When you find and read this narrative, you will be literally addressing the past. You will not, I can safely tell you, be addressing me. I am in relapse now, and when it ends … well, whatever you get of the story, it is more than I was inclined to give even an hour ago. The meat of it is, I’m here now, "here" being where your ancestors sent us 48 years ago. What I found, however, is not what they expected us to find.
In the event you have mislaid our file, we are here as a result of a Hubble sighting in late 2013. The amplified spectrograph, new to us but probably ancient history to you, permitted us our first confirmation of a life-bearing planet. It orbits HR7698, is trillions of miles from you and contains, as you saw from Earth, an oxygen atmosphere, a sure sign of biological life. I am looking at it now; we are orbiting at an altitude of two hundred kilometers. I can see the deep blue of water and the pale haze of atmosphere. Weather systems as well--except for the alien topography, I could be orbiting Earth.
One other thing, and this bothers me, considering what I am about to do. There is evidence of civilized life. No cities, at least none that are obvious to my Earth-trained eyes, but here and there are large clearings, some by navigable rivers, wide and showing the deep blue of depth. On the dark side of the planet, I see flickers of light, maybe controlled but surely huge—even with the enlargers, I cannot say they are naturally occurring. What I can say is I will never get to meet whoever or whatever is down there.
Except for Natasha, but let me work up to that.
The why has to do with the agony that molests my body with fierce determination, robbing me of any sense of obligation to you or your ancestors--duty, honor; even life itself, none of it matters. I have tried every pill on board, but none offer more than momentary relief.
Our five-person crew wore an abundance of smiles as we rocketed away from the pad with no more trauma than the embarrassment of momentarily weak bladders. Breaking out of orbit was routine and, after a quick flyby of the moon to give us time to check out our systems with the ground crew there, we engaged the nuclear engine then headed for deep space.
Then it was bedtime for three of us. They would not be needed until the attempted landing 48 years into the future. Karen and I stayed awake to make sure they brushed their teeth and said their prayers, but then had to consider doing the same to ourselves. There was no choice, of course. Walking the cabin for 48 years was hardly an option.
Up to the point of our tucking ourselves in, sex was the furthest thing from our minds. But all this talk about bed got us a little horny. Then there was the temptation provided by the physics of life suspension. Clothing interfered with the even distribution of chemicals, much of which were topical rather than systemic—we were all naked. Karen and I didn’t have a problem with the mechanics of it; due to the steady acceleration of the ship, we had close to normal gravity going. Of greater concern was the Huntsville crowd who was monitoring every grunt and groan. We mentally brushed them aside after recognizing the obvious, that by the time we returned to Earth, every one of them would be dead—sic sempre voyeurs!
I did Karen first, put her to sleep, that is. But the feeling that then flowed over me was less one of freedom than of loneliness. I was alone in deep space, wallowing in the absolute certainty that I would not talk to another of my species for decades. So strong was this feeling that I feared I might thaw out a colleague, for what purpose, I could not imagine. Maybe just to know I could, that the 48 years was not a sentence.
Our "sleeping" was done in life-suspension chambers, referred to as coffins by those of us doomed to ride them. They were plastic but not transparent, and had an inner layer peppered with holes, these to allow an even distribution of chemicals over our sleeping bodies. I climbed into my unit and closed the lid, not with determination but with resignation. I don’t know what made me so apprehensive; everything had gone smoothly during the tests at Huntsville. I told myself a certain amount of this was normal, that it is how people react when the moment of so great a truth is upon them. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, the argument creeps into my mind that I had a premonition.
Following engrained teachings, I forced myself to breathe normally for all of the seven minutes it took for the machine to assume control of my consciousness. Then, like my crew, I fell into a deep sleep, there to remain for close to half a century.
But it didn’t happen that way.
I did not want to wake up. I didn’t know why I should, why I should give up what I had, which was considerable. My body, every atom of it, was vibrant with pleasure. It was euphoria, the purest that ever was, an unbeatable combination of sexual climax and drug high. I mentally lay down my head to rest, permitting only one thought of caution beforehand: Perhaps I was doing myself harm, like swimming in a endless sexual climax; surely my heart would surrender before I tired of it.
I had never felt so good before, even as I could not remember the "before." But then, I did not want to. If I remembered, it would drive the feeling away, like happens in the early morning when you want so much to stretch out that last golden moment of sleep but lose it to the introduction of a serious thought.
"I’m a pilot!" Recalling this distressed me to the point where I called a halt to thinking in favor of more napping--it was so easy to make that decision then. I have no idea how long I napped. >From what I know now, I can easily believe it to be weeks.
