I will start by saying this trip was not an utter failure, as some have previously claimed. We, Project Starship, scheduled the remaining Star colonies’ return to Earth after ten consecutive decades of ‘non-humanization after evacuation.’ We succeeded, albeit only in departure. With your grace, we utilized the Academy’s impressive, automated computer system. Though the trip back to Earth undoubtedly experienced complications, we must appreciate the steps we took towards our space mission and applaud the Academy. Specifically, Mr. Dog, for the technology. I still thank you, and the Academy’s delegates who were appointed to Project Starship. For our goal to preserve the human race and revive Earth, is undying. Unfortunately, some inescapable fate turned the mission on its head.
Let me clarify, I gathered the following information from the comfort of my Starpod on Mars. You should not be surprised by the specifics I will include, for my intelligence forbids the expulsion of detail. Here, on behalf of Project Starship, based on my surveillance of the mission, I testify:
Bren and Argo had been soaring through space for over an hour after their scheduled departure. That morning, after packing their rations and extra garments, they sprinted up the stairs attached to the glass dome. They made it to their places before the automated Starship left them behind with a minute to spare. This day had come sooner than they expected.
“Isn’t it sort of terrifying?” Argo asked.
“What?” Bren questioned, his torso bent over the computer system. “Hold on, I’m trying to get a signal.”
He flipped, switched, and fingered every knob and button on the board until a sharp ding-ding-ding filled the ship.
“There we go—GPS—now Starship can tell us where we are,” Bren said. His eyes appeared to communicate something, requesting Argo’s continuation of speech.
“Don’t you think it’s terrifying how we’re hurtling at unknown speeds into nothingness? Like, an asteroid could just peeeew…BOOM! And we are gone, just like that,” she said, and mimicked the fictional crash through inflated arm gestures.
“C’mon, don’t be so morbid. We got a GPS. Someone is operating. I guess it’s the same chances as staying at the colony. An asteroid could’ve destroyed us there. The universe is expanding, you know. Nothing is still, not even Earth.”
“And I’m the morbid one?” Argo laughed. “Sometimes I think it’s funny, you know, to think about why they left, like, I know they had to, but why are we going back?”
“Maybe it’s fate.” Bren said, as he lifted his shoulders to his ears and dropped them.
‘Fate’ Argo wrote in her journal and left the rest of the page blank. She admired Bren’s words and even looked up to him, given that she had fewer years than he did. She found great comfort in the unfamiliar language he picked up from the limited selection of literature brought to Star 500 by the previous generations. Faust, Critique of Pure Reason, Ulysses—the list appeared endless.
Both Bren and Argo’s parents were moved after Mr. Dog’s difficult decision to rescue select individuals from the sad and crumbled Mother Earth in the early three-thousands. As you should know. The couples lived in separate pods on Star 500 and raised their children happily as strangers. Until time completed its mission and death took its toll. Bren’s parents died when he was 15, and he was left alone. Still, separated from the other pods due to the project’s confinement procedure. As soon as the next child was orphaned—twelve-year-old Argo—Project Starship shoved her into Bren’s pod. He felt responsible for Argo in some strange way. It was all so new. They were both only children, so their coupling was a sense of relief, for both, a sense of comfort. Any man left alone to ponder his thoughts on a Star was guaranteed to drive himself mad.
Bren and Argo got along as well as two strangers floating in the depths of nothingness could. They learned to learn from each other. By the time Bren and Argo departed for Earth, they were both young adults, no longer delineated as strangers.
The ship was rather lonely but sturdy and designed with good intentions—of course. There has never existed anything like it. The smooth, grey walls covered the cabin like a tin can. There were three windows: the large front panel, the smaller one on the side, and the even smaller one in the rear. Argo sat at the front of the ship as she scribbled in her journal. Six feet away was Bren, who sat in the back.
“Look at that!” Bren exclaims.
He pressed his finger against the smallest window, directing Argo’s attention to a glowing star; red and purple dust ejected from its surface and dispersed among the surrounding black. The particles resembled a fluid pigment. In the Star’s center existed a sizeable, indistinct black dot. He continues wide eyed and whispered, “That’s us.” Bren’s finger was still pointed towards the enigma.
“Us?” Argo questions.
“Yeah, you, me, everyone, even our parents—all star dust,” Bren said.
