“Already too late.” They’re whispering.
“Waste of time.” They seethe. “Off-Purpose. Distracted.”
The vessel cultivation, true, has been laborious. The drifting; taxing.
Internal demolitions, micro revolutions, severed allegiances.
Eyes ever to the outer spaces.
Consumed by an uncharted alliance. The alliance.
Early sensed, relentlessly sought, ardently wrought.
Proxima 44 in sight. Secured.
Then came this last faltering.
Sucked into a current, decayed.
Thick with debris, webbed with pocked detonators.
Caught. Battered. Lost. For yars. Lost yars.
Then grappled out. How? But through, worse for war.
There is weariness in the wake; an ache, a resistance.
Strength of the alliance was torn at, and tortured.
Our structural integrity nearly compromised.
Yet the consortium remains intact, holds.
Proxima still, plus one.
Though we have found benevolent moorings
tucked away in the gentle flows of the Pheonix Nest,
the Elk Springs are receding with each of our soundings.
We cannot be more witless in our whispering, than wily in our ways.
Disciplines in all our quarters, are coming of age.
We are mercurial no longer.
Wavefarers we must become.
Currently, visibility is variable at best beyond the solar shelf,
but we can take stock. Resourcefulness. Preparation.
We will. We must. Now, is the time.