MAIN » ARTICLESThe Iain (Rawson) Odyssey, part I
Extract from ‘The Diary of Dr. Rog’: Week 672, Day 4600-4604
Sunday
I was hit by nostalgia pains all day, or as the AI computer’s medicinal personality diagnosed them; fibromyalgic. I looked this up in a medical dictionary, but the definition meant nothing to me. The symptoms of my nostalgia were multiple sensations of fatigue and listlessness, combined with transitory states of confusion, poor attention and concentration. Fortunately, I was 10,000 miles from another human being and traveling in the wrong direction, so nobody was offended.
Despite this relief, I wasn’t sure how I would cope for the next 50 years of life until dying of old age, drifting aimlessly along with no company. In a way I knew I wouldn’t have to wait that long since the food supply would run out after 20 years and there was only enough water for 15. None of this mattered though, since the oxygen would be gone in 6 months and I appeared to have a malignant tumour growing on the back of my neck. Luckily, I was a doctor, so I prescribed myself some euphoric distraction and went to bed early.
Monday
I’m beginning to believe to succumb mentally to the fact that nobody else may be onboard the shuttle at all. However, I refuse to let the fact that nobody else had spoken to me yet, or that I haven’t seen another human since a month last Saturday get to me. Ever since Dr. Jameson implemented policy stating that no member of The Institute can proclaim themselves “alone” at any time unless agreed by two other doctors present at the proclamation, nobody has been lonely.
Tuesday
Dr. Jameson was sitting bedside when I awoke and told me I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, but that he’d taken action. “Don’t worry Rog old boy,” he said, “I’ve got a reverend on board, and we’re all set”. Reverend? I spent a few minutes taking this news in and was about to make a calculated rebuttal when the doctor grabbed my arm and rammed a 2 inch needle through the skin. I immediately began to feel faint and darkness fell upon me like the morning sun on sleepless eyelids.
Wednesday
I awoke sometime in the afternoon, or what I presumed to be the afternoon, and made my way to the small kitchenette attached to the control room. Dr. Jameson was seemingly oblivious to being stuck in space and was whistling along to some 1930’s show tune whilst frying eggs over an electric stove. I sat down at the table, my head spinning, Jameson soon joining me with his breakfast and proceeding to explain the situation in the crudest way he could. Apparently not only had I imagined the fibromyalgia, but I had been delusional for over a week, lapsing in and out of consciousness and often experiencing symptoms of memory loss and extreme stress. His words did little to arouse optimism in my battered shell of a body, so I nodded occasionally until he stopped talking some time later. Shortly afterwards, I returned to my own quarters to eat alone.
No sooner than I had laid the table and sat down to enjoy my dinner the on-board computer alerted me to a fault in sector 7 of the cargo deck. I argued with it for a good 15 minutes until it conceded there was no cargo deck on the shuttle, and suggested I looked for it somewhere around the airlock. I hadn’t finished my smoked salmon and red wine so I paged Technician Hardcastle and began reading the newspaper. I glanced at the date: last Wednesday, which immediately struck me as strange since I’d now been in space for 35 days and there was no such thing as the Institute Daily Reporter. It had a good cartoon of Dilbert near the back though, and it was better than arguing with the computer, which was still adamant of a fault a good hour later. I managed to get a line with Technician Hardcastle’s service provider through the satellite phone, but they could only tell me the number was no longer in service and that I should send some flowers to his mother’s house as condolence. Bizarre, I remember thinking, I was sure she lived in a bungalow.
Thursday
I opened my eyes and the blurry mass before me gradually adjusted to a vaguely human form. Colours were merging from the instruments on the walls and slowly melting down the panels, forming a large puddle beneath Dr. Jameson who was indifferently bobbing up and down as though buoyed by some kind of raft. I blinked and his face came into view, looking close to my own and whispering in an undecipherable tongue. What was happening? Was I dying? What is he saying? At last I managed to pick out a few words before he finished talking and began to paddle away. “Don’t worry Rog old boy,” he said, “I’ve got a reverend on board, and we’re all set”. The streams of colour on the wall continued to seep down, gradually slowing, almost coming to a stop, I felt my eyelids closing before a sharp stabbing pain in my arm caught my attention and the darkness returned.
