Henrik Refsnes

I’ll admit, I broke out some navy strength bootleg. The grog didn’t cut it.

They say your life flashes by at the end but let me tell you, it’s more like slow motion—and there’s nothing but the dark of space in the direction we’re drifting. The firework sendoff is a nice touch though. A comet is lighting up the shipyards in yellow and blue like an abandoned ghost town. It’s positively spectacular.

I remember lying on the top of my dad’s van, watching the night sky. The stars have always called to me and now I get to—Al, what comet is that?

Its size, trajectory and tail are consistent with the one designated as Hale-Bopp.

Hale Bopp? No, no, that can’t be it. Your data is scrambled.

With 99.7% probability, it is Hale-Bopp.

It can’t be. It’s not supposed to make a pass until what, the year four thousand something. I’m too drunk to remember what they told us in basic.

4385. Hale-Bopp has a period of 2399 years.

What the actual fuck, Al. You said 600 years, not 2000.

I said the atomic clocks were no longer working, and that the current year, and weekday, was indeterminable. You said, what like 600. I said, it could be. I can pull up the audio transcript if you want to verify.

Wha—no. 4385. So much for slow motion. I take that back. Fast fucking forward.