The green pills were vitamin supplements, which were important because they didn't get to go outside for exercise and sunshine. The white ones made them calm, and the blue helped them sleep.
Katie hated it there—the bolted-down beds, unopenable windows, cafeteria food. The worst was “Sharing.” They all told their stories, basically the same, brimming with violence.
"Remembering engenders rehabilitation," the doctors said.
Her parents were clueless. "Frustration is normal…blah…blah…right trajectory…blah…blah…blah…stay on course...." That was her dad.
“I hope you appreciate how fortunate you are to be here,” her mom would say. "Things could've gone very differently."
One day, Katie overheard her mother's voice, just before the door clicked shut.
"If I'd known this would happen, I would've aborted her."
Astonished, Katie decided to investigate. That night, she pretended to take her meds, then spat the bitter red pills into the toilet.
She feigned sleep until last check, then slipped into the hallway. It was her lucky night; everyone was asleep. She went to the computers, finding one unlocked. She read the words on the screen.
Spaceship New Mayflower
Final Log, 1/4/2224
All fuel supplies are exhausted. Our destination is unreachable. Earth remains uninhabitable.
We, the passengers of the only remaining Earth Escape Vessel, have voted unanimously to enact Protocol RED999: Every person aboard has ingested euthanasia pills.
We've done this for our children, without their knowledge, to spare them agonizing deaths and to allow them to die as they lived, with hope in their hearts.
Humankind ends thus, with love and dignity.
Katie looked out the window into the blackness of space and tried to remember if she'd flushed the toilet.