Home?

My eyes open slowly, unable to adjust to the bright light which filters itself through the glass of the cabin I have been sleeping in. The compartment opens, releasing me from its claustrophobic space and indicating that it is time to face a new day. I simply lay there, waiting for someone to force me to get up although I know that in this spaceship any sense of community, companionship or dependence does not exist. I hear complete silence, only broken by the distant sound of rapid footsteps, as if their tardiness could cost them their lives and in a sense, that is true. The few who managed to conquer the disease and catastrophes which shook our planet found themselves obliged to maintain the survival of our species by going into a spacecraft which has the purpose to take us to Galaia: a second Earth, somewhere in a remote solar system, far away from our beloved Milky Way in which the Earth and the majority of the population are now rotting in isolation, with no government or individual to take care of them and impose some form of order or sense of morality.

My bare feet have finally managed to touch the cold, white tiled floor which decorates the shuttle. Everything in this aircraft is white, including the clothes we have been given to wear and the minimal decorative items that have been put in place as an attempt to make everything seem somewhat more homely but it does not really work. I constantly miss life prior to what everyone called "The End." I remember the metropolis in which I lived, not far from the countryside and where trivial conversations about promotions, new deals in stores or academic achievements filled the air in the same way as pollution did. Still, the latter did it in a creeping manner, slowly provoking irrevocable damage to our ozone layer, which would become one of the main precursors of the devastation. Now, the few of us who were fortunate enough to explore space and continue the existence of the human race, have found themselves slaved to a government in the same manner as our neighbors in our home planet are to an anarchical state where continuous fighting and homicide takes place.

I walk barefoot toward a small cubicle with a tag that reads 56910: my supposed name. All individuals travelling in the spaceship are no longer referred to as "Sally" or "John" but rather a combination of numbers which have also been tattooed on our wrists as means of identification. It is strange: the current political system has managed to eradicate any association to an ideological stance or nationality. Instead, those who habitate this spacecraft have lost their notion of beliefs and ideas, as if creativity is meant to be sapped from the human brain in order to survive.

I grab the uniform that we are meant to wear daily and head to the main floor. As I make my way to the central part of the aircraft, I greet some people yet receive no response, just a simple lethargic and gloomy gaze which quickly shifts away. I finally reach the area and enter the cantina where we are supposed to be fed and instead we are served strange mashed up food on depressing plastic trays. Given that the spaceship cost millions to our former state, I struggle to understand why we get such appalling conditions while everyone knows that the officials of the spaceship enjoy luxurious cuisine in private rooms. Having found a seat, I can't help but give a glimpse of disgust to the plate of food which sits in front of me. I'm the only one avoiding to eat, and everyone in the room silently devours it without even bothering to taste it. They do it in such an automatic manner, their forks swiping up the mashed up contents and introducing it in their mouths while they masticate to some form of monotonous rhythm as if they were soldiers in the Civil War marching to the recurring beat of the drums.

At one point, I hear a clicking noise, like that of a gun hitting something less solid. I turn around and see an invigilator, all dressed in black to differentiate himself. He's wearing a mask but I can feel his incriminating stare. He points at my table with such a sharp finger that I feel as though I could be cut by it.

-Identification- A simple word already triggers some distress. I feel helpless and I know everyone else in the room is avoiding any form of eye contact, keeping their heads down as if they were bowing at their plates to not get in trouble.

-56910- I don't stutter but it is clear I fear him, or at least, his lack of mercy.

-Why are you not eating.- It isn't a question but a statement seeking justification. I don't know how to respond. I could change things, be rebellious, but at what cost? No one in this damn ship could care if one life is lost while trying to improve our situation. We are slaves to this new order and there is no way a simple rebuttal could make anything better for any of us.

-I... I just sat here.

He continues to face me and steps forward. I feel my heart skip a beat. Will he grab me and take me to his chief?

-Is there something wrong with your food?

-Not at all. I was about to eat. I... just sat here.

He knows I'm helpless and afraid. That is how the state and the invigilators keep control and authority and it disgusts me but the fact that no one can do anything about it is perhaps worst. Without unity, one cannot fight injustice and that is why the government has done much to stop individuals from feeling like they belong to a community.

I instantly grab my utensils. Before I can put anything in my mouth, he violently hits my hand, the fork falling sharply on the ground. I feel the tension filling my body, adrenaline rushing through it, slowly becoming aware that I'm losing control, getting angry... The guard grabs a strange touch-screen box from his belt, also stuffed with incredibly strange weapons, all lethal. He grabs my wrist before I can take it away and he scans the barcode imprinted on it. An instant beep is heard and he says:

-Base 5. Now.- He does not shout and there is no need for it. I instantly get up, leaving behind a fallen tray and fork which have left the white floor patched with green and brown stains.