Written by Jay
Sunday
I was hit by nostalgia pains all day, or as the AI computer’s medicinal personality diagnosed them; fibromyalgic. I looked this up in a medical dictionary, but the definition meant nothing to me. The symptoms of my nostalgia were multiple sensations of fatigue and listlessness, combined with transitory states of confusion, poor attention and concentration. Fortunately, I was 10,000 miles from another human being and traveling in the wrong direction, so nobody was offended.
Despite this relief, I wasn’t sure how I would cope for the next 50 years of life until dying of old age, drifting aimlessly along with no company. In a way I knew I wouldn’t have to wait that long since the food supply would run out after 20 years and there was only enough water for 15. None of this mattered though, since the oxygen would be gone in 6 months and I appeared to have a malignant tumour growing on the back of my neck. Luckily, I was a doctor, so I prescribed myself some euphoric distraction and went to bed early.
Monday
I’m beginning to believe to succumb mentally to the fact that nobody else may be onboard the shuttle at all. However, I refuse to let the fact that nobody else had spoken to me yet, or that I haven’t seen another human since a month last Saturday get to me. Ever since Dr. Jameson implemented policy stating that no member of The Institute can proclaim themselves “alone” at any time unless agreed by two other doctors present at the proclamation, nobody has been lonely.
Tuesday
Dr. Jameson was sitting bedside when I awoke and told me I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, but that he’d taken action. “Don’t worry Rog old boy,” he said, “I’ve got a reverend on board, and we’re all set”. Reverend? I spent a few minutes taking this news in and was about to make a calculated rebuttal when the doctor grabbed my arm and rammed a 2 inch needle through the skin. I immediately began to feel faint and darkness fell upon me like the morning sun on sleepless eyelids.
Wednesday
I awoke sometime in the afternoon, or what I presumed to be the afternoon, and made my way to the small kitchenette attached to the control room. Dr. Jameson was seemingly oblivious to being stuck in space and was whistling along to some 1930’s show tune whilst frying eggs over an electric stove. I sat down at the table, my head spinning, Jameson soon joining me with his breakfast and proceeding to explain the situation in the crudest way he could. Apparently not only had I imagined the fibromyalgia, but I had been delusional for over a week, lapsing in and out of consciousness and often experiencing symptoms of memory loss and extreme stress. His words did little to arouse optimism in my battered shell of a body, so I nodded occasionally until he stopped talking some time later. Shortly afterwards, I returned to my own quarters to eat alone.
No sooner than I had laid the table and sat down to enjoy my dinner the on-board computer alerted me to a fault in sector 7 of the cargo deck. I argued with it for a good 15 minutes until it conceded there was no cargo deck on the shuttle, and suggested I looked for it somewhere around the airlock. I hadn’t finished my smoked salmon and red wine so I paged Technician Hardcastle and began reading the newspaper. I glanced at the date: last Wednesday, which immediately struck me as strange since I’d now been in space for 35 days and there was no such thing as the Institute Daily Reporter. It had a good cartoon of Dilbert near the back though, and it was better than arguing with the computer, which was still adamant of a fault a good hour later. I managed to get a line with Technician Hardcastle’s service provider through the satellite phone, but they could only tell me the number was no longer in service and that I should send some flowers to his mother’s house as condolence. Bizarre, I remember thinking, I was sure she lived in a bungalow.
Thursday
I opened my eyes and the blurry mass before me gradually adjusted to a vaguely human form. Colours were merging from the instruments on the walls and slowly melting down the panels, forming a large puddle beneath Dr. Jameson who was indifferently bobbing up and down as though buoyed by some kind of raft. I blinked and his face came into view, looking close to my own and whispering in an undecipherable tongue. What was happening? Was I dying? What is he saying? At last I managed to pick out a few words before he finished talking and began to paddle away. “Don’t worry Rog old boy,” he said, “I’ve got a reverend on board, and we’re all set”. The streams of colour on the wall continued to seep down, gradually slowing, almost coming to a stop, I felt my eyelids closing before a sharp stabbing pain in my arm caught my attention and the darkness returned.
Written by Jay