“Ah. This is what I wanted to show you.”

The dozen teens sat in what shade could be found. The day was hot, and the sun high in the light blue, cloudless sky. The counsellor broke out Quaker bars and Pretzels and encouraged the campers to drink water.

There was a crumbling, sandy bluff which rose out of the desert and chaparral and ran along a ragged line north west. The counsellor pressed his hand against the face, shading beneath his wide-brimmed hat. The bluff face was lightly scribed with lines, which ran parallel in bands of alternating light and dark colours. He traced his finger slowly down the lines as he spoke.

“These are strata, layers of rock and sand and dirt built up over the Earth’s history. They’re a record of the planet. See here?” He stood on his tiptoes and pointed arbitrarily to lines only a few inches from the edge of the face. “The American Civil War.” And, less than an inch further down, “Christopher Columbus finds America.”

“Whoa! It’s like a tree ring.”

He traced his finger along a thick, dark line which ran only a few inches above where the rest of the face was buried below the mean ground level. He chipped a few pieces from the face with his fingernail; in his palm, he showed them to the campers.

“Does this look like anything to you guys?”

“Soot? Ash? Like the Witch Creek and Cedar fires.”

“Exactly. This layer – ” he pointed again to the dark band “ – is what scientists call the K-T boundary. It’s from about sixty-five million years ago. And no matter where scientists go in the world, no matter where they look for strata like this, they find this layer of ash. Because, sixty-five million years ago, the entire world was on fire.”

We’d pushed the Drome back to the tip of the peninsular. We were still bringing up infantry to complete the encirclement when they hit Druze City. The mushroom cloud hung on the horizon for hours while the reports came in – “at least ten megatons,” and “get clear, the wind is shifting.” When the Drome cruiser splashed the Jomini, the Old Man gave the order to go nuclear. Half a dozen clouds went up over the encirclement; through these grounds zero our armor would penetrate. We were quick to relocate the army CP after the orders went out over the nets.

 

The thick rope of muscle slid across the slick lens, grit sieving off the surface and into oily ducted channels on either side of the organ.  The students felt this rejuvenating motion with only the momentary lag from being light-years away.  Their tutor hung over the rostrum and pulsed to focus their attention. 

Our men afar, though listless be,
From star to star doth ply,
A warm recall, they know not near.
Lest in duty, their anchored fate.

Were they, the heroes of our day,
Destined to live afar?
A journey run, to yonder way.
Yet seen the light of home.

The day run long, and into night,
A turn of hour, o’er vast divide.
The view out there, upon a brink,
May clasp and hold forever.

Our men afar, though listless be,
We too reflect, recount.
Return to us, a journey’s end.
Be with us more, again.

Heroes may, for want of way,
Desire unto return.
Upon return, title retained,
In hearts of us remain?

- V. Stanyev, Odes.

Vonke Stanyev was a prolific statesman and poet during the early expansion campaigns.  While his younger years were spent in the governmental body that birthed the expansionist policies, Stanyev’s retirement saw his reflection on the lives of the naval forces that gave their lives in the name of the State, yet rarely saw home again or reaped the benefits of conquest and subjugation. 

Lament of the Sky Soldiers represents one of Stanyev’s most poignant of his post-political views; the time-hallowed idea of heroism, idealism, longing and service colliding with a society comfortable to accept the benefits, but one that readily forgets.

We are at the very beginning of time for the human race. It is not unreasonable that we grapple with problems. But there are tens of thousands of years in the future. Our responsibility is to do what we can, learn what we can, improve the solutions, and pass them on.

- Richard Feynman (1918 – 1988)