Despite all the advancements in computer-aided targeting and navigation, the best image-processing and collision-avoidance technology that money can buy is still the human eye and brain. Drones could be trusted to a computer's hand on the wheel, perhaps. But with human passengers, the gold standard—and the only responsible option—is a human pilot. 

Lieutenant Takashi Shirogane is the obvious choice. The poster boy of the Galaxy Garrison, he's the greatest success story to come out of their training academies in over a decade. At the tender age of 19, he broke records and made headlines by being the youngest pilot on a space mission in history. Now, at 24, he has more flight experience under his belt than pilots twice his age. 

There's absolutely no reason not to pick him, and no reason he'd refuse. 

(Behind the scenes:)

"Are you sure we should be sending Shirogane?

"Who else do you suggest? He's the best pilot we've had in years! His sim records at the academy have only been beaten once, and that cadet is still in his first year of training."

(In the background: "Wait, a first-year cadet beat Shirogane's sim record?") 

"Yes, well, I'll admit his piloting scores are phenomenal. And he does have real spaceflight experience, which puts him ahead of most of the other candidates. On paper, he's perfect. But with his condition..."

"I am fully aware of his muscular dystrophy, yes. Let's not act like it's some dirty little secret. Lieutenant Shirogane has assured me that he feels fit to fly, and his doctors have confirmed the same. His condition might be degenerative, but at the moment the symptoms are under control, and there's no reason to think that'll change in the next year. It's the twenty-fifth century, for Christ's sake, we can treat these things!" 

"You stand by your choice, then?"

"There's no one I'd trust more to get that ship and its crew home safely." 

The day he's offered the mission, Takashi calls his parents. 

With the 16-hour time difference, it's the early evening for him in the Garrison base in Arizona but the next morning for them in Kyoto. It makes real-time conversations difficult to arrange, but they're all used to it at this point. He hasn't been home for more than a month at a time in nearly a decade, since he left to attend the Galaxy Garrison Academy at 14. 

"Oh, I'm so proud of you, Takashi," says his mother, when he tells them the news. "The mission commander asked for you personally? That's wonderful!" 

"Of course you must go," says his father. "If you turn down this chance, you might not get another, no?" 

They're worried. They always are. But they've never tried to get between him and the stars.

When Takashi was six, he told his parents he wanted to fly spaceships someday. His mom told him he could do anything he wanted. His dad helped him check out books about spacecraft from the library. Even when he got his diagnosis in his teens, they never expressed any doubts that he could still fulfil his dream.

They're so, so proud of their son, even when it feels like he's getting further away from them with every year that passes. Even when, soon, he'll be the furthest away any human has ever been. 

"I love you, mom, dad." 

He'll call them again before the launch; they won't come out to Arizona to see him off. They flew around the world to watch him go to space for the first time, when he was 19. But they're too old to upend their lives every time he gets new marching orders. He'll call them right before he leaves, and they'll watch the launch on TV, and he'll call them again when he gets back. 

"There's Adam at the door—I've gotta go. See you again soon!" 

He taps End Call, mentally switching his brain from Japanese mode to English mode with the same action. 

"Hi, honey!" 

"Hey, sweetheart," his fiancé responds as he takes his boots off by the door. 

"I, uh, heard about Kerberos." His tone is carefully neutral. 

"Yeah, I was just telling Mom and Dad the news! Mom says hi."