Hello Archive
I’m not sure why I’m writing this, but I just need to get the words out. You know that itch that needs scratching? Yeah, I guess that you do.
The way I see it, I might be talking to myself here. What the hell is the Archive anyway? Ship never tells us. So I’m going to talk anyway.
I’m sitting here on Deck 2, ‘Loners Retreat’ as we often call it. It’s my lunch break and I’m picking at my sandwich while I stare through the porthole at the vastness of space. Stars everywhere, protecting a galaxy or two from the blackness beyond.
Since you ask, my sandwich is tuna with salad. The can cost me three weeks’ wages but what have I got to spend money on out here? The small things in life. The salad comes for free so that we’re all maintaining our health while kicking the universe in the teeth. I imagine you have tuna every day. Great, well done and congratulations. But do you see the stars? Millions of them, twinkling away. Constellations that no ancients ever drew, and names that nobody ever gave. It’s a sight to behold, Archive; I wish you could see it.
In my 15,782 days on this ship, I’ve pressed my nose up to this very same window on every 24-hour rotation. My mother brought me here when I was less than a day old. And do you know what I’ve seen out there, other than stars and galaxies? Precisely one asteroid. In 43 years. Right now I’m looking at a star that nobody else has ever seen. I reckon you could find it on a star map but I have no idea where we are or where we’re headed, so good luck with that, buddy.
The asteroid wasn’t even that big. It passed by the port side windows for a week and, let me tell you, we had a wild time. We had kids drawing it, the ABBA crew wrote a new song which was surprisingly decent, and the pub produced a special edition beer which we all glugged down with enthusiasm. Captain Brownlee eventually declared that it would be named ‘Brightstar One’, although of course we’ll never see it again. Another thing we left behind. If you ever bump into an asteroid that looks like a cow, then raise a glass to your old friend Darius.
Speaking of whom, I suppose I should introduce myself. Darius Edmundsson at your service. My ancestors were from somewhere called Iceland, which sounds like a fine place. Our maps of Earth don’t show any place names so I have to guess where Iceland used to be. I’m probably a long way off.
I work in the maintenance department on Deck 7 and I look after the port side storage unit. Refrigerators, lights, trucks, and endless rows of shelving. There’s a loading bay where, I believe, stuff came in to the ship before we left Earth. It must have entered from somewhere, right? I like to think that my door played its part. I keep it oiled every week, painted fresh white once or twice a year. The legend ‘AFT 07’, scrawled in blue chalk by one of the ancients, can be found on the lower right side of the main door. It’s protected with perspex now, and part of the school tour. The lovable little buggers chase each other round, the words ‘AFT! AFT! AFT!’ screeching around the bay, and I pretend to chase them away with a broomstick. Nobody knows what AFT means, but I have several theories.
Back to my sandwich. How do they make bread? We have a whole bakery team working on this stuff but they keep the secret to themselves. Even my wife won’t tell me. Jean is in charge of croissants so perhaps she doesn’t really know and just likes to maintain the mystery. All I can say is that, if there’s ever an accident in the bakery, then breadmaking is gone forever. What would we eat then? Was bread made on Earth? Oh, I have a thousand questions for you, Archive, but just tell me what the bloody hell AFT means and we’ll call it quits.
So, here I am, with a front-row seat to the universe, scoffing a tuna sandwich and having my first conversation with someone or something outside of the ship. I guess it’s pointless asking questions because everybody knows that you never answer. Some say that you’re just a thing that Ship created to keep us sane and that you don’t really exist. A glorified therapist perhaps, although if you are, then my feedback would be that you’re not particularly engaging. I hope no offence is taken.
I can hear the ever-present thrum of the air circulation units. I’m completely alone on this side of the deck. Although it’s gloomily dark, I can make out a solitary woman far away on the other side. Loners Retreat, yeah, that’s right. I wonder if she’s talking to you too. She’s there every day. One day I might take a walk over there and try to strike up a conversation.
We have sofas to sit on, and low tables to place our things. A copy of Brightstar Magazine is placed on every table—the latest edition, which I read yesterday. It contains an interesting story on the history of something called mice.
I can smell… nothing. They pump scents out in the communal areas, but here it’s a blank.
Why am I talking to a silent imaginary therapist? Well, consider my position. I was born on this ship. I will never leave it, and one day I’ll be fired out of the exit tube towards those same twinkling stars that are keeping me company on my lunch break. Simply put: I dream of more. Whatever you are, you are the only option available to me. There might be the smallest chance that you reply, and even if you do, then I’ll never know if Ship just decided to string me along.
So let’s assume you never answer. I’m okay with that.
It’s the talking that matters. You will help me dream of more. There’s a whole universe out there and my body is forever stuck in 1.27 miles of it, but my mind is free. Deep stuff, Archive, deep stuff.
Lunch break is nearly over and I have shelves to replace. I’ll leave the stars to wonder why a little human is eating a sandwich and staring at them through a little window. Four more hours of work, then dinner with Jean and a night at the cinema later. They’re playing something called James Bond but I guess you won’t know it.
Anyways, till next time, Archive, don’t be a stranger!
Darius.