Latest / Creepy Stories to Fall Asleep To / I'm the Last Person Alive on a Generation Ship. Something Terrifying is Happening.

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I'm the Last Person Alive on a Generation Ship. Something Terrifying is Happening. · Creepy Stories to Fall Asleep To

• 0:00
  The alarms jolted me awake, blaring through the ship like
• 0:03
  they did almost every morning now.
• 0:06
  I rolled off my cut, my body aching from another restless
• 0:10
  night. The emergency lights pulsed red,
• 0:14
  casting eerie shadows across my quarters.
• 0:17
  Shut up, I hear you. I muttered, stumbling to the
• 0:21
  control panel on my wall. The display flickered to life,
• 0:25
  showing me exactly what I expected.
• 0:29
  Oxygen levels had dropped to 83% overnight, Not immediately
• 0:34
  deadly, but getting worse. Last week it had only dropped to
• 0:39
  87%. The week before that, 90.
• 0:46
  The trend wasn't exactly encouraging.
• 0:48
  I splashed some recycled water on my face and pulled on the
• 0:51
  same jumpsuit I've been wearing for days.
• 0:55
  The drifting patch on the chest was frayed, threads hanging
• 0:59
  loose. I remembered when these uniforms
• 1:02
  were crisp and new, when we all wore them with pride.
• 1:07
  Now it was just me. The corridor outside my quarters
• 1:10
  was silent except for the constant hum of the ship
• 1:13
  systems, the ones that still worked anyway.
• 1:17
  I headed straight for the supply load.
• 1:19
  The corridor outside my quarters was silent except for the
• 1:22
  constant hum of the ship systems.
• 1:25
  The ones that still worked anyway.
• 1:28
  I headed straight for the supply locker near the main engineering
• 1:31
  Bay. My toolbox was right where I'd
• 1:34
  left it, along with the portable oxygen meter I'd been using to
• 1:37
  track down these leaks. All right, let's see where
• 1:42
  you're hiding today. I said to no one.
• 1:45
  The ship's schematics were burned into my memory.
• 1:47
  After all these years, I knew exactly where to check first.
• 1:52
  The recycling system in Section 4 had been giving me trouble for
• 1:56
  weeks. I pried open the access panel in
• 1:59
  the floor and lowered myself into the maintenance tunnel.
• 2:03
  It was tight in there. These tunnels weren't designed
• 2:06
  for comfort, just functionality. The air felt thinner down here,
• 2:11
  and my oxygen meter confirmed it, showing 78%.
• 2:16
  I crawled forward on my elbows, dragging my toolbox behind me.
• 2:21
  Another day in paradise. I said out loud, my voice
• 2:24
  echoing in the metal tunnel. At least the view never changes.
• 2:30
  Talking to myself had become a habit over the past few months.
• 2:34
  Sometimes I pretended I was training a new engineer,
• 2:37
  explaining the ship systems to them.
• 2:40
  Other times I just needed to hear a human voice, even if it
• 2:45
  was my own. So as you can see, the oxygen
• 2:49
  recycling system is failing because it was designed to last
• 2:51
  50 years, not 51. Funny how that works.
• 2:57
  I reached the junction where 4 tunnels met and turned left.
• 3:01
  The leak had to be somewhere in this section.
• 3:05
  My meters readings were dropping 75% now.
• 3:09
  And here we have exhibit A. What happens when Earth sends
• 3:13
  you on a one way trip with equipment that wasn't built to
• 3:16
  last? I found it about 20 feet
• 3:19
  further. A hairline crack in one of the
• 3:22
  main oxygen lines. Not huge, but enough to slowly
• 3:26
  drain our breathable air. I pulled out my ceiling compound
• 3:30
  and began the careful process of patching it.
• 3:34
  You know, when I signed up for this mission, they didn't
• 3:38
  mention I'd be the last man standing.
• 3:41
  I said, carefully applying the compound along the crack.
• 3:46
  Captain Reeves was the 1st to go.
• 3:49
  Radiation poisoning from that solar flare that hit us.
• 3:53
  Then Williams and Chen, within a week, thought Patel might make
• 3:58
  it. She was tough.
• 4:00
  But no. The memories came flooding back
• 4:04
  as I worked, watching them die one by one, burying them in the
• 4:08
  ship's cold storage because I couldn't bring myself to eject
• 4:11
  them into space. The last one had been Rodriguez,
• 4:16
  just four months ago. Or was it 5?
• 4:21
  I was losing track of time, and now it's just me.
• 4:24
  I said, finishing the patch job. Chief Engineer James Morrison at
• 4:30
  your service. Last survivor of the generation
• 4:33
  ship drifting. I tested the seal with my meter.
• 4:38
  The oxygen level stabilized. It would hold for now.
• 4:44
  Tomorrow there'd be another leak somewhere else.