“Damn, Bren. Space really can drive a man mad.” Argo laughed. “How’d you know that’s us?”
“You’re funny. I guess I could ask you the same, how do we know that’s not us? At least something like us…”
Argo smiled, returning Bren’s appreciation for the amusing idea. His face glowed amber from the window’s reflection; it looked familiar and safe. Argo believed him for no reason but to find comfort in this unknown. Bren did the same. They only had each other after all.
Argo continues, “I wonder what star it is.”
“Probably something dying. Maybe it’s Earth,” Bren joked.
“Well, how about we check the GPS?” Argo said, as she began pressing buttons. “This shit is complicated as hell. Thank god we don’t have to fly it.”
Bren laughed. He, too, was grateful that the ship was remotely operated. He resumed reading a large novel, one that I could not recognize. Nor could I find it in the evidence our monitors provided to the Academy. It was common to see one or the other hunched over a book with their face pressed close to the pages during the trip. Bren was particularly stuck during this moment and could not seem to notice or perhaps care to notice Argo producing sighs and groans over the GPS and its many knobs.
“Shit. Bren. I—I don’t know if you wanna come check this out, but it’s not turning on.”
Bren closed his book. “Not turning on? I turned it on two hours ago…fuck.” He fidgeted with the board. “Who’s even controlling this shit?”
They glanced at each other for a few moments and did not speak. Perhaps they were scanning each other’s eyes to decode the inexpressible words, ‘caught behind their lips.’
“Do you think the ship knows where we are?” Argo asked.
“I don’t know. I guess—just don’t worry, okay? We’ll just have to trust the machine. It will get us where we need to be, even if we can’t see it working…Yeah?” Bren said.
“Yeah.” Argo said quietly.
An uneasy lull filled the Starship and stayed for the following eight hours. Nothing much happened aside from the occasional check of the GPS and a few small conversations. Nothing appeared on the screens, and to compound the existing complications, the ship began to produce loud clangs and clunks. Argo and Bren tried to ignore these sounds. They snacked on dried apricots and almonds, leaving the remaining rations meant to sustain the trip, for they were unsure where they were or if anyone was there to control the ship.
Little did they know of my presence behind the monitor, which, thankfully, had not yet failed to record.
The time on the ship seemed to slow down continuously. Argo and Bren grew more exhausted and frustrated by their inability to rest due to the obnoxious clunking coming from somewhere unknown. Somehow, Bren was able to fall asleep. He nestled in the corner on a smooth bench meant for storing bags or gadgets and drifted into peaceful slumber, while Argo was reading Moby Dick.
Err! Err! Err!
Emergency notifications engaged—the Starship filled with noise.
“Fuck, Bren, wake up. Wake up!”
“I’m up, I’m up! What the hell is going on?”
They dispersed about the Starship. They pulled levers and pressed buttons with rapid and chaotic gestures like the mechanics behind an anthill, unclear and messy to the untrained human eye. Yet, natural and impulsive to the insect. The ship had been quiet, before the alerts, and free of clanging for at least an hour. But neither of them noticed the deafening silence before the alarms sounded.
The alarm alternated with a synthetic voice, repeating the phrase over and over: Target passed. Target passed.
They stood at the small window and stared at a pale blue dot that seemed just out of reach, encompassed by darkness.
“What do we do?” Argo asked, eyes fixed on the dot.
“I don’t know.” Bren said.
“Bren, but we’re flying past it—fuck—what do we do?”
“Rely on Starship.”
“What? Bren…”
“Can you hold my hand?” Bren asked at last.
He reached his hand out to Argo. She took it. They held each other and cried. They cried and cried, until each camera and sensor died, and Starship lost connection. They held each other until the moment they could no longer. I won’t describe the scene, and I wish no man the burden of seeing such… humanity. They passed Earth and simply floated on.
There, the story ends. Let the lives of these martyrs of exploration live on, for this must be counted as steps towards a successful mission. We got them off Star 500. That’s all we can be glad for. Let the next mission surpass the last unfortunate tragedy, which can only be attributed to fate. For there is no reason why the system stopped working, besides that it did. We shall pray for the lost souls, and as for their family, well, I am unsure if many have one of those. The Academy’s system is flawless. Mr. Dog, your Mars compound is unprecedented—one cannot help that fate is imperfect.
Now, if I may be excused, I am starting to feel sick.