by Zach Dunham


Space is long gone. There’s no space out here.

Every frequency is jam-screamin’-packed with compressed x-clusters beaming out in every direction. Proprietary software in my AQ-951 console automatically traces the signals to Earth, displaying the ratatat bursts of fiery prophets, panty salesmen, and whatever other freak that can get its hands on a transmitter as pleasantly color-coded sine waves jitterbugging away.

My ship and I get out a bit. Way out. Maybe I’m just seeking emptiness – maybe these distant nebulas won’t long sustain this ache for solitude.

But I’ll never know for certain.

No one is ever lost.


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