A Bout with Writer's Block

I certainly hope that you, the reader, would find it in your heart to forgive me for making you wait so long in between releasing stories. You see, I’ve run into what we in the trade like to refer to as writer’s block. It’s a concept that I’m sure you’re all too aware of. Even as I commit these words to the page I haven’t the foggiest notion how to tug on that proverbial narrative thread. But to make up for my long absence, I present to you, to the best of my recollection, what has occurred during my unannounced hiatus as I battled writer’s block. What follows after this paragraph is based on true events (mostly).

Poised at my desk with my wrists elevated over the delicate keys of my aged Underwood, the ideas were all but flowing. I looked behind me at the open door to my office and called for Muse. I would not be so presumptuous as to call her mine, but she had seemed to favor me lately. Perhaps I was hers. She doesn’t have a true name so one day I referred to her simply as Muse, a moniker she seemed to find amusing. This particular day her fickle heart brought her—Well, I had no idea where she was. I still don’t. This would not be a problem if I wasn’t so near to the end of a story and was in dire need of her inspiration.

Calling once again to her, I heard the rapid approach of footsteps and immediately recognized them not as Muse’s, but as my faithful friend, Jack. When I brought him home, he was a forlorn pup. Not only was he the runt of his litter at only six feet tall, but he was also born with one head. It’s a most embarrassing malady for a Cerberus but I love him all the same. There never was a more faithful hellhound. I climbed upon his back and we rode north in search of the elusive Muse.

When we were nearly to the Northern Bay there was a shriek as if someone were being attacked. Jack leapt to action before I could direct him to do so and we found the source of the incessant screams coming from the top of a dried, bare tree. One would think that such noises could not be produced by so burly a knight. A rather large dragon was lying down at the bottom of the tree but the source of the knight’s trepidation was not the fire-breathing dragon. Just behind the dragon were the lovely and brave Lady Caitlin of Livermore and her trusted saber-toothed cat, Nesbitt.

“Do you need help there, good sir?” I yelled to the knight.

“Not at all, dear scribe,” he replied with the slightest of wavers in his voice. “You just caught me in the middle of rescuing this fair damsel in distress.”

“Do I appear to be distressed?” Lady Caitlin interjected. Her voice was a stern contrast to that of the knight’s. Nesbitt approached the tree and elicited a whimper from the knight. Nesbitt was a loyal companion as one would be to a woman who, just about a year prior, had rescued the poor cat from river demons.

“I just thought you could use—” the knight added.

“How about you do less presuming about what I could use and leave these poor dragons alone?” Lady Caitlin cared a great deal about all the creatures on her land. “This one is lucky I was nearby eradicating a troll’s nest. He’s just a baby and you were just about ready to slay him. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“I am, princess.”

“I am no princess. Now get out of here before Nesbitt realizes she’s hungry.” And with that the knight ran down the field towards his steed in the distance never to be heard from again.

“Good morning, Lady Caitlin. And to you, Nesbitt,” I greeted them.

“Are you here to ‘rescue’ me as well?”

“You’re far more experienced with that than I could ever dream of. I’m actually in search of Muse. She hasn’t been around these parts, has she?”

“Can’t say that we’ve seen any muse let alone the one you refer to as such. But then again, I’ve been busy ridding the countryside of would-be knights in shining armor. But I will surely send word if Muse is seen around these parts! I do enjoy your sonnets, good scribe!”

“Thank you so much, Lady Caitlin. I suppose I will head back home and hope Muse will aim to do the same,” I bowed, as did Jack, and we set on our way back home.

Back at my desk, I stared blankly at the curled sheet of paper within the typewriter; its words sprawled about as if looking for a conclusion that may never come. I looked at the stack of pages that yearned to be completed with the final sheet. Words that may never come lingered in the air and there was no way for me to pluck them, no way for me to even see them without my dear friend Muse. I began to wonder if there was anything I said to have offended her or driven her away. But it was futile, for even if I had realized that that was the case there was little, if anything, that could be done about it.

Perhaps, I thought to myself, I can’t undo something said to Muse but there is a very real chance I can undo something said to me. Jack lay still under my desk as I reached down to rub his belly. I tiptoed out of the office to let him sleep and snuck into the garage. What I had in mind would only take but a few moments, maybe even fewer than a few.

