The Almost World

It wasn't necessarily a big garden, but it was an expression of himself. The garden was a single oak tree, standing tall, surrounded by scores of wildflowers. It was the reminder of how long he'd been here, alone with his thoughts, and his myriad of desperate hobbies. The omputer calender of his gutted and repurposed ship was more accurate, perhaps, but they were just numbers, distant and empty, and never really held much weight.

But whenever he looked at the oak tree he was reminded, reminded that he'd spent no less than two hundred years on this almost-world, stranded so far away from those he loved. So far, yet it felt as if he were separated by a thin veil. Thin, but impenetrable.

He pushed the thoughts away. "And here I thought you'd accepted all of this, you old fool," he muttered, adopting a Scottish accent. He found it very useful for berating.

"Accepted, yes," he remarked. "But it shan't hurt any less."

He watered his tree a little more, then returned to his bed. It occurred to him that he didn't have a shirt on. It also occurred to him that he'd been in his pyjamas all day. One of the problems with such utter isolation: no-one to remind you to not tend the garden with pyjamas on.

Or tend the garden with.

He sighed, and donned a faded shirt, and even more faded cargo-pants. This would require a trip to the city, he knew. The nanobots weren't designed for dirt, only food and bacteria. He was just fortunate that the city still operated in some manner.

He'd only discovered this the third or fourth year he'd been on the planet. There weren't very many robots, and generally they kept out of sight, but they were there. They kept the city running. They kept the water going, the electricity flowing, the food being produced. And thankfully, the laundries open.

He wasn't looking forward to it. The empty city was somehow worse than bustling, noisy cities. Oh, he loathed those, and back home he'd avoid them, when he could. But this place was worse. It was too quiet, too empty, for a city. Too clean, also; there were no vines or ivy, no scurrying rats or mice. He supposed that the robots cleaned up any time it got too dirty. Every time he went there, his hairs stood on end, his gut tightened, and he shivered. It always felt like he was going to be attacked, even though he knew it was a ridiculous notion, and even though he had been to the damn place over a thousand times before.

Checking the time, he saw it was about one, and decided to make lunch. But upon opening the fridge, found that he had nothing to eat.

"Fine," he groaned, banging his head against the wall.

He stuffed all his clothes in a bag and got in a hovercar he'd found in the city some one hundred and seventy-five years ago and set the location. First the pizza, and then the laundry. He laid back in the seat, as it hummed to life, and sped off.

“Ten minutes,” reported the robot, turning and hovering off to make his pizza. With that knowledge, the wary man went two buildings down, and across the street. Habit made him look both ways, and idle curiosity didn’t stop him. As soon as he started the washing machine he returned to the pizza shop, settling down at one of the tables by the wall.

It was identical to those back home. The plastic beginning to peel at the edge of the table, the stiff, leathery couches. The floor was the same white and black tiles as they often were back home. The table was one-legged, the windows were large, there was a fridge with a dozen different drinks, and you could see the robot making the pizza in the kitchen. The only two differences were the robot and the fact that, despite being as fizzy, sweet, and tasty as back home, the drinks were somehow healthy.

It was nothing more than a reminder of home. A reminder that he was utterly alone. A reminder that, after a century, he was still stuck. A reminder that, if humanity still remembered him, then they had either given up, or still couldn’t reach him.

And then, as he had a thousand times before, he realised what he was doing wrong. He closed his eyes, leaned back, and ignored the reminders. Ignored the memories; he put them to sleep in his mind. He smiled, the scent of pizza wafting over. A hundred years later, it was still mouth-watering to him.

He put the box in the bin, sauntering back to the laundry; his clothes should be finished by now. The laundry was remarkably quick.

The bell rang, signalling his entrance, and he went over to his washing machine.

And frowned.

It was empty! He checked the others, and they were empty as well. He went outside, to check if this was the right place, and it was. So how could it be empty? It didn’t make sense!

Crash!

He whipped his head around. The sound came from further back, behind a curtain. Steeling his nerves, he crept towards the source of the sound. Tentatively, he pulled aside the curtain—

Crack!

He was flung back, hitting the window and crumpling to the floor. Groaning, he looked up, the tears in his eyes blurring his vision. Blinking them away, he could make out a... a person?

He hadn’t even considered that a person was here, since it shouldn’t be possible. And yet there they stood. They were long-haired, fiery-eyed, and holding a very big gun. They were slowly approaching him, keeping the very big gun trained on him.

Unsure what he was meant to do or say, he simply said, "Hello."

The person stared at him, before asking, "Who... are you?"

He made to answer their question, but stopped. Who was he? He hadn't thought about that in decades! He hadn't needed to; after a while, he was simply "he." What was his name?

"I... I don't know," he answered. "Harmless, though. Who are you?"

They – she? He wasn't sure – pursed their lips. "I'm—"

Crash!

The window shattered, and he was sent flying again! A metallic voice rang out: "Enemy detected!"

FIN