Pause.

I had the ambition to not only go farther than man had gone before, but to go as far as it was possible to go. - Captain Cook

All at once neurons begin firing in Michael’s Central Nervous System. An MRI brain image screen pulses as Serotonin cocktails lubricate a seized Cortex while behind his eyes electrical currents surge and diverge. Hormones accumulate in a virgin blood stream with his rising core temperature. As minutes pass the drumming in his ears fades to be replaced by the regular monotone of a cardiogram; confirming his suspicion that he is still alive.

Bloodshot eyes rest on banks of monitors, rods and cones feel like needles and pins as he tries to focus. Focus on what? He isn’t sure yet. Remaining still, Michael watches droplets of condensation become rivers on glass as the stasis pod opens revealing a spaghetti mess of tubes, wires and flesh.

Switchboards curve around him, following the hull of Voyager 9’s Stasis module, a quick glance across the cramped space reveals a second pod already opened and vacant. The morning, such as it is, follows a dreamless night. A night that has lasted for more than 30 years.

After several minutes of flexing muscles and rotating corroded joints, Michael pushes himself out of the stasis pod to hang weightless. His slim but powerful figure naked but for the tubes, sensors and wires connecting various parts of his body to the Pause apparatus. Reaching over to a control panel in front of him to flick off the psychedelic MRI screen he notices a tremor in his outstretched hand and his head pounds. The effects of a Pause are slow to wear off, like a hangover from too much cheap Merlot.

Stretching his arms and legs he scowls at his reflection in a shaving mirror, taped to the hull half a lifetime ago. He is convinced there are new wrinkles around the hollow, green eyes. Grey hairs tint his temples like a pale rust, but they are not new. Vanity aside, thirty two years in space have barely aged him, he could still pass for mid 40s. In reality, Michael is approaching his 78th birthday.

Sometime later Michael approaches the Command Module, feeling fresh and dressed in his khaki International Space Programme fatigues. Lieutenant Hewitt is already sucking at a water ration as he pushes himself through the circular hatch. Knowing that solid food will not be palatable for several hours does not prevent hunger’s grip, so he grabs one himself, sucking down sickly gluco-water with relish.

‘How are you feeling, Jim?’ Michael asks the co-pilot, sounding hoarse.

‘Like I woke up on the wrong side of the solar system’ replies the younger man, eyes twinkling.

‘Been rehearsing that?’ Michael smiles grimly and turns away ‘Let’s see where we’re up to’ Flipping down a screen in front of them he scans down a list of coordinates and calculations.

‘Congratulations, Sir’ begins the Lieutenant ‘looks like we have officially left the Solar System!’

Michael snorts mirthlessly, turning to face Hewitt ‘Congratulations for what? Not snoring too loudly? We’re just cargo, sonny.’ He frowns once again at his reflection in the glass of an inactive screen. Despite modestly shrugging off the achievement he feels a thrill of pride.

Reflecting on the situation; it really is a spectacular achievement and it flatters his ego to think so. Eighteen billion kilometres from home, the two of them alone in a sparsely furnished long range space craft, true pioneers ushering in a new age of deep space exploration.

The Voyager 9 mission is the ultimate challenge in deep space exploration: to send men beyond the Solar System to touch interstellar space for the first time. The technology is cutting edge, the science of stasis has finally caught up to Man’s desire to expand his horizon beyond our star and Commander Michael Kirby is in the front line.

Reaching over to the locker containing more gluco-water rations and thumbing the clasp in a well practised gesture, it feels like he only stowed them yesterday but he knows that in reality, they have been chilling for most of his adult life.

It is at this moment the first beta-amyloid plaque chooses to make its presence known to Michael’s neuro-anatomy. Without warning, dizziness strikes him, like a blunt trauma to the head, his limbs become limp and unresponsive. The water ration slips from his grasp and spins free in the air. Small droplets of liquid forming distended shapes before settling in to saccharine spheres. His heart rate spikes, the piercing beeping of the monitor fills his consciousness as he is seized by a deep and previously unknown fear.

His body is instantly drenched in sweat despite the low temperature maintained within the Command Module. Breath comes in ragged gasps, burning his throat. He loses consciousness momentarily before waking up in his back yard, home on Earth.

