There was a moment's pause, then Concepcion's voice answered on the line, "We're here, Segundo. Gabi and Lizbet and the girls and I. We're all here on the line."
Victor pictured Marco's family gathered around one of the terminals at the helm. The crew would be giving the family space, standing off to the side, silent, with heads bowed.
Father crossed himself, placed a hand on the canister lid, and said, "Vaya a Dios, nuestro hermano, y al cielo mas alla de este." Go to God, our brother, and to the heaven beyond this one. Father unscrewed the cap and gently shook the canister upward. The ashes left the canister in a clouded clump and moved away from the ship without dispersing. The men in the circle slowly dropped to one knee, crossed themselves, and repeated the words. "Vaya a Dios, nuestro hermano, y al cielo mas alla de este." The men then held their position in silence while the family on the bridge bid their farewells.
"Vaya a Dios, Papito," said eleven-year-old Daniella.
"Vaya a Dios, Papa," said sixteen-year-old Chencha.
Their voices cracked and trembled with emotion, and Victor couldn't bear it. He blinked out a command and muted the audio in his helmet. He didn't want to hear Gabi say good-bye to her husband, or hear four-year-old Alexandria bid farewell to a father she would not likely remember a year from now. Marco deserved to raise his daughters. And Gabi, widowed and broken, deserved to grow old with such a man. Now, however, none of that would happen. Thanks to Lem Jukes all of it was lost.
Victor watched the ashes drift away, surprised that so great a man could be diminished to so little.
*
Victor and Father fixed the radio that evening in the workshop, though they had to dismantle a few holodisplays to get the parts they needed. When they were certain it was fixed, they took it directly to Concepcion's quarters, which she shared with three other widows on the ship. Concepcion had insisted that they wake her the moment it was ready, and the three of them took the radio into one of the more spacious storage rooms and sealed the hatch.
"Have you checked all the frequencies?" asked Concepcion.
"Only two," said Father. "Just enough to know it's working."
Concepcion took her handheld and called Selmo to the room. When he arrived, still drowsy from sleep, he began working with the radio. The four of them sat in silence while Selmo checked every frequency, searching for chatter. Once, they caught a few faint clicks and snippets of speech, but it was so fragmented and the moments of sound so brief and so sparse that they couldn't make out anything.
"The Italians?" asked Concepcion.
"Maybe," said Selmo. "Hard to say. I thought we'd get a better transmission as close as we are. If I had to guess, I'd say this was probably just rubbish from somewhere far away."
"So the Italians are silent?" asked Concepcion.
"Seems odd that we wouldn't hear something," said Victor. "They have four transmitters. They should be talking to each other. We're still a distance away, but not too far that we shouldn't pick up something." He turned to Concepcion. "How long ago did the scout ship arrive at their position?"
"Eighteen hours ago," she said.
"And no one has left their position since?" asked Father.
"Not according to the Eye," said Concepcion.
"Maybe this scout ship is causing interference," said Victor.
"Maybe," said Concepcion.
"Or maybe they're not transmitting because they can't transmit," said Selmo.
They were all silent a moment. Victor had been thinking the same thing. They all had. Either something had happened to all four of the Italians' transmitters or something had happened to the Italians.
"How long until we reach their position?" Concepcion asked.
"Twelve hours," said Selmo.
Concepcion considered this.
"There's still time to turn and run," said Father. "I'm not advocating it. I'm just saying that if we start decelerating now, we could stop and change course if you wanted to."
"We're not stopping," said Concepcion. "We're all going to bed and getting some sleep. Especially you and Victor. You haven't slept in two days. Selmo, get whoever is working the helm tonight on this radio, checking frequencies. They are not to transmit, only listen. Wake me if anything changes."
*
Alejandra was floating in the corridor in a white gown. The material was thin but not so thin that Victor could see through it. Her hair was down, floating out beside her in zero gravity. He thought it odd to see her dressed this way. Janda didn't own any gowns--certainly not ones so white and pristine and that fit her so well, as if made only for her. The Janda he knew wore jumpsuits and sweaters, all frayed and worn, having been handed down by other girls before her. Never something so new or unblemished or womanly.