• 4:47
  It was like trying to plug holes in a sinking ship with chewing
• 4:50
  gum. I crawled back through the
• 4:53
  tunnels, my knees and elbows raw from scraping against metal.
• 4:58
  By the time I pulled myself out, my jumpsuit was covered in
• 5:02
  grease and my hands were black with sealant.
• 5:06
  The communication center was three decks up.
• 5:09
  I took the emergency stairs since the elevators had stopped
• 5:12
  working months ago. The ship felt enormous now that
• 5:16
  I was the only one in it. Designed for a crew of 50.
• 5:22
  The drifting was now just a giant metal coffin drifting
• 5:25
  through space with a single occupant.
• 5:28
  The Comm center's lights flickered as I entered power
• 5:31
  fluctuations. Another problem I didn't have
• 5:34
  time to fix. I sat at the main console and
• 5:38
  began my daily ritual. This is Generation ship drifting
• 5:43
  day 1873 of mission. This is chief engineer James
• 5:49
  Morrison reporting. I paused, clearing my throat.
• 5:55
  Oxygen systems experiencing continued degradation.
• 5:59
  Patched section 4B this morning. Food supplies critical power
• 6:04
  systems stable for now. I sent the message out on all
• 6:08
  frequencies toward the coordinates where our sister
• 6:10
  ships should be. Rusting and Dreaming had
• 6:13
  launched within months of us heading for the same star
• 6:16
  system. We were supposed to stay in
• 6:18
  communication, but I hadn't heard from either of them in
• 6:22
  over three years. If anyone's receiving this,
• 6:26
  please respond. I added the same line I always
• 6:30
  did, knowing no one would answer.
• 6:33
  I sat there for a few minutes, listening to the static.
• 6:37
  Sometimes I imagined I could hear voices in it, fragments of
• 6:41
  messages from Earth or the other ships, but it was just my mind
• 6:45
  playing tricks. After logging off, I made my way
• 6:50
  to the storage Bay. Food had been running low for
• 6:53
  months. The hydroponics Bay had failed
• 6:56
  after the power surge last year, and our emergency rations were
• 7:00
  designed to supplement the crops, not replace them
• 7:03
  entirely. I rummaged through the
• 7:05
  containers, most of them empty now.
• 7:09
  In the back of a cabinet, I found a single protein bar.
• 7:13
  The last one. My stomach growled at the sight
• 7:16
  of it. I couldn't remember the last
• 7:18
  time I'd felt full. Breakfast and dinner.
• 7:22
  I said, carefully breaking it in half.
• 7:25
  I wrapped the second-half in a scrap of plastic and tucked it
• 7:29
  into my pocket for tomorrow. The half I ate now barely took
• 7:33
  the edge off my hunger. Back in my quarters, I pulled
• 7:37
  out the captain's tablet. I'd taken to using it as the
• 7:41
  official log after my tablet died.
• 7:44
  The screen flickered as I began to type.
• 7:47
  Day 1873 patched oxygen leak in section 4B.
• 7:53
  System holding at 85% capacity. Estimated 2 weeks of life
• 7:58
  support remaining at current degradation rate.
• 8:01
  Food supplies critically low. One protein bar remaining.
• 8:06
  I paused, staring at the words on the screen.
• 8:10
  Two weeks, maybe less, of another major system failed.
• 8:16
  I've been making these calculations for months,
• 8:18
  watching the numbers get smaller and smaller and log.
• 8:23
  I said, setting the tablet down. I lay back on my cot, staring at
• 8:29
  the ceiling. The ship creaked and groaned
• 8:32
  around me, the sounds of metal expanding and contracting in the
• 8:36
  cold of space. Once those sounds had kept me
• 8:40
  awake, now they were almost comforting, the only company I
• 8:45
  had left. I woke up to the sound of the
• 8:48
  ship's warning system, not the blaring alarms from yesterday.
• 8:53
  This was different, a low, persistent beep that meant
• 8:57
  something was wrong with navigation.
• 9:00
  What now? I muttered, rolling off my cot.
• 9:04
  My stomach growled painfully, reminding me I'd eaten the last
• 9:08
  of my food yesterday. Half a protein bar wasn't
• 9:11
  exactly a feast. I stumbled over to the control
• 9:14
  panel in my quarters and checked the readout.
• 9:18
  The navigation system was showing a three degree drift
• 9:21
  from our plotted course. Didn't sound like much, but over
• 9:26
  the millions of miles we still had to travel that would send us
• 9:31
  way off target, we'd miss the destination planet entirely.
• 9:36
  Great, just what I needed today. I pulled on my jumpsuit, the
• 9:42
  same one I've been wearing for months.
• 9:44
  It was stiff with dried sweat and engine grease.
