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Thirty years is an eyetwitch once you’re measuring your age in millennia, but Longinus can’t believe he almost missed the window. They’re only doing two more of these.

He contemplated a number of ways of getting aboard, even the traditional qualification, but math always made him go soft. Folded instead into a tiny crate labelled BRINE SHRIMP, he wonders if this compartment is even vacuum-sealed. But what’s it going to do? Kill him?

Endeavor begins to tremble on the pad and, for all his cynicism, he’s excited. Cursed to walk the earth forever. Yeah, well.

One way to fix that.