Please see our Publisher’s Note following this month’s Editorial that has important information about a new threat to the survival of all SF/F/H magazines.

Take a deep breath. Hold on to something. When you open that door, it’s going to feel like you’re dying, but in the best possible way.

You’ve done the homework. Studied the colorful maps, the security schedule, the camera placement. You’re rusty, but ready.

You zip your jumpsuit up to the base of your neck and tighten your backpack. You’re in a crowded transit hub in the aft section of the ship. Huge transparent windows line the cavernous space. Outside, star sprinkled space and the occasional nose of another ship.

Your watch beeps at you. A text from UV. He’s on the move. And so are you, heading down to the lower decks.

A klaxon rings out across the ship. Yellow strips of light appear around all halls and doors. Docking procedures are beginning.

You get past the first door with a stolen access card. A swipe yields a friendly green light. The door creeps open. You slip in. A long empty corridor awaits you. The door is at the end, but the journey is treacherous. Motion sensors, hidden cameras, laser trip wires. You can’t see any of it, but it’s there.

You take out a small stick and feel around the walls until you find an open port. You kiss it for luck and plug it in. There’s a brief bit of sound as mechanicals in the walls disengage. It worked! Maybe.

Tentative, you walk past the black bubbles of housed cameras.

At one point, you glance down at your wrist. UV is represented by a small red dot in a wireframe representation of his own ship. There are a few portholes on the side of the corridor. You look out and you spot a shape moving through a similar empty corridor.

If you looked to the right of those portholes, you would see the end of the docking maneuvers of the two massive star cruisers. When the two ships line up beside each other, long white bridges extend from the two sides to meet. Those bridges are heavily monitored with checkpoints and travelers scanned and often detained by the boys in blue.

A while back, smugglers realized they could “jump” from two adjacent airlocks, circumventing the bridges and watching eyes to deliver drugs, weapons, illegal foods. Some people got famous for doing it. Some people got rich doing it. But you, you never did it for the money or the fame.

You did it for the joy of the jump.

You approach the door. It’s got small red lights and the word WARNING written all over it. There’s another porthole, larger than the other ones you passed. You look through it and you can see him across the black gulf. He pulls down his hoodie and waves at you. He’s so young.

You met on the ‘net due to similar film tastes. Before long, he asked about your past. In your youth, you had a bit of fame.

“My jaywalking days were a long time ago,” you whispered into the air. The ship’s sensors transposed your words into an encrypted text to his quarters.

“What’s it feel like? How do you steer, how do you land, how do you communicate . . .” on and on and on with questions. He was relentless, and adorable, so you relented.

“One last time,” you said.

You pull another stick from your pocket and plug it into a hidden port on the airlock door. The red lights switch to green.

The display on your watch flashes a happy blue. You look through the porthole again. It’s far, but you think you can see his green eyes.

You reach a hand to your bag, and UV does the same. Grip the mask and affix it to your nose and mouth. It suctions in and a clear shield encompasses your face. You taste the manufactured air from the mini tank in your backpack. Next, you unzip your jumpsuit. Your old spacesuit still fits, although it took a while to squeeze in. You have to take off your backpack and shoes so you hold the wall to steady yourself. Through the porthole windows, you can see UV mirroring you.

Once you’ve removed the jumpsuit, which you bundle up and store in a nearby compartment, you press a button on your chest and the suit inflates. It feels strange, like air pressure is squeezing every muscle, but it’s short-lived. In the artificial gravity of your ship, you feel big and clumsy. That will all change soon.

You grin, remembering when you spoke over video. How his face lit up when you talked about your plans. It’s dangerous to speak openly, but you did it anyway. Communications are heavily monitored, just like everything else in the caravan, the hundreds of ships containing the reminder of the human race, their destination decades away.

“It must be so freeing,” he said and you knew exactly what he meant.

You were born in space. Will you die in space too? It feels like the most natural thing, then, to take a walk outside.

The suit chimes at you that it’s airtight and secure. You tap your watch and send your own purple-hued Ready signal.

On the door, there’s a latch and a kind of hammer-shaped lever. You need to pull and twist it in the right order to open the door. You glance again through the window and see the top of UV’s head shifting from side to side. You pick up the pace on your maneuvers.

And then the door opens. Just a crack, but it’s enough to start a hurricane in the hall.

Hold on to something.

Slowly the door sighs open and the darkness of space greets you. Across the blackness, a door opens in the adjacent ship. UV looks so small in the doorframe. You can see his whole body squatting, ready to leap.

Take a deep breath.

You do a cursory glance down the halls in case anyone is coming to crash the party, but it’s just you. And him. And the stars.

Jump.

You’re floating, untethered and unmoored from the world. Like you’re skydiving underwater. You allow yourself to exhale and it feels like you are free for the first time in forever.

There’s no color in space, but it’s still beautiful.

You approach each other in the darkness. If someone was watching, it would seem fast, like a cha-cha, but from your perspective it’s a slow waltz. You can see the huge smile on his face behind his transparent facemask.

You’re smiling too. You can’t help it. You raise a hand and wave to him. Everything in space happens in slow motion, or at least, that’s what it feels like. Now he’s laughing behind his mask. He extends his own arm and waves.

Your fingers touch, just a graze, but it veers him off his trajectory.

Shit.

His back is to you now, but you know he’s panicking. He’s way off. He tries to kick with his legs back into position, but he overcorrects and initiates a spin. Those green eyes flash at you as he spins, pleading for your help, but you’re already too far away.

He floats toward the bridges connecting the two ships. They are bright and white like the devil’s smile.

He paws at the space around him to slow down, but he can’t. You strain your neck to watch him. He looks like a speck of darkness against the brilliant white of the star cruiser. Thousands of windows that normally offer nothing interesting to see. Now, probably, filling up with spectators.

He collides. The bridge shudders, but doesn’t break. Space is silent, but you imagine the sound of bones breaking. You close your eyes, finally.

Your momentum carries you to the open door. Your mask is fogged from tears. You land softly and just stand there, the airlock still open.

They’ll be coming for you.