AubreeZaid
Hello. My name is Alma Smith. The sole occupant of the research vessel Asterion. This is my final transmission. I am recording it because my human brain, with all its human neuroses, insists it is still useful. It believes, with embarrassing optimism, that if it keeps me talking long enough, a miraculous solution will interrupt me. That is my biology. The reality is that I am already dead by the time you hear this. I am approaching the event horizon of the black hole designated Sisyphus. An ugly irony who, like me, was not punished by labor but by hope. I did not fall in by accident or because I was suicidal. Asterion did this. Whether it was intentional or not makes no difference now. I have already sent you all the data. You can decide what happened. I no longer care. The point of no return is coming. Scientifically. But practically I crossed it long ago with the resources I had. I want to be clear about something. I am terrified. There is no heroic calm in me. Just a relentless fear pounding in my chest, begging me to keep looking for a way out. Surely there should be another option. Surely this is not how a thinking, sophisticated species ends up: alone, narrating itself into the dark. That may just be the human condition, though. You're on a planet. I'm in a murdering mechanical can. We're both floating in a vast black expanse, conscious and alone. Being human is wonderful. I've enjoyed it. But it makes uncertainty like this unbearable. The only comfort I have is knowing that no matter what happens, I am going to die here. If anyone hears this, I did not die quietly or bravely. I will likely die terrified and very human. But I went honestly. I understood what was coming. If that counts for anything, let it count out here. Time is strange now. Only forward and future. The concept of the past is obsolete. Perhaps it always has been. I love you, Dad. Happy belated birthday. This is Alma Smith, signing off.