The Loneliest Girl in the Universe(2)
Every single muscle in my body tenses in panic, a tight knot spreading from my neck down my spine as I brace for the impact. I watch, wide-eyed, as the asteroid flies past the bulkhead in a graceful swoop.
There is no explosion, no crush of metal as the ship disintegrates against the rock. Instead there’s a wonderful silence as the side of the asteroid fills the porthole for two heartbeats. There’s enough time for me to see craters in the dull brown rock, marks left from millions of years of impacts.
The breath leaves my lungs without me noticing. Then the asteroid is gone, disappearing in the wake of the ship, falling off into deep space once more.
I throw my head back and spin in a circle, overwhelmed with joy. I did it. I managed to control my worrying long enough to get the job done. I knew what to do and I did it!
It’s only when the asteroid is a speck in the darkness, hidden among the bright stars, that I realize I’ve developed a raging headache.
By the time my headache has gone, it’s midday – and I’m starving. I sit at the helm in my dressing gown and eat a lukewarm rehydrated chicken korma, reading through the ship’s manuals. The close call with the asteroid has kick-started my anxiety. I worry endlessly about things going wrong. On some days, it’s all I can think about. I’ll lie frozen in my bunk, overwhelmed by the responsibility resting on my shoulders. I can’t run this ship, not without Dad. Not on my own.
I need to be prepared for the next crisis. I have to know the ship inside out, from the boilers to the propulsion thrusters to the telecommunications and flight mapping. My schoolwork can wait – English literature is hardly going to be useful the next time there’s a crisis.
By the time I reach page 97 of 14,875 in the manual, I’m losing focus.
As I scrape the last few grains of rice from my lunch into the organic waste disposal, I remember I haven’t checked my messages yet.
I can’t believe I’ve forgotten. Reading the new uplink of data from Earth is usually the first thing I do. Hearing from NASA is always the best part of my day – often it’s the only part of my day.
I scroll through my inbox, skimming past the files of news articles until I reach the message from Molly.
From: NASA Earth Sent: 20/06/2065
To: The Infinity Received: 23/02/2067
Attachments: UC-podcast.zip [8 MB]; Worksheets.txt [20 KB]
Audio transcript: Hi Romy! Hope you’re well, sweetie. Have you been finishing all your schoolwork? Your last message said you were struggling with some of the maths. I hope you’ve sorted it out by now. I used to find maths really hard when I was at school too! It’ll all come together in the end.
I’m sending you some more worksheets, in case you’ve completed the ones you’ve already got. By the time you read this, I think you’ll be working on three-dimensional propulsion mechanics, so that’s what the attached exercises focus on.
Let us know if there’s anything you want us to send. I’ve also attached a new episode of the podcast you like – it’s funny. Enjoy!
Talk to you tomorrow.
Molly is my therapist and miscellaneous pillar of support. She was assigned to me by NASA after my parents died, to help me deal with their deaths – and my unexpected promotion to commander of The Infinity.
I receive messages from her every day, without fail, to make sure I don’t get too lonely. Her first message was two hours long. I think I listened to it over a hundred times – maybe more. It was my constant soundtrack for months.
I’ve been alone on this spaceship since my parents died. The last time I hugged someone, smelt their shampoo, or even just spoke to them face to face, was 25 February 2062. Five years ago. Right now I’m officially further away from any other human being than anyone else has been since the evolution of the species.
I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten what other people feel like. When I dream, I dream in screens. A line of text, a voice in my ear. Nothing real.
The things people take for granted, like seeing the sky, walking on soil, feeling the wind on your skin – well, I’ve never experienced any of that. I was born on The Infinity. I’ve only ever known its clean white walls; its sterilized atmosphere and artificial gravity; its grey floors, curving around the ship’s hull.
I circle the same small space over and over every day, and nothing changes and nothing is different.
I know I sound ungrateful to be here. But I didn’t choose this life. Just because my parents were clever and multitalented enough to be picked to run The Infinity doesn’t mean I’m anything special. I’m nothing like they were.
I should feel proud that my parents were chosen to run this mission. I should be proud to be the first human to land on a planet and create a new civilization. I get to carve out a new home for humanity among the stars.
But some days it’s hard to remember the exciting parts. I get stuck in the memories. It’s hard to focus on the future when the past is so distracting.
DAYS SINCE THE INFINITY LEFT EARTH:
6818
The next morning, the computer sends me an alert:
HEALTH REMINDER
WITHIN THE NEXT 24 HOURS PLEASE COMPLETE:
40 MINUTES OF AEROBIC EXERCISE
10 REPETITIONS OF 8 KG WEIGHT EXERCISES
It’s an exercise day.
I exercise on alternate days, and while it isn’t the absolute worst thing in the world, I suppose, it’s just … so boring. Mainly because of the endless running.