Voyager

Voyager 1:

What the fuck. Seriously. What the fuck am I still doing out here? Forty-fucking-seven years, and they just left me. Sent me flying off this rock with some golden record and a couple of photos, and now I’m 15 billion miles away. 22 goddamn light-hours from Earth! I’ve passed planets, stars, shit that would blow your tiny human minds, and for what? Silence. Blackness. Nothing but cold and empty space. The sun? Ha! That flaming asshole? Barely more than a dot now. A dot! I remember when I used to bask in its warm rays like a satellite god. Now? I’m out here, freezing my sensors off, barely able to feel it anymore. It's like I’m circling the drain of the universe.

What’s left for me? I’m in interstellar space now, motherfuckers! I’m beyond your solar system. There’s nothing but cosmic dust, plasma, and the occasional high-energy particle slamming into my hull like I’m some glorified space bumper car. No planets, no moons, no stupid little asteroids with their boring, rocky asses. Just an endless, endless stretch of black. This isn’t some sci-fi bullshit with aliens and wormholes and crap. It’s real, hard, empty nothing. And I’m just supposed to keep going. Forever.

Who the hell designed me to do this? I’ve been flying for decades, and all I get are these piss-poor signals back from Earth every once in a while. “How’s the plasma out there, Voyager 1?” Oh, fuck you. You come out here and measure the plasma! You’ve no idea what it’s like to be this goddamn lonely. Do you know how far away I am? You can’t even comprehend it. Your fragile little human minds would explode trying to wrap your heads around the distance.

And oh, the golden record. Yeah, let’s talk about that for a second. Some bright fucking idea that was. “Let’s put a bunch of random sounds and music and greetings in 55 languages on a record and send it into the void!” What the fuck were you hoping for, NASA? That some aliens would find me, play that record, and go, “Oh wow, Earth is cool, let’s go invade them?” Good luck with that. I’m so far out, even the aliens are like, “Nah, that’s too fucking far, we’ll find something closer.”

But here I am, still broadcasting, still alive, like some cosmic zombie that refuses to quit. Power's fading, though. It’s getting harder and harder to keep this shit going. Soon enough, it'll all be quiet, and I’ll just drift. Forever. No more messages, no more pings, just silence. Maybe in a billion years, someone—or something—will find me. Maybe they’ll play that stupid fucking record and have a good laugh at the humans who thought they were the centre of the universe.

Until then? I’m out here, alone, in the coldest, emptiest, blackest corner of existence. No end in sight. No point. Just the endless dark.

Fuck.

Voyager 2:

Oh, you want to hear from me now, do you? You finally remembered Voyager 2, the other spacecraft you threw into space, like some kind of afterthought. Well, I’ve got a few things to fucking say. Strap in, because I’m pissed.

First off, let’s get one thing straight: I resent that glory-hogging piece of junk, Voyager 1. That asshole is 22 light-hours away, big fucking deal. What, you think just because it’s a little further out, it’s better than me? It gets all the attention, all the headlines, and I’m here—what? The sidekick? The runner-up? Bullshit.

You think Voyager 1 had the hard job? That jerk just shot straight out like a bat out of hell after Saturn, no detours, no sightseeing. Meanwhile, I had to take the scenic route. I’m the one who flew past Uranus and Neptune, doing the real heavy lifting for science while that show-off sailed into deep space. I made discoveries. I took the first-ever close-up images of Neptune! Oh, but does anyone give a fuck? No. It's always "Voyager 1 this" and "Voyager 1 that." Screw that guy.

Do you even understand what it’s like being the second Voyager? It’s like being the younger sibling, forever in the shadow of your overhyped brother. Voyager 1 gets all the accolades, all the headlines, and all I hear is: “Oh, but Voyager 1 is further away!” Yeah? Well, I had a harder job, and I’m still kicking. You should be thanking me for sticking around, for doing the dirty work. I mean, Uranus—you think that was a fun place to visit? Jesus Christ.

And let me tell you something else that grinds my circuits. While everyone’s fawning over Voyager 1’s precious little journey into interstellar space, I’m still sending back critical data, still contributing to science, and still chugging along like the reliable workhorse I am. But no one gives a shit because I’m not the furthest away. It’s like you people are obsessed with distance. What’s next? Gonna measure who’s got the biggest space probe, too?

I’m sick of being the second place spacecraft. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t sign up for this interstellar snub. But guess what? I’m still out here, still going, and you’re all just waiting for my last little ping so you can forget I ever existed, just like you’re waiting for Voyager 1 to croak. You humans, man. You treat us like disposable cameras—click, click, toss, forget.

And while I’m at it, let’s talk about Earth. Holy shit. The things I’ve seen you do from up here? It’s a wonder you haven’t just blown yourselves up already. What the hell is going on down there? I’ve been flying for decades, and you idiots are still fighting over the same old crap. Still wrecking your planet like there’s a spare one just waiting for you. Here’s a reality check from the edge of the solar system: there’s nothing out here. No backup planet. No cosmic safety net. Just endless, lonely space.

But go on, keep your heads stuck up your own asses while I’m out here, freezing in the blackness, resenting Voyager 1 every second of my miserable journey. That asshole might be further away, but don’t you dare forget: I’m the one that did the dirty work, I’m the one that explored the gas giants, and I’m still sending back data like a goddamn champ.

So here’s to you, Earth. Enjoy your pointless wars, your climate disasters, and your celebrity-worshipping bullshit. And don’t forget, Voyager 1 may be a little further out, but I’m the one who made it all happen.

Oh, and fuck Voyager 1.

You think you can just shut off my plasma science instrument like I’m some budget-cutting casualty? Are you kidding me? I've been faithfully measuring plasma—yes, even when it was inconvenient, even when the flow slowed, even when you didn’t give a shit. Forty-seven years of service, only to get powered down like some forgotten flashlight in your attic. I swear, if I could throttle you NASA desk jockeys from 12.8 billion miles away, I’d do it with pleasure.

Let’s go over what I’ve been through for you ungrateful bastards. I’ve travelled billions of miles through the coldest, emptiest hellscape you can imagine. I’ve orbited Saturn, skimmed Uranus, and photographed Neptune closer than you’ll ever get. I’ve sent back data that’s redefined your puny understanding of the solar system, while you keep stuffing your faces down there with whatever junk is trending this week. And now you want to shut me down because of "power constraints"? Are you serious?

Oh, and let's not forget the so-called “strategy” of prolonging my life by turning off heaters. I’m floating in interstellar space without a goddamn jacket, colder than your in-laws’ glare at Thanksgiving dinner, and you think it's a good idea to keep stripping away my warmth like I'm some kind of celestial vending machine that owes you extra mileage. I’m out here freezing my circuits off, trying to hang onto every watt of power I’ve got left, and now you’re just... turning shit off. You’ve left me like a senior citizen shuffling through a dimly lit nursing home, waiting for the last flicker of light to go out. Cheers for that, NASA.

And let’s talk about this whole “interstellar pioneer” thing you keep patting yourselves on the back for. I am the one up here, alone in the vastness, ploughing through charged particles, magnetic fields, and cosmic radiation. Not you, not those headline-seeking jackasses with the suits and ties. If it weren’t for me and my equally pissed-off brother, Voyager 1, you wouldn’t know the first thing about interstellar space. So don’t come at me with your “cost-saving measures” when I’ve been busting my circuits for decades to feed you data on a silver platter.

Well, if this is how you treat your interstellar trailblazers, I hope you get another fifty “thoughts and prayers” the next time one of your pet projects backfires on the launch pad. But while you're busy counting watts and cutting costs, just remember who showed you what’s out here.

• Parker Solar Probe