Captain's Log

My rocket ship, the Nebula, finally blasts away from initial planetary orbit, and I allow myself the luxury of a long, satisfied sigh of accomplishment. I am part of a mission to explore designated portions of the universe in the hopes of finding all about space aliens and their habitats.

At last, I find myself in what scientists have long referred to as 'outer space'. As I peer at the incredible sights before me, I have to chuckle at the thought that out here, 'space' is 'space' and the designation 'outer' is totally redundant.

You may have noticed my use of the first-person singular pronoun in the opening paragraphs of my journal. This is not totally correct, as there are thirty-four other crew members jettisoning along with me on this journey. However, I feel very much alone since my companions are all in stasis, suspended animation as it were. After our path has been stabilized, I will be joining them in this eternal sleep, since it is only by this maneuver that we will be able to hold out for the entire round-trip journey, which is scheduled to last for 172 years.

I heard you gasp just then, but you are correct in your supposition. I will never see my family or friends again, for they will be long dead by the time our mission is over and we return home. I try not to think of this detail. Even though we were thoroughly indoctrinated prior to our training, we were told that to dwell on this subject could have a damaging effect on our mental health. So, I look upon this journey as did our ancestors as they explored the far reaches of our own continent many years ago.

Even then, anticipating our return home is assuming we will have a home to return to. Our own internal war-mongering is unpredictable enough. Will we find instead a burned-out shell? Again, best not to think of the possibilities.

The journey already is fraught with peril as there are countless unforeseen obstacles that could cross our path. However, our ship has been equipped with the latest technology: an autopilot with a computer brain capable of avoiding such hurdles as cleanly and intelligently as its real-life counterpart could do. And so, I expel another satisfied sigh of relief.

In just a few minutes I will be joining my crew in their peaceful slumbers and then time will fly by and the years will be like minutes. One final look through the porthole (amazing how we still use such an antiquated navel term in this modern era).

The next time I experience sights like this, we will be in orbit around our destination, a relatively insignificant planet with a high probability of sustaining intelligent life. How will these aliens treat us? Will our mission end before it has even begun on this planet that our star map identifies as EARTH?

Thom Hinks is a retired technical writer and an avid science fiction reader, now exploring his love of writing - particularly the science fiction kind.

Find more by Thom Hinks in the Author Index.

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