Captain of the Canary
The white lights in the ceiling and floor sprung to life one by one, all for one person. Hydrolocks hissed, a small hatch in the wall pivoting open, revealing a tight chamber with a young woman inside. A large, cushioned tray rolled out of the sleeping pod, tilting upward to lift her to her feet.
The speakers played a light chime. “Good morning, Lydia,” said a feminine voice coldly. “It is now 8 o’clock, the fourth day of the tenth month, year four thousand and eighty-three Post Obscurum.”
“Good morning, GEOS.”
Lydia felt the cold of night scrape at her insides, tightness burning at her muscles. She pulled her arms over her head, squinting the sleep away as she yawned. A light, silvery uniform clung to her curves, as tight and smooth as the skin on her face. A shudder shot through her muscles, bringing the cold with it. “All these centuries, and mornings never change,” she sighed, side-eyeing her sleeping pod.
The walls of the chamber were almost as tight as her uniform, sleeping pods lined edge to edge with no space in between. Each was empty.
She remembered early on, during her training, feeling as though the air had been sucked out of her lungs, her heart struggling to beat. The walls of the pod had held her from so much as stretching her arms. That had been a long time ago, though. If she really wanted to, she could sleep on the floor any day, and no one would stop her.
“At least I’m not scared of these things anymore,” Lydia muttered.
GEOS continued, matter-of-factly. “You left three tasks incomplete yesterday. Shall I list them out for you?”
Lydia rubbed her eyes with her fists, looking at the lonely speaker in the ceiling of the cramped chamber. “Sure thing, GEOS.”
The speaker chimed. “Understood. After your morning procedure, you are scheduled to convert growth data from the microgarden, locate the nearest source of fuel, and monitor Companius 1’s energy output.”
A half-hearted smile crept onto Lydia’s face. “Of course.” Lydia dragged her feet as she followed the lights in the floor out of the small chamber. The lights of the passageway flickered on as she entered, showcasing the door across from her.
She stepped across the passage, past the door of a matching room. A black circle stood in the center of the floor, small rubber fibers protruding from it. Above it, a bundled mess of metallic limbs and wires hung precariously from the ceiling. She slipped off her boots, placing them by the door with a soft clomp, and stepped onto the circle. She felt the little rubber bits between her toes, almost like shag carpet, or grass… It had been so long.
“Begin morning procedure,” Lydia said, lifting her arms above her head.
"Understood." All at once, the mess in the ceiling sprung to life, whirring and hissing. Metallic claws climbed down to Lydia’s wrists. Gently, the claws poked their way under her sleeves, getting a grip. After a moment, they glided straight down, Lydia’s suit in tow, peeling it from her skin. Two more arms crawled out of the ceiling, small nozzles at the end of each, and began to spray water on Lydia. It was warm against her skin, as it rotated in circles around her, sliding down her arms and torso and legs, then climbing right back up.
Her suit was pulled into a small chamber in the wall, and a fresh one was pulled back out. The claws placed it on the floor below her, and Lydia stepped into the legs, allowing the claws to pull the suit right back onto her. It gripped tightly to her skin due to the water.
A large fan descended from the ceiling, and a burst of heat hit her and the suit. The suit quickly absorbed the moisture from her skin, leaving her as dry as she had been just a moment ago.
Another limb descended from the ceiling, a toothbrush in its grasp. Lydia held her mouth open, and the machine began working her teeth clean as another pair of limbs climbed down to brush and dry her hair. The toothbrush pulled out of her mouth, flipped onto its other end, and squirted water into Lydia’s mouth. She quickly swished it around and spat onto the floor, where it quickly disappeared. Finally, a claw popped a small white pill into her mouth, and she swallowed it.
The machine retracted into the ceiling again. “Morning procedure complete. Proceed to the microgarden.”
Lydia stepped off of the circular pad, toward the door, where she knelt on each knee to put her boots back on. She tied them tightly, so that they pressed into the roofs of her feet. Standing up, she stepped back into that hallway, glancing down at the darkness outside the bay window. Something sank in her stomach, like she was losing her balance. It was the same sort of feeling she had used to get when she went into warp speed the first time. Closing her eyes, she steadied her breath, and stepped off into the next room.
