Amelia isn't one to place all of her proverbial eggs into one basket; so when it comes to the question of what to pack and what to leave behind, she makes her decisions carefully. The mansion certainly has enough of everything to keep her in the comfort she is accustomed to. She has no need of the well worn couch and the table set that is sitting in her living room, and she can think of no reason to get rid of them either.

The answer is simple. She decides to keep her small residency on the arm of the spaceport. It would come in handy soon, she thinks.

The real problem is what to do with the corner room and the so long closed door. Her former first mate would be pleased to know that she is making such strides in her life to make herself happy. But the decisions that she has to make following his death do not make the change easier.

Amelia steels herself before turning the nickel brushed knob leading into the now spare bedroom. It hurts to think of him in such stark absolutes, but how could anyone survive a black hole? Sure, they had gone through their fair share of close scrapes, but this was more than close.

She is immediately reminded of that small, wayward planetoid she had found herself on during the Proycon wars. The ship that she had been serving on as first mate had been blasted out of the sky. When Amelia came to, her lower half was drifting in and out of the sea with the tide. A boot was missing and her coat had been burned from the blast. Neither of these things mattered though.

The myth is that she waited three days, collecting stray parts that rained down on the surface of the beach head. After she had collected enough for a small solar powered skiff, Amelia rode it off the planetoid, and into the shipping lanes between two adjacent systems. Days passed until a ship passed by her. She had been weak, and most certainly near death. They picked up the small skiff she had scraped together and carried her into the ships on board infirmary. Amelia then took command of the vessel and sailed it back into the line of conflict, saving the day and more than likely dealing a blow large enough to end the war.

The reality wasn't as exciting as the fiction that she heard in taverns the galaxy over. After her ship had been blasted out of the sky, she found herself washed up on a beach head. Her lower half was drifting in and out with the tide, one bare foot peaking out of the foam. Amelia could recall the hopelessness that gripped at her. No one would come looking for her down here. After scavenging for supplies and building a tiny, leaning shelter she holed up for what would most likely be a long time.

After three days, a tiny ship moored just off the planet heralded an escape for her. Four humans piloting a life boat landed on the beach head, shovels in hand. She watched as they dug into the sand until the reached a driftwood door and disappeared into the hole. The truth about her daring escape, was that it wasn't really a daring escape. She bartered for passage off the tiny planet with a gang of rum runners, who were then coerced into sailing into an active battlefield to return her to her ship.

Amelia didn't want to think about the things she had to do to get back to her ship. She just focused on the moment she set foot on the well worn deck of the R.L.S Legacy for the first time. The stern captain at the time regarded her with a kind of disdain that didn't usually come along with the recognition of her rank in the navy. After explaining who she was and where she had been, she was instructed to stay with the vessel for the remainder of her tour.

She had only seen battle one other time. Two Proycon ships had flanked the Legacy, their enemy troops jumping onto the decks and engaging in fierce hand to hand combat. Stray laser shots rang out around her as she dodged enemy fire. Amelia recalled the way the captain's face contorted in shock and pain as his large frame hit the deck, blood spilling over it's timbers. Outnumbered and outgunned, Amelia fought hard against the invaders. When at last her pistol had ran clean of it's charges and her gun had jammed, she resorted to fist fighting. Her acrobatics came in handy as she led them on a merry chase from the masts of each ship, some falling to their death.

The upper hand was gained at last, and the very last of the enemy troops were snuffed out. Casualties were numerous, and it wasn't until her ears stopped ringing and the deck had been cleared of the gore that she realized she was now the ranking officer on board. Wiping the blood from her cheek, she strode to the bridge, punching in the coordinates for the nearest system with a navy outpost. The crew recognizes her as their leader now out of respect. The many wounded were taken below deck, leaving a skeleton crew operating the masts and repairing the guns. The journey back home took weeks, but it didn't seem as long as the battle they left behind.

Everyone on board had seen enough combat and none were keen on sailing again for a while. She had taken the post as acting captain some time ago, and the navy felt like this was the proper action to take. When they moored at Crestentia, her promotion had been officially recognized in the company of her close friends and family. Among the throng of party goers, one stony face stood out and she regarded it with a relieved smile.

He congratulated her, and over a pint at a nearby tavern they basked in each others well missed company.

Those days had long since passed, and now with the passing of her long time friend she can no longer justify keeping his things.

She remembers that she had boxes delivered to pack away his sparse belongings, but had not gone any further than that. The rational side of her screams for control, while the newly emerged sentimentalist in her wants to leave everything just as it is.

After a massive internal battle, Amelia begins the slow, painful process. Clothes are folded and packed away, cushioning his plaques and certificates from school. There are no trinkets or unnecessary objects cluttering the dresser or the night stand. His living space is surprisingly spartan, compared with the rest of the small apartment. Not so surprisingly, she thinks as she reaches the end of his wardrobe after a few minutes. He lived sparsely, because he didn't need material things to make a home. She supposed she could learn a thing or two from him.

Sentimentalism shouldn't be so comfortable to her. It only muddles things further.

After an afternoon of packing, she labels the crates for shipping and places them in the living room. A courier would come by for the packages later.

