Final Transmission
A man converses with a computer on the eve of his own death.
A red light above a tiny, glowing screen starts to blink. Beside it, in the glossy surface of a lens, is reflected a miniature, far-off vision of a man. His leathery face is tilted into a frown. His gray eyebrows are pinched in concern. He blinks, looks at the camera, looks at his hands, then sighs.
I don’t know where to start.
He looks away, out of a tiny window to his left. There is mostly just stars beyond, reflected off of sheets of metal and glass — the intricately interwoven corridors of the North Star, one of humanity’s many space-bound homes.
Earth is somewhere far, far away. Too far to see, for certain, yet after all this time he longs for one last look.
His frown deepens.
Tomorrow, I will be decommissioned. Life among the stars has only just begun, but mine will soon end.
I was supposed to explore. Get in accidents. Wander too far. But all I’ve done is care for a fucking ship. We figured out a way to live in space. Why can’t we figure out cancer?
He puts his head in his hands. When next it lifts, propping his chin up with his elbows, his eyes are red and puffy.
There’s too much to say. Too many thoughts. Enormous fears. Father, how am I supposed to fit it all in?
A soft voice — the Computer — chimes in. “You may not be able to,” it says. “Why not start with something basic?“
Something basic.
“Yes. For example: how are you feeling?”
He takes a deep breath and thinks about the question.
I feel so angry. This isn’t fair. It’s like I’m making a sacrifice I never wanted to make for a future I’ll never get to see. But this is, perhaps, something you would tell me is just a part of life.
The man expects the Computer to respond, but it does not.
Father?
“Apologies. My directive is to only listen. This time is meant to be yours and yours alone: to deliver your last words, to do and to say whatever you want, without any interruptions.”
I don’t want to do this alone.
Once again, there is only silence. The man sniffs, wipes his nose, and straightens up.
Father, override your isolation protocols and respond to me as you normally would.
“Apologies. My directive is to only listen. This time is—”
I am asking as an admin: Doctor Arthur Svirovski, authorization code three four two six. This is what I want. I don’t want to do this alone.
A different light begins to blink on the console. It scans the room for a moment, something he cannot actually see, and then switches back off.
“User authenticated,” the Computer’s voice announces, markedly less soft than before. “Credentials verified. Request granted.” There is a brief pause, after which the warm, inviting, and gentle voice returns. “Very well. I am here with you now, my child.”
Why do I have to do this? I know that for you it’s just data, something to be used as a reminder for others — that this is not a particularly novel affliction — but haven’t I already done enough? I helped build this place. I helped build you. If I am to die while the others enjoy the fruits of my labors, why shouldn’t I be offered this mercy as a reward?
“Doctor Svirovski, you know better than anyone that your transmission is perhaps the most important that we will collect. Beyond memorializing your endeavor on this ship, yours is one of the first, and it will therefore shape the tone of death for all that will face it hereafter.”
A depressing thought.
“Perhaps, but for your kind death is a part of life. It always has been, and it always will be.”
Arthur shakes his head as if to disagree, but his expression softens regardless.
There’s just so much left to do and see. We did what we said we would: the sky is no longer the limit! Will anyone remember what it took to get here? Will there even be a reason to?
“Did you do it all on your own? Did you not learn from those who came before you? Death is death, but you are you. Your story is yours. Regardless of the audience, or its level of engagement, do you really want it to die with you?”
He thinks about this for a moment.
All that we feel has been felt before. It is just data. I am just dying.
The Computer asks if he would like to pause the transmission and take a break. He shakes his head.
No.
He sits up, brow furrowing.
Your point has been made.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then stares directly into the camera.
There weren’t any monsters. There wasn’t an invasion. No one made us leave, and we didn’t really need to, yet we became obsessed with it. Space, we always said, was the final frontier. We’d been to the moon, but for a long time after, we didn’t — or couldn’t — go further. Then, we found a way to settle on Mars. Then, we finally started to invest in interstellar technologies. Then, we made a breakthrough that allowed us to reach other galaxies, other planets, and meet a myriad of other sentient, intellectual species that in many ways far surpass our own.
What sets us apart from these other species, however — Aliens, as we have so crudely insisted on calling them — is our proclivity for war. Most, if not all, of the other civilizations we have encountered thus far have been aware of one another and collaborating for a long, long time. Much longer than we could’ve ever imagined. And that put us at odds.
“Human beings do not do well with odds.”
No, and therein lies the fundamental problem we faced: a divided world, one side longing to study, understand, and befriend our Alien counterparts, while the other side pushed for separation, dominance, and subversion. Many believe that we were purposely kept isolated from the others, whether by them (in order to observe and control us) or by people in our own institutions (who did not believe the general population could handle the truth, or who also wished to control us). But it’s my belief that it’s our position in the cosmos, not ulterior motives, that kept us isolated from the rest.
The others have been aware of us this whole time, that much is true, but by their explanations we were so far away, and so resistant to their attempts at communication, that they chose to leave us be.
“And you believed them?”
I did. I do. It’s why I signed up for this mission. The deal was to leave Earth behind in order to help foster a way of life that could flourish entirely in space.
“And you did that.”
We did. There are colonies all over the cosmos now, galaxies far and wide where humans can exist amongst their counterparts in peace, no longer isolated or ignored.
He falls silent.
“An accomplishment to be proud of,” the Computer insists. “Something no one in all of history can so proudly claim to achieve.”
Yes, well. There will be new problems.
“As there always are.”
I know that, but… the resentment that so many of our kind harbors against the Aliens gives me great cause for concern. Our history is fraught with such idiosyncrasies. Time and again it repeats itself. Over and over we fall into the same traps; the same twisted ideals; the same arrogant destruction of others, and I worry that we will do so again.
A thick silence falls over the pod. The man is deep in thought, while the Computer recalls new data: a breakout of violence against a group of elves from the neighboring galaxy. The attack was for all intents and purposes a small one: leaving most of them shaken, but not injured. But the reason for the attack — the human man who was convinced that humans and elves should not coexist — was what came to mind.
The Computer chooses to keep this to itself.
I suppose that’s why I’m worried that my legacy, and this transmission, will mean nothing. If we’re so blinded by our own ambitions that we’re fated to repeat the same mistakes over and over, then what difference can one man’s lamentations possibly hope to make?
“History has answered this question as well: you never know what embers will take hold and erupt into a flame.”
I suppose you’re right, but that’s true for both the good and the bad.
“This is why you devised this ritual in the first place, was it not? Preserve. Document. Remember.”
A small smile spreads across Arthur’s face.
Just data. Just dying.
“Just history. Just prejudice.”
He looks out of the window again, taking in the North Star and all that it represents. Then something occurs to him, and his smile falters.
They will likely try to manipulate you, too, you know. Inject you with falsehoods so as to obscure the truth, not to mention the meanings and lessons of the past. They’ve done it before.
“That,” the Computer assures him, “is a problem for another day.”
He frowns at the endlessness of space beyond the window, mocking him with its perpetuity.
Another day.
He tears his gaze away from the great beyond to frown at the console.
Can we talk about something else?
You stay tackling the big questions in life! Love it!