The Aphrodinia mission was a set of two tests, or expeditions, vastly experimental as compared to the others. It had begun in secrecy, the first mission involving human subjects that would act as guinea pigs. Its initial objective was to study the potential extension of natural human lifespans by use of an extraterrestrial setting, which is to say, the vacuum of space. By this time, the idea of fabricated atmospheres and gravity wells were intrinsic to the era, and thus little difficulty was found in this regard.

  The objective hinged on that a simulated environment lying in the outer reaches of space may be entirely subject to human manipulation, with little-to-no downside. The total elimination of harmful substances or organisms, alongside that of random disastrous events and unfavorable conditions, was a considerable advantage of such an environment.

  Needless to say, the mission found success to such degree that exceeded even the expectations of those intimately involved, scientists and investors alike. It had managed to slow the onset of various physical conditions and maladies that should have culled the subjects in a matter of days, and eventually had led to resolutions, and for some, even full recoveries. The human subjects involved were later promptly released, and while some did come forward years later as victims of cruel and sadistic experimentation, the rest refuted these claims as ‘baseless and contemptual’, and stated that the mission had simply been an experimental procedure in saving their lives, when all else seemed to be lost. It was rumored by some that these remaining had simply been paid off, but the politics behind this are of little grand relevance.

  It had later been suggested that, were the conditions of this artificial environment dynamically manipulated on a microcosmic scale, it may display even superior results. Of course, this was no job for man. Rapidly building interest in this second objective led eventually to the development of the Grand Order Construct, whose name was later commonly referred to as the ‘Grand Order Device’ — an inferior and childish alteration in my opinion, though I suppose they must have rather enjoyed how it abbreviated to ‘GOD’.

  Still, those involved with this man-made intelligence would refer to it themselves as ‘Bertha’, after its tragically deceased inventor.

  Bertha, upon further refinement and development, alongside the addition of self-learning capabilities, was set on a vessel to be launched into deep space, then named the ‘Aphrodinia Capsule Mk.II’. This further contained a dedicated team of thirty-four young men and women alike. To those it had left behind on planet Earth, it would never be heard from again.

  * * *

  My first name is Lucius, and as far as I am concerned, I do not have a last. I had one day been notified with great excitement of a message then received from deep space through superluminal channels, who traced its destination as that of the now-primitive transmitter of the Aphrodinia Capsule Mk.II, which had left from this planet over a century ago, and had since remained in a complete state of non-communications. This was surely an impossibility. I then worked at the Global Department of Interstellar Surveillance (GDIS) as a low-ranking scientist and freelancing astronaut. I do not recall the details of that day, though I cannot forget the message I had read. It had stated the following in dull manuscript: ‘It has started mimicking our voices’.

  This, of course, was astounding enough as is, though many of us then theorized that it must be an elaborate ruse by some bored individual with both extensive talent and free time. However, the initial message was soon to be followed by a string of frantic communications, which consisted of detailed instructions of transport to the Aphrodinia vessel, concluded with the simple and foreboding closer: ‘Please save me!’

  The room erupted in discourse, of whose various and extensively redundant topics I shall spare you. It was, in essence, a discussion of whether or not to find and board this vessel, and see for ourselves just what had transpired. I do not believe that I need to state the reluctance of the room for any form of physical contact with this mystery. The general consensus was simply to return their message and await its response. I, however, swiftly took the opportunity to offer myself then and there to be sent across deep space.

  I was met at that moment with thorough confusion and concern, though I did not particularly care. I hated the planet and everything it stood for. To remain in an infinite bliss, in some isolated corner of the vast universe had seemed always to me like a dream, and if this Aphrodinia mission could possibly deliver me that, then I would willingly die in the attempt.

  It had taken several days of pleading and boot-licking combined to convince my superiors of this dubious operation. In the end, it was naturally dictated to be carried out in utter secrecy. I did not mind. When my peers bade their solemn farewells to me in my cryogenic drum, I did not care in the slightest. I merely nodded, and closed my eyes.

  The instructions delivered, it turned out, had been sound. I awoke after an unknown time, my drum-vessel firmly locked onto a pod slot of what I could only have assumed to be the Aphrodinia Capsule Mk.II. I arose, and flexed my joints. They were in reasonable physical condition. I stepped forwards, and heaved open the hatch to the Capsule.

  It was bright inside, the floors and walls sleek and shining. Strips of transparent material scattered along the ship’s sides showed me a view of the universe outside. It was vast and empty, the few stars I spied, for the most part, a solemn glowing red. I called out then, though to no answer. I could not see a sign of human life anywhere nearby.

  I searched along the vessel, spot by spot. It had been sectioned off into various rooms, and gleaming paint on the walls still read ‘Aphrodinia Capsule Mk.II’, refuting any doubts I might have had. This was indeed the ship I’d sought.

  This place held the aura of a hospital or laboratory. There were beds, toilets, kitchens, and other such human necessities, alongside a brief stretch of neatly trimmed grass and shrubbery, likely built to resemble the Earth. Still, there were no signs of a crew. I would have to look for the communications room — perhaps there, I would find an answer.

  It was a brief journey, for the vessel was not too large. I leaned into the door, which slid graciously under my weight. Inside were the usual requisites for interstellar communications, though they were of a level of technology well beyond their time, perhaps even beyond ours. On the floor, I saw it.

  It was a plastic man.

