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Posted: Tue Apr 28, 2015 11:19 pm
by Andrew Styles
Sitting by the windows I watch the stars. The engine hums and everyone is asleep. The Damascus marches onwards, towards a distant star. We left behind the ashes of our fathers on Terra, trekking onwards into the inky black. I, the captain’s son, have taken his place. Piloting the Damascus is easy. I do it not for myself, I know I’ll be long dead. Xianxoua will forever be distant, a speck in the cosmos. I was born on the Damascus, and I’ll die here. I don’t pilot for my own sake; I do it for the hope of my descendants.