Deep Space
prologue
They do everything in their power to ensure that I am comfortable.
I am not comfortable, however, nor am I cut out for the rigour that accompanies space travel. They constantly try to assure me that nothing will go wrong, that I will be safe. They sing the praises of the two-man crew that they have assigned to me, boasting of their merit and reliability, but nothing seems to quell the worry that is filling me from head to toe. As men and women work around me, pricking me with needles to draw blood and flashing bright lights in my eyes to test my reactions, I cannot help but wonder if my research is worth the ramifications of being shot into the ether in a tiny, confined space with two people that I barely know. Yet still, people continually tell me that I will be safe, that I am in good hands. I do not believe that for one second.
The ‘good hands’ that I am entrusting my life with are merely children. A doe-eyed girl -- our mechanic, apparently, not that her starry-eyed expression would give it away -- and a young man that looks as if he spends more of his time doing his hair than piloting spacecraft to the far corners of the cosmos. Neither of them look a day over twenty. As I observe them from afar, they laugh and joke with one another jovially, seemingly undisturbed by the roaming hands of the technicians that are ensuring we are all well-prepared to leave the safety of Earth and fly into uncharted territories. They are but silly, immature children, excited to be going on an adventure without the watchful eyes of parents keeping them in check.
As the second hand ticks closer and closer to takeoff, I begin to severely regret my decision. No work is worth spending ten months in a goddamned tin can with a better-than-useless crew and the constant threat of death peering over my shoulders. All of the gold and glory in the world would not have convinced a younger version of myself to step foot in any form of aircraft with these people, much less trust them with my wellbeing.
Perhaps it is the onset of old age, however, or a preconceived notion of the fame that will be bestowed upon me when I arrive back to the safe soils of my home planet that convinces me, for when I am prompted forward, I do not back down.
Onwards and upwards.
I am not comfortable, however, nor am I cut out for the rigour that accompanies space travel. They constantly try to assure me that nothing will go wrong, that I will be safe. They sing the praises of the two-man crew that they have assigned to me, boasting of their merit and reliability, but nothing seems to quell the worry that is filling me from head to toe. As men and women work around me, pricking me with needles to draw blood and flashing bright lights in my eyes to test my reactions, I cannot help but wonder if my research is worth the ramifications of being shot into the ether in a tiny, confined space with two people that I barely know. Yet still, people continually tell me that I will be safe, that I am in good hands. I do not believe that for one second.
The ‘good hands’ that I am entrusting my life with are merely children. A doe-eyed girl -- our mechanic, apparently, not that her starry-eyed expression would give it away -- and a young man that looks as if he spends more of his time doing his hair than piloting spacecraft to the far corners of the cosmos. Neither of them look a day over twenty. As I observe them from afar, they laugh and joke with one another jovially, seemingly undisturbed by the roaming hands of the technicians that are ensuring we are all well-prepared to leave the safety of Earth and fly into uncharted territories. They are but silly, immature children, excited to be going on an adventure without the watchful eyes of parents keeping them in check.
As the second hand ticks closer and closer to takeoff, I begin to severely regret my decision. No work is worth spending ten months in a goddamned tin can with a better-than-useless crew and the constant threat of death peering over my shoulders. All of the gold and glory in the world would not have convinced a younger version of myself to step foot in any form of aircraft with these people, much less trust them with my wellbeing.
Perhaps it is the onset of old age, however, or a preconceived notion of the fame that will be bestowed upon me when I arrive back to the safe soils of my home planet that convinces me, for when I am prompted forward, I do not back down.
Onwards and upwards.