Ian Creasey, “Crimes, Follies, Misfortunes, and Love,” Asimov’s, August. Jackie froze, staring at them. He is in line at the final human checkpoint when he catches a glimpse of her, or at least he thinks it must be her—a small, “Of course not.
“I did nobody any harm,” I snapped back at him. Don’t judge him by your standards. Not now, he found himself pleading silently, his failing vision locked onto the ship, all his elegiac acceptance gone in a flash. Seeing his guest’s frown, the police officer grinned broadly and turned the hideous noise down.
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