text: He first meets it on Epsilon Prime. “What is it?” He asks. “A . A twentieth century Earth toy. You ask it a question, it answers.” “What sort of question?” “Any question about the future, really. Has to be yes-no.” He looks at the little plastic sphere and frowns. “Does it work?” “Sure.” He sits among a pile of papers and flimsy, holo-display in one hand. He’s ready to give up. His head aches. “Will I succeed if I apply to the Academy?” 'Most likely.' “Hah. You’re full of shit, 8-Ball.” But he does. There are ups and downs, but he makes friends, impresses his professors, and graduates at the top of his class. He receives a prestigious analytics position. He’s running through the forests of his homeworld, along a new hiking trail. He shakes the ball. “Should I go the long way around today?” 'Yes.' And he does. And he meets someone. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever met. He’s pushing through a burning building, smoke choking his lungs. He coughs and gasps for air, trying to stay low. Trying to ignore the burning and stinging in his chest. He shakes the ball. “Should I keep going?” 'My reply is no.' He doesn’t. He backs out. Later, he finds out his father was never in the burning building - he’d stepped out for groceries a few minutes before the fire started. The doctors say he would have died of smoke inhalation. He’s pacing through his apartment, wearing a hole in his shoes. He’s got a bouquet clutched in his hands. An old Earth tradition. He pulls the 8-Ball from a pocket. “Should I ask her to dinner?” 'Outlook good.' Oh yeah. Oh yeah, it was. They’re sitting in bed together, and she’s laughing. “Why do you carry that thing around?” “It helps predict the best course of action.” “Bullshit.” She smacks his arm, gently, but she’s grinning. “I mean it! Watch.” She rolls her eyes, shakes the ball and says, “Should we try for kids?” His eyes are wide. She kisses him. The little toy reads, 'Signs point to yes.' War has been declared. He’s sitting at home with his child and his wife. He’s been drafted. She takes the 8-Ball, shakes it, and whispers - “Will he come home?” 'Cannot predict now.' She’s going to cry. But she doesn’t. She can’t make this any harder for him. “I love you,” he says. And then the door closes. He’s pinned behind a concrete wall, blaster rounds chewing up the dirt around him. His best friend takes a shot to the gut and collapses, screaming. They’re going to die here. He shakes the 8-Ball. “Are the shots coming from Building C?” 'Without a doubt.' He peeks around the wall and fires the shoulder-mounted warhead launcher without bothering to check. The pencil-sized rocket slams into the building at thousands of kilometers an hour and detonates its antimatter warhead, obliterating the top four floors. The blaster bolts stop. He’s sitting in the waiting room. His friend’s in the operating theater. “Is he going to make it?” 'My reply is no.' He sobs, because he already knows. He’s good. One of the best to ever live. He’s saved a million lives on a dozen worlds. They put him on recruiting posters. They make action figures and holotoys. His son’s got one that he sees more often than the real thing. He’s clutching a detonator. When the terrorist died, he dropped his dead man’s switch. Now, he can’t let go - and he’s bleeding out from a stomach wound. He can’t move. He has no comms. And mated to the detonator signal is an antimatter warhead large enough to wipe out the nearest city. He can’t let go. He knows he’s going to die here. He’s already recorded a message for his family. The bomb squad will find it in a few weeks. He reaches into his pocket and laughs. It’s a silly little toy, he knows that, but a tear forms in his eye. “I’m gonna miss you, pal. We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we? Get back to my family, won’t you? Take care of them.” When they find the body, it’s got something clutched tightly in its hands. One is a detonator tied to several grams of antimatter. The other is a child’s toy from the twentieth century - an 8-ball. It says, ‘You may rely on it.