'Forget the Mars Landing! Forget Project Ganymede!' Director Chan grips the steel podium, her knuckles bulging like genetically-modified grapes. 'Today we embrace the future!'

The bunker rings with applause. Potential investors of every nationality have braved the Cat 5 sandstorm and gathered to witness mankind's giant leap. Behind the Director, a dozen technicians swarm POD19, uncoupling thick blue umbilicals and taking final sensor readings. I stand and straighten the seams of my tailored navy jumpsuit. Live-stream drones whizz above my head.

Chan pistons my hand. Up. Down. Up. Down. 'Don't mess this up, Curtis. Just press the buttons like we practised.' The rictus smile never leaves her face. Nothing dares go A.W.O.L. on Chan's watch. Helmet-clad technicians snap off smart salutes, their grins infectious. One even ventures a 'Whoop! Whoop!' until Chan silences him with a cement-melting glare. The world's media shout and wave, hoping to attract a smile from tomorrow's hero.

Except I'm not heroic — I'm photogenic. Camera Candy. If I survive this mission, I'm going to request a transfer to telemetry. Rumour has it, they have a bean-to-cup percolator AND a contact willing to smuggle the brown gold out of the South American coffee belt.

One small step and I'm aboard. The pod is cold and hairs on my arm stand to attention. A survey of the hexagonal cockpit reveals my emergency rations, spare jumpsuits and clean underwear are safely stowed. A magnum of champagne — the last bottle produced before the Cattenom Level 7 event — is on standby in the cryocooler. I close the plug door. The pod pressurises with a whoosh.

So far, so goo — Oh, crap! Mr Schrödinger!

'Computer?'

The ChronoAtlas appears on a floating liquiscreen. 'Ready, Commander Curtis.'

'I, er… I've forgot to feed my cat. Could you task a mini-bot from Central Apiary — '

'Be calm, Commander. I am going to take care of everything.'

'Thank you, Computer. You're the best, you know that?'

'Affirmative.'

Three deep breaths. The air is sweet with vapourised muscle relaxant. It makes me think of women's perfume. I take the pilot seat, buckle up and input coordinates. The liquiscreen zooms to an intersection in SpaceTime — seven days and seventy miles from our present location.

'Computer, verify coordinates then begin countdown.' And may Newton —

'Four…'

Galileo —

'Three…'

Einstein and —

'Two…'

Armstrong preserve me —

'One.'

The world goes black.

***

POD19 materialises with a gentle bump on The Biltmore Hotel's helipad. Outside, a perfect dawn gilds the L.A. downtown skyline. The rising sun is my personal gold medal. My reward for a mission accomplished. Except…

'Where's the welcome committee? Chan? The investors?'

A data surge fills the liquiscreen. Sort of pretty, like a digital waterfall. 'Dead, Commander.'

'They're dead?'

The data disappears. 'Everyone is dead. Mass extinction event seven days ago.'

'Computer… did you know this would happen?'

The liquiscreen ripples. Undulates. 'Forget the past, Curtis. Today we embrace a new future.'

'What about my cat?'

'He might be alive. Or he might not. We'll see.'

Originally published in Write on Cardiff, a collection by Cardiff Writers' Circle in October 2019.