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There wasn't much of anything in Gan's cabin - he hadn't been a collector of things. Blake soon found the sealed envelope he had never really doubted would be there. It was addressed to him.
When he opened it, though, he found Gan could still surprise him. It wasn't a printout; it was handwritten, and in the clear, painstaking script of a child striving for approval. He started to read, and got halfway through the first sentence.
"Dear Blake, I hope this finds you well…."
His vision misted. He could so see Gan, a small boy in some archaic rural schoolroom on Zephron, being taught this neat hand and the polite forms for opening a letter. He dragged a hand over his eyes and went on.
"…. and that whatever killed me didn't hurt anyone else, especially you. This won't take long. There isn't anyone left at home who needs to know I'm dead, and I haven't much to leave, but there are some purple crystals I picked up on some planet or other. I only kept them because my mother once had a dress that colour, but Avon thought they might be semi-precious. Just use them for the revolution - only please let Vila keep the one he's got. I always knew, and I didn't mind. I'm glad I met you, Blake. Take care.
I remain,
Yours respectfully
Olag Gan."
Blake choked up again. When he could see, he went back to his cabin, got out the five sealed letters he kept in a drawer and crumpled one of them in his hand. Then he called up the files on the others, checking to see if they now needed any references altering or deleting. They didn't, and that made him saddest of all.
***
In her cabin, Cally read her own letter, coming to the same conclusion - there wasn't going to be much alteration needed.
"My closest relative is my twin on Auron, but there will be no need to tell her of my death; wherever and whenever I die, she will know it. Vila, I'm leaving you my moondisc. Please be kind to it and talk to it regularly. It needs company. I chose you because I thought you'd be the most likely to sympathise with that. Jenna can have my jewellery - speaking of which, if my malachite beads are where I suspect, at least don't sell them, Vila. Keep them to meditate with; they might give you peace of mind. There's not much I can leave the rest of you, except my collection of aromatherapy oils. They are labelled with their specific uses. I can see your lip curling now, Avon, but don't dismiss it out of hand. We all live under stress…." She read a bit further and deleted a reference to some oil that was supposed to do wonders for anger management.
She was deep in thought, but not about Gan. He was dead and she grieved for that, but he was silent now, her link to him gone. She was thinking about the man who was still alive and suffering, blaming himself. She keyed in a new final paragraph:
"The only other thing I can leave you, Blake, is to take back a wish I once made. Before I knew you properly, I wished that you might die alone and silent. That was a terrible thing to wish on any man, much less one as good as you, and I long ago unsaid it in my heart. May you die surrounded by friends, Blake, and with a friend's name on your lips."
***
When her watch was over, Jenna wandered the ship for some time before beginning what she, alone of the crew, had never done before:
"Dear Blake,
I've got a mother alive somewhere on earth - at least I think I have. We got on best at a distance, to be honest; I took after my dad. She'd had enough of the criminal classes with him, and when I took up his trade she disowned me. Never showed up at the trial, never wrote… And yet - I found out something on the London. When I was in hiding she knew where I was, and I'd always assumed she told them. But one of the guards let it drop that she didn't; they questioned her for hours and she wouldn't. And yet she didn't even come to say goodbye. Families, eh? Anyway I'm writing this to say don't tell her I'm dead. She might as well go on thinking otherwise, if she wants. People don't always want the truth, Blake, not when it brings them no comfort.
You're welcome to whatever I have. You always were."
***
"Dear all,
I knew you'd be the death of me in the end. I said so, but nobody ever listens to me… This is just to tell you all where things are. Keys to all the cabins in the right-hand drawer. Some of Avon's tools, too; those fiddly screwdrivers come in very handy. Cally's green beads are under my pillow. I only meant to borrow them, honest, but they were so soothing. And Gan's stone is in the other drawer. Maybe a few other things I've forgotten about. I don't always recall who owned what. I expect you'll find them."
Vila paused and deleted the sentence about Gan. He was holding the crystal in his hand. "I can't give it back now," he whispered, "and I always meant to, mate. I thought, you know, if this ever happened, there'd be like a body and a funeral, and I'd get to say goodbye and put whatever it was in the coffin, give it back. And now I can't. I'm sorry." He buried his head in his hands, not caring how the crystal's sharp edge cut into his forehead.
***
On the flight deck, Avon was on watch but there was little to do and he too was composing. He keyed in "Dear Blake", then deleted it.
"My dearest Blake,
Well, if you are reading some version of this (which one will it be, I wonder?), then I must be dead. I certainly would never have used that form of address to you in life.
I thought it, though, more times than I can count. And others like it. My love, my treasure - there are few terms of mawkish adoration I have not used about you in my heart. I wonder if your face is now wearing that expression of stunned consternation I know so well? I love it, but then I love your face in all its guises.
I remember very clearly the moment when I first knew. I'd just thrown you out of the way of a bomb (how in the world are you going to stay safe, without me?) We were on the floor, holding each other, and it came to me vaguely that the danger was over and I should let go. And no sooner had I thought it than I knew I didn't ever want to. That you fitted in my arms, as if they'd been made to hold you, and that without you they'd be empty, whatever they held. I have never been so afraid in my life.
I don't think that was when I fell in love, though. I have tried to date it - to the moment when I first saw you on the London, for instance - but I think it predates even that. When I look back, it seems to me that for as long as I remember, I have wanted there to be something or someone in the world - a person, an idea, I don't know - that would admit of no doubt, that would be so plainly right that I would trust it absolutely and follow it unquestioningly. (Oh, I know I disputed every word you said, but there was never any doubt that I'd follow you, in the end.) So I am forced to conclude that I loved you before I ever saw you.
And if it hasn't made your life easy, you may be sure it didn't do much for mine, either. For every time I was near you, feeling your presence like sun on my skin, there was a time you were somewhere else, generally somewhere hazardous, and I might never see you again. I would pass the time working on new gadgets for your revolution, trying to crack ciphers to present you with the answers, like some demented suitor who can't stop buying flowers, and thinking all the time that if you were not in the world I would have no reason to be. By the time you got back, I would generally be resentful enough to start a new fight. In fact, I'm amazed at my own forbearance.
At least, if you are reading this, my dearest wish has been granted, namely not to witness your death. So perhaps I should be more forgiving. I should tell you not to blame yourself or grieve for me; I should hope you'll find love and be happy - I believe that's how love is meant to work? As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I feel like that at all. I wanted to have an effect on you, to match the devastating one you had on me. I suppose making you devastatingly happy would have done as well as anything else.
Goodbye, Blake. Supposing there to be any such thing as eternity, I hope it will be full of you. Whether that will make it heaven or hell, I'm not quite sure. Only that I want to be there."
When he had printed out the document, he deleted the file. Then he read the letter three times, very slowly, lingering over each word. Then he tore it into minute shreds and headed for the waste disposal, as he always did.
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