The room was lined with glass cases, filled to the brim with green and brown. Microscopic leaves and branches surrounded her, as well as carrots, corn, lettuce… Once upon a time, she had eaten these vegetables fresh from the ground with Sylvia… But that had proven far too inefficient in recent years.
At the center of the room, resting on a pedestal, was a small glass case, filled with the same plants as the rest of the room. Little sprinklers were laid into the ceiling and walls of the case, and the soil in the bottom was a deep, rich brown, almost black. The pedestal held in it a board of buttons, lights flashing green and red. A panel on it flickered between numbers of graphs of plant health and growth and water consumption...
The floor opened before the pedestal, a white stool lifting up from below. The stool was curved to fit the contour of a human’s body. As it reached the height of the pedestal, it ground to a halt with an unpleasant screech. Lydia had already placed her hands over her ears.
She walked around the stool and sat before the panel, staring into the case of plants. They got to live such normal lives, compared to her. Other than the lack of space, their living conditions weren’t really much different from back home. They didn’t have to worry about companionship or the fate of their race, or the universe. They just grew, reproduced, and died, and there was nothing more to it.
Her eyes shifted to the panel below. Lines upon lines of data spewed out of the system before her. “Plants are in decent health. They’ve seen better days, but should be able to survive and reproduce for at least sixteen years without human intervention.”
She reached forward and turned a knob on the panel, switching over to another graph. She began punching a few buttons.
She sighed. This had been the last millennium of her life, hadn’t it? Morning procedure, checking on the microgarden, managing fuel, and monitoring Companius 1. All of that and little else, alone. For a millennium.
It would have been a lot easier with Sylvia still around. And a lot less exhausting.
She stood from her seat. “You know, GEOS, I wish I didn’t have to do this all manually. I wish Sylvia had been able to repair your systems to full operation before she... left me.” She looked up at the ceiling, face expressionless. “Us, I mean.”
A chime played. “Please proceed to the bridge.”
Lydia sighed. “Right.”
The seat retracted into the floor with a creak as she stepped out of the microgarden room. The door hissed closed behind her, and she turned to stare down the hallway. Lights were inlaid into the floor and ceiling, following the walls of the hallway before spreading out to encircle the bridge.
The bridge comprised of a large, round room at the front of the ship, with a front row of seats and consoles that followed the bay window all the way around. It was laden with monitors and graphs and maps, as well as the control system at the captain’s chair. The second row rested in the middle of the bridge, elevated above the first and third rows. It was shorter, only three seats across. This held the ship’s combat controls, which hadn’t been used in a long time.
The third and final row wrapped forward around the second row, leaving just enough space from the hallway to walk around and reach the rest of the bridge. This was where most of the housekeeping was done. Fuel, core maintenance, and the like.
At the front of the ship, the large window protected the bridge, opening up into the wide expanse of outer space. It was practically smudgeless, despite the centuries of use. GEOS did a good job of keeping the ship clean and operational.
Lydia stepped around the back row, climbing into the captain’s chair. She faced a computer console lit with a set of flat screens and buttons. A slew of maps jumped out at her. She couldn’t help but study one, a sprawling space of X’s and lines traveling between them. Her eyes glanced to the left of the map, at the list of star systems. Each had a name. Names like Polis 4, and Oporus 16. Aris 3.
She’d crash landed on one of the planets in the Aris 3 system once. It was early in her career, and her ship had been caught by surprise. The attack had left a gaping hole in the hull, and many human members of the crew had died. Her conduit had activated all on its own, it had seemed, to seal the door to her living quarters shut.
Not long after, she met Sylvia.
“I got lucky in that attack, didn’t I?” She smiled somberly.
Aris 3, and nearly every other name on the list, was crossed out, with a small red X to the left of each one. Her eyes glanced from the top of the list to the bottom, where a single name remained uncrossed. Companius 1. Her eyes glanced upward, out the bay window, at the single pinprick of light that stood meekly against the encroaching darkness of outer space.
It could have easily been nothing but an illusion. A trick of the mind.
A dream, even.
She sat, silent and motionless.
“GEOS, please turn off the displays and lights in the bridge,” Lydia said softly.
A chime played. “Understood.” One by one the screens went off, silent, followed by the lights. In an instant, the bridge was pitch black, lit only by the lights from the hallway behind her.
Save for that star, the outside was black and endless.
