Scout's Log

My account of life in space. The year is 77 Space Age, which is, in more ancient terms, 2327 CE. I am space debris. And of all the ships in the galaxy, I had to hop aboard the pirate ship. Such is life.

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Name:
Location: onboard 'Oberon', deep space

I push ahead, always navigating, always scouting somewhere. I have this tendency to outlive my friends, and much of what I have known is now gone. It is my goal in life to know everything. I figure the best way to do so is to travel the universe, picking up information as I go. This is the path I've chosen.

Tuesday, August 22, 77 S.A.

Viable

Viable viable viable viable viable

“What does viable mean?” asked Em. Had I been speaking out loud? I don’t know. I was sitting in the nav seat, but when I looked at my work it was a mess, each impossible jump veering off toward Chongqing.
“Go look it up.” I said, hating myself.

Viable. Workable. Alive.

He is not alive. I have not wept for him since I left his ship, our ship, and plunged into the black. I have wept for myself, because he is not alive.

He is still Viable.

Mezaro, trapped in a web of scientific conversation, giving me information though he doesn’t know why, says that the materials located in most medical samples include complete cells and DNA, enough to test for genetic conditions and even clone individuals. Which is why they are highly guarded, because no one in charge wants a few extra Edward P. Furoughties running around. Because invetro fertilization requires permission.

But there is enough. It is possible. It is…

Viable.

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