‘Beth’ He croaks, voice rasping after years of non use ‘Beth, pass me the blue, paint could you’

‘You haven’t finished the boat yet, Dad!’ The girl squeals back,cheekily flicking blue poster paint across his bare feet.

He smiles and flicks white back at his daughter ‘I want to paint a wave crashing over the bows, to give it a sense of motion’ he emphasises the syllables with a flicking motion of the paintbrush.

‘Okay,’ she giggles ‘I want you to paint me as the captain – I’m in charge!’

He grins broadly ‘yes Beth, you’ll always be in charge, you’ll make a Commander one day, just like your old man’ much to her delight, he daubs a smear of paint on her nose and holds the brush over his daughters small hand, guiding her blue strokes on the cardboard to form a bow wave for their yacht. The Sun filters down through cracks in the bamboo shade roof behind their quiet suburban home, dappling Father and Daughter in warm afternoon light.

‘Michael...’

‘Don’t call me Michael, it’s Dad to you, sweetie’ he has always felt that it doesn’t feel right having your kids call you by your first name

‘Michael’ There is something strange about her voice.

‘Honey, I’d really prefer Dad’ he repeats patiently

‘Commander Kirby, can you hear me?’

He turns away from the girl and his easel and faces Hewitt, the speaker. Glancing back toward the sun drenched yard he finds himself alone. The warmth of a summer’s afternoon supplanted by the muted greys of Voyager 9.

An overwhelming sadness tears at his heart, giving way eventually to confusion and regret. The happiness was so brief, the relaxed atmosphere so soothing and the memories of his long deceased daughter so fond and real. The stark contrast is hard to digest.

‘Commander Kirby,’ It is Hewitt’s voice ‘you okay sir? You were mumbling to yourself there’

Michael catches the note of concern, he nonchalantly pulls a cloth from a fabric pouch attached to the hull next to the instrument panel and wipes moisture off his forehead. Feeling the dexterity returning to his quivering fingers, he folds the cloth neatly and replaces it in the pocket before manoeuvring himself across the command module to his work station.

‘Yes Hewitt, absolutely fine’ his voice catches like a rusty hinge.

‘That’s good to hear Sir, I was worried for a moment’

‘No need for any concern, just gathering my thoughts. How are you feeling?’

‘A little better’

‘That’s the way, me too’ Michael lies, trying to sound positive despite feeling as though he might vomit any second.‘Anything of interest in the log?’

‘Not yet Sir, it’s still booting up’

‘Okay, once you’re in, give me a run down, I’m going to run some hardware diagnostics, make sure this crate hasn’t suffered too much in our absence’

‘Sir’ affirms Hewitt.

It’s just an anxiety attack he tells himself, he has never suffered one before but according to Kleine-Rocha’s Pause training, most humans will display some signs of mental stress when confronted with the realities of long term stasis. He had just been lucky up to now, never having shown any sign of these symptoms in the tests.

A little while later all systems are up and running and the two men converge at the main screen.

Hewitt opens the log file and begins sifting through thirty years worth of automated reports.

‘Okay Jim, lets start with a run-down, what have we missed?’

‘Our protocol is very strict, Mission control will only send us updates on events directly relevant to Voyager’s progress.’ Hewitt’s voice trails off as he scans down the screen

‘and…’ the Commander prompted

‘and it’s been a quiet 32 years and four months Sir. There are only two entries in the log outside of the routine sampling and automated tests, these were both within the first 36 months of our Pause’

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes Sir, apparently we have received no further communication’

’That’s not right. They were going to send up updates at regular intervals during our Pause so that we could catch up on the mission.

‘I know that Sir but there’s nothing else here’

Michael can remember checking Voyager’s systems, making minute adjustments to their trajectory and locking in the autopilot before giving Hewitt the all clear to break out the chemical cosh. Voyager 9 had cruised out of Earth’s gravitational embrace using the momentum of their orbit to sling shot the ungainly capsule toward infinity.

