The Gift-Giver

According to the charts, 30 years on Earth have passed. At least, as far as I can gather from the, frankly, beat-up looking tech of the ship. I sit down in our living area, frowning down at the flickering screen- cracked beyond recognition, and I suspect it was broken a while ago and hasn't updated since, but it's paused on that number- 30 years after we originally left.

Also, the crew is gone. When I woke up and saw the dilapidated state of the place, I honestly half thought I'd find them all at the dinner table in a gruesome scene. One half of their chests would have burst open, the other half of the crew would have their faces chewed out. Instead, though, all I found was emptiness. The ship is practically destroyed, yes, but not a soul is here. Multicolored wires hang from the ceiling, screens are cracked, lights are either flickering, light too brightly, or light very poorly, devices completely crushed, and yet not a sign of any life. When I had looked around earlier, there hadn't even been a speck of blood, or hair in the shower. They just…vanished.

I groan deeply and lean back in my chair, up at a cleaner tile of ceiling- mostly white and pristine- as my hands drag along my face, the screen resting in my lap. Although people being missing is most definitely important, the thing that bugs me, making my heart jump with anxiety, is the fact we were only supposed to go to the Alpha Centauri System. That's about 4.4 light years away from Earth. And yet we've apparently been traveling for at least 30 years, which would be 30 light years. I bite my lip, looking back down at the pad through my caged fingers.

30 years. How is that even possible? I don't think the ship even had that much fuel to start with. Am I 30 light years away right now? Even more? Or have has the ship just been floating here for 30 some-odd years? It makes my head spin just considering it. No, not spin. It feels like my brain is slowly being constricted by my skull, my throat violently strangling itself, and just underneath my skin, I can feel my blood pump-pumping-

4, 7, 8. Inhale for 4 seconds, hold for 7, exhale for 8. I repeat that practice a couple times. Calm down.

Calm down.

Just calm the fuck down.

If there's one thing I learned over the years, it's that sitting around on your ass solves nothing. I have to do something. Not just lay over and die.

I decide to try and figure out where exactly I am in the vast expanse of space. It's a little hard to say exactly, but luckily one of the few things that did remain intact of the ship was something we call a 'Projector.' Because of the incredible amounts of pressure in space, no windows are available on any regular space ship, especially one meant to travel for years. The Projector allows any astronaut to essentially take a picture of the environment around them and then scan any recognizable shifts or waves in order to identify stars or planets. That's how it works in layman's terms, anyway.

I stroll through the halls, eventually making it to the Projector room and start messing with the control panel. Currently, the camera is shifted 15 degrees clockwise. I press the button to take a picture, and look to the cracked screen meant to show the developed image. It takes a few minutes normally, so I simply sit for a while. Alvarez, Petrov, and…I think his last name was Takahashi? That was the whole crew. Petrov used to joke we got so few people so that if we died, no one on Earth would panic. I didn't like his particular brand of dark humor very much, but I'd honestly prefer that to just…nothing. What even happened to them? Something clearly must have happened. But then, why didn't they wake me up? Where did they all go? Unless I've been struck with amnesia or something of the sort- but that's not really how amnesia works. I anxiously scratch at my neck, a little dry due to being cryoslept for presumably 30 years. I can feel bits of dead skin peel off. How is it that they awoke before me…and had this happen…my brain takes that direction that most do when confronted with stressful stimuli- it stops thinking. I don't want to think about it, really. To even consider what sort of messed up alien shit we've entered.

A small ring plays. The picture has developed, and I look up at the screen.

Black.

Just pure black.

My brows knit together in confusion. There should be some specks of white, of anything, to present as planets or stars. Maybe something's in the way? I turn the camera another 5 degrees and take another picture.

A couple more minutes, more black.

I turn the camera a whole 180 degrees, nothing.

No stars, no planets. This isn't right, and I can feel my heart start to beat faster. I sprint to the airlock- where the astronaut suits are held. I shuffle into my own suit, slam on the helmet, feeling looked upon by the surrounding, completely untouched suits. I use a wire to connect myself to a latch just in case, and open the airlock door.