It was dusty in the garage. I lifted the tarp and found my most dangerous and prized possession. You would think that operating a time machine would be like riding a bike but I can assure you that it’s a much more complicated process than pedaling. Fortunately, I was a stickler for detail and kept copious notes of operating the infernal machine. I knew the exact day I wanted to visit. I was eight years old and I had just received word that I won an award for a short story contest in which my teacher had submitted one of the first things I had ever written. That was the moment I knew I wanted to become a storyteller. I had put pen to paper and have never stopped since.

I knew that if I could convince my younger self of what’s to come, then I can avoid the having to seek out Muse each time I wanted to complete a story. However, my younger self had something else in mind. I didn’t speak much. The words I used were never spoken, only written. Words of poets and novelists who were long gone before I had even been born were stacked neatly around my tiny bed. The picture books I never learned to let go of were always under my pillow. They were stories that I knew I could depend on when sleepless nights were aggressively sleepless. And then there were the comic books. There were first editions and collections that lined the shelves. Clothes were foregone to make more room for books that I would never have time read. The bound stories, paperback and hardback, surrounded the younger me like a shell that I used to protect myself from the harsh reality of adulthood.

There was no way I could convince my younger self that writing wasn’t worth it. While I basked in the warm light of nostalgia, I was dejected that I was stuck with a story in need of a resolution. And that’s where this story ends. Perhaps by the time your eyes meet these words, I will have found an ending to my novel. Who knows? Maybe Muse found it in her heart to lend me a hand one last time. But until then, I apologize, once again, for boring you with the banality of my life in the absence of writing.

Anomaly

August 15: Memory Access Neural Interface Headquarters

Blip. Blip. Worble. That would be the last thing that Collins would hear from Manitou. Under any other circumstances these sounds would be considered normal coming from the Memory Accessible Neural Interface 2.0 (or “Manitou” for short). A blip there and a worble there is usually to be expected from a super computer but it is the rhythm in which it made itself known that was unusual to Collins. It is almost as if it were saying something that it had never said before, or could.

“Let’s go Collins!” His colleague, Schwartz, yelled. “Time to clock out! I’m not letting you work overtime on your last day.” There was a knock on the door and older man walked in. It was the Chief Engineer, Teague.

“He’s right. Time to finally buy you a drink,” Teague responded.

“Yeah, it’s just--” Collins said.

“Just what? It’s your last day, man! Time to celebrate a new chapter in your life.”

“Well there was a thing. I heard a thing. It was a bit unusual,” Collins muttered.

“Was it anomalous?” Teague asked.

“I’m not sure.” Collins responded.

“What did it sound like?” Schwartz said putting on his jacket. He was clearly eager to make his way to the bar.

“It went, ‘Blip. Blip. Worble.’” Collins answered. “I know it doesn’t sound like much but it was the way it happened. There was a deliberate rhythm, a cadence to it unlike the other sounds Manitou makes.”

“You’re just thinking too much. What’s the matter? Trying to find an excuse to stay here with us grunts longer?” Schwartz joked.

“Thinking too much is what got Collins out of here. When he gets his PhD he might very well be back here and we might just be working for him!” Teague said slapping his hand on Collins’ back. “What was it you were going to be studying again?”

“Neuroscience: The neurological effects of physical interface between computers and the human brain,” Collins answered.

“Wait a minute. Are you saying the brain can influence computers?” Schwartz asked.

“I think it’s possible. Manitou exists to influence our brains, maybe it’s a two-way street and we haven’t figured out how to do it.” Collins responded.

“That’s why he’s headed back to school, Schwartz, and that’s why you’re stuck here. Ha!”Teague said.

“Give me a desk in an office over a desk in a classroom any day, I say! Now what do we say? Shall we go off to the bar to give Collins his final hurrah?” Schwartz said, already heading out the door.

“Looks like Schwartz is ready for a night of drinking. Let’s go,” Teague said.

“Sure,” Collins said as he typed furiously into his computer. With one final keystroke, he lifted his hands and went to get his coat. “I just had to make a note of that sound pattern.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Teague responded. “Personally I think it wasn’t a significant anomaly but if it means that much to you I’ll keep a record of it. If it turns out to be nothing we can, at the very least, chalk it up to your very last entry with Manitou.”