I knew the feeling could not last, that somewhere an alarm clock stood ready to yank me back to reality. And I knew also that I would eventually give in to its unrelenting call. For now, however, that did not appear to be necessary.
Something inside me said it was wrong not to care, wrong to allow the feeling to so completely take over. But damn me for thinking it at the time, that argument held no meaning. Meaning was guarding the feeling, making sure it stayed with me for as long as I wanted it.
"It’s my ship! I’m the captain!" I don’t know why that came to me; I sure as hell did not want it to; it put me again in fear of waking up. I retreated back into the gentle arms of my emotional guardian and this time remained there for about a month—I am not trying to be devious; I simply do not know. Only slowly did I regain enough of a sense of being to consider other than the pleasure that so captured whatever determination I possessed. This was limited to a vague notion that time was something to keep track of, a notion prompted by a little creature who kept tapping me on the shoulder, cautioning me that I was surrendering too much. To put him off, I agreed to keep the concept of time in mind.
With the acceptance of this new burden—and it did seem a burden—I was able to guess at the passing of another two weeks before the thought crossed my mind that I might indeed be surrendering too much--as if sensing a break in my armor, the tapping on my shoulder increased. By now I was getting used to it, the tapping, I mean. There was contact there; I was communicating with something. Why I thought I wanted to I did not know.
The ship! I was in a spaceship headed for deep space. Hell, it might have arrived. The panic that accompanied the latter thought momentarily took the edge off Natasha (by then I had given the feeling a name, one that permitted me to communicate the love I felt it deserved). Loosing any part of Natasha was something I did not appreciate, and no amount of tapping on the shoulder could keep me from backpedaling if the threat evolved. Only when I was certain the threat had not evolved, did I cautiously return my thoughts to the mission and my part in it.
For a moment—again a long one—I was struck by the implausibility of it all. I was supposed to be under life-suspension, as unconscious as a human being could be and still be alive. I knew this; I had been forced to experience it in the lab. I should not be able to think and I should not be able to feel. But the inescapable fact was, I could think and I could feel, the latter in a big way. So what did that mean, that I was coming out of it? I could accept that, although it didn’t happen that way in the lab. It was an off-on situation, a zombie one moment and alert the next.
If the life-suspension process was not working as expected, was it working at all--perhaps the preservation of my body was not complete? This trip was scheduled to last 48 years; was I destined to be 48 years older when we arrived--I mean for real?
As before, I had to ask myself if I cared.
This time the answer was yes. I loved Natasha but I could not see succumbing so totally to her charms for the remainder of my life. After all, there was the mission. And there were my responsibilities, four of which were human beings entrusted to my care. I had to find out what was happening. I had to wake myself up.
But not today.
I asked myself, what was so urgent that I had to rise from my bed before the planners at Huntsville thought was necessary. Another few minutes; another short nap.
Two additional weeks went by before I once again gave in to Ivan—like Natasha, the creature tapping me on the shoulder had to have a name. You might wonder why I choose Russian names. Truth is, I did not do so consciously. When I think of a sultry, accommodating siren, I think of a Natasha. When I think of an obnoxious villain, I think of an Ivan. Perhaps I read too many spy novels as a young man.
Ivan argued with considerable strength that I should wake myself up and correct whatever problem existed with either the ship or my chamber. Maybe the other chambers as well. But that would mean putting Natasha aside for a time, perhaps risking loosing her altogether. Arguments against this flooded my mind. What if we were aging; what could we do about it? I decided to give myself more time to think things through—more weeks with Natasha. After all, it was possible that the life-suspension machine was doing exactly what it was supposed to do. Perhaps this is how it worked in a real-life situation.
The taping on my shoulder began anew after some thirty days of half-hearted, inner debate. Ivan was reminding me that six months had passed since I first became aware that I was not asleep; how could I lie there knowing something was wrong? I was prompted by this to struggle an eye open, even while knowing it was pitch black in the chamber--I would not even know if my eye were truly open. When an ache appeared at the top of my head, I decided that it was, a theory confirmed by a greater ache as I opened the other eye.
I wondered how this was wearing with Natasha. I lay there for hours, opening and closing my eyes, all the while feeling out her mood. She did not like it, that much I could tell. She pulled back some, like a woman does when you say something dumb during a grand moment. But it appeared she was going to go along. I allowed another day to make certain before daring the next step.
