“We are gathered here tonight,” The captain intoned, “To recall to mind mankind’s darkest hour, and the countless lives lost in the midst of it. Fifty years ago today, the world as it had been known came to an end."
This time of year was hard on anyone’s sleep cycle, let alone one as troubled as Lamont’s. At 30 minutes to midnight of January 2, a low and solemn chime sounded through the ship’s intercom, rousing the newspaperman from the light doze into which he had fallen while transcribing the day’s recordings. He rushed to shower and shave before pulling on the outfit that he had set aside earlier, consisting of black slacks and suspenders, with a button-down shirt of dark gray. Placed beneath the folded articles of clothing was the final obligatory piece: A cloth band that he wrapped around his right arm. Against the black field of the band a symmetrical white cross stood out starkly.
He arrived in the cafeteria just in time. He was met at the door by a crewmember who was dispensing small white candles from a crate, and the unsteady flicker of his flame soon joined a hundred others in the space. 24 hours ago, the room had been decked out in festive ornaments and filled with lighthearted chatter. Now, it was all but silent despite the presence of nearly the whole crew. The lights were low, and the flames of the handheld candles were reflected in the large observation windows at the front of the room, where they appeared to float among the stars, joining a host of silent witnesses.
A second chime sounded through the loudspeakers, and the crowd shifted to make way for Francis Carter, who had been standing behind the serving bar in the back of the room with the other members of the senior staff. As the captain, the duty of the Epiphany address fell to him. He took his place before the observation windows. Like everyone else, he wore a black armband. Unlike most of the crews’, his had been conscientiously set a little lower on his arm than would be usual, so as not to cover the round patch on his uniform that displayed the United Space logo. His face was grave, but to Lamont’s eyes it seemed to betray more than the mere solemnity that the occasion warranted. He saw in the captain’s expression a hint of distaste, and the tired boredom that so predictably played across the man’s wide mouth whenever he was made to participate in the routine or predictable. Indeed, his speech began with the same formula as every other Epiphany address Lamont had ever heard:
“We are gathered here tonight,” The captain intoned, “To recall to mind mankind’s darkest hour, and the countless lives lost in the midst of it. Fifty years ago today, the world as it had been known came to an end. Snuffed out was much life and much light. Left behind was much war and much woe. For those left behind, Epiphany was a womb. For most, it was a tomb. We now speak their names.”
At this point in the litany, there were a hundred quiet rustlings as the crew members produced small scrolls of paper from their palms and their pockets. Haltingly at first, and then in a chorus of low mumbles, names were read. Each person’s list contained somewhere between 10 and 50 names; relatives and family friends who had been lost in the Epiphany event along with the better part of the human race. In the early observances, the names would have been spouses, siblings, parents and children. Now they were grandparents, great-aunts, great-uncles, names attached mostly to stories and photographs. Self-consciously, Lamont gripped his recorder and panned it across the room until the low drone of voices broke apart into a scattered trickle among those who had longer lists.
Lamont himself had no list to read.
When the room was once again silent. This was Carter’s cue to continue. “These are the names that have been passed down to us, the names that we will pass down to those that come after us. May they never be forgotten.”
“May they never be forgotten,” Repeated the voices of the crew, with perhaps more general conviction than that displayed by the captain. In the meantime, Doctor Faust and Chief Santana had emerged from the serving bar and were now making their way among the crowd, collecting the scrolls and placing them solemnly in two metal canisters about the size of coffee tins. Traditionally, the scrolls would be placed in paper lanterns and set afloat with the candles, but an alternative ritual was necessary in space.
This joined refrain was often the end of the ceremony, but the officiant had leeway to speak additional words if desired, and Captain Carter took advantage of it.
Next: The Brightest Lights