“Sounds like a fine idea,” Collins said. Teague put his arm on Collins’ shoulder and the two walked to the bar to celebrate his last day at the office.

August 22: Swansea, Wales

Mr. Williams got only a slammed door as a response from his daughter, Mariah.

“The two of you need to cool down a bit,” his wife said.

“The two of us?” he asked. “It’s unnatural and you know it!”

“Be a little sympathetic. They cared for each other.”

“No they didn’t. They didn’t even know about each other until two days ago!”

“They’ve known each other for almost a year through Manitou.”

“That computer was meant to help with her depression. You heard what the scientists said. That computer just rewires the brain. They never made a connection!”

“Then how do you explain their first meeting? You know they made a connection. You saw them yourself! I think they genuinely care for each other!”

“They felt similar things while they were plugged in. Teen hormones accomplished the rest! It’s just like the psychologist said. There was some sort of anomaly that they both happen to have felt at around the same time, and when they met for the first time they—I don’t have to explain my stance. It’s already been said dozens of times by the experts.”

“Don’t you like this Santos boy?”

“It’s not about liking the boy or not! We know nothing, NOTHING, about him!”

“You’re right, honey. We don’t. But we do know that our daughter likes him.”

“She doesn’t know what she likes!”

Mariah’s bedroom door squeaked open. Her footsteps tread lightly on the carpet but not because she wanted to enter the conversation unnoticed.

“I’m glad you trust me enough to let me make my own decisions as to who I can and can’t like,” Mariah said. The sarcasm was dripping with each word.

“Have a seat,” her mom responded, “I think we have to talk about this like grown-ups.”

“Grown-ups?” Mariah’s dad asked. It was apparent where she got her sardonic wit.

“Sweetie,” her mom continued, “Everything that’s happened in the past week has gone by so fast. We’re just trying to make some sense of it all.”

Mariah swiped and tapped her finger on her phone deftly as the silence between all three of them swelled and insulated each of them.

“You don’t actually think you like this boy, do you?” dad asked. “Meeting through Manitou is impossible. Everyone says so.”

“Why can’t I like him?” Mariah asked. “There was a point where you didn’t know mom, right? This is the same but different.”

“We plugged you in to Manitou to help you with your depression, sweetheart,” mom added.

“It’s helped a great deal but I need a real connection with a human being and Josh gave me that!”

“You only met once! Two days ago!” Dad exclaimed. Mom put her hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

“IRL,” Mariah responded.

“IRL?” Dad asked.

“’In Real Life,’” Mariah responded. “We met, I swear, in the network! I swear I could see him, hear him inside Manitou while we were both plugged in.”

“What you can’t get inside your head is that that is impossible! Everyone says it’s impossible!” dad responded.

“And what none of you can understand is that NOBODY but us knows what it feels like to make that connection while plugged in. We just found each other.” Mariah shot back.

“Mariah, all this press coming to visit us, to visit the boy’s family because of this slight anomaly is very overwhelming. Don’t you think it’s possible that you two longed for a connection so badly and coincidentally felt the same thing while plugged in has made you biased towards your feelings towards each other?” Mom wondered.

“And don’t you think,” Mariah answered without looking up from her phone, “that for once you could feel happy that I found someone that I wanted to get to know; that I found someone who makes me happy? Maybe I don’t know him as well as I could but isn’t that the point of dating?”

“He’s from the other side of the planet!” dad started to raise his voice, “How do you date someone that you’re not in constant contact with?! It’s unnatural!”

Mariah just stood up and went to her room. Her phone buzzed in her hand as she shut the door behind her.

“Well,” dad said to mom, “At least she’s talking to me again.”

August 22: Los Angeles, CA

“Josh,” Josh Santos’ mom asked as she gently rapped on his bedroom door, slowly opening it. “Your lola is here. She wants to say hello.”

Josh made eye contact with his mother through the small opening in the door. He looked away before nodding in the affirmative. An elderly woman walked in and set on the bed. She was holding a plastic container as she smiled at her grandson.

“Hello, darling,” she said to him.