Moving an arm was beyond "ache;" it was painful. Was this the result of inactivity, years of inactivity, or was the machine telling me to lie still? Natasha hung around for a bit of this, but then demonstrated a waning patience by pulling back further. About to reconsider my actions, Ivan jumped in to encourage me to give it time, to wait out Natasha’s mood.
He was right. The pain lessened then disappeared altogether, and Natasha stayed where she was. Sulking in the background, letting me know how displeased she was, but not threatening to leave. I continued to push ahead, all the while wondering at my determination, why I gave so much preference to the illusive concept of duty when what I really wanted was a continuation of the status quo. When moving the other arm produced no worsening of my condition, I knew I was ready to go for it.
There is a panic button inside the chamber which, when pressed, will trigger the wake-up process. Although Natasha appeared willing to stand by me, still I held off hitting that button. The real world would come sweeping over me once I did, and I was not convinced the situation warranted so … uncomfortable … an action. I could be digging a bigger hole for myself, forcing consciousness on a body that might then have to wander a silent cabin for whatever is left of 48 years. Natasha smiled at that, her thought being, I’m sure, that I was inching my way back to her bosom. I returned the smile, but it was more one of sadness than complicity.
I reached down and pressed the button.
At first I felt nothing, but then a rushing noise lashed out at ears long unaccustomed to such attacks. This was followed by a faint breeze, as if something were entering or leaving my chamber. A great malaise came over me as I realized that, whatever else was happening, Natasha was saying goodbye--I could see the tear in her eye; certainly there was one in mine. I felt achy as well, although I assumed this to be the result of an extended period of inactivity, how extended I was about to find out.
A flood of light was proof enough that I was truly awake. It was only a few watts--the machine knew to take it easy on sensitive optic nerves--but it felt like more. The light built at the rate of a watt a minute, which meant I had an hour to go before being released. By the time the chamber opened, I was highly agitated, my system already too long without the pleasure it had learned to enjoy.
My first shock came while exiting the chamber: The ship had turned around and was now in the slowing-down stage. I hastened reluctant muscles to the console, punched in the all-important question, then held my breath.
We had left Earth 46 years ago. I was, technically at least, 86 years old! I looked at my hands and wondered at the wrinkles, wondered whether they could be considered normal for a 40 year old man who had undergone the iffy process of life-suspension. Avoiding the cabin’s only mirror—by now I had to admit the unmistakable sign of a mustache in the lower part of my vision--I went to inspect the other chambers, each of which was occupied by a colleague of roughly my age. Karen was as beautiful as she’d been that night now so long ago, the night she and I made such wonderful use of our bodies. It gave me a moment of calm, although the little darts of pain that shared my consciousness continued unabated. Remembering my mustache, I glanced at her exposed legs, noting with mixed emotions the absence of encroaching hair.
It was time to consult the mirror.
I literally thrust my face at it as if daring it to confirm what I already knew. I was my father. It was not so much that I’d wrinkled—since my expression had not changed in 46 years, there were only a few creases that had not been there before. It was the skin, blotchy and taunt as if being stretched over my skull. And my hair was thin and gray and as unkempt as you might expect from so long out of the care of a barber. I had aged where Karen had not. I could be her father--and likely she would see me as such. An examination of my other colleagues proved that they too had escaped what I did not. Whatever I did to put them away, I had failed to do the same for myself.
I lost it then, lost it completely. What I cried about, I still do not know. Perhaps a lost youth. Perhaps the loneliness that would be mine no matter what. Our voyage had two years to go; how in the hell was I supposed to spend that time?
Naturally I thought of Natasha.
I was back in her beguiling grip when it happened again, this time without the coaxing of Ivan. Natasha had welcomed my return with only a hint of I-told-you-so, and once in place, she absolutely paralyzed me with pleasure, as if determined not to lose me again. Prior to revisiting her, I had taken the time to discover what had gone wrong with my chamber, this with the thought of fixing it. But then I spent additional time thinking it through. The damage had already been done. What was two more years when 46 had already been spent? And Natasha was so … understanding.
Still, it was not an impulsive act. I remained out of that chamber, and thus out of Natasha’s grip, for two weeks, alternating my time between repairing the chamber and staring outward at a billion points of light, pleased at the realization that they did not differ much from what I’d seen from Earth. But I was constantly irritable and in pain. I absolutely absorbed aspirin, before that proved to be a waste of both aspirin and time, then gravitated toward heavier forms of relief. When they also proved ineffectual, I knew that, should my health remain as it was and should I stay awake for the next two years, I’d go crazy.