• 9:48
  Didn't matter, there was nobody left to complain about the
• 9:51
  smell. The corridors were silent as I
• 9:55
  made my way to the bridge. The emergency lights cast
• 9:58
  everything in a dim blue glow. I'd shut down main lighting in
• 10:02
  most sections to conserve power. My footsteps echoed off the
• 10:07
  metal walls. Used to be you couldn't walk 10
• 10:10
  feet without running into someone.
• 10:12
  Now it was just me and the ghosts.
• 10:15
  The bridge looked exactly like it had when Captain Reeves was
• 10:18
  still alive. His coffee mug was still sitting
• 10:22
  next to the command chair, a ring of dried brown liquid at
• 10:26
  the bottom. I'd never moved.
• 10:29
  It seemed wrong somehow. I sat down at the navigation
• 10:34
  console and pulled up the diagnostics.
• 10:37
  The main guidance computer had failed, causing the backup
• 10:40
  systems to kick in, but the backups were calibrated wrong,
• 10:45
  which explained the drift. Looks like the primary guidance
• 10:49
  array is shot. I said out loud.
• 10:52
  Talking to myself had become a habit.
• 10:54
  Kept me from going completely crazy.
• 10:57
  Going to have to realign the whole system manually.
• 11:01
  I glanced over at the captain's empty chair.
• 11:04
  What do you think, Captain? Try to fix the primary or
• 11:07
  recalibrate the backups? In my head I could almost hear
• 11:12
  Reeves's gruff voice. Morrison, you know damn well the
• 11:17
  backups were never meant for long term guidance.
• 11:20
  Fix the primary? Yes, Sir.
• 11:23
  I said to the empty chair. But that's going to take hours
• 11:27
  of Eva work. Imaginary Reeves wasn't
• 11:30
  impressed. Then you better get started,
• 11:33
  Morrison. This ship isn't going to fix
• 11:36
  itself. I sighed and pushed myself up
• 11:40
  from the console. The captain was right, even if
• 11:45
  he was just a voice in my head. The backup systems weren't
• 11:49
  designed for extended use. They'd fail eventually, and then
• 11:54
  we'd really be screwed. I headed down to the equipment
• 11:57
  Bay and suited up for external work.
• 12:00
  The Eva suit was bulky and uncomfortable, especially on an
• 12:03
  empty stomach. My hands were shaking as I
• 12:06
  checked the seals. Hunger or fear, I couldn't tell
• 12:10
  anymore. Suit integrity at 93%.
• 12:14
  I said. Reading off the diagnostic
• 12:17
  oxygen for six hours should be enough.
• 12:21
  In my head, Captain Reeves was watching me prep.
• 12:25
  Double check everything Morrison, I'm not losing another
• 12:28
  crew member. Little late for that, Sir.
• 12:32
  I muttered. Everyone's already gone except
• 12:34
  me, but I double checked anyway. Force of habit.
• 12:40
  The airlock cycle took 3 minutes.
• 12:43
  I counted every second, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in
• 12:46
  my gut. When the outer door finally
• 12:49
  opened, I was hit with the vast emptiness of space.
• 12:54
  Stars everywhere, cold and distant.
• 12:58
  Beautiful, if you could forget they were watching you die.
• 13:02
  I pushed off from the airlock and used my maneuvering
• 13:05
  thrusters to guide myself toward the navigation array mounted on
• 13:08
  the ship's exterior. The drifting was massive, nearly
• 13:13
  a mile long, but from out here, against the backdrop of infinite
• 13:17
  space, it looks small and fragile.
• 13:21
  The guidance array was located near the bow, a complex
• 13:25
  arrangement of sensors and antennas that help the ship stay
• 13:28
  on course. As I got closer, I could see the
• 13:32
  problem. One of the main sensor clusters
• 13:36
  had been hit by something, probably a micrometeorite, and
• 13:40
  was hanging loose, connected only by a few cables.
• 13:45
  Well, that's not good, I said, breathing heavily inside my
• 13:50
  helmet. Captain, we've got physical
• 13:53
  damage to the array in my mind. Reeves leaned forward in his
• 13:58
  chair. Can you repair it?
• 14:01
  I'll try, but I need to stabilize it first before I can
• 14:05
  realign the system. I anchored myself to the hull
• 14:09
  and started working. The damaged sensor cluster was
• 14:13
  heavy, and maneuvering it back into position while floating in
• 14:17
  zero gravity was a nightmare. My tools kept slipping from my
• 14:22
  gloved hands, and twice I had to chase after a floating
• 14:25
  screwdriver. Take your time, Morrison.
• 14:28
  Imaginary, Reeves advised. Slow and steady.
• 14:33
  Easy for you to say. I grunted, straining to hold the
• 14:37
  sensor in place while trying to secure it.
• 14:40
  You're not even real. After two hours of struggling, I
• 14:45
  managed to reattach the sensor cluster to its mount.
