Starseeker
A game of tag; or, the closeness of two.
Starseeker had always felt alienated from those around her. From the very first moment that she had sat behind the controls of her fatherâs crop-duster, to the moment she had graduated from the special officerâs academy. She had never felt like she had been designed to be around other people. Always feeling like she belonged in the pilotâs seat of the warfighting plane that had become âhersâ in the way that only a pilotâs plane could be. It didnât matter much that it wasnât truly hers, but was rather something that the country she served owned, but it had her name stenciled on it, it had her callsign. âStarseekerâ â named for the way she had complained about never being able to see the stars from the Special Officer Academy, the way her eyes were always fixated on the sky above her head, and never on the ground beneath her feet. Causing her to, more often than not, trip over something that most everyone else had avoided.
Maybe that was how she had both literally fallen because of, and for, the pilot called âTerminusâ. Her eyes had been cast to the sky for so long, Starseeker had almost lost track of the world beneath her feet entirely; and as such, was captivated by Terminus. The way she moved through the air, the way her plane would dance alongside Starseekerâs own. Everything Terminus did, drew her eyes from the skies above, and down to the Earth, in a way nothing had before, in a way no one would ever again.
What Terminus was doing when Starseeker admitted her feeling to the silence of their barracks? â sleeping. Any normal pilot or part of the flight crew would be in the same position, fast asleep in the very early hours of the morning when the sunâs light has yet to begin to illuminate the dark of the night. And yet, Starseeker wasnât. She rarely was; the sleep deprivation was treatable with caffeine and smokes â the stars were fleeting. Any one of them could erupt into a blaze of supernova; fusion counterbalancing gravity just too strongly and turning into a fire on the scale of the heavens above. Maybe she would live her whole life without seeing the stars in the sky above change, maybe she wouldnât.
When Terminus would wake up for just a moment to drink some water, sheâd always look over to her wingmanâs bed, and see her gazing at the sky above. Seeking those same stars, as she always did. She didnât hear Starseekerâs admission to that silence. She never would have. But she would, if she were to learn about that admission, wish that she had stayed awake that night.
âPlaying tagâ was a way to learn your wingmanâs weaknesses; using laser-based âtaggingâ systems, to simulate hitting one another with the gun-pods on their planes. In a way, then, this was a dance, one where each would take the lead, and the other would follow and learn of the firstâs strengths, weaknesses.
When they returned to the Earth; however, they shared delicate time with one another, with breathy-whispers against the skin of one another. Kisses passed between one another, reminding one another of the time that they had never known they wanted until that first time they had shared it.
It was that moment beneath the stars, where Terminus found Starseeker outside of their barracks during lights out, staring at the dim stars behind thing layers of sheets called clouds. That was when Starseeker admitted her feelings to something more than just the silence of their room. Starseeker didnât know what overcame her, finally admitting to the person of her affections that she wanted to be around her more. That all she could think about was Terminus.
They were inseparable. A single will in the way that only two pilots of the same flight could be. Wingmen for one another, and yet something more than that entirely. Something more intimate and delicate. Something stronger and yet impossibly fragile. Something that a passing bullet could change. They would both fight as long as they ever needed to, to make sure that would never happen. To keep from losing one another.
Solar Year 2112
You walk through the snow-glazed streets of the City. Youâve walked this path many times, so many of the buildings and people you pass on this particular Sunday are familiar. Church-goers, young people heading to the store to pick up things before the start of the work week. Young families enjoying the lightly-snowed in morning. You passively think about the people you encounter but donât quite meet as you walk towards your destination, rounding a corner and finding the familiar and nearly comforting wrought-iron fence delineating the space between the realm of the dead and the realm of the living.
Itâs a strange comfort. But this cemetery has become familiar to you, tucked away in a corner of the city that not many people go to, unless they have reason to. You suppose that in a way, you have reason as much as desire to be there. The headstones are comforting, irreplaceable and familiar. You know the names, the years. There are ghosts here, much in the same way that you sense authorial intent behind the texts in the library that youâve read countless times. Youâre a ghost of this city, like those books, or like those imperceptible spirits living in this cemetery. Youâre rarely disturbing, unnoticed and quiet. You donât bother anyone, and no one bothers you. Maybe thatâs why this place is so comforting to you. The gates are always open, and yet very rarely do any living people pass through the archway that serves as the entrance to beyond the fence. You may be the one of the seldom few who do. Youâve seen people stop by to say âhelloâ to their loved ones â old people and young people alike who have sensed a loss that they can feel always, that talking to a headstone can only somewhat alleviate. Youâre perhaps one of the weird cases, someone who comes here for those spirits and souls who have no one to visit them, not anymore. Maybe those spirits find comfort in your comings and goings, but if they do, you cannot tell.
Your task today, albeit simple, is an important one. Brushing off, âdustingâ, the headstones, so that all who pass can read the names and years of those who are interred here. Even if no one reads these inscriptions in stone, the idea is still important to you. Passing under the archway entrance, you are greeted by the cemetery-keeper, who is working on finishing shoveling from the last nightâs snowfall. Clearing a footpath for those who come to this place whether out of habit or, like you, because of some other drive. You pick a corner of the white-and-gray cemetery, and begin your task. Perhaps it is because you started in a corner of the cemetery youâd never started in before, but youâre greeted by unfamiliar headstones; all in the same shape, but none truly familiar to you. Itâs strange to not recognize that which you normally would recognize. Dusting a few off, you realize that these belong to service members, the rest that do not have this same shape, belonging to spouses buried here. They all rest side-by-side. Those who had served and possibly died in service to your country. And thatâs why they all bore the same shapes. The same corners and polish that glinted in the light of winter.
It was while dusting the dozenth or so headstone, that you realized two of these headstones, they bear the same surname, and yet both have the same last name. Itâs even more odd, that when you finish dusting both headstones, that you realize that there is another feature on the headstones that wasnât there on many other headstones. A nickname or callsign, perhaps.
A woman named âStarseekerâ, born SY 1998, died SY 2075; and a woman named âTerminusâ, born SY 1999 and died SY 2075; their ranks and occupations as pilots borne proudly on the markers for their graves. It wouldnât be until later, when you look up those callsigns, that you realize that these are heroes from the Last War, and that they both died on the same day; well into their late age â further evidenced by the year they both died being notated on their tombstones. A signifier of, perhaps, their long lives together; even beyond the Last War. When you read that history book in the City Library, the one that tells you that Starseeker and Terminus lived happy lives beyond that War, you feel a smile cross your face; a hidden, perhaps forgotten reminder that you still wish to one day be seen in the way a lover would look at the person they love.
Perhaps thatâs the day that everything changes for you.