“Hi, lola,” he said leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek. She took his arms and look down on them. She kissed his wrists and he could feel her lips press firmly against it through the gauze.

“How are you feeling?” lola asked.

“I’m tired. I guess I’m doing better.”

“I made you your favorite dessert.”

“Mom doesn’t want me eating too many sweets.”

“Never mind that,” she answered, “Never mind that. Go on. You can tell her I said it’s ok.” She took off the cover of the plastic container and Josh found an assortment of Filipino pastries.

“That’s my favorite desert, lola?” Josh asked. “Everything?”

“You got my sweet tooth!” she said, laughing. Josh began picking at the sweets here and there and his grandmother just looked at him for a bit before finally saying something. “What is all this about, eh?”

“Her name’s Mariah.”

“Do you like this girl?”

“I do.”

“So why are you just sitting here? Get her! You are a handsome boy; she will not say no.”

“Well there are two problems: (1) She lives on the other side of the world and (2) the whole world doesn’t think we’re really in love.”

“No one thought Romeo and Juliet were in love, right?”

“Technically they weren’t but I’ve known Mariah for much longer than those two knew each other. Look, the point is, we met each other through this computer.”

“You met on the internet?”

“Not exactly. Manitou is a special computer that helps the brain with things like depression or developmental problems. The doctor plugs in certain sick people and they get better.”

“And you two met through Manatee?”

“Manitou, lola.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that? You know I met your grandfather when he was on his way to meet his girlfriend. We never know how we meet who we are meant to be with. Your lolo was so handsome too.”

“Okay, lola, ew. No need to go into more detail.”

“It’s natural. How do you think your mother was born?”

“We are REALLY getting off track. The point is I like this girl. I might even love this girl. But the world thinks we’re just two kids. Maybe we are but I think we’ve been through enough to at least deserve some time with each other, right?”

“If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.”

Josh stuffed his mouth with the pastries. A cliché isn’t exactly the advice he was looking for but coming from his grandmother he appreciated the sentiment.

“You know,” lola continued, “the Santos’ are known back home from getting back on our feet. Your heart may be broken but you’ll be ok. I love you very much.”

“I love you too, lola,” Josh responded, his mouth full of food. His phone buzzed on his nightstand. He reached over and looked at his messages as his grandmother leaned in to kiss him on the forehead, sniffing his hair as she was doing it. He smiled as he looked at the phone and his grandmother left his room.

One year later: Rosalind Franklin University of Medicine and Science, Research Facility

The frenzy that the media had created around Mariah Williams of Wales and Josh Santos of the United States had finally subsided enough to allow Collins to find enough students to help him who weren’t after fifteen minutes of fame. The press hounded the research teams in the neurobiology department for days on end about the validity of the teens’ connection via Manitou. Collins refused to answer as he was uninterested what he felt was a bloated human interest story. Politicians had attempted to use it to question the validity of the science of Manitou but Collins was not about to allow his colleagues to be thrown under the bus by media pundits.

Popularity, as it always does, wanes with the passing of time and a grateful Collins could finally continue his work unhindered. He had missed working in direct contact with the Manitou central processing unit at headquarters to some extent, but he had always been a student of science. The banality of sitting at a desk and listening for anomalies that may never occur had run out of its limited charm for Collins. He admits, however, that the size of the paycheck is a tempting reason to go back.

His research into the human brain, he believes, will further the development of the Manitou project and may possibly mean an upgrade to MANI 3.0. Collins had always been fascinated with the idea the neural networks that the human brain can create are infinite. Not even the most super of supercomputers can compare with the processing power that Mother Nature developed. The story of the two teens that the media dubbed “The Wire-Crossed Lovers” may have turned Collins off to press interviews but he had often wondered if such connections could be made. But it was impossible, Collins said, that such connections could be made via Manitou.

Today, Collins was to research the effect of a connection (physical, spiritual, and emotional) in the human brain. The results were ready and have been interpreted in the same fashion that Manitou reported data a year prior. If all went according to plan, a year’s worth of work will have translated what love (not romantic love but the love between two people who connect and truly care for each other) might sound like when translated through the binary language of supercomputers. There was no denying what Collins had heard for he had heard it before. In a very deliberate rhythm a cadence to it unlike the other sounds Manitou makes: Blip. Blip. Worble.

