Plague Stories

"What . . . what is this?" is all I manage to say, in pure disbelief, as I watch the number on the ranging sensor climb steadily up. To clarify, there's nothing unusual about that in and of itself. What's abnormal, to say the least, is the sheer number the sensor has climbed to. If this reading is to be believed, then over one hundred and forty-nine million kilometres now separate our two vessels; approximately the distance between the Sun and the Earth, and growing. That's impossible. Our two vessles did a pass-by not a month ago.

I do a quick calculation.

It shows that the distance between us is constantly expanding faster than either of our vessels are supposed to be capable of travelling. Even if we were moving towards each other. Whisked away by the lightspeed hand of God. I'm overcome as I have the following realisation: even if I were to somehow to live and travel towards them for the remainder of the universe's existence, it would change nothing. We would never again meet. I hold their photographs in my hands, in disbelief that this is as close as we can ever again be.