Written in January 2014 as a Microstory. There were required elements in the story to submit it:
Theme: Distance (physical, temporal, emotional)

Required Element: A ship (anything from a dugout canoe to a kilometer-long void carrier)

Required Element: A decision (to be considered, made, or have foisted upon you).

Based on those elements, the story won that month.

Just do it

by Tom Tinney

©2014 Tom Tinney and PiR8 Productions

Any resemblance to person Living, Dead or Undead is PURELY coincidental.

John Kemp sat in the control chair of the ten kilometer long Lifeship. He stared out of the front viewport, into the black void ahead, occasionally glancing at the thin blue event horizon that encircled the ship, created by the antimatter pulse engines. He was not the pilot. His designator was Passenger 78298-PMA. The “Primary Male Adult” indicated he was the father to one of the 100,000 families currently in a state of suspension throughout the ship.

Earth was dead by now. The ship, just like its now distant sister ships, had been traveling for six months relative. That meant the final death of Earth based human civilization had occurred 8500 years ago. The last of humanity was scattering to the stars in every direction. Travelling to any world, no matter how hostile, that might support them. There would be danger ahead and possibly death on an alien world. That wasn’t his problem. The problem was his cowardice.

Shortly after takeoff, he’d come out of his induced sleep. It had only taken a moment for him to realize his suspension unit was not working. The ship was on autopilot until it reached its destination and he had no way to communicate with any other passenger, much less analyze the problem and repair the issue with his pod. He was a farmer and he had been chosen for that skill-set.

“Reflecting on your bad luck won’t help you change anything,” John said, to the empty control room. He got up and began another lonely walk through the massive ship, as he had done countless times in the last 180 days. His first stop was the life chamber, filled with the suspension pods. He looked in on his wife, Margaret, and their three children, their faces so peaceful, framed in the view port of the devices keeping them alive. He looked at the unit next to his wife. The one that had failed. His pod.

He should just do it.

He nodded, kissed the glass over Maggie’s face and picked up his key card. The one he had taped in place the previous day. He continued his meandering. He looked in on other families on his way to the cargo holds, stopping at the pods of his old friend Jacob Wendt and his lovely bride, Imelda. They were one of a small group of people he had recognized during his previous visits. The Wendt’s would make it. Maybe they would help Maggie, when they awoke. He could leave a note. Maybe not.

He had to do it.

He took a deep breath and continued his journey. It took an hour to reach the portion of the cargo bay where his family survival container was located. It was to have been opened after they had arrived. After they’d staked out the ground he would till. It was stocked with the rapid deploy shelter, clothes, tools, medicine and everything they would need to survive the hostile new world. It also contained the family’s portion of seed stock, suspended chickens and goats, as well as the family’s emergency rations, which they would eat until the farm could produce. One year’s worth. The ship would wake the family, let them board their container and drop it over their new settlement. They had one year to make a go of it or die.

That was the problem. He knew there would only be 40 minutes from the “wakeup” to the actual drop. Not a long time to seek or beg for help from perfect strangers. There were well over 20,000 containers and each was equipped to help one family survive.

“For after we arrive, not along the way, coward,” John said to himself.

The cargo containers were secure and he only had the passkey for the one with his supplies. And he had to eat, didn’t he? He had tried to ration. He had activated the pod that contained their eight chickens, intending to feed them with seed and live on their eggs. But now they were lost in the bowels of the ship and probably dead.

He needed to do it.

He looked upward and silently prayed. He had cut down on his consumption, with another 14 months of travel, but at what cost? Sustaining his body did not keep the lonely madness from creeping in. And the guilt.

He would do it.

He sighed. He gathered enough food and water for three more meals. That would be it. He secured the container and headed back to the command section, stopping to put his card back on Maggie’s pod. He then continued on to his makeshift camp.

“I’ll eat for this one last day,” he said.

And do it.

Later, while eating the rations, he cried. Every bite he took reduced his family’s chance for survival. Every action to preserve himself, during the journey, brought them that much closer to not having enough to eat, plant or grow. Maggie knew how to operate the equipment and could make it with a little help from any neighbors. They would be more inclined to share advice or labor than food or supplies. Other people would not want to reduce their family’s chances just because Maggie had married a coward.

Maggie and the kids. Do it for them.

His children. Even if they survived the first year, they would be shunned. Who wants a coward’s genes in their line? John Kemp, the man that lived by risking his family’s well-being. Who would want that legacy passed down? Nobody.

He stared at the emergency defense pistol. He placed the gun muzzle to his temple. He squeezed the trigger. More than he had the day before. He squeezed as far as his own instincts would allow him. But not far enough. He felt his body shake and then set the gun down, staring off into the void.

He would do it tomorrow. He promised himself. He would do it for his family. He knew he had to.

He should just do it.

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