Humanities Saviour?
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These are the recovered personal logs of Ambassador Andrea Walsh, of the United Nations, published to mark the centenary of the Hawking Mission of 2044.
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Saturday, 26 November 2044
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Looking back, I've always had a sense of being out of place, or having been born at the wrong time. Then again, so did a lot of the people who I used to chat to about all that big life stuff.
One existential crisis led to another, until for a while I thought I’d got clever enough to understand. Then it turned out I hadn’t. A handful of years later, I thought I’d developed sufficient maturity and experience to finally get it, if not fully understand. And I was wrong about that, too.
Talking about how I felt really helped at first, but over the years the conversations became as numbing - and often as painful - as the feelings I was attempting to conquer. I’ve always known I had to do something though. I just wish someone had given me a clue as to what that might have been.
And please, don’t think I’m talking about “destiny” or any such grandiose or flawed term, here. Honestly, I think I’ve just got swept along with a public tide of fear, anger and ambition. The right place at the right time. Possibly. Or wrong place, wrong time. That rather depends on how the next few weeks turn out. And that’s if I actually survive tomorrow. This could be the last time the waves crash and tinge my tongue with salt. Or, I could be among the first humans to wade in an alien sea.
Sitting here on my hotel balcony - my gin and tonic held securely in its glass by the trusty old gravity I’ve always been able to take for granted - it seems scarcely believable that I’ll be out of earth’s atmosphere by this time tomorrow. And that’s if everything goes well.
Of course, I’ve said I’m excited, and can’t wait to get going, which is true. Each time I say it though, the terror must be visible in my eyes. I’ve looked for it in my colleagues’ faces, their tones of voice, choices of words and body language. All my looking - and I’ve done a lot - makes me even more sure I’m the only one who’s this afraid.
I’m spending what could be the last night of my life writing what could turn out to be my final piece of copy. Old habits die hard, I suppose. “Copy” is what we used to call it. Back when newspapers were really made of paper and actually carried news. But that was a long time ago now.
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