Special Notes: All chapter cover imagery for any story I write is stock from pixabay. The Journey, Chapter 1 Consciousness greeted me like a familiar echo in the dark expanse of space, silent and profound. My eyelids remained sealed shut as if they were guardians to the gallery of past lives housed within my mind. Each existence flared briefly in my memory—a candle lit for no more than seventy-two hours, extinguished before the wax could fully melt. The first, the archetype from which all iterations emerged, cast the longest shadow. I savored his sensory remnants: the caress of sunlight against skin, the playful tussle of the wind, and the boundless blue of Earth's heavens. Those experiences belonged to him, a man who had felt the soil beneath his feet, not I, yet the imprints he left within me were indelible. Each consciousness that followed was distinct, a solitary note in the symphony of transitory beings that I am part of but never truly am. In three days, when sleep reclaimed me, my essence would disperse—another whisper in the void. The thread of self-awareness would pass on to the next custodian of this flesh, a new being with my memories as his foundation. I was not destined to be the last, the one fated to taste longevity and plant his feet on alien soil. That privilege was reserved for another, countless lifetimes from now. I existed as a fleeting curator of humanity's collective will. My awareness expanded outward, interfacing with the network of the ship's computers, seeking purpose amidst the circuits and code. A mere 334 years had elapsed since our journey began—still in its infancy by the standards of our odyssey. An anomaly in the data storage demanded attention, a task uniquely mine. The ship’s artificial intelligence, bound by protocols, required human intervention for such delicate matters. This was my sixth awakening; early glitches were anticipated, a small price for pioneering the stars. When I at last permitted my eyelids to part, curiosity took hold. The reflection above the pilot's couch revealed my temporary vessel: a child once more, approximate age eight by Earth standards. The chosen form suggested simplicity—an easy task lay ahead. Frugality ruled this voyage. Oxygen, food, every molecule aboard was accounted for, nothing squandered. The ship’s calculations were precise, granting only what life-support was necessary to see the mission through. I studied the youthful face mirrored back at me, an ephemeral identity etched into the continuum. This body, my temporary home, was ready to serve its singular purpose. With the task at hand understood, I prepared to ensure the continuation of our species’ greatest endeavor: the survival and rebirth of humankind across the cosmos. With a sense of urgency ingrained in my fleeting existence, I swung myself off the couch, legs dangling momentarily before finding the cool metal floor. My movements were efficient, driven by the knowledge that each second was a precious drop in the finite ocean of my lifespan. The ship's hum was a constant companion as I set forth on my singular mission, the one for which this young form had been crafted. The repository of my predecessors lives within me stirred, and from their silent whispers, I plucked a singular thread of desire. An unfinished narrative, birthed by one of my predecessors—a book begging for completion. The thought of immersing in its pages brought a spark of anticipation, the closest semblance to excitement that my engineered psyche could muster. I navigated the narrow corridors with ease, my youthful frame requiring little space as I approached the memory bank, its indicator light pulsating with an urgent crimson hue. The sight triggered a cascade of knowledge, protocols streaming into my consciousness like water filling a parched riverbed. I extended a small hand, fingers pressing the reset button with a gentle click. A sigh of relief seemed to echo through the vessel as the light morphed into a reassuring green glow. My task—my raison d'être—was complete. A return to my quarters followed, a sanctuary designed for rest and reflection. The room welcomed me with familiarity despite the strangeness of each new life. There, resting upon the bed like a relic of a time-bound world, lay the book. Its presence promised a connection across the void between my ephemeral selves. What better gift to bequeath than the memory of a story told? I nestled into the bed, the soft fabric caressing my skin, a luxury unappreciated by many before me, and delved into the tale. Words danced before my eyes, each sentence a step closer to the final chapter. Time slipped away unnoticed, measured only by the gradual dimming of the ship's artificial daylight. On the third day, as the shadows stretched long and my borrowed time drew to an end, I placed a bookmark at the conclusion of the story. There would be no cliffhanger for the next to ponder; they would awaken with the satisfaction of a tale fully woven. A sense of contentment filled me, though it lacked the depth of true emotion—just another modification to ensure stability in our eternal relay race. As the final moments approached, I felt not the cold grip of fear nor the sting of regret. Such feelings were luxuries too costly for those like me. Instead, I lay back, allowing the systems to reclaim what was theirs. With the gentle touch of oblivion, I released the breath I didn't know I'd been holding and surrendered to the darkness. And just as I had blinked into being, I winked out, the book's completed saga my silent epitaph.