Chapter one.
The first sign of trouble came with a
small, red, flashing light illuminating the cold, metal corridor that
had remained dark for several years. It was joined by a dull green
glow as screens lit up from their hibernation. The first noise for
several years quickly followed; a hissing cacophony from a row of
pods whose bottom edges slowly protruded from the opposing wall,
joined moments later by the sound of an alarm. Consoles kicked into
life, turning the green to a warm, white light as the front panels of
the pods slowly opened.
Of the five pods, the occupant of the
middle one was first to stir. Despite the soft lighting and
relatively low volume of the alarm, designed to minimise sensory
overload in such situations, the face revealed by the clearing
vapours scrunched it's eyes and slowly raised a hand to shield the
light. The alarm was harder for the subconscious to ignore however,
and within seconds the training kicked in. Stretching and bending his
legs, the man emerged from the pod, unclipped a variety of tubes and
sensors from the hood-to-toe, skin-tight, outfit, and turned to help
the others wake from their long slumbers.
He didn't hang around. Unclipping the
others, he gently but firmly slapped their cheeks, bringing the sound
of the alarms to their senses. Sickness and disorientation was to be
expected, and he quickly gave two who were struggling a shot in the
neck to bring them round. It took a couple of minutes for everyone to
become functional, in which time two of the personnel were already at
the screens, trying to ascertain what could have happened that
required them to be brought out of deep-sleep and into a world of
flashing lights and alarms. Why couldn't the ship handle this?
All five personnel, four men and one
woman, almost identical looking except for their exposed faces, were
now frantically working the touch-screen consoles. Something was very
wrong, that much was clear. They appeared to have no access to the
computers AI, which would explain why they had had to be thawed, and
were having to diagnose the problem themselves.
They didn't have to wait long to get a
major clue as to what was up. A console turned red, warning of a hull
breach in sector 7G. Worse, the hull breach extended as far as sector
7D, a cargo hold, meaning the breach extended through four layers of
the ship.
“Have we been hit by something?”
“Shields are operational, no
indication of damage.”
So what the hell was happening? Yes,
they were going fast, very fast, but between the AI, the sensors, the
offensive capabilities, and the shield, the ship was designed to bare
practically zero risk from unexpected asteroids. Some sort of attack,
perhaps? Yet, despite the AI apparently not being operational, the
shield appeared unaffected.
“The hull breach came after
we were already awoken. Had it been an attack that had caused it,
what had happened previously to warrant the emergency protocol
initiation? Jones, you work thought the ship's log, find an answer.
I'm going to try and find out why we can't communicate with the AI.
The rest of you, manually initiate containment and repair. Go.”
Jones was already
doing just that. It appeared that the first indication of trouble had
come from sector 7D: atmospheric changes, temperature rising, breach.
Followed by the same indicators in sectors 7E, F, and finally the
hull breach itself.
“It
looks like whatever happened, it happened from the inside-out,
originating in sector 7D. Sir, do you copy? Sir?”
The commanding
officer, for without the AI that was he was, at least temporarily,
was silent. He was staring, confused, dumbfounded, at the screen
before him. He was completely locked out.
“Sir?”
“It's useless. I
can't even begin to diagnose the problem. All the ships read-outs are
consistent, but the AI's completely inaccessible.”
He checked on the
progress of the automatic contingency protocol, which, for by now
obvious reasons, operated separately from the ship's AI. Every pod on
the ship was by now primed for evacuation, just in case things got
critical. Which they did.
“We have more
immediate problems, sir. The hull breach is getting worse, and
without the AI, I cannot say for sure what is causing it.”
“Best guess,
Jones?”
“Best
guess? Given where it started and the time between each floors
atmospheric changes, something from the cargo hold is eating through
the structure; acid, or something similar”.
“No way something
like that would have got on board. Too big a risk for something we
can easily synthesise.”
“Well,
whatever it is, it was onboard, and it was a risk. Or a hope.”
The
commanding officer looked at Jones, and quickly thought through the
implications. It couldn't have been an accident. Significant
resources had been committed to working through each and every risk,
and to mitigate them to incredible odds. That meant that whatever was
going on, it was most likely hidden, complex, and worse of all,
intended. And no one would intend to only do localised, repairable
damage. What's more, it was likely tied to the reason the AI was out
of commission.
“If
this is intended, then this is likely about to get much worse than it
currently appears.”
“Initiate
evacuation, Sir?”
“Do
it. We can always pick them up when we are done. It's not like they
would even know.”
Jones
ran along the gangway at full speed. The full speed his legs could
manage after years in the freezer, anyway. The echoes of his steps
rang out in rhythm with the alarm, his mind taking a moment to
recognise the synchronisation. Moments later, he came to a halt in
front of a control panel, lifted a protective shield, and placed his
hand against the screen. Nothing happened. Jones shouted down the
corridor.
“Sir,
we have a problem! The controls are dead!”
“We
have more than a problem; two more cargo holds are reporting
atmospheric changes!”
Jones
could see the commanding officer frantically hammering on the
controls. He moved quickly, and was already at the nearest pod when
he heard the officer shout.
“Start
manually ejecting the pods, now!”
Jones
yanked open the manual ejection mechanism next to the pod, pulled out
the pin, and pulled down a large, red lever 180 degrees. A hiss of
air made him step back, and without waiting to see if the pod
ejected, was on to the next one. Twice more he went through the
procedure, all the while calculating. Six thousand pods. Roughly ten
seconds per pod, no doubt slowing with fatigue long before the end.
Even assuming the other four joined him, that was well over 5 hours
work. Not nearly enough.
“Sir,
we need more hands!”
The
officer nodded, turned, and started methodically moving along the
line of pods directly next to those they had themselves emerged from.
Engineers. Security. The expendables. Jones hurriedly joined him. If
they could get enough people un-thawed, they might be able to get
everyone off the ship in as little as half an hour. They didn't have
half an hour.
A new
sound gave the two men pause for a moment. Then another. More alarms.
The officer turned and looked at the displays. Two more hull
breaches. Red, flashing warnings everywhere. The increasing damage
was relentless, the cause still unknown. Jones and the officer looked
at each other, each searching the other for an answer. None came.
“What
the hell is going on here?”
One of
the newly awoken crew was trying to make sense of the noise and the
lights. Others started to stir. Jones looked at them, looked at the
screens, and started to cry.
“I'm
sorry. I'm so sorry..”
The
situation was hopeless. He knew that. All along the ship, the
computer was reporting atmospheric changes consistent with those
before. Whatever was happening, it was happening everywhere, all at
once. All he had done by awakening his colleagues was to allow them
to experience their final moments.
He
looked along the gantry. About two hundred yards away, he could see
the empty spaces that had formerly been the home to free pods. With
any luck, they might be able to harvest enough energy to keep going
until they found somewhere hospitable. But even if they didn't, they
were still guaranteed a better death than the people he had awoken.
He would even pick eternal slumber than experience the certainty of
death first-hand.
“We
might be going to die, but that doesn't mean we can't save some.
Everyone, start ejecti...”
He got
no further. Gravity failed, pressurisation failed a moment
afterwards, and the entire ship was shaken and blown apart. For what
is was worth, their deaths were quick.
Speeding
away from the explosion, three pods were adjusting their trajectory
and powering away from the ship. Not fast enough to completely escape
the resulting explosion, but enough to survive it. Whether surviving
meant anything at this point, only fate would decide. Fate, and the
on-board computers that charted a course for the nearest star cluster
with known potential for life-sustaining planets.