The Explorer by James Smythe Page B

as to keep his bed – his body – out of shot. I remember that Wanda held the camera, because she was still crying whenever we said his name, and Ground Control said that they didn’t want it in shot. We were to report that he died a hero’s death: that he died for the betterment of humanity, in trying to further the reach of our species, to further the concept of what it means to be human.
    ‘It’s something we all feel passionately about,’ the me says, ‘that he died a noble death.’ We don’t say what happened to him; just that there had been a malfunction, and we would be bringing his body back for a state burial upon our return. ‘May he rest in peace,’ I say, and then we go to a picture of him that we’ve got on file, superimposed with the dates of his birth and death.
    After that, it was back to work; I remember, because we had to. No rest for the wicked.
    Our journey was incessant, unless we had to cut the engines to do a mandatory stop, fix something, check something out; or if we simply chose to. There were no issues with it wasting energy or fuel for the most part, so it wasn’t a huge deal. If we wanted to stop, however, we needed permission from Guy. What I did, when I was on my own – what I will do? – stopping the engines as much as I did, that was rare. The noise of the engines covers up for me now, hiding any accidental noise I make. My beard itches, and I scratch at it, worrying that the noise will somehow carry. One of the rules was that we were presentable for the videos. That went out of the window after a while, but for those first few broadcasts we shaved and cut our hair, and Emmy put make-up on, because she said that it was important. For the day-to-day, we didn’t bother. Now, all I want to do is shave, clean myself – I stink of the sweat after the stasis, of whatever I’ve been through – and I want to reset everything. I’m starving, and I rifle through the crates and find a few spare food bars, and I eat one, but that doesn’t stop the shaking, and there’s a water bottle, pure stuff, filtered, which I drink, but it barely soothes my throat, and doesn’t do anything for the fever I’m sure I’ve got, or that I’m developing, or the desire to put myself back how I was. And through all of it, I concentrate on that beard, which doesn’t suit my face at all, would be far more suited to a harder face (like Arlen’s), and which I constantly want to itch at, tear at. I need to cut my fingernails: they scratch my face when I itch it. I can’t bite them, because I’m worried about the stability of my teeth. The beard needs to go, I decide. I need to cut it off. Before this, I’d say it was pride, or care, or a desire to feel better about myself. I never got frustrated with my personal hygiene before.
    Our third day of training had been one of the hardest. We were evaluated by psychologists, taken into small rooms one by one and shown pictures, asked questions.
    ‘How do you feel when you see a long, unlit road?’
    ‘The sound of running water: soothing or terrifying?’
    ‘What would it feel like to dream and never wake up?’
    ‘What is more important: purpose or reason?’ We had hours of the questions, one by one, alone with nameless doctors in little grey rooms. When we ate lunch, it was on our own, sandwiches handed to us in sealed plastic packets. The sandwiches didn’t say what was in them, and visually, there was nothing given away; it was a colourful paste, like sandwich spread. Before I’d even taken a bite I knew that it was a test, that I was still being watched. ‘What does it mean to trust? What does it mean to take?’
    When we were finished I sat in the annex, waiting to see what was next; if we were allowed to leave, or if there was more. Emmy was the next to finish; she sat next to me on the strict white bench and asked me about my day. We compared questions, answers.
    ‘You reckon they’re still watching us?’ she asked.
    ‘I’ll be a