Stranded

The following was transcribed from the recordings found in Wreckage Site 20226:

Given the current trajectory of the space station and the computing power installed in her systems, I can calculate to a fraction of an inch and a fraction of a millisecond when and where I will finally crash into earth. This is, of course, assuming that life support systems don’t fail or food rations run out before then. The latter is unlikely as I have more than enough food to feed a crew of three, after all. I started on the calculations a few days ago but decided that there was little point in knowing exactly when one was going to die. I suppose it could be right now if I really wanted it to just end. It’s funny; when the government issues you a cyanide pill you never think you would ever find yourself in a scenario where you would use it. But I’ve found such scenarios repeatedly over the course of the past few weeks. To what do I owe my hesitancy in taking the pill? Is it my natural cowardice or the hope of a fool? Do I fear death or have I deluded myself into thinking that I will hold my family in my arms again?

I’m still not sure why I’m still recording these logs but on the off-chance that this is retrieved by someone, that is if this means anything, I think we had a great run. We humans are always bickering and fighting. Sometimes over large and important things, but in the grand scheme of it all it usually ends up being over small trifles. If you think about it, my scenario is no different than any other human’s ever was in the short history of our planet. We all die, eventually, and a majority of us never know when or in what manner. My situation is just at a different scale… and with a wholly different point of view.

The fragility of our human lives was made all the more apparent on my launch day. Strapped in with my back parallel to the earth I can still feel my heart beating, pounding against my rib cage. I didn’t know if I was more anxious or excited. Ground control counted us down but that did little to calm my nerves so I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and remembered the night before. I remembered feeling my son in my arms, the sweet fragrance of my wife’s hair and their warm embrace. We shared my last meal on earth, my wife’s meatloaf. It was almost too perfect, like everyone knew that this would be my last flight. But it’s difficult to say if it was truly that perfect, or nostalgia has found a way to anesthetize my final days.

When ground control finally said “lift off,” the crew and I let out one last exhale as the entire structure rumbled. You can instantly feel the propulsion of the engines lifting you into the air as your body fought against the force of gravity multiplied by our takeoff. The pressure on my chest felt like the weight of a pickup truck parked on my chest. In flight school, they had taught us to combat the g-forces that would otherwise cause you to black out. A few jolts to the spacecraft and a visual confirmation from ground control meant the stages had successfully decoupled. Earth’s mighty hold had finally let go of us after a few minutes of skyward thrust and I was finally brave enough to open my eyes.

The clear Florida sky surrounded us with few sparse clouds speeding by like wisps of smoke, ghosts of condensation. High into the atmosphere, the sky was at its clearest, the bluest that any human eye has ever seen growing bluer as we reached beyond the stratosphere. They sky was dark velvet pierced by brilliant pinpoints of light in a view that could not have been fathomed by the planet’s most gifted artists. To see the earth and the moon and the sun in a graceful ballet with the stars in the distance is the easiest way to make one feel smaller but in the best possible way. And that first sunrise as it hits the surface of the moon is awe-inspiring. You can always tell who is on their first flight by the tears rolling down their cheek. The gigantic curve of the earth’s horizon shines like pure silver and you witness the draping of the sun’s rays stretch across the Atlantic towards home. This was my fifth launch and I never tire of this view.

While it was my fifth launch, it never gets any less lonely on that first day in space. Imagine your first day at school or work or away from home. Fate has placed you with all these new people that know you as well as you know them, that is to say not very much at all. Fortunately, Colonel Vostok of Russia and Captain Isaacs from Illinois are very reputable in their respective fields and I was right to trust them with my life. Floating in the vacuum in space does little to reduce the longing for human contact, however and it’s usually in the thirtieth hour or so that I miss my wife terrible. We have been inseparable since we first met in college so you can imagine the toll of being separated by miles of sky between us.

Our work in the ISS (International Space Station) Bradbury, while not classified, is still considered highly sensitive information so rather than delve into those sordid details I will tell whoever ends up hearing this that it kept any of us from talking to our loved ones for the first 72 hours of our orbit. When the time finally arrived, we each retreated to our own personal communication stations (a luxury that was ill-afforded to previous ISS generations) and we finally got to make our first comm-call. I don’t remember what was said. All I remember was the sound of her sweet voice and the laughter of my little boy making me ache to get back to earth sooner than I should. I suppose I am though, returning to earth sooner than anticipated that is.

