The bar went silent when I pushed inside,
their whispers sharp as any blade they'd use
if rules weren't rules and I weren't trained so well.
I fed my coins into the old dispenser
and let the synthetic music wash me clean
until the drunk came lurching to my table,
his eyes unfocused, purple with a rage
he'd carried since the first ships reached the stars.
"Why all the hilarity, spaceboy?" he slurred.
"Feeling proud of yourself?"
I tried to smile.
"We brought back uranium. Sandgems. Windstones—"
"We don't need anything from you," he spat.
"There's no place for you here."
Then something broke
behind his eyes. He gripped the table's edge
and said, "I was a jet pilot once.
I was supposed to be the pioneer.
Open up brave new worlds..." His voice cracked thin.
"But melanin. Just melanin. That's all
that stands between a man and all the stars."
He stared at me a long time, then he said
the word his grandfathers had used on mine.
I left. We're trained for that.
Outside, the ship
rose silver against the dark where colonists
would board at dawn—my people, heading home
to worlds the earthbound cannot follow.
Strange,
how history bends. I stopped feeling sorry
for myself, and started pitying them.