After one last admiring look at the green/blue perfection dwindling in Voyagers wake, Michael had manoeuvred himself in to his pod, strapped himself down and entrusted his fate to Mission Control and to the Kleine-Rocha Pause™ system of pharmacologically induced stasis. For him, the intervening three decades had passed, quite literally, in the blink of an eye.

‘Look out there, Hewitt’ begins Michael, indicating the portal ‘Look at all that nothingness. That’s the biggest lot of nothing any human eyes have ever seen. Thirty years of nothing stretching all the way back to Earth’ Michael is staring fixedly through the window hatch as he speaks. Hewitt notes the older man’s intensity, he says nothing but something isn’t right.

Michael is continuing his monologue ‘We’re all alone out here, Hewitt. If anything goes wrong, we’re history. There’s no rescue team, no back-ups. This is it, you and me. We’re so far from home we might never make it back at all’

‘Best not to think like that, Sir’ Hewitt is on his guard. Could this be a test of some kind? Surely Commander Kirby must have prepared himself psychologically for these facts long ago.

Michael is still talking, almost to himself ‘They could leave us out here. They could just switch us off and forget all about us. Maybe they already have...’ he trails off before becoming animated once more ‘Why did we do it to ourselves? Why did we sign away our lives?’ he stares at Hewitt accusingly, as if expecting an insightful answer.

‘Sir, is something wrong? Are you feeling okay?’ Lieutenant Hewitt is openly concerned now. He does not want to offend his superior officer and long time mentor but at the same time is dismayed by this lack of professionalism.

Michael concludes his rant in a gravel monotone ‘Those quacks at Kleine-Rocha put us out here just to prove they could. Like the Russians did to that dog, Laika. And you know what happened to him?’ It is a rhetorical question.

Michael blinks for the first time since beginning his dark soliloquy and pushes himself through the hatch in to the stasis chamber, mumbling something about a trouble shooting manual. Hewitt smiles lopsidedly, recognising the Commander’s dry humour and trying to dispel his fears. He returns to scanning through the logs. There remains a nagging sense that all is not well.

When Michael returns to the command module Hewitt is under the workstation with his sleeves rolled up, clutching a multi meter and a set of screwdrivers.

‘Sir, I think it’s the external aerial. It must have been damaged somehow, our only option is to go outside and replace it’ Hewitt is agitated, wearing an uncomfortable expression as he looks up at his Commander ‘and that’s not the only thing; I’ve been looking at the med logs, Sir.’ Hewitt begins, hesitantly ‘Your monitors are all over the place, ever since you came out of your Pause. Is everything Okay with you physically Sir?’

‘Yes...Yes, I...Yes I’m fine. Just warming up’ Michael’s stammered reply sounds less convincing than he had intended and he knows it. Why can’t Hewitt just leave him to re-adjust?

‘We should run a blood screen, Sir. It’s probably just a stress reaction.’

Hewitt sounds doubtful, a syringe has appeared in his hand. Michael is on guard, unsure. He says nothing, stung by the implication more than by the scratch of the needle. Again, he stretches out his arm towards the instruments and again he notes the tremor. Raising an eyebrow, he quickly lowers the arm and instead rests his hand in his lap.

To distract himself, he fishes for his small notebook and detaches the heavy, silver pen. He scribbles loosely on the cover, waiting for ink to flow from the nib. As he doodles he thinks of his daughter, those perfect days before her illness. His wife’s despair when he was selected for Deep Space, their divorce.Trying to sound confident once again, Michael confirms ‘There’s no other explanation than the aerial, all systems are reporting A-OKAY. Including me. But once comms are back up, you can send off your little sample and give the quacks something to think about.’

‘Agreed, Sir. I’ll get suited up.’

Standing in the Air-lock, Hewitt looks back over his shoulder before fitting his helmet, ‘This is it then’ he beams

‘Have you thought of anything profound to say?’ asks Michael drily

‘I’ll leave that to you sir, I am going to become the first human to spacewalk outside of the solar system. Shame it’s being wasted on maintenance!’

‘Don’t worry Jim, we’ll put something deep and meaningful in the log. Good luck out there’

‘Thanks Sir.’

