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// An Open Letter to the Inhabitants of Earth 
// Story: Last 
// by Alan Smithee 
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Transmission Sent: 16 May, 2089, 23:06 UTC
Encryption Level 0
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An Open Letter to the Inhabitants of Earth


This message is freely readable to anyone who receives it.

My name is Simon. I am broadcasting this message from my ship at the edge of our solar system. At midnight, I shall enter long-term stasis for fifty years. I will spend two years on my destination planet and, if all goes well, I shall return after another fifty years.

This is my last chance to communicate with the currently-living inhabitants of Earth.

Due to various operational protocols, I was not in stasis during my six-month journey out to the edge. This has given me much time to think, and I'd like to take this last opportunity to share my thoughts with whomever is willing to listen.

I admit that I face what lies ahead with no small amount of trepidation. I am, after all, completely alone up here, save for the on-board Artificial Intelligence, who much prefers discussing technical rather than human troubles.
Being the only member of this expedition means I must play several roles: I must be a biologist, cartographer, goodwill ambassador and chronologist. Considering my Masters is in Pure Mathematics, and that I've worked the last five years as a programmer, this is quite a daunting list of skills I've had to learn!

I am honoured to be among the first of our species to reach beyond our cosmic neighbourhood, a symbol of our insatiable desire to understand the Universe and explore the limits of what is possible. But I ask myself, is this desire alone the essence of our greatness? I've always felt that the miracle of Apollo 13, a miracle manufactured by man, far outshines the mere success of Apollo 11, and I've always believed that Ernest Shackleton's amazing journey to save the lives of his entire crew showed in him more nobility than he ever could have by crossing the Antarctic. Perhaps it is not just our ambition, but our devotion to each other when our ambitions go too far, that makes humans capable of anything and willing to try. If we care not for each other, then for whom do we perform such amazing feats? Perhaps Icarus' problem wasn't that he flew too high, but rather that he had no one to catch him when he fell.

As my next two years, the loneliest and most dangerous two years I will ever face, stretch before me, I cannot help but ask myself why I chose to do this. I've always wanted my life to have meaning. I've always wanted to be someone important. At the same time, I've never wanted to owe my accomplishments to anybody. As a result, I've done things on my own most of my life. Now I am twenty-nine years old, and in my thirtieth year, I've come to understand why my elders keep saying that no man is an island. Two years ago, when my dog of sixteen years died and I became aware that most of my friends had drifted away over time, I found I didn't even have the strength to get out of bed in the morning. I felt that I was of no use to anyone, and my opportunities to fulfill my ambition to do something of fundamental importance were dwindling. I think that's part of the reason why I chose this lonely mission: For all it's adversity, this mission will allow me to revel in the glory of being a true pioneer. If I could do it again, I think I would rather have just held on to my friends.

As I look at my monitor and watch the pale blue dot that is our home recede away from me, I am filled with longing. I hope to return to my little island of life, greeted with open arms by the sons and daughters of today. I hope there will still be a place for me on Earth.

Farewell,
Simon X.

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