6 6.

Dad is in the Bliss, as I knew he would be. He'll join the party later, but at this time of the evening, he'll be watching the races. I find his body in the entertainment room. He's lying inside the glass egg of a Bliss pod. I pat the egg affectionately. We've had some good times together in the Bliss. Climbing, mostly. Every mountain in the solar system, even Maxwell Montes on Venus while wild storms tried to drag us away. He asked to join me in one of my wargames, once. I used the games as training. He didn't like it much. Too violent.

A second Bliss pod sits bedside my father's. It's empty. I slip inside and the cover closes. The pod hums as I close my eyes. Soft pads hug my head. There's pressure, then nothing. My body is light. The hum fades away. My headache is gone. I'm a ghost. Do they have Bliss in the Interstellar Infantry? They must. It's humanity's favorite entertainment, the most popular anesthesia for our lives. People get more fulfillment from mastering a fantasy world than serving in the real one. The success is more tangible, measurable. More colorful. More exciting.

The Bliss loads slowly. Trumpets and cheering fill the air. Horns blast out. My nose fills with the smell of dust and blood. I open my eyes. I'm floating above a racetrack of ancient Roman design, an oval of sand ringed by a stadium. Its centerline is a long stone loop topped with statues. The statues are never the same twice. Today they're gladiators, warriors. Coincidence, or did my father somehow choose them for me? He might have. He's good with little details. The stadium is filled to capacity with baying, screaming humanoids with bird heads, their feathery necks merging into their togas. The wild avian crowd screams, pecks, waves.

Last time I was here, the crowd were aliens with long blue necks. The time before, giant ants. The avians are more beautiful. The crowd is a backdrop, anyway. Non‑playable. Part of the furniture. The humans are on balconies overlooking the track, or they're racing. Or selling drinks in a minigame. Or supervising the track. Bliss has no barriers. Everyone gets their chance to be a hero, royalty, a general, a monster, a manager. Anything. Everything. Whatever gets your heart pounding. Whatever feeds your soul. It's all here, in the Bliss.

I fly toward my dad's balcony.

A pack of giant birds gallops around the oval. Their jockeys are tiny clockwork mannequins that bounce on the saddles. The pack passes beneath me. A mannequin falls off, hitting the ground, breaking into cogs that scatter across the dirt. The crowd roars its approval. Somewhere, someone just woke up in their Bliss pod, furious. That's the game. You win some, you lose some. Dad won more than he lost when he was younger. He'd race anything. He still does, casually.

I appear on his balcony. My avatar is wearing a toga. I add feathers to my arms and neck to fit the aesthetic. My father is reclining on a low seat. His avatar is wearing jeans, a t‑shirt. A beret. As usual, he makes no attempt to accommodate himself to the setting. He's famous for it. The beret racer, they used to call him. He's alone, for now. He doesn't notice me at first. He has a datapad in his hand to control his hologram at the party. He's talking into his datapad, his words coming out the mouth of his hologram. I wait.

"Hey, Dad."

"My girl! Come sit down!"

He pats the seat beside him. I sit.

"How was the Brightly?" he asks.

"You know about that?"

"Please. Sam's been stealing my patches for over a decade. I find new places to hide them, he spends weeks looking. It's our game. The Brightly was a gift to you."

"I liked it. Best patch I've ever had."

We sit and watch the birds race by. And again.

Another jockey falls. My father winces. My uncle appears on the other end of the balcony in a flash of light. He's dressed in a toga that's unflattering, even in the Bliss. He yells at the racers, gesturing angrily.

My father and I continue to watch in silence. Neither of us wants to talk about my leaving. We have to, eventually. We know it. We're both stubborn.

My father breaks first.

"So this is it," he says.

He looks at me. I brace for a final argument. But my father knows me, loves me. His parting gift to me isn't the Brightly, but acceptance. He doesn't ask if I'm sure. He doesn't ask what I expect to find out there among the stars that's missing from my life on Earth. He doesn't ask how his little girl became so stubborn, so strange, so intent on being a soldier.

Not again. Not today. Instead, he forces a smile.

"Well, we're going to miss you. A lot. Four years is a long time. We'll be there, at the spaceport, when you get back."

As holograms, probably.

"We're proud of you," he continues. "Be careful. Come back to us. And don't forget to send us vids. Now let's log off so I can give you a hug."

The arena fades away. Our Bliss pods swings open, and we emerge. My father is shorter in real life. We hug. He's a good father. The best.

I break away first.

"You better get back to the arena before Uncle Frank bets away his life savings."

He nods, climbs back into the pod.

I'll miss my dad, but I'll send him vids, he'll send me vids. We'll be okay.

Leaving him was easier than I expected.

One parent down.

One to go.