My wife Sophia swatted my hand away from her waist, her lips in a tight thin line, her brow furrowed.
“We can stop pretending, now that the ship is underway,” she said.
I knew she didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, but her words dashed the glimmer of hope that I was clinging onto. We were in our tiny cabin, in Torus B of the generation ship Eagle. The cabin, and 249 others like it, fitted only a bed, a cramped bathroom, and a compact kitchen. Perfect for a couple on a journey to Luyten’s Star, 12 light years away. Our great-great-grandchildren and their descendants, in the unlikely case that we had any, would continue to live here until Earth was only a hazy tale passed on to the next generation.
Sophia went into the bathroom so that I wouldn’t see her change into her work clothes. We left for our shifts, without a kiss, just with a quick wave as roommates would do. I looked longingly at her back, and I caught the scent of her shower gel like an afterimage. Her duty station was in Astrophysics up near the front of the ship, while mine was in Medical down in Torus C.
***
I first met Sophia in a cafe near the university, six months before the launch of mankind’s first generation ship. Printed CV in hand, I scanned the room. A woman in glasses waved at me to join her, and I sat down, my palms slightly sweaty. She gave me a cute, dimpled smile. She wasn’t strikingly beautiful, but I liked her curvy cheeks and bright blue eyes.
“You didn’t need to bring that,” she said, pointing at my CV. “I’ve combed through your faculty and publications page. I think we’re a perfect fit to apply.”
The UN was recruiting top scientists, engineers, doctors, and other trained personnel to crew the ship, but they had a strange stipulation. To provide a stable foundation for the trip, which was expected to last at least 20 generations, the initial population would be composed only of 250 married couples. There was outrage when this was first announced, but I could see their logic.
I was a MD PhD trauma surgeon, one of the specialist jobs listed, and traveling to the stars had always been my dream since I read Asimov and Clarke as a teenage boy. But I was solidly single, and had been for some time. Just never found the right person nor the time.
I think that’s what drew us together. Sophia was the one who posted on Reddit and Twitter: “30F, looking for a star-travelling partner.” Many thought she was trolling, but I figured I had nothing to lose. It turned out she was actually one of the world’s top planetary scientists, working on exoplanet detection and biosignatures.
We chatted about our work for a while, then there was a lull in the conversation, as if neither side wanted to bring up the main topic. Sophia took a deep breath to steady herself, and said, “Look, you’re a nice guy, so I want to be up-front. This will be a marriage just on paper, and my only goal is to go to the stars. I have no interest in romance.”
That suited me just fine. Two weeks later we signed our marriage certificate, at the registrar’s office. We continued living our separate lives, only meeting up to practice for the interviews. Throughout the final crew training, we both tried to make it convincing. Everyone probably thought we were a work-focused yet affectionate couple. We did end up being good friends, simply from spending so much time together, but there was never any spark beyond that.
***
On Day 242 of the voyage, disaster struck. I was in the lab when loud klaxons blared out a rising, repeating cadence, and red emergency lights came on. A stern voice sounded on the intercom. “Decompression in Torus A. All personnel secure your oxygen supply and report to damage stations.”
I reached for the corner with the emergency cabinet that had a small oxygen cylinder with a mask. I could have found it blindfolded, literally, since we had to train for this in complete darkness. Main Medical was just next to the lab, and I rushed there. My heart was racing with adrenaline, so it took me a few breaths to realize that Sophia’s lab was on Torus A.
Casualties started to stream in. Most were unconscious, from the loss of air, probably from a micrometeorite strike.
“Have you seen Sophia?” I asked everyone, but in the chaos of shouting, crying, and beeps of medical monitors, no one seemed to know.
There she was! The new patient carried in on a stretcher. I ran and knelt down beside her, grasped her fingers and touched them to my cheek. They still felt warm. Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t move, but I could see her chest gently rise and fall. “I’ll come back, once I’ve triaged all these cases,” I whispered to her, tears stinging my eyes. But she didn’t stir.
For three days, I sat beside her bed and held her hand. In the end, she was one of the lucky ones. We lost seventeen people that day.
“I thought I’d lost you,” I said.
She smiled at me, and looked at me quizzically with her head tilted, as if really seeing me for the first time. Her voice was weak, so I leaned in. “Your face. It’s the best thing to wake up to,” she said.
I froze for a second, then I reached out, slowly, to hug her. She laid her head on my arms and hugged me closer.
Bhavin Siritanaratkul is an electrochemist at the University of Liverpool.
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