From: UPR Sent: 07/01/2066
To: The Infinity Received: 04/10/2067
Subject: For Attention of The Infinity
Commander Silvers,
Hoping all is well on The Infinity and no problem is occurring with any system. We write today to ask that, as a follow-up to water conservation, you reduce shower time by half to increase efficiency and also reduce toilet flushing unless necessary.
This will save on chemical processing of sewage water as well as electrical heat production.
Thank you for your cooperation.
All hail the UPR! May the King live long and vigorously!
I know the UPR mean well with their efficiency suggestions, but it’s already hard enough to reduce my showers by just one minute. I have to turn off the water while I shampoo my hair and lather up the soap, then turn it back on again to rinse off. I can’t imagine being able to get properly clean in half that time.
The UPR are right, though. I shouldn’t take my privileges for granted.
This all seems logical. Despite that, there’s a blossoming concern in my mind, as always. There’s no reason for me to panic over these helpful suggestions, but my brain doesn’t seem to want to listen.
It’s probably just because my tooth still hurts. It’s becoming more and more painful. There’s now a continuous sharp pain along my jaw. Whenever I roll over in my sleep, I wake up from the pressure of the pillow.
I’ve checked the ship’s inventory and there isn’t a spare orthodontics kit in the stores. The sick bay is my only option. But just the thought of going inside the room makes tears spring to my eyes.
I take some antibiotics from the first-aid kit in the living area instead, hoping that will be enough to kill whatever infection is causing the pain.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
141
The antibiotics haven’t made any difference to my toothache. If anything, it’s worse. It hurts so much that I can’t think about anything else.
I know it’s my own fault for letting my teeth get so bad. I’ve been ignoring the computer’s six-monthly dental check-up reminders for years, trying to avoid going into the sick bay. These days I barely even remember to floss. I deserve this pain.
I shine a torch into my mouth, staring at the painful tooth using a handheld mirror. The molar is a brownish-black colour. It’s completely rotten through.
Feeling slightly nauseated, I compare my tooth to pictures of cavities in the medical subprogram. Judging by the photographs, it’s too late to fix it with a filling. It needs to be extracted.
I’m going to have to remove one of my teeth.
I just wish that I could do it somewhere apart from the sick bay. The manual tells me that the orthodontic equipment there can remove the tooth without me having to do anything but open my mouth – and there’s a topical anaesthetic, so I wouldn’t feel a thing. It sounds easy. It sounds quick. But I know I’m not going to do this the easy way.
I can picture exactly what’s waiting inside the sick bay and there’s no way I can go in there. I’m going to remove this tooth old-school style. People have been extracting teeth for millennia without fancy space-age NASA technology. I don’t need machinery to do this – I just need some pliers.
I read through the manual’s instructions on tooth extraction, making a list of essentials. I can create dentistry tools from cutlery and sewing supplies. Just as long as I don’t have to go into the sick bay, anything will do.
I find a scalpel, a screwdriver and a set of pliers in the maintenance toolkit. There’s a medium-strength anaesthetic and bandages in the first-aid kit. I fetch a tea towel from the kitchen, just in case there’s more blood than in the pictures in the manual. I also take the few centimetres of whisky left at the bottom of Dad’s bottle.
After sterilizing the equipment with boiling water, I prepare a clean area of the bathroom for surgery and change into an old pair of dungarees. I rub a capsule of anaesthetic on my gum, and while I wait for it to work I read through the instructions for the seventh time.
When the pain in my jaw has weakened noticeably, I have no other choice but to start.
I pick up the pliers. A dizzy feeling passes through me. I ignore it. I am a strong, independent woman and I can totally do this.
Thinking carefully about anything other than what I’m about to do, I touch the pliers against either side of the rotten tooth. When I press down, a searing pain shoots up my jaw. I drop the pliers, gasping. The tool skitters across the floor, coming to a stop at the base of the toilet.
OK. So, maybe some more painkillers are needed. And another round of sterilization.
Four hours later, there are fragments of tooth, gum and blood all over the sink. My tongue feels dry and thick, pressed against the padding where my tooth used to be. But the tooth is out, and my jaw is numb.
There were a few moments when I almost resigned myself to living with a wobbly, rotten tooth hanging halfway out of my mouth for ever. But I pushed through, knowing that if I gave up I’d never pluck up the courage to try again.
Eventually I managed to lever the tooth out with the screwdriver in only three fragments. I call that a success. I promise myself that I will floss twice a day, every single day, from now on. I am never doing that again.
Ignoring the post-surgery mess, I stagger to my bunk and fall head first into it. I’ve spent so long running on pure adrenalin that I’m exhausted.
I’m sure tomorrow my whole face will be covered in bruises, but for now I just want to sleep.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
136
From: UPR Sent: 14/01/2066
To: The Infinity Received: 12/10/2067
Subject: For Attention of The Infinity
Commander Silvers,
Following previous communications to undertake improvements to The Infinity, we have more requests for lifestyle changes.
To help the vessel survive voyage in maximum condition, we require you to reduce hours of light usage. Please limit effective “daylight” hours to 90 per cent parts of current usage hours. This will allow better energy efficiency.
Thank you for your cooperation.
All hail the UPR! May the King live long and vigorously!
After I read the UPR’s latest email, I open up the landing simulator and fly the ship aimlessly around the planet.
Cutting down to 90 per cent of the daylight hours means there will be nearly two extra hours of darkness a day. I suppose it won’t be that bad. I can just go to bed an hour earlier, and have a longer lie-in in the mornings.
On the simulation, orange flames lick the hull as The Infinity passes through the atmosphere.