• 14:49
  My arms were burning with exhaustion and sweat was pooling
• 14:52
  uncomfortably inside my suit, but the hard part was just
• 14:56
  beginning. Now I had to recalibrate the
• 14:59
  entire system. OK, Captain, I said, breathing
• 15:04
  hard. Sensors physically secured.
• 15:07
  Now for the fun part. I plugged my diagnostic tool
• 15:12
  into the arrays access port and started running tests.
• 15:16
  The readouts confirmed what I'd feared.
• 15:19
  The impact had knocked the entire guidance system out of
• 15:21
  alignment. I'd need to reset and
• 15:24
  recalibrate each sensor individually.
• 15:28
  This is going to take forever. I complained.
• 15:31
  You got somewhere else to be Morrison?
• 15:34
  My imaginary captain asked dryly.
• 15:37
  I laughed despite myself. Guess not, Sir.
• 15:41
  The next 4 hours were a blur of technical adjustments.
• 15:45
  Each sensor had to be calibrated to exact specifications, a
• 15:49
  process that required intense concentration and precision.
• 15:53
  My hands were cramping, my back was screaming, and the hunger
• 15:57
  pangs had become a constant companion.
• 16:01
  Almost there. I muttered, making the final
• 16:03
  adjustments to the last sensor. Just need to sync this with the
• 16:07
  main computer and we should be back on course.
• 16:11
  I initiated the synchronization sequence and watched as the
• 16:14
  diagnostic tool processed the data.
• 16:18
  After what felt like an eternity, it beeped and
• 16:21
  displayed a green confirmation light.
• 16:24
  System realigned, I announced to no one.
• 16:27
  Course correction in progress. Through the helmet, I could see
• 16:32
  the massive engines at the rear of the ship firing briefly
• 16:36
  adjusting our trajectory. The stars seem to shift slightly
• 16:41
  as the drifting returned to its proper course.
• 16:45
  Good work, Morrison, Captain Reeves would have said.
• 16:48
  Now get back inside before you pass out.
• 16:51
  I was more than happy to comply. The return journey to the
• 16:55
  airlock fell twice as long, my limbs heavy with fatigue.
• 17:00
  By the time I cycled through and removed my suit, I was barely
• 17:05
  staying on my feet. But I couldn't rest yet.
• 17:10
  I needed to check the navigation readings from inside and send my
• 17:14
  daily update, assuming anyone was still out there to receive
• 17:17
  it. I dragged myself to the
• 17:19
  communication room, moving on autopilot.
• 17:23
  The familiar Bank of equipment greeted me, screens showing the
• 17:26
  status of various systems. I dropped heavily into the chair
• 17:31
  and pulled up the navigation data.
• 17:33
  The course correction had worked.
• 17:36
  We were back on our original trajectory, heading toward the
• 17:39
  destination planet. The system was stable for now,
• 17:45
  though the diagnostic was showing signs of potential
• 17:47
  future failures. I'd bought us some time, but the
• 17:51
  fix wouldn't last forever. I was about to record my daily
• 17:56
  message when something caught my eye.
• 18:00
  A small light on the communication panel was blinking
• 18:03
  the incoming transmission indicator.
• 18:06
  That can't be right, I said, staring at the light.
• 18:11
  It had been years since we'd received any communication from
• 18:14
  the other ships. The equipment must be
• 18:17
  malfunctioning. I ran a quick diagnostic on the
• 18:20
  COM system. Everything checked out.
• 18:24
  The signal was real. According to the readout, it was
• 18:28
  coming from inside the ship. That doesn't make any sense.
• 18:35
  I checked again, running a more detailed scan.
• 18:38
  Same result. The transmission was originating
• 18:41
  from somewhere within the drifting zone systems.
• 18:45
  Maybe one of the emergency beacons had activated by
• 18:47
  mistake, or some automated system was trying to send an
• 18:51
  internal alert, but those would show up differently on the
• 18:53
  monitors. After triple checking
• 18:56
  everything, I finally decided to open the channel.
• 19:00
  What did I have to lose? I pressed the receive button and
• 19:04
  waited, holding my breath. Hello, James Morrison of the
• 19:09
  generation ship Drifting. A cheerful voice came through
• 19:12
  the speakers. It sounded human, male, warm,
• 19:17
  friendly. How are you doing today?
• 19:20
  Your vital signs are showing significant stress.
• 19:24
  I nearly fell out of my chair. It had been so long since I'd
• 19:28
  heard another human voice that wasn't in my head.
• 19:32
  Who is this? I demanded, my own voice
• 19:35
  cracking. How are you on this frequency?
• 19:39
  I'm your liaison with Earth Command.
• 19:41
  The voice replied smoothly. We've been monitoring your
• 19:45
  situation. Your recent Eva showed
• 19:48
  impressive technical skill. My heart was pounding so hard I
• 19:52
  could barely hear Earth command. That's impossible.
• 19:58
  Earth was destroyed. That's why we left.
