Hibernation Meditation

Dear Luce, 

I wasn’t sure whether I should write this, or whether you’d even see it; I’m not even sure if you’re ok,  but what the hell? After all, I’m not going to see you ever again, and I guess you only live once? Or maybe this is my chance at twice? I won’t know until I wake up and, frankly, I’m not sure what to expect. 

The geniuses at Mission Control assure me that this will be like going under for a quick out-patient procedure. They jack me up with the necessary equipment, down I go, and — if everything goes according to plan — I wake up 40 years from now, thinking I woke up from a colonoscopy or something. The system even rotates me and moves me around like some creepy marionette every once in a while so I don’t lose total muscle control or develop bed sores. 

Anyway, I thought I should tell you that I regret walking out on you so many years ago. I was an idiot. I don’t fool myself into thinking they gave me this job because I’m the smartest guy in the world but because I’m just smart enough, dependable, and ultimately, expendable. Except I wasn’t dependable when it came to you and when you needed me. Maybe that’s what I learned from you, from us. That I’d messed up being dependable the one time it mattered and this is how I’m going to try to make it up to the universe, but mostly to you. You won’t get to see it, whatever good may come of this, but I saw that you have a kid now, and maybe that kid will benefit from this crazy last-ditch effort to save our sad species. 

I remember you telling me once — when we went hiking up to that old canyon gully, remember? — that humans had done three things right in their sad and violent history. I remember looking at you as you took in the view over the point we’d hiked up to, enjoying the wind and the earth, letting the sun warm your face as the fall air played with the pieces of hair you hadn’t quite gotten into your ponytail. You told me that humanity did good when it domesticated dogs, created and used the printing press, and developed vaccines. I remember thinking that of course you were thankful for dogs first, and it made me feel ridiculously thankful for you. You never much liked humanity but you loved a few of us humans fiercely, and you tried to make the world a better place.

And here we are, Luce: the world continues to be a mess and we’ve done our best through sheer incompetence, greed, and stupidity to annihilate it. I’m not asking for forgiveness but I’m promising to do my best for you, and for what we were and what I should’ve been for you. 

I don’t think I’ll dream while up there but if I do, I hope it’s of that hike. 

Olley

Oliver hit send on the message; the last he’d send from Earth and put away his tablet. He looked around the spartan room he’d inhabited for the last few months, sighing. He’d packed away what few personal items he’d take on his journey and handed them to the crew’s staff personnel to sterilize and place into the ship that would take him and the rest of the crew to the Proxima Optimis, now in orbit. What he’d need for arriving in the Alpha Centauri system would be provided by the mission. Not having many connections left on Earth that meant much to him, Oliver’s “luggage” had come in well under the weight allotted for each crew member. 

Tomorrow morning, he and crew would board the final shuttle to be launched from the planet, at least until -- and if -- the crew signaled that its mission to the far-away system had been successful and colony groups could start to be sent, little by little. Colonial attempts on Mars were underway but those would only outlast the Sun’s final breaths for a few years more than Earth’s. The Alpha Centauri system, with its myriad recently discovered planets, two of which seemed habitable, seemed the best way to give Earth a second chance. 

Not that Oliver had much hope; he wasn’t entirely sure that the species deserved another chance, but when he thought of Luce and tried to picture a child of hers, probably with similarly toned warm brown skin, perhaps a hue or two lighter, then he thought he could hold out some hope; or at least assume some responsibility for that hope. He wondered if the child had her mother’s dark lively eyes and fine cheek bones? Although, he thought with a smile, probably not the same slightly crooked nose, the kid as yet not repeating her mother’s flat-on-the-face fall at six years of age, trying to climb a tree to check out a squirrel nest. 

Stop it, he brought himself up short, enough of this morose reminiscing. He had a final checklist to go through before trying to get some sleep. But he wasn’t particularly tired and could feel himself growing restless — maybe his body anticipated the near half a century he’d be practically immobile — and so he went to the barracks gym. 

Starting with a quick walk then a quick jog as warm-up, he lengthened his stride and his pace, increasing speed every few minutes, his tread becoming increasingly louder in the empty clinical space. He knew Mission Control was monitoring him, could see him through the cameras scattered throughout the building, but he didn’t care. He wanted to run until he didn’t feel anything anymore. He wanted to block out everything except for his beating heart, the sweat starting to trickle down his back, starting to soak his hair, the feel of his tennis shoes hitting the thin rubber mat that cycled endlessly underneath him. He didn’t want to relive anything right now: not the stricken look on Luce’s face when he left their apartment years ago; not the tumultuous and terrifying light shows that passed for days now, as if a giant lightbulb was alternatively turned on and off on a whim, or covered with a red silk sheet as the sun labored its way across the sky; not burying his parents, whose health couldn’t keep up with all of the atmospheric changes and social upheaval that had followed the beginning of the sun’s collapse. 

Oliver wasn’t sure how long he’d been on the treadmill, but when he stepped off, his legs threatened to give out under him at the sudden change of pace. His clothes, plastered to his body with sweat, felt cool and uncomfortable in the now-stifling recycled  air of the gym. He walked back to his room, chest lighter if still heaving, and showered, closing his eyes against the warm water spraying down his back, willing his thoughts to drain away too. 

As he stepped out, the comm pinged on his wall, right above a now empty desk. He sighed, he’d probably annoyed Mission Control with his impromptu run and now they were calling to politely remind him that he needed to sleep for a minimum of 6 hours before being woken up to prep for launch. 

“Commander Oliver,” a voice called out, “you have a visitor.” Oliver looked up from rubbing his hair with the towel he’d wrapped around his waist. 

“What?” he asked, confused. He knew no one here in Houston. 

“A visitor, Commander,” repeated the female voice, sounding amused. 

“That’s … umm, outside of protocol?” Oliver tried to find the words, as he dressed quickly. He hadn’t seen anyone outside of his crewmates -- who were all housed in the barracks and thus didn’t need to be announced by Mission Control -- in almost a year. 

“No, Commander, this is your last night on Earth; you are entitled to view a visitor in the lounge, should you so wish. Just a reminder that no contact is allowed this close to launch.” 

“Sure, sure,” he repeated, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He fell silent while he found socks and shoes then said, “Wait, where’s the lounge again?” He’d never actually had to go to that part of the compound to visit with friends or relatives. 

Oliver walked through the darkened barracks, repeating the comms officer’s instructions to himself, as he made his way down several hallways, a tiny arboretum, and a walkway that led to the public offices of Mission Control. 

He emerged from a tunnel and slipped through a door with a plaque that identified it as “Visitor Lounge 4.” The lights had already been turned on for his convenience and through the viewing glass of a large window he saw his visitor. If he hadn’t been half-hoping, half-dreading seeing her again, his mind would have finished the job his legs had attempted in their desperate attempt to outrun his thoughts earlier. 

But he managed to remain on his feet, if immobile, just staring at the sadder, but still warm brown eyes that now looked at him across glass and conference room. She looked the same, almost more beautiful than he remembered her, even if a little pale from the sporadic sunlight. 

“I got your message,” she said, her voice coming through crisp through the communications system set up in the divided lounge. “I figured I’d try to see you.” 

She was hesitant in her voice, perhaps fearing rejection again. But Oliver strode forward, happier now than he’d been in years. He raised his hand to the glass, and smiling, she met his with her own on the other side. This, he thought, this is what I want to dream of.