I thought about how my condition changed the mission. I was an old man, past the point of usefulness to my colleagues Scheduled to be a member of the landing party, now there was doubt my body could survive the trip. I would have to remain on board, there to watch the "younger generation" perform. They would awake to the shock of what I had become, and what they thought would be plastered all over their faces.
I removed the repairs I’d made to my chamber—I needed Natasha. Then I hurried through the motions of putting myself back to sleep, this time for only two years. Ivan, rather than objecting, appeared satisfied. I had done my duty and was now preparing to do it again, not exactly as he would like but enough to keep him at bay. Besides, he knew I would send him packing if he showed even a hint of disapproval.
I dreamed I was back on Earth. It was two months prior to the flight, and I had just emerged from the last of three life-suspension drills. As would happen on the actual flight, I was the first up, my job then being to wake everyone else--that is, if I thought it was the thing to do. So much could go wrong on a mission such as this that it was thought wise to first consider where we were and what possibility we had of continuing. If a problem existed but it stood a chance of being fixed, then I could wake the others. But should I judge that there was no hope of going on, then I was expected to make a different decision.
We did not have the fuel to make a U-turn in mid-space; for this we needed the help of a nearby celestial body. Should I see that we had missed our mark, then I was to conclude that we were effectively lost and make the next best choice for myself and my crew. Specifically, I would effect a merciful termination of the life-suspension system.
My reaction at the time was to smile, a reaction not met with approval by my all-wise masters at Huntsville. They let it go because they believed themselves to know better. They "knew" how I would feel once the situation changed from hypothesis to reality.
Curious about why I recalled this now, I looked to Natasha for an answer. But all she would give me was a Mona Lisa smile. I knew she was toying with me; perhaps it was she who had coaxed the dream my way, part of some greater plan she had to hold on to me, a plan that involved disposing of her competition—she had already seen what a sense of duty could do.
I fought her on this, my aim to make it clear that I did not appreciate even the thought. I had not when they explained the practicality of it back at Huntsville, and I did not now. I had already decided that, should the situation arise, I would, against orders, wake the others. I would impose no death sentence on anyone.
The smile on Natasha’s face only deepened.
I did not tell my colleagues of the doomsday choice, partly because of firm instructions in that regard and partly because I was embarrassed. The embarrassment stemmed from the weakness of my protestations. I convinced no one, not even myself.
I said earlier that "it happened again." By that I meant the nudge away from Natasha and toward consciousness. But this time I knew it to be according to plan. The ship was waking me up; we had arrived.
I felt no more willing to leave my state of ethereal bliss than before, and mentally questioned why I should have to. What was the rush? The ship would place us in orbit on its own. But then a long dormant Ivan made his way to the fringe of my consciousness—God, how I hated him at that moment! He did not even tap. He did not have to. He knew I knew why he was there, and he knew I would consider what he said, even as I did not want him to say it--I had other people to consider; I had a duty; I had a mission. But I also had Natasha!
I looked at her with a combination of apprehension and appeal. Surprisingly, there was no sign of disapproval. Rather, she was back to that Mona Lisa smile--she did not believe I had the strength to leave her! I felt a momentary spurt of anger, but it was immediately countered by the onset of so great an agony that it made what I felt two years ago like a splinter being compared to a knife wound. My retreat was instantaneous, which as much as admitted that Natasha was right. I could not reenter that world, not if to do so would invite such unreasonable agony. I glanced her way again, this time finding the smile to be a gracious one, as if she understood what I was going through and would not take advantage. I smiled back, content to leave things in her capable hands until a better option showed itself.
But the ship would not let me. Unlike two years ago where I essentially woke myself up, this time it was a computer doing the job. I had no choice but to return to the land of the living. I pleaded to Natasha, who, curiously enough, did not react to the pull against me (and thus against her). I then pleaded to Ivan, assuring him that I would respond in time, but that I would be worthless to the mission if I were rousted before my mental and physical faculties were ready to bear the pain of it.
Funny about that: Ivan showed me more understanding than did Natasha. With him I at least got a frown, one that revealed concern more than contempt. What I did not know was whether that concern was for me, for my colleagues or for the mission.
My consciousness continued to return against my will, bringing with it a corresponding increase in both anxiety and agony. Ivan encouraged me to bear it; I could survive, I could even grow to like it; not as much as with Natasha, but at least I’d have something to fill the emptiness I felt without her. Wanting to believe, I focused on what was down there, the life forms that were generating all that oxygen we detected from Earth. I would soon know if intelligence was a part of that.