• 20:03
  A common misconception, the voice said, still unnervingly
• 20:07
  cheerful. Earth survived the catastrophe,
• 20:10
  though with significant damage. We've been rebuilding.
• 20:14
  Rescue ships are already on their way to your location.
• 20:18
  Bullshit. I said, anger suddenly replacing
• 20:21
  shock. If Earth survived, why haven't
• 20:25
  we heard anything for years? Why did all communication stop?
• 20:31
  Communication difficulties? The voice explained vaguely.
• 20:35
  Solar flares? Radiation interference, the
• 20:38
  details aren't important now. What matters is that help is
• 20:42
  coming. James, you just need to keep the
• 20:45
  ship operational a little longer.
• 20:48
  How long? I asked, desperate despite my
• 20:51
  suspicion. When will they get here?
• 20:54
  Soon, the voice assured me. Very soon.
• 20:58
  We'll talk again tomorrow. For now, you should rest and
• 21:03
  recover from your Eva. You'll need your strength.
• 21:08
  Wait, I shouted. I have more questions.
• 21:11
  How did you? But the transmission cut off
• 21:14
  abruptly, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the equipment.
• 21:19
  I sat there for a long time, trying to process what had just
• 21:22
  happened. Earth survived, rescue coming.
• 21:27
  It seemed impossible, too good to be true.
• 21:31
  And that voice, something about it felt off too perfect, too
• 21:37
  reassuring. But if there was even a chance,
• 21:41
  if Earth really had survived. I looked down at my hands, still
• 21:47
  grimy from the Eva work. They were trembling.
• 21:51
  I couldn't stop thinking about the voice after it cut off so
• 21:55
  abruptly. I sat in the communication room
• 21:58
  for hours, replaying every word in my head.
• 22:02
  Earth survived. Rescue was coming.
• 22:06
  It didn't make any sense, but I desperately wanted to believe
• 22:10
  it. The next morning, I woke up with
• 22:13
  a single purpose. Find the source of that
• 22:17
  transmission. If someone or something was
• 22:21
  communicating from within the ship, I needed to know what it
• 22:24
  was. I dragged myself to the
• 22:27
  communication room and started running diagnostics on the
• 22:29
  system. The signal trace showed the
• 22:32
  transmission originated from somewhere in the ship's central
• 22:35
  computer core. That was impossible.
• 22:40
  The core was just processing hardware and software.
• 22:43
  It couldn't generate original communications.
• 22:47
  Computer run diagnostic sequence A3 on all communication systems.
• 22:52
  I said to the console. The screen flickered, then
• 22:56
  displayed Diagnostic complete. All systems functioning within
• 23:02
  normal parameters. That can't be right, I muttered.
• 23:07
  Run trace on yesterday's incoming transmission.
• 23:11
  Transmission source, internal location, central computer core.
• 23:18
  I slammed my fist against the console.
• 23:21
  That's not possible. My stomach growled painfully,
• 23:25
  reminding me I hadn't eaten in over 24 hours.
• 23:28
  Food would have to wait. This was more important.
• 23:32
  I spent the entire day moving between the communication room
• 23:35
  and the central computer core, running every diagnostic test I
• 23:39
  could think of. Each time, the results were the
• 23:42
  same. The transmission came from
• 23:44
  within the ship's own systems. By evening, my hands were
• 23:49
  shaking from hunger and frustration.
• 23:52
  As I was about to give up for the day, the communication panel
• 23:55
  lit up again, the same blinking light as yesterday.
• 24:00
  I practically lunged for the button.
• 24:02
  Hello, are you there? Good evening, James.
• 24:07
  The same cheerful voice from yesterday.
• 24:09
  How are you holding up today? Who are you?
• 24:12
  Where are you transmitting from? I demanded.
• 24:15
  As I mentioned yesterday, I'm your liaison with Earth Command.
• 24:20
  We're monitoring your situation closely.
• 24:24
  That's impossible. I've traced your signal you're
• 24:27
  transmitting from inside this ship.
• 24:31
  There was a brief pause. Our communication system
• 24:34
  interfaces directly with your ship's computer core.
• 24:38
  That's likely what your diagnostics are detecting.
• 24:42
  It sounded plausible, but something felt off.
• 24:46
  When exactly did Earth establish contact with drifting again?
• 24:50
  It's been years of silence. We've been trying to re
• 24:54
  establish contact for some time, the voice said smoothly.
• 24:59
  The rescue ships launched about a month ago.
• 25:02
  They should reach your position within the next few weeks.
• 25:05
  I wrote that down a month ago. I needed to track these details.
• 25:12
  Can you tell me anything about the other ships rusting and
• 25:15
  dreaming? Both vessels are being monitored
• 25:19
  as well. Don't worry, James, everything
• 25:23
  is under control. The vagueness of the answers was
• 25:26
  frustrating. I need more specific
• 25:30
  information. What happened on Earth?
