“Starting new life is easy, depending on your definition of ‘life.’” The ancient call log cracked to life across the screen, causing static to prickle along the old TV's face. 

Captain Hollis takes a seat in front of a working monitor, the record button flashing dimly. The hums of failure rang lightly behind a carbon-fiber door, and the porthole to see the other side was covered by a black curtain. A rumble trembles faintly through the deck plates — or maybe it’s only her pulse. She presses her heels into the floor. The vibration stays, insistent. Her young face contorts with emotion she can't name. She lightly squeezes the fireproof fabric of her pants with both hands, trying to ignore the red light as she stares directly at it. 

“The goal was to reach Terra with all cargo aboard, excluding waste, of course. The less weight, the better. But on a ship over forty miles long, problems will occur. No mission is without faults, especially on a ship designed for problems,” she rubs her forehead with her thumb,  gazing out the porthole to her direct left, out to deep space, “without the sun blocking it, you would not believe the view.” Nebulas and star clusters stream past, while others, far off, seem frozen. Like tiny, colorful diamonds scattered into the empty. The ship zooms forward, shooting through the cosmos in search of its target.

The ship is shaped like an arrow flung through the dark, every compartment a cylindrical chamber that can be detached, sacrificed, to keep the rest running. The fuselage, or the “shaft” colloquially, held each room. The rooms all stack on top of each other with couplers holding them in place. The forward end has four large solar fabrics pulled back to give the “arrowhead” appearance. The four fins on the aft end gave a means to steer the ship from the flight deck. The fins themselves angle slightly away from the single jet engine at the end to prevent damage. 

It’s designed to separate each room individually in case of emergencies. It’s a rocket—her rocket, The Elric—that is built for loss. The couplers can be rotated out, and the support brackets are removed to allow the damaged room to be discharged directly into space. Into the empty. After the room is cleared, paneling is added to the lower half of the empty space-

“For example,” she started, not realizing she was responding to her own thought, “if the third room in the shaft gets damaged—the cargo hold—it will be manually uncoupled from the exterior and removed. Once it's gone, the remaining gap will prevent us from reaching the second half of the ship. In this case, paneling is added to the floor, and a space walk is required to cross.”

She observes the stars outside closely, ignoring the instinct to look to her right, where her copilot would normally be, and asks, ‘Star or planet?’ She’d give anything to hear him ramble about space, about him living his dream, even about his poor dog that he had to leave back on Earth. Daisy, a beagle he rescued from a testing facility. A smirk flashes quickly upon her face as she pictures the small dog that can't bark properly. She clears her throat and looks back at the camera.

“Our mission was confidential, but I’m broadcasting on an open frequency, hoping some communication survives. Sorry, boss, if you can hear me. The ship is stable, and I believe I can land on my own. However, there are still two years, three months left in Project [REDACTED]. Many human cryopods were destroyed. The ship is spinning faster, a minute amount, only noticeable on the instruments. I believe I can correct it after I…” She blinks. The lights felt dimmer. Are the generators working properly? She continues. “Shed the damaged material. This will mean dropping the chambers. Any deceased passengers will also be mourned and placed in the cryopod chamber before removal. Jam-” She pauses, “Captain Vincente did not make it out, as he stayed till the last moment to wake up passengers. Nor did the rest of the crew. The samples, pantries, and animal enclosures are intact, but the lab was damaged. It’s sealed, so I won't have to shed it. I also can’t reach it until the chambers are ejected. The [REDACTED] that survived should still be frozen.” Something knocks faintly from the sealed door. Or maybe it was only pressure.

Two more years. She was supposed to be asleep for another year; everyone was. The aircrew woke up a year early to prepare for landing. So much for them; she had two years to complete six people's worth of work with just one person's knowledge set. Two years of breathing the same air, counting every recycled breath. The air stank faintly of ozone and disinfectant, the kind of sterile scent that clung to every nosehair. The images of cracked glass ran across her mind. She can hear the zip as it shatters over her, faster than lightning, leaving tiny pricks of blood over her hands and face. Exposed skin. She rubs her fingers together to see if any shards might still be there. Hollis ran her hand over her ponytail, slicking down the split ends that stuck out. She hasn’t even done a headcount yet. The survivors gather in the gallery. Waiting. She hasn’t counted them—and maybe she didn’t want to, not while some might not answer. She rolls her shoulders back and takes a deep breath, though it catches halfway, leaving her with a shallow gasp of air. 

“I can land this ship, I will get us there, and together we will start the next human civilization. ‘Human’ is a loose term. What defines ‘human’, do you think? Is it the appearance that makes us human, or more so the spirit? I think it’s our endurance that makes us remarkable. Or what’s left of human. Maybe that’s what we are now — not human, just endurance masking…” She trails off. A faint rattle moves through the walls — a loose panel, or something behind it. She waits. Nothing. She counts her breaths, slower each time, as if two years can be measured in heartbeats.

“Anyways, there’s a lot to do. We have absolutely no comms left, but I’ll still try.” She pauses briefly before deciding to vent a little longer.

“It wasn't about repopulating the human race, it never was. Reaching Terra is an experiment. A test. To see if humans can survive the atmosphere. But the first ship failed, so they sent this one. More dramatic, this one: one thousand humans, but ten thousand [REDACTED]. Some will not survive, as nature dictates, but some will. Most will. Our scientists are very good, if any made it out alive. It was never about saving Earth, saving people, or discovering Terra; no, it was about changing what reached it. What could we humans do to be more? To survive on a planet not made for us?”

“Once a week, I’ll send out an update and hope someone sees it. Once a week. Someday. I mean, what do you think, James?” She swings her head to the right, only to be reminded of the void that consumed all but her. Stars stream past, but they are blurry in her eyes. Far away. It felt colder. Are the heaters even working?

“I think so too. Someday, James,” The transmission ends in static.