My resolve deepened as I approached full consciousness. I had a focus, and I would encourage it to command so much of me that the part remaining, the hurting part, would be manageable. I told myself that if I could just get through the waking up stage, what I felt at present would prove to be a dream. Like a thought in the last stage of waking up, one that seems so profound at first yet so nonsensical in the light of full reason.
I was right, I did feel better, although I still headed for the heavy-analgesics the moment I was able to move around in the now weightless environment of an orbiting spaceship. There I took what I felt would do the trick then tethered myself to a bulkhead until it could find its way to the most troubled parts of my body. I no longer searched for either Natasha or Ivan. They had become principals in a dream now put aside. Or so I thought.
I left my tether to renew the analgesics, adding an extra tablet to aid a losing effort. Then, instead of going about my duties--of which the computer was ready and anxious to remind me--I re-tethered myself and there remained for more time than I can remember. I simply did not have the will. What the computer was telling me I did not want to hear. I needed reasons to go on, and it was assuming the decision had already been made in the affirmative.
I left the tether to take another look at what I had become. I saw the same old face, a face that would fool no one even if I shaved the beard and masked the silver in my hair. I reminded myself that I did not have to be this old, that I could have spared two of those years had I elected the repair of my life-suspension chamber.
The pain came at me again, this time as if a hot liquid were being poured into my veins. It made me desperate for the peace I had in Natasha, a peace that all the on-board analgesics together could not match. I was losing the battle; I could not go on.
And I could not risk waking the others to collectively decide my fate.
I sought diversion through the long-range camera that the computer kept targeted to the planet below. With my head jammed against the light shield, I tried with as much passion as was left to me to see a sign, a reason to go on. I saw green, lots of green, obviously a source of the oxygen detected so long ago, but nothing jumped out at me, nothing that said I should stick with it, that I was almost there, that there was good reason for perseverance. Then I saw something that made up my mind for me. Even from an altitude of two hundred kilometers, it looked huge. It was lying on the ground, its human face staring up at me, its smile one I had seen before. It was Natasha.
I saw it for only a brief moment, but there was no doubt in my mind what it was. Far below was the woman with whom I had spent perhaps all of the last 48 years. The clincher was that smile. It offered the same mystery, the same invitation, the same certainty that the invitation would be accepted. Suddenly nothing else mattered. Regardless of what it was down there, I could not survive without it. The only decision remaining to me was how best to unite us.
The first part of that decision was the crew: They would not see me, not ever. I would not chance their taking the choice out of my hands and by so doing doom me. I thought of the instructions received a half century earlier, and wondered whether they now applied. Was the mission an impossibility, requiring that I modify their life-support systems to gently coax them out of their lives? If I did nothing, the system would eventually wake one of them—this was a safeguard in the event something happened to me. If I tucked myself back into Natasha’s grip, that someone would see what was happening and yank me back.
I saw Natasha again, this time in my inward eye. She wanted me to know she would be there for me once I brought myself to do what had to be done. Ivan was there as well, although unlike our last meeting, there was no sympathy in his eyes. Rather, he looked … disappointed.
I floated back to the camera and searched the ground again. Perhaps Natasha would save me from an action that, once taken, would forever be a part of whatever dreams she had planned for me. I did not see her image again, but I felt something that gave me hope. It was a brief shot of the pleasure she sends my way whenever I choose her over the misery of going on with my life. She was telling me something, even as she was warning me to hurry it up.
Then it came to me. And this time I would tolerate no advice from Ivan!
Which brings us back to where this narrative began. Even though I will soon no longer care, a part of me is pleased that I lasted long enough to get it all down. Even as I am writing this, the ship is leaving orbit for a return trip to Earth, there to land, if you are up to it, half a century from now. When you open up our chambers you will be guaranteed of finding at least one dead body: mine (after all, I will be 136 years old by then). When I push that button inside my chamber, I will surrender myself to a life-suspension process equally as flawed as the trip in. I will spend the rest of my life with Natasha.
My colleagues will not be able to help you understand, this for two reasons. The first is that they will not have been fully conscious since leaving Earth. The second is that, due to the work I performed on their life suspension systems, they will all be over 80 years old.
I elected a compromise of sorts. I made sure that, should the system wake them in time to find me alive, they will have no inclination to leave their chambers. I modified all the units as chance modified mine. I put them all into the benevolent hands of Natasha.
Bio:Although this is my first short story, I have completed six novels, two of which are on the Internet under Amazon Books (under "N.C. Munson"). In addition to many enjoyable years of writing, my past includes two positions as a corporate CEO.
E-mail: munson_nc@compuserve.com
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