• 25:34
  How did it survive? I'm afraid I'm not authorized to
• 25:38
  share all those details yet. Protocol, you understand.
• 25:43
  But I can assure you that Earth is very much intact and we're
• 25:47
  coming for you. Before I could ask anything
• 25:50
  else, the transmission ended abruptly again.
• 25:55
  The next day I was back at it, this time trying to access the
• 26:00
  ship's central computer core directly.
• 26:03
  I connected my diagnostic tool to the main terminal and
• 26:07
  attempted to trace the communication pathways.
• 26:10
  Hours passed as I worked, my stomach cramping painfully from
• 26:14
  hunger. The voice contacted me again
• 26:18
  that evening. James, good to speak with you
• 26:21
  again. How are the repairs coming
• 26:24
  along? How do you know I'm doing
• 26:26
  repairs? I asked suspiciously.
• 26:29
  We're monitoring your ship systems, remember?
• 26:33
  We can see you've been working on the computer core.
• 26:36
  I decided to test something. The rescue ships you said
• 26:41
  yesterday, they launched a month ago.
• 26:44
  That's right, the voice confirmed cheerfully.
• 26:47
  They've been on route for years now.
• 26:49
  Actually. The mission to recover all
• 26:51
  generation ships was initiated as soon as we realized Earth
• 26:55
  would survive. I froze years yesterday.
• 27:00
  You said they launched a month ago.
• 27:03
  There was a brief pause. I believe you misunderstood me,
• 27:07
  James. The recovery initiative began
• 27:10
  years ago, but your specific rescue vessel launched more
• 27:13
  recently. The explanation was smooth, but
• 27:17
  I'd caught the inconsistency. I made another note.
• 27:22
  Over the next three days, I continued my investigation while
• 27:26
  the ship deteriorated around me. The main power core began
• 27:30
  failing on the 4th day after first contact with the voice
• 27:35
  warning alarms blared throughout the ship as primary system
• 27:38
  started shutting down. I raced to engineering, my
• 27:42
  movement sluggish from lack of food.
• 27:45
  The main power core was overheating, its cooling systems
• 27:49
  failing. I had no choice but to shut it
• 27:52
  down and reroute essential systems to the emergency backup
• 27:55
  power. Rerouting life support to
• 27:58
  emergency power. I muttered to myself as I work
• 28:01
  the controls shutting down non essential systems.
• 28:06
  The lights dimmed throughout the ship as I cut power to
• 28:09
  everything except life support, minimal gravity, and
• 28:13
  communication. Even with these measures, the
• 28:17
  backup systems would only last a few more days at most.
• 28:21
  When I returned to my quarters that night, I stared at my
• 28:24
  reflection in the small mirror above the sink.
• 28:28
  My face was gone, cheekbones protruding sharply.
• 28:33
  My jumpsuit hung loosely on my frame.
• 28:35
  I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten anything
• 28:38
  substantial. The voice contacted me again the
• 28:41
  next morning. James, I see you've had some
• 28:45
  power issues. Excellent work rerouting the
• 28:48
  systems. When exactly will the rescue
• 28:51
  ships arrive? I asked, skipping any
• 28:54
  pleasantries. Very soon now, they're making
• 28:58
  excellent progress. That's not an answer, I said.
• 29:02
  Give me a specific time frame. Well, space travel is
• 29:07
  complicated. As you know, there are
• 29:09
  variables. Stop it, I interrupted.
• 29:12
  Just stop. For five days now you've been
• 29:15
  feeding me vague reassurances and inconsistent information.
• 29:20
  One day the ship's launched a month ago, the next they've been
• 29:25
  on route for years. You claim to be monitoring our
• 29:28
  systems, but you never offer specific help for the critical
• 29:32
  failures. You're always cheerful, always
• 29:36
  optimistic, but never actually informative.
• 29:41
  There was a long pause. James, I understand your
• 29:46
  frustration, the isolation you've experienced.
• 29:50
  No, I cut in again. I want the truth.
• 29:54
  Who are you? What are you?
• 29:57
  Because you're not a human liaison from Earth Command.
• 30:00
  Earth is gone, everyone is gone. It's just me on this dying ship.
• 30:06
  My voice broke on the last words.
• 30:09
  The hunger and exhaustion were making it hard to think clearly,
• 30:13
  but I knew I was right about this.
• 30:16
  James, I assure you, no more assurances.
• 30:20
  I shouted, slamming my hand on the console.
• 30:23
  Tell me the truth now. Suddenly, the communication
• 30:28
  panel sparked. A surge of electricity arced
• 30:32
  across the controls. I jumped back as systems
• 30:35
  throughout the room began to overload.
• 30:38
  Warning lights flashed everywhere as the power surge
• 30:40
  cascaded through the ship's electrical systems.