The Event occurred just a few hours after the first waves of meteors knocked us out of our trajectory. Vostok and Isaacs suited up and refused to let me go on the spacewalk with them. Isaacs said it was because we needed someone to relay the situation to ground control from inside the space station just in case another wave were to hit. Vostok confided in me that it did not look safe out there and they had decided that I had to be the last survivor. He intimated that it was because I was the only one with a family waiting for me on earth. I spoke with ground control and told them that our piloting systems were decimated and that Vostok went out to fix it. The communication systems had taken damage as well and Isaacs felt Vostok’s age would prevent him from fixing both before the next wave of meteors came crashing into the station. She rushed outside and managed to get our communications operational again just before the second wave hit. The signal was very weak but it was enough to serve its purpose

“Bozhe moy,” Vostok said through the static. I peeked out of the window and could see him frozen in space. Isaacs looked up and saw the meteors heading right for them.

“Rogers, tell my dad--” She never got to finish her sentence. Bullet-sized meteors ripped them to shreds and one the size of a softball managed to crack Vostok’s helmet. The last I remember of him was the terrified look on his face through the cracked visor of his helmet as his body lifelessly floated by the window. I’ll never know what Isaacs wanted me to tell her father. But I can speculate it’s something along the lines that she loves him. But if her dad ever gets to hear this, then he should know that his daughter is the reason this message got to him. She was right. Vostok never finished his repairs but she did. Captain Isaacs along with Colonel Vostok are heroes. I couldn’t be here creating this final transmission if it wasn’t for them.

It would be approximately eleven hours before The Event occurred and while I can’t imagine the wanton destruction that such massive meteorites could wreak, I can only hope that enough of you survived so that humanity’s book is not yet quite ended. I watched helplessly as the three gigantic asteroids (I’m not sure what you on the surface ended up calling them) tore through the Earth’s atmosphere and absolutely decimated North Africa, much of the northeast of North America, and into the oceans which created waves that I could see from my vantage point. The sheer shock of the witnesses breaks my heart as I can see the earth consume itself. The oceans would have engulfed much of the coasts in the gargantuan tsunamis that would have ensued. The dust that would have kicked up in the Sahara would blot out the sun for most of Europe and parts of Asia. And that final asteroid must have taken out some of the most populous cities in the world with one fell swoop.

From the moment I witnessed the destruction of the planet below me to this very moment the one single memory I will take with me is one I wish I could forget. While, it seems, the worst was over the barrage of meteorites was not. There were numerous showers that could have caused further damage but it’s difficult to tell. The chaos that ensued from the three large meteors had caused me to forget about the communications systems. The only reason I had the wherewithal to record this was that not 45 minutes ago a faint signal buzzed in through the static. It struggled repeatedly and eventually snapped me out of the state of shock I was in. But it wasn’t until I heard my wife’s voice that I found the strength to make my way to my communication station.

“Clark?! Are you there? Please, if you can hear this please let me know if you’re still up there!” she implored. Her voice was breaking, partially due to the static, partially due to crying.

“I’m here, Maggie! I’m here! Oh, God! Can you hear me?!”

“Yes! Yes, I can hear you! Baby, I can hear you! WE can hear you!”

“I love you so much!”

“I love you too! It’s so good to hear your voice!”

“What’s happening down there?”

“All hell’s broke loose! It’s mass panic and rioting! I’m so, so scared!”

“You’re going to be okay!” I didn’t know if it was going to be okay. “You need to find someplace to hide. There’s nothing as big as what’s already struck down headed your way. But there seem to be waves of meteors headed your way. I don’t know when it’s going to stop.”

“Daddy!” my boy called out.

“Daddy’s here, Phillip! I’m right here!”

“I’ll do my best to stay safe. You come home! You hear me? You come home safely!” Maggie was holding back the tears. I heard it in her voice. Phillip was crying his eyes out, at what, I’m not sure I’ll ever know.

“You got it, Maggie! I’m coming home! And Phillip? You take care of your mother until I do! I love you, Maggie! I love you, Phillip! Your daddy loves you and don’t you forget that!”

