gosurf outthere gohunt
PREPARE FOR LIFT-OFF
Art by Travis Fowler
rearview
I guess you could say I hit the panic button. When word came down they’d filled all the spots — with no room left for us guys doing the work — I snuck aboard, found the bridge, and pressed “LAUNCH.” I can still see the looks on my scaffold crew’s faces as the thrusters rumbled, then roared. A sad mix of shock and betrayal as they quite literally melted in the distance. From there, it was nothing but pressure. Then awe. Looking back on our humbled planet. Once so robust and mighty, now a withering, disease-stricken crust of its former self. Then amazement, as I took in the space around me: outside, nothing but black emptiness; inside, floor upon floor of slick metal and moving parts, stacked together into taut levels of brightly lit technology. At first, I frolicked in my sneaky, newfound freedom. Strolling from bow to stern, top to bottom, I explored the mighty craft designed to house hundreds of thousands of would-be interstellar settlers. The multiple gyms needed to ensure fitness in zero gravity. The massive galleys meant to pack on pounds. I opened every door on every fridge. Sniffed and inspected each meal pack. Took swigs and bites. Sips and nibbles. Cast them aside in a pile of plastic, just to watch the robo-scooper come along and swallow the mess with puppy-like energy. Some nights, I’d wake and switch bunks just for fun. Walk naked from deck to deck. Roll in the endless unmade beds. Occasionally, some noise would wake me. I’d grab the blaster from beneath my pillow and scream, “Who’s there!?” But, of course, there was no one. When I found the transporter room, I beamed from sick bay to engineering and back again, examining every inch in a matter of minutes. And once I came upon the holodeck, I very nearly never came out. So many pleasures. So much time. But that soon got weary. There are only so many perfect bodies and empty coastlines you can plunder before the passion wears out. So, I took to learning.
“
I’d grab the blaster from beneath my pillow and scream, “Who’s there!?”
I devoured every great work in the library. Then I cracked open the training manuals. Fixing stuff that wasn’t broken. Understanding the underlying mechanics of each genius advance, from the polished, pulsar engines that propel the hulking vessel to the tiny circuits that keep the LEDs blinking. The only sign of life I’ve seen in more than a decade. Lately, I’ve started flying lessons. So, when the time comes to land — if the time comes to land — I’ll be able to put this baby down with the same delicate grace of a little girl
saving a ladybug. Sometimes, leaving the simulator late at night, I hear those same noises. Only now, I call out, “Is anybody there?...” No such luck. The only spot I’ve yet to investigate are the cryochambers. Between them, the metabolism inhibitors, and the supplies on board, the computer says I can easily last another 1000 years. Just not sure I want to. — C. White milepost 57
