The End of All Things by John Scalzi

it was sheer megalomania, or, if I wanted to be nice about it, him taking pity on the guy he’d caused to be turned into a naked brain. I don’t know how many other humans there were where we were; I only knew of Ocampo, Vera Briggs, and whoever the woman was who helped supervise reimplanting weapons systems on the Chandler . Of the other two, the weapons systems supervisor looked sort of busy whenever I saw her. As for Vera Briggs, I imagine at this point she might not be feeling especially friendly toward Ocampo.
    In other words, I think Ocampo just plain might have been lonely for human contact.
    Which I could understand. I had been lonely too.
    The difference being, of course, that one of us had made the choice to be lonely. The other one of us rather unexpectedly had the choice thrust upon him.
    As it turns out, Ocampo’s desire to monologue lasted about fifteen minutes longer than the time I needed it to. I knew he was done when he said “But I must be boring you” to me, which is narcissist-speak for “Now I’m bored.”
    You’re not boring me, I thought at him. But I understand how much of your time I’ve already taken up today. I can’t really ask for more of it. Thank you, Secretary Ocampo .
    “Of course,” he said, and then his face got a look. I thought it resembled what the face of someone who felt guilty about something, but didn’t actually want to be troubled by doing anything to deal with that guilt, might look like.
    I waited and eventually I think Ocampo’s vestigial sense of moral obligation kicked in.
    “Look, Daquin, I know I’ve put you in a bad spot,” he said. “I know they’ve promised to return your body to you, and I know they will. They’ve done this before. But between now and then, if there’s something I can do for you, well…” He trailed off here, letting me imply that he’d be willing to do something for me, without actually saying it, which I think he thought would give him an out.
    This guy was a treasure, this Assistant Secretary of State Tyson Ocampo.
    Thank you, sir, I thought . I can’t think of anything I need from you right now. On the monitor, I could see Ocampo visibly relax; I had just let him off the hook. Which gave me the space to say what I really wanted to. But there is one thing you can do for me in the future .
    “Name it,” Ocampo said.
    Someday soon they will give me a mission. My first real mission, not the simulated ones they’ve been having me running. It would mean a lot to me if, on that day, you and Vera Briggs came to see me off.
    “You mean, there on the Chandler .”
    Yes, sir. I realize that to some extent, in my condition —and that was an intentional knife thrust to the guilt centers of Ocampo’s brain, right there— it wouldn’t matter whether you said good-bye inside of the Chandler or outside of it. But it would mean a lot to me. You and Ms. Briggs are the only people I know now. I’d like someone to see me off. Just a couple of minutes here before I go. If you would .
    Ocampo thought about it for a minute, which was either him figuring out the logistics or trying to see if he could get out of it. “All right,” he then said. “We’ll do it.”
    You promise? I asked. Because this was the guy who just trailed off on “If there’s something I can do for you.”
    “I promise,” Ocampo said, and I believed him.
    Thank you, Secretary Ocampo, I said. You’re a good man .
    Ocampo either smiled or winced at that.
    Either way, then he waved and cut the signal.
    *   *   *
    Things I learned from Ocampo’s PDA:
    One, there was no doubt Ocampo had known he was going away. He stocked himself quite a library of entertainments—several thousand videos ranging from classic movies from Earth to the latest serials from Phoenix, an equal number of books and musical tracks, and a fair sampling of video games, although these were mostly a decade or more old; I guess when you’re running the universe, you don’t have time to