“I love you, Clark!”

“Daddy,” Phillip hesitated, “I lov--”

And that was it. Another small meteor took out my communications systems for good. Perhaps that was the best way it could have ended. I had said my goodbyes and told them I loved them. There was nothing else to say I suppose… except everything. For all I know, they’re still alive and I just have no way of knowing. In my mind they made it to somewhere safe, somewhere with endless supplies, somewhere where one day they’ll start a new life. Some might call it delusion but I think I’m owed that being stranded in space. Those might be the best kind of endings because it can end anyway you’d like it to. I don’t know if this will ever be found but if it has, this is Captain Clark Rogers of the ISS Bradbury, husband to Maggie Rogers and father to Phillip Rogers. And son, I lov--

Back In My Day

Dear Neil,

I never thought I would be writing a letter quite like this for a number of reasons. Like my father before me, I am a strong headed man but my wife is quick to remind me that “stubborn” is a more accurate description. My son is similarly afflicted with such a trait as well you know as he is your father. That is my roundabout way of saying that it is difficult for me to admit that I am old enough to have a grandson but if grandchildren is the mark of old age, I am proud to call you one of mine. Everyone here remembers when you received the news that you were going to be among the first colonists to settle outside of our solar system (I know they are referred to as exoplanets but I’ve always hated that term). And I hope you’re enjoying the trip thus far.

I remember when I was your age we had just developed c-velocity technology which was great for  traveling around the solar system but not very practical for anything beyond the Kuiper Belt. It’s difficult to imagine that before I was born there was no way to approach the speed of light in a vessel so I’m sure my age is showing when I talk about how baffled I am by ships with warp capability. Sure, light speed was great fun if you wanted to meander about for a few AU’s but it would have still taken us fifty years to reach the closest star outside of our system. It was dangerous when the technology first came out and wasn’t even perfected until your father was in high school. But here you are: the first in our family who can travel from star system to star system in a blink.

I hope you can forgive your grandfather for prattling on about the technologies of your generation. I’m sure most of these are old hat to you having learned to concepts of terraforming innovations when you were in grade school. But keep in mind I was already an old man when I learned about satellites being designed to veer trajectories of ice laden comets to impact on potential planets. I mean, how can my generation not have thought to bring water to Goldilocks planets in such a way? It’s so simple that it’s ingenious to allow the primordial soup generate in such a fashion.

Of course the missing stepping stone from primordial soup to living organisms was missing from our own fossil records. Many theorized that a meteoroid containing ancient bacterium is what filled that gap and ostensibly allowed microorganisms to thrive on primitive earth. Their subsequent generations and ultimate deaths would pave the way for our atmosphere to develop and give rise, eventually, to all life on earth. I’m gushing and rambling and for that I’m sorry but to create our own meteoroid in the form of missiles carrying carefully chosen microbes to achieve the same end is just utterly fantastic. To think that my grandchild would live in a world completely created by man, and in my lifetime, is totally mind-boggling.

Perhaps when you start your new life on Terra Nova you can throw around the family name to sway the land developers to give you a fair price on property you might buy. After all (and I don’t mean to brag) it was my research that made earth human inhabitation possible. I don’t know if I ever told you this but I was the scientist, the only true scientist, of the family. I went to college and got my degree in microbiology where I met your grandmother who was getting a degree as a computer engineer. I fell in love not too soon after our first date began as I took her to what I thought was a romantic evening picnic just outside the observatory. It turns out I was just lucky that she had as much love for space exploration as I did. To see her eyes sparkle when she realized we were going to be dining under the moon, the stars, and while viewing the Lyrids is to know that we were meant to be.

While we were both working on our respective masters degrees, multiple space programs started using c-capable engines to send probes out beyond our solar system. We figured that it would be just a matter of time before we found a planet that was not too warm and not too cold, but just right (Now that I think of it the term “Goldilocks planet” is a lot less of a mouthful). We had no clue how to get there as we weren’t those kinds of engineers but we felt it was only a matter of time before we were capable of reaching the stars and colonizing them. But I would catch a cold whenever I would go out of town so imagine the germs one might contract when going to another planet!