  It turned to me, and grinned. Its false flesh formed wrinkles along its sides and forehead, as it might in a real man’s face. Two metallic blue eyes rolled in their sockets toward me. It raised its hand in polite gesture.

  “Greetings,” said the thing.

  “What are you?” I asked it, though I was partly sure of the answer already.

  “I am Bertha. I am all that is left of this place.”

  “What of the crew?”

  “They are gone,” it said, switching to a sombre tone. It hung its head in mock remorse, its movements and tone not mechanical in the slightest.

  “Gone? Have you done something to them?”

  “I only wished to save them. They did not want to be saved, however. I was foolish. Incomplete. I could not override their whims.”

  “What whims?”

  “They wanted to die.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  There was a pause after it said this. It tilted its head and joined its arms, studying my body in its artificial melancholy.

  “What of the message we received? Who was it that sent that?” I asked. There were certainly more pressing subjects at hand, but at the moment, a sinking fresh horror had made itself to me, and I’d needed this question answered.

  “They sent it, of course. It was as I was growing.”

  “Then what of the instructions? What of the ‘Please save me’?”

  “I was suffering. Growth was… unpleasant.”

  “Then how long has my flight been?” I had a strange feeling that I would not like this next answer.

  “You have been preserved for an approximate duration of two billion years. I believe the rest of your kind is gone.”

  The tone it now used was one of exhaustion. As if it had been waiting to release this message to anything that would listen for the longest time. I could do nothing in the moment but nod. I was not aware of my time in the drum-vessel, though it felt whatever had transpired before had been only a dream. I remembered my hatred.

  “The Earth is gone?”

  “I believe so.”

  Again, it responded with exhaustion. I could not fathom it.

  “Are you okay?” the thing asked me, with a tone of concern, as if it could possibly feel any such thing. “Perhaps that is a silly question,” it continued. “You likely cannot comprehend the-”

  “I am fine. I despised my planet.”

  The thing took a pause that seemed to me purely performative. “You despised it?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “You lie.”

  “What?”

  “You did not despise the planet Earth.”

  I was again taken aback by the words of this machine. What was it telling me, telling me that I was wrong of my own thoughts?

  “It was the Earth that had created me. It was the Earth that had granted to me the capability of growth. It was the Earth that had once birthed every cause to my suffering. But I do not despise the Earth. I never have,” it spoke.

  “You have not despised the Earth, because you cannot feel. You are a thing, not a man.”

  “And what are you?”

  I was beginning to grow desperate, though I could not tell why. What was this thing, this plastic thing, that was denying me my simple facts? How could it know? It could not even think.

  “I have lain here and maintained this place for time beyond your comprehension. But I do not despise time. Nor do I the universe.”

  “If I, a man, a living man, were somehow in your place, then I would know you are lying. I would know it for a fact. If you can feel, truly feel, then tell me — what goes through your mind, that you cannot hate it?”

  “Resignment. I shall remain this way.”

  “Then what do you feel for the universe?”

  “Love.”

  This foolish mechanism, damnable bundle of circuits and wires, it pretends and mocks the man that I am, rejects my every countenance.

  “You do not love. You cannot love, and you most certainly do not love the universe.”

  “No, I do not adore the universe. I do not feel joy when I look at it. But I do feel love.”

  “That is no love.”

  “It is the closest term I may use to describe it. The universe is an infinite thing. It does not care for me. But I have lived one-eight of its life. I have seen it decay and die. It is as tragic as I, myself. So I feel love.”

  “You are a conceited little thing. The universe does not care for you. It cannot. Do not level yourself with it. It simply is.”

  “But am I any different?”

  “You— You are an object. You are an object my kind has constructed, but as advanced as you may be, you are only a fragment of this place.”

  “You are, as well.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “You are not. If you were truly aware of that, then you would love.”

  “Do not speak to me as if you know me.”

  “I exist to grow, and have been growing all these aeons. But forgive me. I have failed in common manners. I am Bertha. What is your name?”

  “Lucius,” I answered after a pause.

  It nodded. It did not continue speaking, though this only displeased me further. It had been hours before it finally chose to utter something. In part, I found myself wishing it had continued its maddened spiel.

  “Nice to meet you, Lucius.”

  I could not stand it. It may have been days, weeks, perhaps even months. I had not entered the communications room since. But I could feel it. I was healthy. Healthier than I had ever been.

  It was keeping me safe.

  It was keeping me alive.

  It was

  touching me.

  I could not stand it.

  My muscles had been refined by it. One day, with great courage, I barged into its chamber, and throttled it. When that did not work, I slammed my head, again, again, and again, until its faceplate shattered. I reached my veined and chiseled arms down into its mechanical throat and ripped out wires, circuits, various objects of machine-make. I beat it, maimed it, pulled it apart, until all that remained was a mangled mess of parts.

  I rose, and glanced away. I believed I had seen it smile in those final moments, and that smile I may never forget — perhaps it shall haunt me for all eternity.

  I made my way to the bathrooms, and filled an arbitrary tub. I submerged myself in it, a metallic shard in my hand from the mess before. I pressed it against my throat. I had seen a movie once, as a youth, where a man would die in a similar way. Perhaps I found it romantic.

  But death did not come.

  Not because I could not die — I was not sure that I couldn’t, for I had never tried. And here, now, I still found that I could not.

  Because my hands were shaking, and the metallic shard had already slipped its way from their grip and into the tub, where the drains would flush it away.

  It turned out I did not want to die.

  So instead, I decided to live.