The Aftermath by Ben Bova

trouble,” he said to the medic.
    â€œIt was my own fault,” she replied, hardly looking at him. Then a tentative smile emerged on her face. “She doesn’t stay angry very long.”
    â€œYour mother?”
    The medic nodded. “The captain.”
    â€œWell,” he said, “thanks for everything.”
    Her eyes evaded his. “Good luck.”
    It wasn’t until Victor had left the infirmary and was halfway along the passageway that led to the ship’s galley that it struck him that “Good luck” was a strange thing to say. What did she mean by that? he wondered.
    The galley was jammed with crew members eating dinner. Victor had to squeeze in at a table already occupied by six of his mates.
    â€œTook the day off, didja?” one of the men said, elbowing him in the ribs hard enough almost to make Victor slosh the coffee out of his mug as he edged his tray between the others already on the table.
    â€œThe easy life,” joked the woman sitting across the table from him, grinning widely at him.
    â€œI wasn’t up to it today,” Victor said, turning his attention to the dinner tray before him.
    One of the other women said, “We heard about what you picked up yesterday, Vic.”
    The table fell silent.
    Victor put his fork down and looked up and down the table. They were all staring at him.
    With a shrug he said, “Let’s forget about it.”
    â€œYeah. Shit happens.”
    â€œNot much you can do about it.”
    They all started eating again.
    Victor half-finished his meal, then hurried back to his own cubicle. A message was blinking on the wall screen above his bunk: REPORT TO CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS AT 2000 HOURS .
    â€œAye-aye, captain,” he muttered.
    At precisely 2000 hours, dressed in fresh coveralls, Victor rapped smartly on the frame of the captain’s sliding doorscreen.
    â€œEnter,” she called.
    He slid the door back and stepped in. Captain Madagascar was still in her black uniform, sitting at her desk. She blanked the computer screen and got to her feet.
    â€œExactly on time. Good.”
    â€œI went through the medical—”
    â€œI know,” said Cheena Madagascar, jerking a thumb toward the dead display screen. “I reviewed your medical records. You’re in good condition, physically and psychologically.”
    Victor nodded.
    She slid a partition back and Victor saw a kitchenette laid out along the bulkhead: steel sink, minifridge and freezer, microwave, cabinets overhead.
    â€œHad your dinner?” the captain asked.
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œI haven’t.” She pulled a prepackaged meal from the freezer. “Sit down, relax.”
    The little round table in the middle of the room was already set for two, he saw. He pulled out one of the delicate little chairs and sat on it carefully.
    â€œWant some wine?” the captain asked as she slid the dinner package into the microwave.
    â€œYou said I shouldn’t drink anything alcoholic.”
    She broke into a wry grin. “I told my daughter I didn’t want her to give you any alcohol. That doesn’t mean you can’t have a glass of wine with me.”
    Thinking of the detox dialysis, Victor said, “I’d better stay away from—”
    Cheena Madagascar interrupted, “When the captain invites you to have a glass of wine, you say, ‘Thank you, captain. I’d be delighted.’”
    Victor saw where this was heading. With a shrug he said, “Thank you, captain. I’d be delighted.”
    He sipped at the chilled white wine slowly as she ate her dinner. The wine tasted like biting the cold steel blade of a knife.
    â€œWe’re almost finished with this body hunt, you know,” the captain told him as she chewed away. “There’s only a few dozen more to account for.”
    â€œGeorge Ambrose won’t be satisfied until every single one is found,” Victor