Lydia sat, silent, looking at the star. Its light burned dimly, far away. She imagined two or three planets, huddling closely to the tiny star, burning the last of its resources. The planets in her mind clung to the warmth of Companius 1, hugging tightly to its temporary respite from cold, dead space. She smiled weakly, imagining a young civilization, growing up knowing nothing of a universe filled with stars, filled with light. They would know only Companius 1 and themselves. And someday, they would die never having known that other stars existed. They would never know her ship was here, or that humans had ever flown ships right above their heads. They would never imagine the vast, galactic civilizations that had once been. They would never know the love that humans had shared with one another, or the vast, sprawling cultures of the universe, or the beauty of immense diversity. They would never know how many languages had been spoken, or what the first word ever spoken was. If they existed, they would never know what her last word was.
No one would ever know what her last word was.
She was crying.
She couldn’t help it. Her memories of Sylvia poured from her eyes against her will, as she stared at the single, tiny point in outer space, blurring behind her tears, too far to touch, the only warmth in a universe of uncaring death. She sobbed.
“GEOS, I’d like to make a log now. Turn on the voice recorder.”
A chime sung through the speakers, echoing through the ship.
“Understood. Recording started.”
Lydia sat in the captain’s chair, silent for a moment, tears in her eyes. “It’s… the fourth day of the tenth month. Four thousand and eighty-three Post Obscurum.” She stared out into the beyond, fixated on the small point, almost invisible through her tears. “This is Captain Lydia Plath of the Canary Four Nine Nine Five. I believe myself to be the last homo sapien alive.”
The speakers played a light chime. “Good morning, Lydia,” said a feminine voice coldly. “It is now 8 o’clock, the fourth day of the tenth month, year four thousand and eighty-three Post Obscurum.”
“Good morning, GEOS.”
Lydia felt the cold of night scrape at her insides, tightness burning at her muscles. She pulled her arms over her head, squinting the sleep away as she yawned. A light, silvery uniform clung to her curves, as tight and smooth as the skin on her face. A shudder shot through her muscles, bringing the cold with it. “All these centuries, and mornings never change,” she sighed, side-eyeing her sleeping pod.
The walls of the chamber were almost as tight as her uniform, sleeping pods lined edge to edge with no space in between. Each was empty.
She remembered early on, during her training, feeling as though the air had been sucked out of her lungs, her heart struggling to beat. The walls of the pod had held her from so much as stretching her arms. That had been a long time ago, though. If she really wanted to, she could sleep on the floor any day, and no one would stop her.
“At least I’m not scared of these things anymore,” Lydia muttered.
GEOS continued, matter-of-factly. “You left three tasks incomplete yesterday. Shall I list them out for you?”
Lydia rubbed her eyes with her fists, looking at the lonely speaker in the ceiling of the cramped chamber. “Sure thing, GEOS.”
The speaker chimed. “Understood. After your morning procedure, you are scheduled to convert growth data from the microgarden, locate the nearest source of fuel, and monitor Companius 1’s energy output.”
A half-hearted smile crept onto Lydia’s face. “Of course.” Lydia dragged her feet as she followed the lights in the floor out of the small chamber. The lights of the passageway flickered on as she entered, showcasing the door across from her.
She stepped across the passage, past the door of a matching room. A black circle stood in the center of the floor, small rubber fibers protruding from it. Above it, a bundled mess of metallic limbs and wires hung precariously from the ceiling. She slipped off her boots, placing them by the door with a soft clomp, and stepped onto the circle. She felt the little rubber bits between her toes, almost like shag carpet, or grass… It had been so long.
“Begin morning procedure,” Lydia said, lifting her arms above her head.
"Understood." All at once, the mess in the ceiling sprung to life, whirring and hissing. Metallic claws climbed down to Lydia’s wrists. Gently, the claws poked their way under her sleeves, getting a grip. After a moment, they glided straight down, Lydia’s suit in tow, peeling it from her skin. Two more arms crawled out of the ceiling, small nozzles at the end of each, and began to spray water on Lydia. It was warm against her skin, as it rotated in circles around her, sliding down her arms and torso and legs, then climbing right back up.
Her suit was pulled into a small chamber in the wall, and a fresh one was pulled back out. The claws placed it on the floor below her, and Lydia stepped into the legs, allowing the claws to pull the suit right back onto her. It gripped tightly to her skin due to the water.