Her ribs pang, and she reaches for the pills in her pocket, dry swallowing a few. Looking around at her progress, she realizes that she hasn't even begun to pack her items away. Walking into her own bedroom, she pulls a large bag from the floor of her closet. Her own wardrobe isn't as skimpy as Chester's. It takes a bit to pack all of her civilian clothes, but after an hour of shifting and refolding, she finally fits it all inside the black burlap bag and she zips it shut. Laying it on her bed, she goes back to her closet. The only things left are the four command uniforms that hang in pristine condition inside plastic bags. Two pairs of boots are all that is left on the bottom of the closet and she snatches them up, along with the uniforms and lays them all beside the bag.

A ringing brings her out of whatever thoughts she was entertaining and she waltzes into the kitchen and hits the accept button.

A face that she never expected to see again pops up on the screen and her mouth hangs open in shock.

"Kitty, I know you may not want to see me."

"You're damn right I don't want to see you. How did you get this number?" She alternates between shock and rage, and finally settles on anger.

The man on the screen looks flustered, and repentant. "I have a guy, it's not important. I wanted to call you, to see how you were."

"I'm doing just fine without you. Please don't call again." Her hand hovers over the disconnect button and she hesitates, watching the reaction of her estranged father go from decidedly repentant to sorrowful in a second.

"Please, don't hang up. I know I was a shitty dad. I want to make up for that now."

"I was a child, and I watched my mother die in front of me. By your hand, none the less. I don't wish to have anything to do with you." She disconnects before she can think otherwise and reaches for the bottle of whiskey inside the cabinets. The amber liquid travels down her throat in a path of soothing fire and it feels good.

The door bell rings, and she is vaguely aware of the courier on her front porch. Business is conducted and he hauls the boxes away, putting them in the back of a truck. He leaves with a wave and a 'Have a nice evening, ma'am!' and she waves back as social manner dictates.

Returning to the call device, she punches in Delberts number and waits patiently as it rings. Once, twice, he picks it up on the third ring, a pleasant smile on his face.

"Doctor," She greets him with a smile.

"Ah, Captain. I wasn't expecting your call." He adjusts his glasses and peers at the screen, squinting his eyes slightly.

"I've finished the bulk of the packing. When should we schedule this move of sorts?"

"Ah, that is the question isn't it?"

Amelia smiles. "I was thinking the sooner the better? I was going to keep my flat here and just move my personal things over."

Delbert nods. "That seems best. Would you be ready completely in the morning? I can come in a cab."

Amelia smiles. "Of course. I shall expect you tomorrow morning."

Their conversation drags on into the mundane and after what seemed like only a moment, Delbert finds himself saying goodnight and hitting the disconnect button. Tomorrow will be the day that she moves in.

Ostensibly, she would take the room she slept in a few nights ago. They hadn't discussed arrangements that far, but Delbert isn't lacking for any space in his mansion.

Standing up, he stretches his legs and ambles out of his observatory. Night has fallen and the stars are at their brightest, but Delbert finds himself distracted by his call with Amelia. It's only been a few days since he last saw her in person, but it feels like longer to him.

It's illogical, and he knows it. But he has always been this way, and her presence in his life has only made that worse.

He shuts the door behind him and wanders aimlessly through the sitting room and kitchen until he comes across the broken greenhouse. He doesn't need lights out here to see. Some bio-luminescent plants in the corner are providing enough light for him to see by.

Not enough, however to show the garden hose that tripped him. Getting to his feet, he dusts his pants off and looks around to make sure he was still alone. Sighing in relief, he walks down the aisles of broken terra cotta pots and spray bottles.

The years that have gone by since Abagail's death are the most noticeable here. It's only been a few, three to be exact. The plants grew wildly inside the humid box, but withered after a few weeks without water. A few survived. A cactus in the corner looked good still, despite the lack of watering.

It's been three years, and Delbert can still sense her perfume clinging to the stool in the corner. It doesn't invoke the same sadness that it used to. He doesn't feel like his world has ended.

Delbert knows that he needs to make room in his heart for Amelia. It's time. Abagail would want him to be happy. And, he has. He knows that he has fallen in love with her. He knew it on that damnable planet. When they were sitting in that darkened cave, waiting for Jim to come back, he knew that his life had changed.

When he had first signed on for the voyage, it had been a ploy. He hadn't left his house, save to go to the inn, in months. He hadn't given any speeches, or lectures at the local university in some time. Delbert was in most ways, a hermit. He couldn't bring himself to face the world without her. He knew it was dramatic, and that he should have been well over it, but he wasn't.

Then, he went on a trip with Jim. Delbert didn't expect to fall for a woman that was so brass tacks and so utterly unlike Abagail. But he had.

Going back inside, he retreats into his study again and makes the necessary arrangements for the greenhouse to get re glassed and framed. It wouldn't do to put it off, he knew she would want to start on it as soon as possible.

But, first things first. She needed to be here. He calls the cab company and explains that he needs a car for the whole day. The fees will be steep, but his pockets are deep. She will want to pay for the cab, but he won't have any of that. He knows who makes more, despite her rank and her currently large pension pay from the navy.

The phone disconnects and he is left in echoing silence in his study. His hand absentmindedly reaches for his record collection, thumbing through the various albums before finding an old jazz record. This one had been his favorite growing up. He remembered evenings around the fire, listening to the music while his parents reminisced over the old days on the couch behind him. Every good memory from his childhood is rooted in the grooves on the disc in his hands. Flipping the black disc onto the table, he puts the needle down and lets the music flow through the blue painted horn.