I have a new thought: the shop has been hi-jacked by a faction friendly to my department, by people who believe that the healing power of science can save society. And then again, maybe I’m being toyed with, buttered up, last supper before the gallows. Leaving me alone with my thoughts.
And so it is – every evening the wall display starts, tracking my life, showing me the person I was in my youth. I watch the incremental steps I took, moment by moment, decision by decision, that lead me down the path to a place that my youthful self would not have recognised. In fact a path that my youthful self would have despised.
By day I eat and grow stronger, and make cups of tea, and read the paper. By night my past unravels before my eyes and strips me slowly of all my self-justifications and rationalisations until I’m left with nothing but my empty shell of a body. I start losing interest in food. I curl up on the bed by day and pace the floor by night. Images of my parents rise up, who aged and died, somewhere on the planet, without me marking the date or place. Too busy giving my life to the country.
Are we there yet?
I want out. I’ve had enough time with my thoughts alone. There must be something connected between my brain and the ship because the moment I think this the cabin door slides open. I’m past fear now. Don’t have time for it any more.
I follow passage ways and pass exit signs, signs to galleys and engine rooms, sleeping quarters and medical centres, and keep following the path to the bridge. The ship hums and vibrates slightly. I open the door and there they are. Two men sit at a round table in the middle of a room that is banked with computers and dials and blinking lights and every other science fiction, rocket ship cliché. They stand up as I enter the bridge.
‘Brian and John. I’m Brian, he’s John.’
I advance, slowly.
Brian puts his hand out and I shake it. I do the same with John.
‘Shazza will be along soon,’ says John.
16