A large fan descended from the ceiling, and a burst of heat hit her and the suit. The suit quickly absorbed the moisture from her skin, leaving her as dry as she had been just a moment ago.
Another limb descended from the ceiling, a toothbrush in its grasp. Lydia held her mouth open, and the machine began working her teeth clean as another pair of limbs climbed down to brush and dry her hair. The toothbrush pulled out of her mouth, flipped onto its other end, and squirted water into Lydia’s mouth. She quickly swished it around and spat onto the floor, where it quickly disappeared. Finally, a claw popped a small white pill into her mouth, and she swallowed it.
The machine retracted into the ceiling again. “Morning procedure complete. Proceed to the microgarden.”
Lydia stepped off of the circular pad, toward the door, where she knelt on each knee to put her boots back on. She tied them tightly, so that they pressed into the roofs of her feet. Standing up, she stepped back into that hallway, glancing down at the darkness outside the bay window. Something sank in her stomach, like she was losing her balance. It was the same sort of feeling she had used to get when she went into warp speed the first time. Closing her eyes, she steadied her breath, and stepped off into the next room.
The room was lined with glass cases, filled to the brim with green and brown. Microscopic leaves and branches surrounded her, as well as carrots, corn, lettuce… Once upon a time, she had eaten these vegetables fresh from the ground with Sylvia… But that had proven far too inefficient in recent years.
At the center of the room, resting on a pedestal, was a small glass case, filled with the same plants as the rest of the room. Little sprinklers were laid into the ceiling and walls of the case, and the soil in the bottom was a deep, rich brown, almost black. The pedestal held in it a board of buttons, lights flashing green and red. A panel on it flickered between numbers of graphs of plant health and growth and water consumption...
The floor opened before the pedestal, a white stool lifting up from below. The stool was curved to fit the contour of a human’s body. As it reached the height of the pedestal, it ground to a halt with an unpleasant screech. Lydia had already placed her hands over her ears.
She walked around the stool and sat before the panel, staring into the case of plants. They got to live such normal lives, compared to her. Other than the lack of space, their living conditions weren’t really much different from back home. They didn’t have to worry about companionship or the fate of their race, or the universe. They just grew, reproduced, and died, and there was nothing more to it.
Her eyes shifted to the panel below. Lines upon lines of data spewed out of the system before her. “Plants are in decent health. They’ve seen better days, but should be able to survive and reproduce for at least sixteen years without human intervention.”
She reached forward and turned a knob on the panel, switching over to another graph. She began punching a few buttons.
She sighed. This had been the last millennium of her life, hadn’t it? Morning procedure, checking on the microgarden, managing fuel, and monitoring Companius 1. All of that and little else, alone. For a millennium.
It would have been a lot easier with Sylvia still around. And a lot less exhausting.
She stood from her seat. “You know, GEOS, I wish I didn’t have to do this all manually. I wish Sylvia had been able to repair your systems to full operation before she... left me.” She looked up at the ceiling, face expressionless. “Us, I mean.”
A chime played. “Please proceed to the bridge.”
Lydia sighed. “Right.”
The seat retracted into the floor with a creak as she stepped out of the microgarden room. The door hissed closed behind her, and she turned to stare down the hallway. Lights were inlaid into the floor and ceiling, following the walls of the hallway before spreading out to encircle the bridge.
The bridge comprised of a large, round room at the front of the ship, with a front row of seats and consoles that followed the bay window all the way around. It was laden with monitors and graphs and maps, as well as the control system at the captain’s chair. The second row rested in the middle of the bridge, elevated above the first and third rows. It was shorter, only three seats across. This held the ship’s combat controls, which hadn’t been used in a long time.
The third and final row wrapped forward around the second row, leaving just enough space from the hallway to walk around and reach the rest of the bridge. This was where most of the housekeeping was done. Fuel, core maintenance, and the like.
At the front of the ship, the large window protected the bridge, opening up into the wide expanse of outer space. It was practically smudgeless, despite the centuries of use. GEOS did a good job of keeping the ship clean and operational.
Lydia stepped around the back row, climbing into the captain’s chair. She faced a computer console lit with a set of flat screens and buttons. A slew of maps jumped out at her. She couldn’t help but study one, a sprawling space of X’s and lines traveling between them. Her eyes glanced to the left of the map, at the list of star systems. Each had a name. Names like Polis 4, and Oporus 16. Aris 3.
