The Long Passage

As far as prisons go, it isn’t a bad one. But that’s the thing, prisons have a way of glorifying the mundane. The greatest smoke you’ll ever have won’t be of the finest tobacco, blended and rolled to perfection. No, it’ll be the one desperation calls for. She’ll have you on your knees, cut off from tasting her sweet lips. Then, and only then, when you’d do anything for even a smell of her skin, she’ll allow you to have your way with her. It’s short-lived, however. The moment is over as soon as it starts, leaving the empty, lonely gap between where you are and where you want to be, wider.

Still, it’s a prison, and a lonely one at that.

Twice now, that word’s come up. Hmm. Fitting. The grass is always greener, ain’t it? God, what I’d give for a conversation. Never thought I’d find myself saying that. I hate people. Well, I hated people. They’re too concerned with appearances. I am — was — too, but at least I had the common decency not to broadcast it to the entire galaxy. Remember what I said about desperation? The things one takes for granted, like a simple conversation. Used to think those were a waste of time. Now, I see them for what they truly are, shining beacons connecting the desperate and lonely together, somehow making each less of their name. That’s three times now.

Days all begin the same, even those that end up guiding the arc of your life in the complete opposite direction. Funny how you can look back to exact moments and point out where things changed. Damn. I wish I had that sight in the moment. This, all of this, wouldn’t have happened. I’d still be sipping martinis at Rift Station. I wonder what that’d be like, to have the ability to turn back time, each moment subject to your reversing. Would that be truly living? Life, your life and those around you, would be subject to your fabrication. I imagine it’s like playing a game and knowing your opponents are allowing you to win. Satisfaction wouldn’t accompany success.

They didn’t leave me much. All of this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Grotta VI, just your average space freighter. The captain liked to freight humans as well, undercutting commercial transport ships. When I say “humans,” I mean all types of species. There’s too many to count nowadays. There are more important things to do than count the number of civilizations in the galaxy. Like, drink. At least they left me whiskey from planet Earth. Crates of it. It’s been seven months now, and my steady pace hasn’t even left a dent in the supply. When pirates maroon a dishonest crew member on a moon, they leave him a single charge in his blaster — homage to the infamous ones of Earth’s Caribbean. Intentional or not, I was left with several rounds and then some. No, I can’t turn back time, but I have a fair certainty how this path ends.

Cryosleep was meant to be a sure way to get from here to there. Just close your eyes, and it’ll all be ok. Climb into the coffin-like cryochamber, and allow it to put you under. Like going to the doctor for surgery. One moment, you remember laying down. The next, it’s all over and your organs are a bit more grateful. They’re the only ones, though. The pocketbook certainly isn’t. Quite the opposite actually. Overcharging, pretentious doctors. My ol’ man had a joke about that. “What’s the difference between a doctor and a politician?” he’d ask. “One lies to your face, and the other runs for office.” He died on the operating table. The black hole his bank account became soon was mine. Still is. Rivals the one in the Hernon Galaxy. That’ll be my crowning glory after this ride is over, and close to the end, I am.

They’re dead. All of them.

I’m sure they’ll diagnose the malfunction long after I’m gone. All I know is I’m the only one left, and this ship is off-course. Science was never my strong suit, despite the pressing need for it. Hell, school basically pushed us towards science degrees. Half of my classes growing up were some sort of “ology.” Bio, Meteor, Eco, that one having to do with solar systems — whatever that is. Maybe that’s not an “ology,” but it works for my an-ology. Actually, that’s not right either. Earth whiskey, strongest in the galaxy.

Coffin-like, the cryopods are. Those who climbed in never climbed back out. Why was mine the only one with a working release lever? Guess I’m just lucky, although after seven months of riding this freighter, alone, without the illusion of rescue, I’m not sure I have it better off. Sometimes it’s just better to go quietly in the night, a silent death unaccompanied with worry. Nothing like a good night’s sleep. Premature, yes, but in the end it doesn’t really matter. Man’s destination is all the same. This ride, this passage, is taking me straight there. Out here, in deep space, my broadcasts won’t reach the Federation. Sure, they’ll probably search the area when the freighter doesn’t arrive. By then, I’ll be good and sleepy like the others.

It’s not a prison. It’s a tomb.

Before I took a step on Grotta VI, my destination, the final one, wasn’t even a thought. There was too much going on, buzzing flies distracting me from truly seeing the beautiful landscape before me. Those “pressing needs” seem foolish now. Insignificant. I look back to see a life of wasted time. Nothing of substance was priority. My past, my life, a slow dwindling fire, barely kept alit. Cheap thrills, mere tinder burned-up in an instant was the focus instead of sturdy firewood. Sure, building a slow-burning fire takes effort, considerable effort, opposed to scraping tinder together. The destination is the same either way. One way brings peace. The other, well, it’s what I’ve got.

The journey is set before me. There’s no straying from the path ahead, a final countdown until zero and the fire is extinguished forever. Appearances, conversations, people, that’s where my mind goes as I approach the finish line, the final lap around the track. Appearances, too much effort was put into them. Conversations, words that carry weight, I paid no mind. People, I identified by their flaws and used that as justification to push them away. It’s fitting that I die this way, alone, nothing but my thoughts for company. It’s exactly how I lived. If there’s a God orchestrating things from behind the cosmos, he certainly has an odd sense of humor.

There’s nothing else to do.

Only seven months in, and I’m contemplating the end. Pathetic, isn’t it? I still have several years in front of me. Damn freighter has a life-support system rivaling Rift Station. It’s almost enough time to place hope in rescue. Almost. The universe is a large place, and I’m but a single ship floating aimlessly in the black abyss of space. Whether rescued or not, it doesn’t matter. The universe will go on just fine without me. Humbling, isn’t it? Our lives are nothing in the grand scheme of things. I just wish it didn’t feel like they are. It’d be easier that way. I have a fair idea what today has in store for me. It’s been the same thing for the past seven months. Might as well try to enjoy it. There’s nothing else to do.