Captain Rollhagen drummed fingers on his console. Through the viewing bubble he watched Earth turning below. Blue, so blue, with vast white clouds, and beautiful, so beautiful. Why had they ever left?
A question for philosophers. Captain Rollhagen was a man of science. And he had a job to do.
Conquer Earth.
“Lunch, Captain?” A tall, dark woman entered the bridge, carrying two trays.
“Thank you, Ensign.”
Ensign Tate waited for Captain Rollhagen to pull the tab on his lemon water and bite into a carrot stick. Then she watched him chew — a fit and handsome man of forty, with slightly receding brown hair.
She was madly in love with him.
“Joining me, Ensign?” The Captain turned to her in his pink, modernist swivel chair with the command stick.
“Thank you, Captain.” She sat, biting into a stalk of celery. If Captain Rollhagen was unaware of her love for him, Ensign Tate was equally unaware of his love for her. And he did love her, quietly and, under the circumstances, heroically. The rest of the crew were, of course, well aware of these suppressed emotions. This caused no small amount of head shaking and snickering behind their backs.
“There’s Earth,” the captain said, turning again to the bubble.
“Yes, there it is.” Conversation was always difficult. Ensign Tate took another bite, crunching delicately. “Have you heard from Malthusia lately?”
“No.”
“How long do you think it will be?”
“How long?”
“…Before the fleet arrives.”
“I don’t know.” Rollhagen inspected his hummus and cucumber sandwich, then took a bite. “They’re taking their sweet time.”
The invasion had been delayed, then delayed some more. Typical bureaucratic foot-dragging. First the ships had to be cleaned. Then the arguments about who should be in charge, the whole political rigamarole. Then the fight over which uniforms were best. Unisex bodysuits with open sleeves finally won out, but then some jackass of an admiral insisted on gold instead of standard-issue silver. At this rate, they’d never get here.
In the meantime the ship’s crew kept themselves occupied, monitoring Earth. While she ate, Ensign Tate tuned her video disk. The captain finished his water and put down the tray. “What are you watching?”
“The good ol’ USA.”
“How can you stand that trash?”
“It’s not so bad. They’re in an election year. It ought to be good. What do you watch?”
The captain could be a little lofty. “Iceland,” he said.
In truth, Captain Rollhagen disliked Earth. Even though it was their ancestral home. He was anxious for the armada of spaceships to arrive, when they could depopulate the works and get on with settling good, solid Malthusians. Waiting was the hardest part.
Ensign Tate stood and took his tray. “I’d better get back to the quarterdeck.” As she turned, her hip bumped his shoulder. “Oops.” she said. “Excuse me.”
“You’d better be careful,” he said to his pretty officer.
“I always am,” she replied. Their eyes met, but only briefly before, carrying trays, she was out the door.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com