Commander Shoreditch
PS I can’t believe NASA have a line in their coding that censors swear words! Doesn’t that go against the First Amendment? Can you swear in your transmissions?
From: The Infinity Sent: 28/02/2067
To: The Eternity Predicted date of receipt: 10/06/2067
Hi Commander Shoreditch,
I got the message too. I agree, it’s unsettling. I don’t know what I’m going to do without my messages from Earth. It’s never happened before. Did they give you any more information about why it’s happening?
Oh, why am I even asking? You can’t answer!
Romy Silvers
PS I don’t think I’ve ever tried swearing in a message before, so here goes nothing. Shit. Hah! Looks like it’s only you who’s censored! NASA must have updated the telecommunications software after The Infinity was launched. Sorry.
PPS Do you think my dad had a habit of swearing in his messages? Were NASA so offended that they introduced censorship settings? That would be very funny. If so, I apologize on his behalf.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
361
I can’t seem to do anything today. The news from Earth has thrown me so off balance that my chores seem pointless. I need to change my bedding, finish my schoolwork, check the status of the gene bank, separate my rubbish into different materials for recycling and prune the plants in the sun room, as well as about thirty other things. But I don’t want to.
I don’t want to read anything, or practise my piano chords. I don’t even want to rewatch any films on the hard drive.
I’ve seen nearly everything on the hard drive – except some of the more grown-up stuff, which I accidentally found when I was thirteen. I suppose it’s unethical to send astronauts into space without some source of sexual outlet, but the videos just looked gross to me. Even the kissing, which I usually think looks lovely, was all wet and nasty-looking. In fanfic it’s always much nicer.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I wrap my blanket around my shoulders, wandering through the living quarters and rearranging things at random.
I pick up a model of The Infinity that I made from food packets when I was four. It’s one of the last times I can remember doing something fun with my mother, before everything went so badly wrong. The model is bumpy with spots of glue, the thick green paint peeling away from the plastic surface.
“The ship is a spinning circle, see, Romy?” my mother had said, while I applied homemade glitter and paint. “The spinning makes everything stay on the ground instead of floating in the air. Can you point out the engines?”
I push away the memory, annoyed at my brain for reminding me of her.
I move the model from a shelf in the kitchen to a low table in the lounge area, then decide it’ll get in the way there and move it back.
I change my toothbrush to a new one, then remember I only replaced it last week. It would be a waste of resources to get rid of this one already.
I fluff up my pillows, tug the edges of the bedding straight and pick a dead leaf off the basil plant on my bedside table. I put it in the kitchen bin, ignoring that it’s overflowing already. Taking it to recycling just seems so much work right now.
Finally, I give up any attempt at productivity and sit on the floor of the lounge area. Legs dangling over the edge of the padded grey sofa set low into the floor, I eat three packets of dry cornflakes in a row, until my mouth is too parched to chew any more.
I trace my fingers over the edge of the sofa, where the shaky letters of my name are carved. I don’t remember doing it, but it must have been me.
On the underside of my bunk in my bedroom, where it folds into the wall, there are pen marks in permanent marker showing my height, with my age neatly written next to them in Dad’s meticulous handwriting.
The last time he measured me, he shook his head sadly. When I asked him what was wrong, all panicked that I was getting shorter instead of taller, he said he was worried that soon I’d be taller than him; that then I’d be the one in charge of getting things down from the top shelves.
Dad showed me how to plot my height on a graph in my maths lessons, making me work out how tall I would be when I was thirteen or sixteen or twenty, based on the graph’s prediction.
The real measurements stop at age eleven, because after that Dad wasn’t here to measure me any more. I don’t know if our predictions on the graph were right or not.
I wonder if Molly would be the kind of person to track my height, if she were here. I wonder what she’s doing right now.
That night I dream of Molly and Dad and my mother. All three of them hug me, their arms wrapped tightly around me. Their hair touches mine, and I can feel the heat of their skin, warm and comforting. I feel the tension in my muscles drop away. I’m so relieved they’re here that tears well up in the corners of my eyes.
My mother is the first to leave. She strokes my cheek, and then turns and walks away. I call for her, reach out to try and grab her arm, but she ignores me. She tugs Dad, pulling him away from me before he can even say goodbye.
I bury my face in Molly’s chest, heaving sobs that have turned cold and sharp and painful. I cling to her, and at first she holds me tight, humming calmly into my ear. Then the astronauts appear and start to surround us. I hold on tighter, but they tug her away from me.
I spin round, searching for Molly. I’m in a dark room, and there are eyes in the darkness. I can hear breathing. I can feel warmth on my skin as the astronauts slide past me.
I back away, bumping into something soft and sticky and slick. Everywhere I turn they are coming for me, pressing in closer until I’m surrounded by the stench of their rotting corpses.
I duck, trying to escape, but there are too many of them – hundreds and hundreds – burying me under their brittle limbs and— I’m alone in my bed. They’re peering through the portholes at me. They stare like they want to know why I couldn’t save them; why I didn’t help them; why I’m not good enough.
I wake up gasping for breath, shuddering in horror.
I thought I’d stopped dreaming about the astronauts. I thought the nightmares had ended years ago. I thought I was free.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
358
It’s been four days and there still haven’t been any emails from Molly. After dinner I access the detector’s software to see if a message is being processed, but there’s nothing. No laser transmissions have been detected from Earth for over ninety-six hours.
I’ve never seen it so quiet in my entire life.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, worrying at a loose piece of skin.