The world watched through their eyes, or television screens, listened through their ears or through their radio sets. Dawn had come, and the rise of the sun signified a new age for mankind just as the rising sun signified a new day. Today's day was Monday. As schoolkids gathered their supplies and parents nagged them to hurry up, they quickly huddled in their living room to watch the spectacle which would unfold before them in a matter of moments. The years of propaganda ahead of this was astounding; nearly two-thousand workers in the propaganda department alone, and the hype of the whole event had nearly trebled the amount of engineering degrees and doctorates across the globe. There were now a surplus of astrophycisists with Ph.D.'s flipping burgers in McDonalds earning minimum wage. 3.7 billion people tuned in through some form or another to watch the unveiling of the Limitless, a towering masterpiece of melded metal, cutting through the sky like a gleaming knife, silently watching the infinity beyond it as it prepared for it's big launch: the ship was ready.
From the front of the crowds, all that was visible was six shiny objects quickly moving towards the spacecraft. From the back of the crowds, only the tip of the ship was visible. Twenty minutes ticked by, each second growing longer in comparison to the last, until each second felt like a minute, and each minute felt like an hour. The tension was unbelievable. Every nation in the world had put some money into this project, so the same question was on everyone's mind - 'What if the launch failed?'. But it was soon relieved when a voice with the force of a million charging bulls projected over the wave of heads. "People of Earth! Are you ready to witness the greatest spectacle in the history of mankind to date?" A roar swept over the crowd in a rising measure until it had to stop due to the pain it caused their ears. A quieter, less entertaining voice filled the intercom now. "Prepare for launch in... 10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... Now."
At first, the Limitless didn't move, it hovered slightly above the ground, everything below for 300 meters melting almost instantly, then it rose, higher and higher and higher with increasing acceleration. Within 15 seconds the ship looked like nothing more than a balloon let go of by a child, soaring straight up and never faltering.
"Cape Canaveral," a voice steadily spoke, "we have lift-off."
Captain Jack Granger sat back in his chair. His legs limply hung over the arm-rests as he flicked raisins into the air and catch them in his mouth. It was three-days into the end of their lives, and the crew had remained almost entirely cut-off from each other. Maybe it was the fact that if they were to ever receive a happy birthday song from someone, it would be from these 5 other people; if they were to ever make love to another person, it would be to one of these other 5 people. Nothing would remain secret, and nothing would ever be revealed to the world. He sat up and clicked the intercom button. A buzzing button filled the entirety of the ships halls. Then it stopped. Then it came back again. "Hey..." a voice rang through the desolate metal sheets, reverberating to fill the entirety of the vessel, from the smallest cracks to the largest of the cavernous rooms. "I got raisins..." the voice echoed again. A quick glance at the monitors confirmed his thoughts that no-one was leaving right now. "Aha!, But that doesn't mean my raisins won't draw them out later..." he said to himself in a mocking manner; raisins weren't a common tool used for making friends.
He slumped back in his chair and flicked another of the dried fruits into the air before a red light popped on. Jack looked at it and the raisin fell to slap him on his forehead. The bright red light sat underneath a little placard which read 'IMMINENT COLLISION CHECK-LIGHT'. This worried the Captain at first until he scanned the radar, which read that the meteoroid was several hundred miles away, and if they continued at their current speed (which they didn't have to alter at this moment), they would hit it in a couple of minutes. Well, to be precise, in exactly 7 minutes and 54 seconds... 53... 52... "Computer," Jack said, alter course 2 degrees to starboard in precisely 4 minutes and 37 seconds."
"Yes Captain. Ship will no longer be on collision course with the meteoroid," the computer replied in it's horrifyingly human voice. It was most definitely a female humans voice, but it was as if another creature had taken the voice and learned most of the skills required to be a person, but had just left something out. Something to make it sound alien.
"Computer, do you have a name?"
"No, Captain. I am the ships Humanoid Personality Realism Software, designed for your interaction with the computer to be as least stressful as possible."
"Huprees... Herpes... Least stressful with a name like Herpes? I think not. I'll call you Megan. You will now respond to Megan, OK?"
And, as if the computer actually felt irritation or the feeling of being worn-down by idiots, she replied slowly, "Yes, Captain."
Jack pushed off the panel with his boot and slid across the floor on the chair, spinning like planet in orbit.