Hewitt slams the airlock and slowly turns himself, feeling the umbilical unwind and bump against his leg. Lights begin to flash as the airlock vents it’s atmosphere before the outer door slides open, enveloping the young astronaut in the interstellar void. With an unnecessary deep breath, Hewitt kicks off and pushes himself outside.

Having completed a routine check on the life support system, Micheal opens a food ration and tries to eat the insipid nutrition soup. Although barely palatable, the food gives his long dormant digestive tract something to work on and the nutrients improve his mood. Small things take on a great significance when juxtaposed against the gut wrenching loneliness of deep space.

Once again he looks out and sees the entire Solar System in their wake, tiny bright specs, denoted the planets and the sun, millions of kilometres away from their position at the outer limit of the Heliopause. For the first time in his career as an astronaut, Michael feels the true scale and grandeur of Space. And it terrifies him to the core.

After hours in the suit, Hewitt is beginning to feel the familiar cramps. It is impossible to move around freely within the cumbersome garment but without its protection he wouldn’t survive exposure to the void. His inspection indicated that some small piece of debris must have collided with Voyager. Several sensors were bent over and the radio aerial was missing altogether. Having replaced the aerial with a spare, Hewitt rests and allows his mind to wander. All around him is darkness but he is surprised by the clarity of the solar system stretching away before him. The Commander was right about one thing: they are totally alone out here. But this was a true adventure and Hewitt revelled in it. All the preparation, all the training they had undertaken and yet the sheer scale of the Milky Way still filled him with wonder and respect. Turning his mind back to the mission he rotated his joints as best as he could and began straightening another damaged sensor.

In the command module, Michael half watches his junior officer on the monitor while he writes sporadically in his notebook. His letters neat but almost too small to be legible. He is writing a shopping list for when they get home: Fresh bread, coffee, cream, bacon, eggs, laundry powder, a small screw to fix that lamp in the spare room that keeps flickering…

Hewitt’s voice crackles on the radio ‘Commander, could you take a look at the communications feed. There is a lag on the visual prompter in my helmet, I don’t need it but the flickering is bugging the hell out of me. Probably just requires a manual re-boot again’

‘I’m sorry,’ Michael replies slowly and shakily as if just out of a trance.

‘That’s fine Commander, nothing you could have done.’

There is a pause.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats. ‘But who is this I’m speaking to?’

A longer pause this time. The question hangs on the airwaves like a turd adrift in a swimming pool.

‘It’s Hewitt, Sir. Lieutenant Hewitt’

‘I see, and where is Commander Davidson?’

‘Who?!’ Hewitt’s voice is icy with disbelief

‘Jeannette Davidson, of course. Who do you think?’

‘It’s Hewitt sir, Commander Davidson died on Voyager 7’

‘Perhaps she did.’ Michael answers, sounding unconvinced. He is unaware of the difficulties his hippocampus is encountering as memory forming neurons fail to connect to appropriate neural pathways and are blocked by microscopic tangles of fibrous protein.

Michael began pressing buttons to reset the communications server. Glancing down at the control panel he continued casually ‘Hurry up Hewitt, you’re running out of oxygen’

‘That’s impossible, I’m on the umbilical’ Hewitt begins, glancing down at his own life support monitor. ‘Shit!’ he exclaims, suddenly terrified ‘I have less than 1%’ The young astronaut tries not to panic, it will only make matters worse. Squinting back over his shoulder he can see the end of umbilical floating free in space. Instantly he grabs hard on to the rails, pulling himself closer to Voyager, hugging the alloyed hull for tall he is worth. If he let go the rails he could drift off in to oblivion with no thrusters to push him back. He can feel the grogginess of anoxia beginning to affect him. Takes a deep breath and holds it as he pulls himself back towards the hatch.

Michael hears the airlock hiss as Hewitt pressurises and removes his suit. A light flashes red and the internal door opens.He snaps the notebook closed and his mind goes blank, face fixed in a vacant stare, he opens his hand and the leather bound book drifts slowly out of reach, his eyes following its progress on a collision course with the hull. The only other movement is the tremor afflicting his right hand.

