The Lucky Ones

It’s been 13 days since our last contact.

We saw the news just like everyone on Earth in the days leading up to it. ‘It’ as it came to be known. It started as reports of unexplained deaths, seemingly random riots, water supplies cutting off for days at a time - strange stuff. At first, we didn’t think much of it, wary of all news broadcasts as usual. But these seemingly random occurrences became more frequent, reports more serious, until we couldn’t dismiss it anymore. Soon our calls to loved ones were spent talking about it and not much else. Slowly, the news became nothing but chaos until it all we would see; I couldn’t even escape it in my dreams.

In our waking moments the crew and I became obsessed with it. We’d refresh our tablet computers every hour, every 15 minutes, and all it brought was more and more horror. Suddenly everything felt fragile. We felt so far away from everything.

It was just the beginning of our nightmare.

One day, about a month into the mission, we had an emergency meeting with Mission Control. They called us unprompted, to give us the official announcement from their government sources. They told us that we were the first people to know, that it was in our best interest that they relay the information exactly as they had received, as we would be affected the most.

We couldn’t see their faces when they delivered the news, because of the satellite feed and the one-way video transmission. I wasn’t sleeping much in the days leading up to the call. It’s like I knew that something bad was coming. I never dreamed it would be this.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ they told us, ‘We’re doing all we can down here to keep it under control. There is something else going on, something the news isn't sharing with the public. They think there might be some sort of pandemic emerging, some kind of… virus. People are changing - they’re getting angry, desperate. Crazy, almost. Angry people are causing the power outages, starting the riots, causing car crashes, killing people and. It’s spreading. Quickly.’

There was a lot of lag as they relayed the message, their words breaking and crackling, but the sound of concern in the static voice was as clear as day. The voice through the speakers was thick with the kind stickiness you hear when someone is trying not to cry. Helplessness was bleeding through the receiver and we were the only ones there for it to stain.

We listened intently, hanging on every word they said until they delivered the horrible truth gifted in the form of salvation. It felt more like a curse than anything:

‘It is safer for you up there than it is down here. We are being told to evacuate and Mission Control will be unmanned. We must look out for ourselves. You should have enough supplies to last you the rest of the duration of your stay.’

It was surreal, hearing Mission Control ordering us to stay. It sent prickles down my spine. It still does. I constantly hear that static voice in my head, even in the quietest of moments. But then what? I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t force the words out. I wonder where we would be if I did. Maybe it could have saved us.

The last thing they told us before they disconnected the call, leaving us to drown in the helplessness, was,

‘Do not engage the Soyuz. Do not make an emergency evacuation to Earth. Stay put. We will be in contact when it is safe to do so. God speed.’

That was the last time we heard any voice from Earth.

The news got increasingly more disturbing as the days wore on. We could tell that the government sources had finally been leaked. It was like a switch had been flicked and humanity start to break apart below us and all we could do was refresh our screens and watch. We made sure to keep updated via our regular news sources as the Mission Control updates ceased. One day our calls to loved ones stopped going through. Sometimes I dial their numbers, just in case, but the line stays silent and so do I.

The last news we saw was that there were wars breaking out everywhere. One day, not long after, we realised all the lights on the planet were gone. What used to be little rivers of magma-coloured lights weaving throughout black masses, indicating cities, indicating life – were gone. I can’t remember who noticed it first. We thought we may have been seeing something wrong. But every night we checked; the feeling of hope slowly giving way to something empty. The lights never came back on.

The day we noticed the lights had gone out was the day we stopped getting high speed internet. The day the lights went out was the day the news cycle stopped. There are no clouds anymore, either. No weather. We’re not sure when exactly that happened. Earth is now just a planet full of clear skies and nothing else. An empty abyss.

Weirdly, there still seems to be transmissions coming from somewhere. We can still use the internet, but it barely loads. The buffer spins round and round, the screen glitches like something is trying to push through the infinite void, but it never does. Not that it matters, I suppose. There's nothing to read anyway. But there’s a part of me deep down that hopes there’s something out there.

I guess that’s why I’ve decided to write this post. If the transmissions are coming from somewhere, then… maybe there is somewhere safe on Earth.

I guess I can only pray…

I don’t think I believe in God but seeing what I can see every single day out the bay windows is nothing short of a miracle. I don’t think I’ll ever be complacent in this feeling. I have seen more than every human ever. The Earth is a beautiful, mysterious place. Even more so, I guess.

We see 16 different sunrises a day, up here. I don’t know if I even saw 1 a year, down there. We see 16 whole days to 1 day on Earth, but we don’t age any more rapidly than we used to. Time doesn’t move any faster.

