25 Years Of Rest

The sun went down. Stillness settled across the beach again. The waves calmed. A delicate breeze brushed through my hanging palm frond walls, their waxy leaves rubbing together softly.

After yet another dinner of water, seed pods & hardtack, I vowed to figure out fire. I was down to a bottle and a half of water I could trust. I’d hung a few monstera leaves like little hammocks around the camp perimeter to collect morning dew and rainwater.

“Even if I can collect freshwater, I should still boil it, right?!”

I sat huddled over of a pile of dried grass that I’d gathered that afternoon. I scraped a new axe along the strange green rocks I’d found. It was a long shot, but flint is a green rock… That sounded right. I managed a few sparks over the course of what felt like hours, but no fire. I was nowhere near getting the grass to catch.

Disheartening.

I gave up for the night, but needed a win before trying to sleep. I added everything I’d discovered that day to my map on the dirt floor: the ravine, the enormous creature with the wiggly legs, and the leather caught up in the tree.

Satisfying.

I was excited to see the rest of it take shape. It gave me something to focus on, a mission. Purpose comes easily when your priorities shrink down to only the things immediately in front of you.

“Yea… The map is progress.”

Something more permanent to draw on would be good. I was avoiding an entire corner of my shelter just to avoid inadvertently erasing my map.

For now, it was dark and I needed rest. My legs ached from the long day they’d had. I planned to be up at first light to go back and get that whatever-it-was stuck up in the tree. As I laid down in my hammock and closed my eyes, I heard three large thuds outside. I sighed.

“Yep,” I yelled loudly to no one.

I didn’t bother to get out of the hammock and look outside the shelter.

“21 days left.”

I could hear the words turn to dust and sprinkle among the leaves and bushes.

“…I got it.”

 

 

I’m back in the cryopod. It must be a few years into the trip because the little voice in the back of my head isn’t rebelling against the lethargic lifestyle. Idle hands are no longer fidgeting. I’m reclined in the berth, with all its outrageous comforts: pillows everywhere, soft memory foam that never seems to bottom out, drone-y room tones that never repeat. I’m reading Volume 128 of the Guin Saga by Kaoru Kurimoto, only forty-three left in the series. Maybe take a quick break in between to read through the Discworld series… I close my book sluggishly and decide it might be time for my daily movement.

As I lean myself up on my elbows, the calorie-burn counter mounted high on the wall ticks up a single decimal point.

“Allllright. C’mon legs…”

I pull myself up against the wall and carefully shift all my weight to my feet. I shuffle around the pod in a small circle. They had instructed us to use our muscles regularly, but the calorie-burn counter continues to tick upward as I get in my daily walk, turning from green to yellow and then to orange as I cross the thresholds they’d set.

The walk sets my mind wandering. How does Hayley do this in her pod? One big daily walk, like me? Or a few short stints? How do the others deal with sleep? My circadian is all out of rhythm. When you’re using this little energy, I guess your body stops caring what time of day it is. Just like Hayley had described it, Lazy Sunday all week long. I wish I could at least call her. Something about social interactions introducing too much unpredictability, they’d said. Did a brief chat on a video call require that many calories?

The counter buzzes at me, warning that I’m about to enter a calorie deficit outside my routine range. I end my walk and find a place in the bespoke armchair they’d commissioned for me. We all got one. I chose a high-backed little number with ornate carvings in the wood and soft red upholstery. It has the thickest seat cushion possible and wide-curved armrests. It is the best chair I’ve ever sat in. Which is good, given I’ll be spending 25 years in it.

TV break. The Next Generation from the beginning again? Don’t mind if I do.

I hit a button on the universal remote that is strapped to my arm and multiple tiny valves open in the opposite wall. Air hisses out and some sort of chemical reaction ignites its tiny particles, turning the wall into an enormous projection of Worf’s forehead.

“No, no, not where I left off. We’re going all the way back, back to the beginning, back to The Encounter at Farpoint…”

I slide down into my chair as the theme song begins to play. I can think of worse things to endure for the next 20 or so years…