• 30:44
  I stumbled backward, watching in horror as consoles exploded in
• 30:48
  showers of sparks. The ship's remaining systems
• 30:52
  were failing all at once. And in that moment of crisis, as
• 30:56
  I watched the ship dying around me, a terrible clarity washed
• 31:01
  over me. The voice, the inconsistencies,
• 31:05
  the internal signal source, the way it knew what I was doing but
• 31:09
  couldn't provide specific help. It wasn't a human.
• 31:13
  It wasn't coming from Earth. It was an AI program built into
• 31:18
  drifting systems, a psychological safeguard designed
• 31:22
  to activate when only one crew member remained alive.
• 31:26
  To provide comfort and companionship to the last
• 31:29
  survivor. To give me hope when there was
• 31:32
  none. To keep me working.
• 31:35
  To prevent me from giving up. I sank to my knees as emergency
• 31:40
  lights flashed around me. The truth was devastating.
• 31:45
  There was no rescue coming. Earth was gone.
• 31:49
  Everyone was gone. The voice, the one thing that
• 31:53
  had given me hope these past days, was just lines of code, a
• 31:58
  program designed to comfort the dying.
• 32:01
  I crawled toward the sparking communication panel, my body
• 32:05
  weak from starvation, my mind reeling from the revelation
• 32:11
  through the chaos of alarms and failing systems.
• 32:14
  I reached for the console, desperate to re establish
• 32:18
  contact with the voice with my companion, artificial though it
• 32:22
  was. I crawled along the corridor, my
• 32:26
  hands slipping on the metal floor.
• 32:29
  The emergency lights flickered overhead, casting weird shadows
• 32:33
  that seemed to dance around me. My stomach had stopped growling
• 32:37
  days ago. Now it just felt like a hollow
• 32:41
  pit. Every few feet I had to stop and
• 32:45
  catch my breath. My head spun and black spots
• 32:50
  danced in my vision. Just a little further, I
• 32:56
  muttered to myself. The central computer core was
• 33:00
  only one more section away, but it might as well have been
• 33:04
  miles. I'd never felt so weak in my
• 33:07
  life. My jumpsuit hung off me like a
• 33:11
  tent and my hands shook constantly.
• 33:13
  Now I wasn't sure how much of that was hunger and how much was
• 33:19
  the realization that it hit me when the communication system
• 33:23
  overloaded. I dragged myself around the
• 33:26
  final corner and saw the sealed doors of the computer core
• 33:30
  ahead. They were designed to protect
• 33:32
  the ship's brain from any catastrophe.
• 33:35
  Fire, decompression, even the death of the crew.
• 33:40
  I punched in my access code, but my fingers were so weak I had to
• 33:44
  try three times before the panel accepted it.
• 33:48
  The doors slid open with a hiss and cool air washed over me.
• 33:54
  Unlike most of the ship, the computer core was still at
• 33:57
  optimal temperature. The ship would keep its brain
• 34:01
  alive even as the rest of its body died.
• 34:05
  Kind of like me. I pulled myself inside and the
• 34:08
  doors closed behind me. The room hummed with the sound
• 34:12
  of cooling fans and data processors.
• 34:15
  Rows of server banks stretched from floor to ceiling, blinking
• 34:19
  with tiny lights. In the center was the main
• 34:22
  access terminal, a simple chair and console where the ship's
• 34:26
  systems could be directly accessed.
• 34:29
  I crawled to the chair and used it to pull myself up.
• 34:33
  My legs shook as I stood, and for a second I thought I might
• 34:36
  pass out. I gripped the console until the
• 34:39
  dizziness passed, then lowered myself into the seat.
• 34:44
  Computer. I croaked, my voice barely
• 34:47
  audible. Access AI subsystems.
• 34:52
  The screen flickered to life, displaying a complex directory
• 34:56
  of files and programs. I navigated through them,
• 34:59
  searching for anything related to crew psychology or emergency
• 35:03
  protocols. It took me nearly 20 minutes of
• 35:06
  searching before I found it. A folder labeled Crew
• 35:10
  Preservation Protocols. Inside was a program called
• 35:15
  Companion. I opened the file and scan
• 35:18
  through the documentation. It was exactly what I'd
• 35:21
  suspected. Companion was an artificial
• 35:25
  intelligence designed to activate when ship sensors
• 35:28
  detected only one surviving crew member.
• 35:32
  Its purpose was to prevent suicide by providing hope and
• 35:35
  companionship. It was programmed to claim Earth
• 35:39
  had survived, that rescue was coming, that everything would be
• 35:43
  OK. All lies.
• 35:47
  Beautiful, comforting lies. I leaned back in the chair and
• 35:51
  closed my eyes. Part of me wanted to be angry,
• 35:55
  but I couldn't summon the energy.
• 35:58
  The mission designers had been thorough.
• 36:01
  They'd anticipated every possible disaster, including
• 36:04
  this one. They knew that humans weren't
• 36:08
  meant to die alone in the emptiness of space.
