[ WP ] You were born on a colonizing spacecraft on your way to a distant star . You are the middle generation of history ; born to late to have seen Earth , and to early to live to see your destination .

There are 17 different types of grains and starches grown under the glaring artificial lights of *The Barbicane* ’ s greenhouses. And I ’ ve made booze from pretty much every single one of them. Let me be the first to tell you that sorghum vodka is bad enough to be considered a chemical weapon. If you ever get the chance to try it, just don ’ t. Pour it out on the ground. 
 
 But what do you expect? What else ( besides drinking ) is there to do on a journey that will last *my entire life*? The instructions in the logs from Earth are pretty simple: keep the ship running, keep the plants in the greenhouses alive, and make enough babies to keep the population up. Oh, and I guess “ fly in a straight line for the next 400 years. ” But we ’ re only about 100 years into the voyage, so that one has never been much of an issue. Other than those simple tasks, we ’ re pretty much left to our own devices. And you can really only watch old TV shows and movies for so long before you decide to just kill your brain cells with a shot glass instead. 
 
 Old Joe, the last person who remembered what it was like to live there, used to say that it was easy to forget that we ’ d left Earth. The ‘ window ’ screens in all the rooms showed a landscape of tall mountains, dense pine trees, and drizzling rain. There was something in the computer logs about how psychologists decided that our subconscious would be more at ease with the fake scenery, even though our minds knew the truth: that there was just a thin layer of metal between us and the gaping, limitless black void of space out there. Joe, though, reprogrammed his ‘ windows ’ to show a sandy beach with swaying palm trees. And to honor Old Joe ’ s death six years ago, the Captain issued a ‘ vacation ’ order that changed the viewscreens on the whole ship. It was the most excitement we ’ ve had in a decade. 
 
 Most people are content to live their lives that way. Wake up in the morning to the sights and sounds of an artificial forest, eat some breakfast, turn on the sprinklers in the greenhouse, and that ’ s work for the day. Time to lounge around in the hot tub and watch re-runs yet again. And at the end of the ‘ night ’ when the ship ’ s lights dim, many of them get to work on creating the next generation. They say that this is the life of leisure that our ancestors have been dreaming of since someone first had the bright idea of planting seeds instead of foraging. 
 
 Maybe there ’ s something wrong with me. I spend most of my time now up in the bridge, alone. Well, with the AI pilot, but he doesn ’ t talk much. At all, really. I lounge in the captain ’ s chair, staring up through the one actual window on the ship at the carpet of stars overhead. Somewhere out there is Earth, where only a hundred years ago there was a huge effort to build and stock this ship. And in a few centuries, my descendants will be busily getting ready to build a new colony. All of those people with a singular, important purpose. 
 
 But there ’ s no purpose for me. I just have the stars, and my shitty sorghum vodka. 

