Whatever Happens

“Whoever finds this, whatever happens.” The voice in the recording was a hoarse whisper, but it was firm and resolute. “These are my final words.”

The clip cut out, leaving the room in silence. It sounded right, the accent and the intonation were perfect; anybody with the resources for such a convincing fake would have better ways of making money than scamming collectors. This sort of memorabilia had a niche audience and most of them wore tin foil hats. It was hardly a lucrative market.

Resting her head on her hand, Amy turned towards the window and waited, watching students mill about the campus half-obscured by the reflection of her room. A couple on a bench sat sandwiched between two replica spacesuits blown up to full size in the glass; their muffled conversation was barely audible, even as they started to shout. An older man sat on the ground and watched them disinterestedly, his expression masked by a view of earthrise from the moon. When her phone vibrated, Amy hesitated. She glanced into her own wide eyes, pale blue in the reflection, and read the message.

So you know its legit

With a long sign, she let the breath from her lungs as more text appeared.

Did ur mate say how much

By the time the third notification, a lone question mark, arrived, her response was already on the screen. She cleared it, then re-entered the same number. Her thumb hovered and her gaze wandered. She looked to the floor, to her window, to anything else. Again, she caught the blue flash of her own eyes and again she turned away, her gaze drifting towards the photo on her desk.

There was no hesitation in those eyes, no fear in the unwavering sky blue that looked back, framed by the open helmet. The face they were set in was strong and determined, but they shone with life. The woman in the picture was barely a decade her senior, yet in that moment she was so much more. Amy’s focus slipped, unbidden, to the words on the frame. A name, Mary Carter, and a date, 2024, ten years ago. She wiped her eyes and pressed send.

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The camera whirred into motion the second her finger left the buzzer. Amy jumped and turned to face it, fixing her gaze on the cold, clear lens. At her side, the speaker stuttered to life.

“Yeah?” A voice came through the intercom and the sudden noise caught her off guard. “Who d’you want?” His speech was slow and even; the words were simultaneously dragged out and slurred together.

“Who?” She had no idea how to respond. Stumbling over her words, she forgot all the answers she had rehearsed on her journey. “It’s Amy… Amelia Ca-” she caught herself. “I messaged you?”

The single voice became a multitude, muttering and murmuring to each other in distant tones. Amy’s eyes darted around, and she checked over her shoulder, wringing her hands and removing her glasses to wipe imaginary marks. Her breathing was rapid and shallow; she willed herself to slow down and take deep breathes. Just as her nerve left her and she started to turn, one of the voices cut through in sudden realization.

“Yo, it’s the astronaut girl. The one collecting that classified shit.” She tried to respond but the voice cut her off, this time directed at her “You’re the truther, right? After that recording?”

“I’m not…” she started, “Yeah, I’m here for the recording.”

“Sweet.” The mechanism clicked as the door swung open. “203. Lift’s broken”

Footsteps echoed as she crossed the threshold. The corridors were identical to her own standardised accommodation, plain grey carpets between walls painted in the least offensive shade of beige that money could buy. On the stairway, an earthy, citrus scent hung in the air. It was subtle at first, but grew stronger with each step, filling her nostrils by the time she knocked on the door.

He was shorter than she expected. His long, black hair hung past his shoulders as he leaned to one side in the doorway with a gap-toothed smile playing across his lips.

“Come in. We’re still…” he searched for a word and two exasperated voices finished his sentence for him.

“Copying the files.”

“Encrypting the flash drive.” The owners of the voices, their faces and builds hidden in oversized hoodies, were sat at a desk surrounded by monitors, each fixating on a different screen. On one of them, Amy recognised a view of the building’s entrance. She doubted it was official CCTV.

“Yeah, we’re doing that.” The man in the doorway gestured behind him. “Sit down.”

She sat in the chair offered: more standard fare, just like her own. The room was cramped, there would hardly be enough space for the four of them if it had been empty. It was far from empty. A pile of phones and laptops had been hastily swept under the bed, and a small plastic greenhouse stuck out from beneath a sheet in the corner. A novelty sign above the desk dubbed it THE COMMAND MODULE in a font vaguely reminiscent of the NASA logo.

“I’ve got loads of these recordings,” he closed the door and sat on the bed, across from her “If you’re like, a collector or whatever?”

“No.” Amy replied, tersely. “Just this one”

“Well, save my number in case you change your mind. Or just buzz here and ask for Rico”

Amy stared, unsure of a response. Behind her she heard keys tapping, punctuated with grumbling and light curses. She realised her mouth was hanging open.

“Yeah, I know,” he continued, “not some secret code name. I don’t know why you guys always expect that red pill, blue pill, matrix bullshit. I just run a shop; it’s just one for things you can’t get anywhere else.”

“Oh.” She replied, searching her mind for something to break the silence. “Isn’t that sort of what the red pill was?”

Rico fixated on her with half-closed eyes; they glazed over as he thought. “Oh yeah, I like that…” he grinned, “Maybe I’ll start saying it.”

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There was a note on her door when she got back. Amy screwed it into a ball and tossed it aside; squabbling with her roommates could wait until the morning. Unzipping her coat and letting it slump to the floor, Amy fell into her chair, plugged in the flash drive and pressed play.

It began as a standard daily log: time and date, check-ups, research reports. Amy listened intently to the musical, lilting voice that was blissfully unaware of what was to come. The wailing siren startled her, even though she had expected it. The clip went silent, the equipment had been damaged, and Amy held her breath. When the voice returned, it was a hoarse whisper.

“Whoever finds this, whatever happens. These are my final words. I don’t know what’s happened and I’m the only one still conscious. I can’t see any way out.” Amy felt her body tense; she moved her hand to her mouth. “Amelia, Michael. I love you and I need you to take care of each other.”

She paused the recording, she could hardly breath. Letting out a whispered reply, she let it go on.

“But whatever you do, don’t cry for me. Don’t mourn me. Up here, even now, I can’t be miserable. I can see it all, I can see the grandeur and the beauty and this…”

Amy tried, but she couldn’t stop herself. The tears were cold on her flushed cheeks.

“Down there, a hundred thousand people die every day in the dirt, in squalor, and I can see every one of them, where they lived, where they died and it’s all so small and fragile and beautiful.” There was fire in her cracked voice as she forced the words out. “Every one of them is dead and none of them died like this, not one of them lived like I have.” Machinery scraped and hissed in the background, screeching in anguish. The siren wavered in its death throes.

“If… If I had known before, how it would end, that it would be like this.” She was almost shouting now; her voice was harsh and ragged but still barely audible.

“I would still choose this life.” The sounds of collapse surged, threatening to drown the lone voice in metal noise.

“I would still choose this life.” Amy’s tears were flowing freely.

“And I would die up here. If I could live a thousand lives down there,” a lurching creak became a roar, threatening collapse.

“I would still choose to die up here.”