Hewitt slams the inner air lock and floats toward Michael aggressively, his face a mask of rage. ‘What happened?!’ he shouted breathlessly

‘What do you mean what happened?’ Michael was confused

‘You weren’t watching my monitors?!’ Frustration and disbelief evident in the Junior officer’s tone. ‘I nearly died! What happened to the umbilical?’

Michael looked toward the control panel, indicating a red light among a sea of green.

‘You ejected me…’ Hewitt couldn’t grasp the situation ‘WHY?!’

To be totally honest Michael wasn’t sure why anymore, but that clearly wasn’t going to satisfy his co-pilot ‘You were over pressurising. I had to override your controls to vent some air’

‘That’s madness, a total over reaction. I hadn’t even noticed the overpressure. That’s a last resort in any case, only appropriate if something leaks inside the suit - you nearly killed me!’

‘You’re exaggerating, you made it back didn’t you?’ Michael is starting to sound distracted, disinterested ‘Don’t you want to see what it’s like? What it feels like to touch it. Space.’ Michael wasn’t really talking to Hewitt. He directed his conversation at the notebook which had drifted up in to his line of sight again. ‘I do, I really dooo’ he said the last word as he exhaled, mimicking chocking.

‘You’ve lost it, Commander Kirby. You’re insane’ Hewitt is still angry but now a reluctant calm has descended on him. Is he going to have to forcibly relieve his Commander on medical grounds?

‘Don’t get fresh with me, Hewitt’ Michael has snapped back to normal. ‘I’m your commanding officer and I will not be insulted, you think I’d put you in danger? Obviously I knew you’d be able to get back inside with the residual air in your suit.’

‘Sir, I apologise if you find this upsetting but you just nearly killed me and I think there is something wrong with you, maybe some side-effect of the Pause’

‘Rubbish, you just want me out of the way so you can do your big hero routine!’

‘Sir, what does that even mean?’

‘Never mind. You’ve known me a long time Lieutenant and you know I won’t tolerate insubordination.’

Hewitt is no longer sure of himself. The Commander has had one of the longest and most distinguished careers in International Space Program history. Maybe he really had done the right thing by ejecting the umbilical, overpressures could be fatal and were extremely painful but he had not noticed any discomfort and there were many less drastic options, any of which could have corrected the fault.

Michael continues ‘Look we are both exhausted, we’ve already been awake for hours longer than our bodies can stand, post Pause’ he sounded reasonable, authoritative. Normal. ‘Let’s get some sleep and everything will be fine.’

‘I sure am exhausted’ agrees Hewitt, defeated. ‘Let’s just test the comms again first though. The new aerial should allow us to download now’

A message has indeed downloaded. Hewitt swipes at a control panel and the video message begins. A youngish man with untidy ginger hair and a goatee appears, sat at a glass desk with an International Space Program banner behind him.

‘Gentlemen, Congratualtions’ he begins. Staring directly in to the camera. ‘I’m Senior Mission Liaison Officer Andrew Neville. I have been appointed to look after you for the remainder of your mission and make sure things run smoothly.’

Mission Liaison Officer This is a new rank as far a Michael knows, it sounds fashionable, as though fabricated by a committee of media savvy pencil pushers. He feels an embryonic dislike of the youthful yet authoritative Neville building. Too young to be experienced yet with a confidence, arrogance even that sets Michael’s teeth on edge. Probably some sharp shooter on a Grad-programme or worse yet, someone with nepotistic family connections in the ISP.

‘Did you hear that Hewitt? This guy is going to ’look after us’

Hewitt nodded, keen to appease the Commander.

Neville is continuing ‘You’ll be pleased to know that the mission is a massive success so far. We have had only one issue along the way which I’m sure you are already aware of. You were struck by an unknown object at 38 months. We lost our ability to upload any data or messages to you but you were still transmitting so we have monitored you all the way ’

‘This guy wasn’t even born when that happened’ Hewitt couldn’t help gushing.

‘We routinely run full diagnostics on all systems as you know. Everything is functioning perfectly.’ Neville sounded as though he was finishing up his dull monologue. Hewitt was already back to reading the data logs. Michael floated in front of the monitor, sucking half heartedly from a gluco-water sachet.

