Forgotten (Pre-edit)

Forgotten


It was a simple package really, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, like a gift from another century. My name was scrawled across the top, Merriwether Ferris of Earth, with no return address. I’d really never received anything personal before and it was…unnerving. After so long on my own, I’d almost forgotten about other sentients, only my robotic assistant to keep me company. Ours was a remote outpost, an overlooked station at the edge of the Milky Way tasked with surveying other distant galaxies for any signs of life from a larger universe. None ever came.

Admittedly, I disliked people. Aliens were even worse. So, I’d chosen my assignment as an escape, a solution to an overcrowded galaxy, and it suited me. Supply drops were an annual event, enough for a year, and I really never had any other communication at all – just data submissions, routine reports…truly a peaceful existence for which I’d become too accustomed. So, when the package tumbled away from the sealed rations and stacked capacitors, I found it right away.

“It’s a peculiar thing,” my assist-bot remarked, turning the box over in its claspers then setting it down. “What do you suppose it is?”

I almost feared to touch it. “I haven’t a clue.”

“You should probably open it.”

“But no one ever sends me anything. That’s the thing about not having any family and even fewer friends,” I lamented. “This shouldn’t be for me.”

“Would you like me to…?”

“No!” I shooed him back, too anxious to even untie the string. A mystery package to a forgotten spacer like me was certainly less than welcomed. So, I fearfully tucked it into the back of the supply closet, at least long enough for my anxiety to settle, figuring to unwrap it later, after my mind had eased a bit. Regrettably, hours became weeks and then years until a decade had passed. Meanwhile, it sat forgotten and unopened.

Finally, on the eve of my sixtieth birthday, my sequestration came to an end. A fractured communique vaguely explained all remote surveys were terminated. Budget cuts, they said. Of course, I expected to return reluctantly to Earth and when the extraction crew arrived, I was met by the first sentient I’d seen in nearly a lifetime, a hulking Bexon with a firm handshake.

“Welcome to nowhere,” I greeted warmly enough and should have immediately recognized his surprise.

“I didn’t think there were any of you guys left! Wasn’t expecting a passenger pick-up!”

“You guys? You mean, humans?”

“Earthers are supposed to be extinct,” he explained.

“What do you mean? When I return home…”

“Home? Boy, this really is the very edge of the galaxy. No one’s told you?”

“Well, the subspace relay’s pretty sketchy out here,” I sighed heavily then tugged my rucksack from the supply locker, accidentally dislodging my unremembered package and it tumbled free once more. “Huh, I’d forgotten about this.”

“What is it?”

“Funny thing, I don’t know. Never had the guts to open it, though I suppose now’s as good a time as any.” So, I gingerly pulled the paper away.

“A containment case!” my robotic assistant observed. “Battery’s dead. No problem, though.” Passing an appendage over the device, its circuits surged, illuminating a tiny flashing button, which I now more eagerly pressed.

“Salutations, Mr. Ferris,” a holographic alien greeted. “With regrets, I present the most distressing news.” Suddenly, my anxiety peaked, which was the main reason I’d resisted opening the thing in the first place.

“This was recorded years ago,” the Bexon realized.

The avatar continued, “A tragedy has laid waste to your Earth, the entirety of your people having tragically succumbed to Falusian Blight. Sadly, your civilization and susceptible ecosystem were completely decimated. Even so, on the heels of terrible sadness, hope springs anew and fate may have spared your people in the end - your isolation, your salvation. Contained herein are the last remaining, clean genetic samples of your world, suspended in a biogenic slurry within a genesis-pod. You need only activate the container to initiate the terraforming cascade. Amazingly, our scientists have determined your currently assigned planet to be a perfect host-world for you to quickly rebuild, though some urgency is required. Our condolences.” The image faded away.

Anxiously, I opened the case and the words ‘ERROR’ immediately highlighted the long extinguished genesis-pod. Tragically, my fear and loathing had allowed the box to sit idle, too long without power and the sample, destroyed.

Now, I was truly alone.


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