Completely black.

What the fuck is this?

My eyes can hardly perceive what's in front of me right now. Just pure darkness stretching out for millions, if not billions of miles, I nearly forget to breath. It panics me so much so, I have to go back and close the airlock again. I only take off the helmet when I reach the piloting system, where the flashing light suggests we have no fuel. What a horrific goddamn situation. And who knows if anyone on Earth is coming for me? For the first time in my life, I have no clue what to do. I have no idea where I am. The many entities that should be surrounding me have all but vanished. I have no one to talk to, to bounce ideas off of. This is it.

I'm tempted to jump into the abyss and just die. But I, truly, truly don't want to, I realize. Perhaps the others did, but I can't. I don't have the wherewithal to do so. And so I resolve to live for the time being.

I calculate that it's been at least a week since I saw the blackness. Luckily, there's enough food to last four people for quite a while (had the others not eaten at all when they woke up?). I find myself spending time reading charts, reports, whatever I can get my hands on. Imagining a life I might've lived back on Earth. I could have had a family…I could have worked at Taco Bell…I hum, imagining myself arguing with an angry customer. I don't know why the stars and planets disappeared. In all the time I've studied space, I have no clue why that would even be the case. My best guess is that, somehow, I've reached some sort of edge- completely unseen by any scientists, but that's about 46 billion light years if not more, and frankly, kind of impossible.

It's impossible for me to know for sure of anything happening around me, and yet I'm still choosing to live. Is that a testament to human resilience, or just plain stupidity on my part? I'm not sure.

Many thoughts cross my mind for several days, ranging from imaginative to sad, to insane, until I decide to take another picture. I wait many more minutes. I don't even know why I'm compelled to do this. Just to feel something, I guess. But when the photo develops this time, I actually do see something.

I'm not sure what it is- could be a block of some kind, paper, maybe, but it's attached to the front of the camera, and there's a message in English written in poor handwriting, like they'd never written in the language before.

All it says is 'And at what end does your ship float?'

That makes me grimace. Creepy. And confusing. Is this an alien? How does it know English? It could help, I guess. Or the message could be a threat? Why? Why even post it here? How is there life in this…emptiness?

I stand frozen for a while, considering what the hell that could possibly mean, and take another picture. After a few minutes, a new message appears.

'Petrov, Alvarez, Takahashi, left, and you, Ms. Potamitis, can hear me?'

That just makes my mouth dry and heart drop. It knows our names. And it make a new message that quickly? Should I tell it that I see its messages…? I swallow my fear and mutter to myself, "I-I can hear you. But…who even are you?"

I take another picture, and a new message appears.

'That good, Ms. Potamitis. I assure you, no need to be scared. Open shaft, and live.'

"Absolutely fucking not." It can hear me, it seems.

New message.

'Do you not fear to die? I can help.'

"Unless you have a way to get me home," I speak a bit more confidently, "You didn't answer me- who are you?"

New message.

'I am gift giver. I travel endlessly. I heard your mind. You want gift to live?'

I pause upon seeing that, and respond reluctantly, "…Do you know what happened to my crew? Can you get me home?" I take another picture.

Another ring.

'Petrov, Alvarez, Takahashi wished to disappear when saw home was too far. I cannot bring home. You don't want to disappear? I can give life.'

It can't bring me home. But it can bring me life? And the crew…the reason there's no sign of them was because they asked to disappear? Whatever this thing was, it's clearly effective. "How would you give me life?"

'As long as you stay in ship, live. You will never die.'

That's the gift. Just to live forever? I ponder the suggestion, not speaking.

I don't know if I can bring myself to die. But I don't know if I can bring myself to live, either. I have all the resources in front of me, in the palm of my hands. At this point, at what rate does my humanity offer me anything worthwhile? Or is me simply existing enough?

After a long while, I inhale, and tell the gift giver my wish.