She’d crash landed on one of the planets in the Aris 3 system once. It was early in her career, and her ship had been caught by surprise. The attack had left a gaping hole in the hull, and many human members of the crew had died. Her conduit had activated all on its own, it had seemed, to seal the door to her living quarters shut.
Not long after, she met Sylvia.
“I got lucky in that attack, didn’t I?” She smiled somberly.
Aris 3, and nearly every other name on the list, was crossed out, with a small red X to the left of each one. Her eyes glanced from the top of the list to the bottom, where a single name remained uncrossed. Companius 1. Her eyes glanced upward, out the bay window, at the single pinprick of light that stood meekly against the encroaching darkness of outer space.
It could have easily been nothing but an illusion. A trick of the mind.
A dream, even.
She sat, silent and motionless.
“GEOS, please turn off the displays and lights in the bridge,” Lydia said softly.
A chime played. “Understood.” One by one the screens went off, silent, followed by the lights. In an instant, the bridge was pitch black, lit only by the lights from the hallway behind her.
Save for that star, the outside was black and endless.
Lydia sat, silent, looking at the star. Its light burned dimly, far away. She imagined two or three planets, huddling closely to the tiny star, burning the last of its resources. The planets in her mind clung to the warmth of Companius 1, hugging tightly to its temporary respite from cold, dead space. She smiled weakly, imagining a young civilization, growing up knowing nothing of a universe filled with stars, filled with light. They would know only Companius 1 and themselves. And someday, they would die never having known that other stars existed. They would never know her ship was here, or that humans had ever flown ships right above their heads. They would never imagine the vast, galactic civilizations that had once been. They would never know the love that humans had shared with one another, or the vast, sprawling cultures of the universe, or the beauty of immense diversity. They would never know how many languages had been spoken, or what the first word ever spoken was. If they existed, they would never know what her last word was.
No one would ever know what her last word was.
She was crying.
She couldn’t help it. Her memories of Sylvia poured from her eyes against her will, as she stared at the single, tiny point in outer space, blurring behind her tears, too far to touch, the only warmth in a universe of uncaring death. She sobbed.
“GEOS, I’d like to make a log now. Turn on the voice recorder.”
A chime sung through the speakers, echoing through the ship.
“Understood. Recording started.”
Lydia sat in the captain’s chair, silent for a moment, tears in her eyes. “It’s… the fourth day of the tenth month. Four thousand and eighty-three Post Obscurum.” She stared out into the beyond, fixated on the small point, almost invisible through her tears. “This is Captain Lydia Plath of the Canary Four Nine Nine Five. I believe myself to be the last homo sapien alive.”
Somehow, her voice stayed steady as she tried not to sob. “If anyone sees this message… I am no longer here. I’ve attached my current coordinates and velocity. My ship has a stock of around thirty nutrition pills, a microgarden, and a charged core, enough to last for a month.”
She looked down at the console below her, staring at her reflection in the black screen. For a moment, she saw Sylvia in the glass, smiling a warm smile at her. Lydia smiled back, through the tears.
“We have functioning electronics aboard the ship. We have a warp circuit, which hasn’t been operational for about one thousand years now. It might not be beyond repair, if you have the resources.”
She looked up at the camera, her vision blurred.
She had a hunch this message would fall on deaf ears.
“I hope whatever you find aboard this ship can help you in your survival. Over and out.”
The speaker chimed. “Message recorded successfully. Who would you like to receive this message?”
Lydia stared out at the single point of light, so many lightyears away, barely visible.
“Just… project it out into deep space.”
“Understood.”
Lydia sat, tears drying on her face, as she looked out into the empty darkness beyond the bay window. She was so close to the darkness. If the window wasn’t there, she would be part of it.
Gently, she reached out and pressed her hand to the glass. The cold of the window seeped into her palm, shuddering up her arm, as her tears steamed down her cheeks.
“Sylvia… I’m coming.”
She sat for another moment, breathing shakily, before standing from the captain’s seat.
“GEOS, at the end of today, I’m stepping down as captain of the Canary.”
A chime. “Understood. Please name your successor.”
Lydia smiled, laughing a weak laugh as more tears threatened to burst out from her eyes. “I don’t think there’s going to be a successor, GEOS. Please, open the inner airlock.”
