a total rate of survival and unit count was made. 77.031 percent; 308,124 life units surviving. Lothas nodded. There had been no change in the figure for… over thirty million star cycles. The three wrecked ships, and the others who could not survive the suspension process.
But, the rest of us shall see Nitola.
Lothas looked around at the empty control center. Moments after he gave the initiate-desuspension command, the center would be a hive of activity… a hive of activity; I wonder if the little stinging sweetsects have survived? He looked at the banks of receiving equipment, sensor and analysis piles, and the rest of the tools that the knowing ones would use to see how Nitola had changed.
But, this moment there is still quiet—this wondrous, jeweled loneliness of space. I ache for my home planet, but this, too, has become my home.
He reached out a claw and closed the shield, cutting off his view of the homestar. As the center returned to yellow light, Lothas pressed the initiate-desuspension command. As the ships answered, he listened to the sounds of life stirring in his own vessel — motors whined, draining the clear suspension from countless lengths of veins and replacing it with warm blood.
Lothas looked at the drain set into the skin of his own arm. He pulled it free and watched as the blood pooled slightly, then began clotting. He tossed the drain into a recycler. We will need them no longer. We are almost home.
Carl Baxter, garbed in regulation briefs and tee shirt, looked up from under the bed. "Where are my socks?"
The lump on the bed, sheets pulled up over her head, mumbled. "I don't wear 'em."
"It's my last pair of clean socks. Now, where are they?"
The lump pulled the sheets down, exposing a sleep-mussed tousle of black curls framing a pretty angry, face. "You'd have clean socks if you'd do the laundry more often. We both work. There's no reason why I have to be the — "
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Baxter pulled out the dresser and looked behind it.
"Yeah, yeah, is it?"
"Yeah." He pushed the dresser back against the wall. "Look, it's not like we had the same kind of job, Deb. I have to be at the base at oh-six-thirty six days a week and sometimes seven. I'm lucky if I can drag it home in time for Johnny Carson. And, you want me to pitch in with the laundry, grocery shopping, housecleaning—"
"Look, supersoldier!" Deb pushed, her hair from her eyes. "You think keeping the agency going by myself is easy? Just last week that idiot layout man you hired before you were called up totally feebed the Boxman Spring campaign. I've been putting in sixteen hour days to try and have ready in time! You want laundry on top of that?"
Baxter concluded his third survey of the dresser drawers by slamming the upper right. "Why don't you hire some help? We can afford it."
Deb's eyes widened. "Yawl means dat Massa Baxter gonna let dis nappy ol' head actually hire someone? Me? a woman!"
"Oh, knock it off!" Baxter frowned and sat on the bed He put a hand on Deb's shoulder. "Look. I'm sorry Deb. I know I said no hiring until I got back, and I know it's been tough on you. Go ahead and hire whatever you need in the way of help. I'll give Boxman a call and try and straighten things out."
Deb put her hand on Baxter's and looked up into his eyes. "Carl, when is the Air Force going to be finished with you? This whole thing is so silly. One day we are running a successful advertising agency and living in a nice condo, and the next we're stuck here in the middle of nowhere in a shack that hasn't been repaired since Billy Mitchell was a P.F.C. Tell me there's a light at the end of the tunnel."
Baxter shrugged. "I don't know." He raised his head and looked at her. "That trip to Santa Barbara every day is getting you down, isn't it? Maybe you'd be happier if you stayed at home?"
"Look, Baxter, I'll stick it out as long as you do, and how much longer can that be? Your six months is almost up, isn't it?"
Baxter stood up and resumed his search for the missing pair of socks. "You think I might have left them in the living room?"
Deb's face developed an instant frown. "Isn't it?"
"Isn't what?"
She shook her head and pounded on the mattress with her fists. "Oh, no! You didn't! Tell me you didn't get extended, Baxter! Tell me you didn't, or I'll brain you with the alarm clock!"
He sighed, shrugged, scratched his head, then held out his hands. "I didn't have any choice, Deb — "
"Oooooooooo! You… you… monster!" She threw off the covers, swung her legs to the floor, then stormed off to the bathroom. The door slammed, then clicked.
"Deb?" Baxter walked to the door. "Deb, honey? Don't lock yourself in, honey. I still have to shave."
"Go away."
"Deb, I'm all they have in public relations right now to promote the Air Force's argument for the combined shuttle, not to mention the new bomber, and the— "
The door opened, a pair of socks flew out, and the door slammed shut.
Wearing one regulation blue and one not-so-regulation yellow and red Argyle sock in addition to his uniform, Captain Carl F. Baxter pulled away in the blue staff car assigned to him. He came to the cross-street stop sign, screeched to a halt, and rummaged through the glove compartment for his electric shaver. A honk came from behind, and Baxter looked over the top of the headrest to check the honker's rank. Seeing only single golden bars, he returned to his search. Damned thing has got to be in here.