It wasn’t until the prototypes for terraforming weaponry were released that your grandmother had the idea to develop a program to predict the life forms that may develop. Using what we knew of the planet from rovers and probes and such in conjunction with what we knew was going to be on the terraform missiles she was able to develop a computer program that could extrapolate all the different genetic combinations and mutations. Basically, your grandmother predicted what kind of life would evolve on any planet that could potentially be colonized. It was my job to tell her the parameters of the algorithms she wrote up and from there we felt were able to predict what kind of life would arise. But it worked a little too well as it predicted ALL possible variations of life and couldn’t predict which would be naturally selected for.

When NASA sent people up there it was such a proud time. I know your father was just out of high school, just a few years before he met your mother when the first astronauts landed on this newly formed earth. The atmosphere was breathable but those first few seconds before she took off her helmet were unbearable and all of us were glued to the screen in anticipation. To you, Susan Brooke is probably just another name in a textbook but back then it was imprinted in our memories as the first human to breathe air outside of the planet Earth. Excuse the pun but it was breathtaking. But it’s cruel how fate can end things so tragically on a moment so historically awe inspiring.

It was protocol for astronauts to be quarantined when they returned to earth but a colleague of mine who got a job with NASA suggested that Captain Brooke’s crew be quarantined on the moon for eight weeks. It seemed cruel to someone who didn’t understand the potential biological hazards a single handful of alien bacteria could have upon all of Earth. Even then, we didn’t expect any of them to have contracted anything so sinister. The newspapers called it “xenogerms” when really it wasn’t germs that killed them at all but viruses. The autopsy was performed on the moon and tissue samples were sent to me where I developed vaccinations for the viruses over the course of the next ten years. Appropriately, each astronaut was given a burial in space where their coffins were to be hurled into our sun. The UN even paid to have as much of their families sent on the lunar surface for that touching ceremony.

Most people don’t realize how much we learned from their sacrifice. While they died of what was later termed “xenodnaviridae” there were many strands of harmless bacteria found in their tissue and on their suits that put good use to your grandmother’s computer program. Now that we knew what the primordial soup of this terra nova spawned we could more accurately predict what kind of sicknesses our bodies were susceptible to on that planet. Your father was never a scientist but he was a brilliant business man. And if it weren’t for him, colonization might not have been possible, but you knew that already. The pharmaceutical company he founded based on your grandmother’s and my research paved the way for medication for the treatment and prevention of alien sickness.

Speaking of your father, your mother tells me that you’ve decided to follow on her side of the family and become an artist of some sort, is that right? Your grandmother and I have never been the type of parent to force our children into a specific field. As long as you’re happy what you’re doing, and I know you are, we couldn’t be more proud. However, I don’t think we understand some of your poetry as it seems to have incorporated slang that we’re not familiar with. But I fear that has less to do with you living on an alien world and more that I am an old man. Your music is the same way though that instrument that your friend invented to be played on that planet does look and sound a lot like a cat in the box. I would say that it was one of Schrödinger’s as it really does sound to be both dead and alive simultaneously.

We received that picture of your girlfriend and while we’re sure she’s a lovely creature we still find it a bit of an adjustment. It only makes me sound older but I’m not sure I am able to find the beauty in turquoise skin and vestigial gills. But she does have a lovely voice and beautiful eyes, and such a lovely soul as well. If I’m blessed to have great grandchildren in my lifetime I would be honored for her to be their mother. In fact, I don’t know if your grandmother told you this, but when we receive our Nobel Prizes for our works next month, we’re going to mention her in our thank you speeches.

I’m afraid I’ve gone on much too long and in the form of a written letter, a medium that I’m sure has long been obsolete in the eyes of your generation. Back in my day, this was how we used to talk to each other. It was nearly obsolete then and I’m surprised I could find paper to write this letter on. But should you get any strange looks on the way to your new home just tell them that you’re reading the words of a daft old man who dared to dream of a life beyond the stars. And tell them that a while his feet have never left the persistent pull of earth’s gravity, it is your footfall that will ensure that dream become a reality. Though my mind helped create this world beyond the warm kiss of our sun, it is my family who is my legacy; a success that I could not even have thought up in my wildest, most fantastical ambitions.

Always,

Grandpa