“Understood.” A hissing sound, and a door slid open in the side of the bridge. Inside of the small chamber beyond was a rack of suits and helmets, each hooked onto the rack with sturdy metal. Next to the suits was a rack of oxygen canisters, attached to pumps that hung from the ceiling.
Lydia stepped into the chamber, looking up at one suit in particular. This suit had a small, blue patch sewn into its chest, the name “Lydia” scrawled on it in golden thread. She held the arms of the suit by the wrists, smiling.
“Close the inner airlock.”
“Understood.” A hissing sound, and the door locked shut behind her.
Lydia let go of the suit’s sleeves, tears pouring freely now. A smile was plastered on her face, the smile Sylvia had given her. She turned to face the outer airlock, which streaked in her vision. It was all that stood between her and the darkness. The only thing that kept her safe inside the ship.
“Depressurize the airlock chamber.”
“You have not equipped a space suit. I am unable to depressurize the airlock chamber without express-”
She looked down at the console below her, staring at her reflection in the black screen. For a moment, she saw Sylvia in the glass, smiling a warm smile at her. Lydia smiled back, through the tears.
“We have functioning electronics aboard the ship. We have a warp circuit, which hasn’t been operational for about one thousand years now. It might not be beyond repair, if you have the resources.”
She looked up at the camera, her vision blurred.
She had a hunch this message would fall on deaf ears.
“I hope whatever you find aboard this ship can help you in your survival. Over and out.”
The speaker chimed. “Message recorded successfully. Who would you like to receive this message?”
Lydia stared out at the single point of light, so many lightyears away, barely visible.
“Just… project it out into deep space.”
“Understood.”
Lydia sat, tears drying on her face, as she looked out into the empty darkness beyond the bay window. She was so close to the darkness. If the window wasn’t there, she would be part of it.
Gently, she reached out and pressed her hand to the glass. The cold of the window seeped into her palm, shuddering up her arm, as her tears steamed down her cheeks.
“Sylvia… I’m coming.”
She sat for another moment, breathing shakily, before standing from the captain’s seat.
“GEOS, at the end of today, I’m stepping down as captain of the Canary.”
A chime. “Understood. Please name your successor.”
Lydia smiled, laughing a weak laugh as more tears threatened to burst out from her eyes. “I don’t think there’s going to be a successor, GEOS. Please, open the inner airlock.”
“Understood.” A hissing sound, and a door slid open in the side of the bridge. Inside of the small chamber beyond was a rack of suits and helmets, each hooked onto the rack with sturdy metal. Next to the suits was a rack of oxygen canisters, attached to pumps that hung from the ceiling.
Lydia stepped into the chamber, looking up at one suit in particular. This suit had a small, blue patch sewn into its chest, the name “Lydia” scrawled on it in golden thread. She held the arms of the suit by the wrists, smiling.
“Close the inner airlock.”
“Understood.” A hissing sound, and the door locked shut behind her.
Lydia let go of the suit’s sleeves, tears pouring freely now. A smile was plastered on her face, the smile Sylvia had given her. She turned to face the outer airlock, which streaked in her vision. It was all that stood between her and the darkness. The only thing that kept her safe inside the ship.
“Depressurize the airlock chamber.”
“You have not equipped a space suit. I am unable to depressurize the airlock chamber without express-”
"Override.”
“Understood.” Slowly, air hissed out of the chamber. Lydia felt lighter and lighter, smiling through the tears as they streamed faster and faster down her face. Her lungs screamed out for air as the atmosphere in the airlock chamber thinned further and further, but she couldn’t help but smile as her vision closed in, graying at the edges.
She croaked out her final orders to GEOS. “Open the outer airlock.”
“Understood.”
The cold darkness crashed into her. With the air forced from her lungs, she gasped out her last words. "I… love you… Sylvia."
“Understood.” Slowly, air hissed out of the chamber. Lydia felt lighter and lighter, smiling through the tears as they streamed faster and faster down her face. Her lungs screamed out for air as the atmosphere in the airlock chamber thinned further and further, but she couldn’t help but smile as her vision closed in, graying at the edges.
She croaked out her final orders to GEOS. “Open the outer airlock.”
“Understood.”
The cold darkness crashed into her. With the air forced from her lungs, she gasped out her last words. "I… love you… Sylvia."
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