‘Best of luck Gentlemen, you are this generations heroes, we all grew up watching your progress and look forward enormously to receiving your videos once you’re ready. Over and out’

Hewitt looked up at Michael ‘Still no more messages, maybe they realised we couldn’t receive and stopped transmitting?’

‘I’ll try rebooting the server’ Michael replies, his hand hovers over three buttons, each has a small plastic catch to prevent accidental activation, he flips up the middle catch and presses the button, holding it down for a full 5 seconds. Somewhere a system trills as it re-boots. The simple operation takes considerable concentration as his outstretched arm shudders violently, refusing to obey him. Sleep he tells himself, just need to sleep.

They return to the stasis module which doubles as sleeping quarters. Both men strap themselves to the bunks and fall in to uneasy slumber.

Hours later, feeling somewhat revived, Michael returns to the communications consol in the Command Module and begins to download the results of his blood test.

Another recorded video starts and Neville’s face come in to focus on the screen. ‘I must inform you, Michael, that you are extremely unwell. The blood analysis has concluded that there are anomalies in your neurotransmitter levels consistent with advanced neurodegenerative disease’

‘Advanced...what?!’ Michael he curses at the unhearing man. ‘This shouldn’t be possible, I’ve been Paused for 32 years’

The recording continues, the younger man explaining symptoms and likely scenarios, assuring him that scientists and doctors from Kleine-Rocha were investigating the matter and further tests would be required. Michael only half listens, still shell shocked at the disturbing news. He had known something was wrong, he even recognised his own unusual behaviour. As it turned out, his above average intellect, years of training and unwavering self assurance had been no match for the ravages of age. It was his genetically predetermined fate to end his days gibbering incoherently with no control over his faculties. He was alone, as alone as any human had ever been and half a lifetime away from any assistance or treatment.

For the first time in his life Michael was filled with self doubt. He gazed, grey faced through the porthole. The limitless black of the Interstellar Void enveloping the minute capsule, he could almost feel it pressing in on him, crushing his already insignificant presence into true nothingness. The vastness of space was devastating.

What had possessed him to come out here where no Human had any business? The whole situation was one enormous experiment. He could have died from solar radiation, malfunctions, the Pause2 apparatus could have failed, for all Michael knew, the Pause2 could have caused the neurodegeneration. The ISP and the drug companies had risked his life to prove a point to the world. He had risked his own life to prove a point to himself.

Slowly the realisation dawns that the Pause is either causing or is unable to arrest neurodegeneration. Given this reality he will likely arrive back on Earth as little more than a vegetable. Michael glances down at his hands, both of them twitching and convulsing uncontrollably. In this moment of clarity he makes his final decision. Whether pride or the folly of a delirious old man his course is set.

Hewitt wakes with a dry mouth and a headache, red lights play over his face, he lifts his head to see they emanate from the air lock. Fear grips him and he is immediately alert and upright, shrugging off the straps and pulling himself through the connection toward the lights. On the other side he can see the communications screen playing Neville’s message and is dimly aware from the tone that it is not good news. More importantly the red lights have stopped flashing and the air lock is sealed. But not empty.

The two men face each other through the toughened Perspex porthole. Michael, in the air-lock, no suit, dishevelled with a sad but defiant look, Hewitt still within the command module staring in mute disbelief. Yet immediately comprehending.

‘I’m sorry’ mouths Michael silently as the outer door opens. He turns, facing the void and kicks off, launching himself in to frozen oblivion.

James Hewitt is aghast. What is the protocol for this?! There is no line in any ISP textbook beginning: Commanding Officer drifts off in to the infinity of interstellar space. His first instinct is to give chase with a jet pack but he knows death would have been virtually instantaneous. So instead he stands and watches Michael’s tiny outline disappear in to infinity until he is indistinguishable from the unrelenting vacuum. Pressing the button for the outer door he watches it close and seal, leaving him alone on Voyager 9.

Recording a message for Mission Control gives him purpose. He gives a detailed update on the developments of the last 24hrs and requests new orders. He hits send and sighs sadly, his eyes dropping from the screens to his hands. It is the first time he has noticed the involuntary tremor.