Your Mission is Doomed

A dizzy sensation meets your consciousness as your mind awakens from a slumber you have no memory of entering. Your eyes dart back and forth beneath your eyelids as you search for an inkling of who or where you are. You try to move, attempt to pry open your eyelids, but you can't. And once you think about it too hard, it becomes even more impossible.

You feel something soft beneath you. A mattress, perhaps, or some other cushioned surface. Every inch of your body slowly awakens, yet you still cannot move or open your eyes. You think about lifting a finger, but movement never comes. Your head pounds stronger with every heartbeat.

"It is waking up," a low, feminine voice from a good distance whispers. Your instinct tries to turn your head, concerned by being called an "it," but it doesn't move. You hear footsteps drawing closer. You try to say something, anything, but your mouth doesn't open. Only a muffle escapes your face.

"Hi," you hear, now louder as if the person is directly next to you. "You must be confused. It's okay. We've lowered your dosage. You'll be able to move the necessities momentarily."

Leaving no time to question what she meant by "necessities," you feel movement along the lower half of your body, as though a light blanket is being pulled away. You find it strange that you didn't feel the blanket before, but decide that it doesn't concern you enough to continue wondering.

You're beginning to regain more feeling throughout your body, and your attempt to clear your stiffened throat is successful. Your eyes slowly open, and your mouth finally moves. Your vision is blurry, and the air tastes medical. You attempt to reach for your head with your hand to help numb the pain, but your hand doesn't move. Your body doesn't follow your commands.

"What..." barely slips from your lips in a scratchy whisper. Your eyes finally begin to focus on the ceiling tiles and you're blinded by a rectangular white light. You feel it burning your retinas, so you shut your eyes again.

"You're okay," the voice says again. "Take a minute."

"Who..." you get out, but your throat stiffens again and you let out the type of cough that you'd normally need to double over for.

"We'll begin with a cognitive test to make sure your memories are intact. We can't answer any of your questions until we can conduct that test."

"I don't understand," you're finally able to say with more than just a half-whisper.

"Looks like it needs another minute," she says. You try and try to turn your head so you can get a glimpse of the person you're speaking with, but no luck. Only your pupils move toward the corner of your eyes while your head refuses to cooperate.

"Relax," she says, which makes you tense. Your thoughts are running wild as you continue searching for memories, imagery, or just your own name. A light bulb dings.

"I am..." you start to say, meaning to introduce yourself, but don't finish. You don't trust this woman.

"Are you ready?" she asks.

"Yes," you say, your voice almost fully returned and your headache less powerful. Your lips feel dry, almost like the skin has crackled and could fall off at any minute. The inside of your mouth feels like sandpaper as it feels like the sun evaporated every last bit of moisture.

"Water?" you ask. A moment of quiet rustling happens beside you, then a bottle with a small straw appears before you. You try to get a glimpse of the hand holding the bottle, but you see nothing. You feel the cold sensation enter your lips. It feels like life returns to your mouth, like meadows blooming after a long harsh winter.

"It's a good sign that you feel thirsty," she says. You swallow and let out an affirmative grunt of agreement.

"Okay. Let's begin. What is your name?" she asks. You hear the click of a pen.

"I don't know," you say.

"That's okay. We can come back to that one. Do you know where you are?" she asks.

"No," you say. Your body is heavy, as if a weight rests upon your abdomen. Every time you speak, it feels as if your lungs run out of breath and something within you contracts.

"What is two plus two?" she asks.

"Four," you say.

"Good." You hear scribbling. "How about five times five?"

"Twenty-five," you answer.

"Excellent." More scribbling.

"What chemical reaction occurs when cyclopropenylidene and buckminsterfullerene are brought together?"

You sit there silently, staring at the ceiling. You're concerned that you misheard the question, as you don't have a clue what those chemicals are.

"Do you need me to repeat the question?"

"I don't know," you say.

"You don't know. That's okay. Just like your name and location, we can ask you again later."

"No," you say. "What is this?"

You feel like some memories are returning to you. You picture your face in your mind and you try matching it to a name.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't understand what is going on," you say again, getting louder.

"What chemical reaction occurs when cyclopropenylidene and buckminsterfullerene are brought together?" she asks again.

"I don't know what that means. I don't know what those words are. I'm not a chemist," you say, panic rising in your voice.

"Of course you do, you just need a moment to remember," she says.

"I'm not a chemist!" you shriek. Finally, your head turns and you get a look around the room. And, more importantly, the other person in the room with you.

But it isn't a person at all.

You gasp as you stare into the blinking eyes of metal in the shape of a human. The robot is sitting on a swivel chair next to your bedside, holding a clipboard and a pen, staring directly in your eyes.

"What are you?" you yell. You still can't move your arms or your legs. Tears begin welling up in your eyes. The robot begins speaking, but you aren't listening. You look around the room. White walls, carts covered in medical equipment, and an open window that displays darkness.

"I am your companion on this journey. I've been taking care of you for the past couple of decades."

"Decades?" you shriek. You're in disbelief at the absurdity of what she's telling you. The word hangs in the air. "Decades?"

"Yes," she says. "My name is Andromeda."

"I don't understand what's going on," you say as tears are fully falling from your face. You're irritated by the wet feeling as the tears pool beneath your head.

"Tell me where I am," you say.

"You're onboard The Galileo," she says. "This ship is traveling to a distant galaxy where you've been tasked with collecting samples of rare stardust believed to contain oxygen-producing particles."

"I'm sorry?" you say.

"You're in space, Doctor."

"Doctor?"

"Forgive me. We haven't finished the cognition test."

Suddenly, like a flash of light, some of your memories return. Your eyes widen as you put together the pieces.

You clocked in that morning.

Four days before launch.

You remember coffee.

You remember walking into mission control with your coworkers.

You remember your assigned panel.

And someone was sitting there.

You asked them to leave.

They told you the station was theirs.

They told you to get another assignment.

Then...

Nothing.

"I'm not supposed to be here," you explain through unavoidable sobs. "I was on the mission control team. I'm a mission control operator."

"Dr. Loudry, you are an astronaut. An astrochemist who--"

"What'd you just call me?" you interrupt.

"Dr. Loudry," she answers.

"That's..." you say, taking deep breaths, "not my name."

Andromeda begins speaking to you, but you don't bother listening. You gaze out the window and feel panic mold its way throughout your veins.

"I'm not Dr. Loudry. I don't know anything about astrochemistry," you say, cutting off Andromeda.

"Of course you are."

“No, I'm not,” you say.

You look toward the window.

The stars stretch endlessly beyond the glass.

“Your mission is doomed.”