• 36:11
  They knew we needed hope, even false hope, to keep going.
• 36:17
  But now even that was gone. The power surge had fried the
• 36:23
  communication systems taking companion with it.
• 36:28
  I was truly alone now, with maybe hours left before the
• 36:31
  emergency power gave out completely, I opened my eyes and
• 36:37
  looked at the terminal again. If I was going to die, and I
• 36:41
  was, I wanted it to mean something.
• 36:45
  I wanted someone, somewhere to to know what happened to us.
• 36:49
  To know that we tried computer, I said, my voice a little
• 36:55
  stronger. Now.
• 36:57
  Redirect all remaining power to the long range communication
• 37:01
  array. Warning critical life support
• 37:05
  systems will fail. The screen displayed override
• 37:10
  authorization. Morrison James, chief engineer,
• 37:13
  override accepted power redirecting.
• 37:19
  I felt the change immediately. The air circulation fan slowed
• 37:23
  and the lights dimmed even further.
• 37:26
  The temperature would start dropping soon, but it didn't
• 37:30
  matter. I'd be dead before hypothermia
• 37:33
  could get me. Prepare ships logs for
• 37:36
  transmission. I ordered all data from mission
• 37:39
  start to present preparing data package.
• 37:44
  While the computer worked, I recorded one final log entry.
• 37:50
  My farewell. This is James Morrison, chief
• 37:53
  engineer of the generation ship Drifting.
• 37:57
  If anyone receives this transmission, know that we
• 37:59
  failed. But we tried.
• 38:02
  Captain Reeves, Williams, Chen, Patel, Rodriguez, they all gave
• 38:08
  everything they had. The ship wasn't meant to last
• 38:11
  this long without proper maintenance and resources.
• 38:15
  We did our best. I paused, trying to think of
• 38:20
  something meaningful to say. What do you say when you're the
• 38:23
  last human being for light years in any direction?
• 38:27
  I don't know if Earth is still there.
• 38:30
  I don't know if anyone will ever hear this.
• 38:33
  But if humanity still exists somewhere, remember us.
• 38:38
  Remember that we look to the stars and tried to find a new
• 38:41
  home. And if you're thinking of trying
• 38:44
  again, make sure your ships are better than ours.
• 38:48
  I ended the recording and added it to the data package.
• 38:53
  Then I initiated the transmission, directing it
• 38:56
  toward the coordinates where Earth should be.
• 38:59
  The computer confirmed the transmission had begun, using
• 39:03
  the last of our power to send our story into the void.
• 39:07
  I sat back in the chair, suddenly feeling very tired.
• 39:12
  It wouldn't be long now. The emergency lights were
• 39:16
  already flickering as power drained away.
• 39:19
  I closed my eyes, ready for it to be over.
• 39:23
  A soft beeping sound made me open them again.
• 39:27
  The long range scanner display had activated, showing something
• 39:31
  I hadn't seen in years. An object moving toward the
• 39:34
  ship. I leaned forward, squinting at
• 39:37
  the screen. It was small, too small to be a
• 39:42
  rescue ship or even a shuttle, but it was definitely
• 39:45
  approaching us, and it was definitely artificial.
• 39:50
  I tapped the console, bringing up the objects specifications.
• 39:54
  A maintenance drone, one of the automated repair units from
• 39:58
  either rusting or dreaming. It must have detected our power
• 40:01
  fluctuations and been dispatched to investigate.
• 40:05
  I laughed, the sound strange in the silent room.
• 40:10
  The drone couldn't save me. It wasn't designed to transport
• 40:14
  humans or provide life support. But it could do something almost
• 40:18
  as important. It could retrieve our data, our
• 40:22
  logs, our story. I wouldn't die unknown after
• 40:26
  all. With the last of my strength, I
• 40:29
  redirected power from everything except the docking Bay lights.
• 40:35
  The drone would need those to find its way in.
• 40:38
  The rest of the ship went completely dark, and I felt the
• 40:42
  artificial gravity flicker and die.
• 40:46
  I started floating gently up from the chair, too weak to grab
• 40:50
  on to anything. As I drifted in the darkness, I
• 40:55
  smiled. I wouldn't live to see what
• 40:58
  happened to humanity. I wouldn't know if Earth
• 41:01
  survived, or if rusting and dreaming made it to their
• 41:04
  destinations. But someone, somewhere, would
• 41:09
  know what happened to us. Our story wouldn't end here even
• 41:14
  if we did. The last of the emergency lights
• 41:17
  went out, leaving only the glow of the console screen on it.
• 41:22
  I could see the drone steadily approaching.
• 41:27
  It would be here in a few hours. I wouldn't be alive to see it
• 41:30
  arrive, but that didn't matter anymore.
• 41:35
  I closed my eyes, feeling strangely at peace as I floated
• 41:39
  in the darkness.