I used to consider myself lucky. I guess in some ways, I still do. As a child I spent countless nights staring up at the sky trying to count the flecks of light in the infinite blackness and thinking to myself, one day I will make it up there and see what it’s all about.

Now there is nothing I want more than to feel the solid earth beneath me, to feel the breeze flit across my face. To feel the warmth of my loved ones. To see them smile.

I will never get to experience that again.

Instead, I spend every day checking the tablets, checking the news, seeing nothing but old, dead information. I stare down at the Earth for some signs of life.

I used to feel lonely up here. But the nice kind of lonely. Peaceful, I guess. We were secure in our own little bubble. The next generation of heroes. But now, with no sign of life below us, we really are alone out here. For the first time since we arrived, I think I can feel it. We are 220 miles above the surface of the Earth and I can feel every inch.

At first, the three of us spent hours talking over our options. We always came back to one. We have to stay put. The Soyuz, the vessel to take us back to Earth, is, much like everything else around us, useless. We can’t pilot it back to Earth on our own, with no seeing eyes to guide us to a safe landing, it would be impossible. Who knows what we will find anyway?

We used to speak a lot back then - of home, of hope. But speaking of the lives we have lost has become too painful. The happiness we used to feel feels like it exists in a different lifetime. We let all our words drift into the recycled air until we used them all up until there was nothing left to speak about.

Elen became enraged one day suddenly, breaking the silence. He screamed about how we were failed a basic human right – to end our own lives if we wanted to. I never considered death as a human right. I guess I have never been in a situation like this before. The rumours are a lie, I can tell you now, we are not given cyanide pills in case of an emergency. There is no easy way for us to go.

Jones told him, sternly, ‘If you want to die so badly, just open the hatch and see what happens. There’s your cyanide pill!”

Elen turned to look through the bay windows, the remnants of atmospheric airglow reflecting in the blue of his eyes, creating a universe of its own. It was in that moment that I felt his frustration finally give way to resignation. His shoulders sagged in the zero gravity. He had finally met Jones and I on the bottom step.

Sometimes I drift over to the Quest Lock, just to look. It’s the only thing that separates us from out there. I brush my hand over the door, wondering if one day I’ll open it. I stare through the tiny window out into the darkness and picture myself floating away into the furthest corners of the universe, growing smaller and smaller until I vanish out of sight, forever unreachable in the unknown. Instead, I bring my legs up and push off gently from the door and spiral quietly back into the familiar, into safety.

These days we keep to ourselves. Which is surprisingly easy up here. There is quite a lot of room to float about, but not much else to do. Everything is meaningless. We still make calls to Mission Control just in case the world has returned to normal. We still do our daily maintenance checks to make sure everything is up to speed, keeping us alive. Although that’s starting to feel a bit pointless too - we only have a short number of weeks left before our supplies run out. After that? I’m not sure.

The only thing worse than what is happening to us in here - is what is going on out there. Perhaps we are the lucky ones after all. What we know about the universe now is a lot more than what we know about what is happening below, and that - is heavy enough to almost weigh me down.

But as always, we continue to float.

I can see Elen now, frowning down at the Earth. He’s stopped speaking to us, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking anymore. He’s holding his heart-shaped locket - the one his daughter had given him - tightly in one hand. I feel infinitely sad for him, for us. Infinite, much like the darkness in space. At the beginning, it saved us. But now it feels like it’s closing in, suffocating us. Our place of salvation, our place of demise.

The sun is starting to disappear again as we hurtle towards the shadows. Soon everything will be dark again. Another useless rotation. I fear, sometimes, that it will stay dark forever, that the sun won’t rise again; that we will spend the rest of our days floating around in oppressive darkness, squinting into the night, trying to see.

But I am wrong, time and time again. The sun still glints over the horizon and returns quickly in all her brilliance; the life force of a planet that has long since disappeared.

Earth is now just another useless orb rotating endlessly around her - and then there is us, orbiting uselessly around it; possibly the only humans left alive, breathing air that isn’t even ours. We stare down at a planet that will never give us the answers we seek.

Night has fallen upon us again. Earth remains dark below me.

Everything about this feels wrong. Maybe we shouldn’t even be up here. Maybe man was not meant to float in space. I guess my dream was a lie.

I’m not sure what else needs to be said. There is nothing more we can do.

So, from the three of us – if there is anyone down there, we hope this reaches you. We don’t think we will make it back to Earth, but we just wanted to make our presence known. If you feel alone out there, just know that you’re not. We are watching over you, looking for any signs of life in all the vastness we can see. We just wanted to say - good luck, we hope there are other survivors out there. We hope you are faring better than us.

We are patiently awaiting your response. Until then, we will be up here counting out our days. We really hope to hear from you soon.

Goodbye and God speed.

Gisela, Elen and Jones.

The International Space Station.