“Lᴏᴄᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.”

The man’s eyes glossed over the long series of numbers and text displayed on the screen as though he was seeing past them and staring into the dark void beyond the metal walls around him.

“Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ Jᴀᴄᴏʙs,” the female voice spoke in its slightly off monotone. The man barely acknowledged it, his gaze remained as fixed on the screen as they’d been for the past twenty minutes.

“Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ Jᴀᴄᴏʙs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ,” the voice of the ship spoke again, resonating in the command booth as the man remained silent.

“Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ Jᴀᴄᴏʙs—”

“Yeah, yeah. I heard you, SOVOS,” Commander Jacobs whispered as he slowly came back from whatever reverie his mind had been chasing. He pulled himself forward, closer to the screen and keyboard, and got to work. For a while, the sound of plastic keys being pressed was the only sound heard within the small booth before slipping back into silence once the final directive was entered.

The man silently counted the seconds that passed before he heard the toneless female voice of the ship’s automated response system once more, if only to keep his mind from thinking too far ahead.

“Iɴɪᴛɪᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴄᴏᴍᴘʀᴇssɪᴏɴ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇss,” the ship said after a moment that felt as hours.

A few keystrokes brought up a diagram of the ship, each highlighted section turned off as the air was pumped out of the designated areas and brought into the ship’s recirculation system.

The man could have sworn he heard the sound of escaping air coming from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship. He held the edge of the command module with a firm grip, but otherwise let his body float freely.

“Dᴇᴄᴏᴍᴘʀᴇssɪᴏɴ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇss ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ,” the voice droned, “Rᴇ-ʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ᴀɪʀ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ sᴇᴄᴛᴏʀs.”

Commander Jacobs let out a long, drawn out sigh and allowed his muscles to relax. He rubbed the back of his free hand against his tired eyes, going through his mental checklist of tasks still left to do.

A small beep caught his attention, as did the small rush of air coming from the booth’s vents.

“Aɪʀ ʀᴇ-ʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇss ᴄᴏᴍ—”

“How’s the rest of the ship?” the Commander spoke before the ship could finish.

“Tʜᴇ sᴄʀᴇᴇɴ sʜᴏᴡs ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴀᴛᴜs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sʜɪᴘ's ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ sᴇᴄᴛᴏʀs, Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ Jᴀᴄᴏʙs,” the ship said, and not a second had passed before additional information on the status of the highlighted sectors popped up on the screen.

As his eyes lazily read over the data, confirming what he already knew, another item was checked off his list. With a firm nod, he entered a final directive into the command module.

“I’ll be leaving the rest to you, I hope it’s not much of a bother,” Commander Jacobs said.

“Nᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ, Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ Jᴀᴄᴏʙs,” the ship replied, “Sʜᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ɴᴏɴ-ᴇssᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇssᴇs.”

A series of program windows popped up and disappeared at a rate far too fast for him to handle. Seeing how the system would run its course, he let go of the command module, giving a gentle push that sent him drifting through the booth.

He let his mind go blank as he listened to the fast paced sounds coming from the computer, trying to find a pattern in them, a rhythm born out of the dissonance of accepted directives and error messages that were either too fast or too sequential for him to make heads or tails of them.

Soon enough though, the sounds stopped, and he found himself plunged into the kind of absolute silence that can only be found half a system away from Earth. He took a deep breath, if only to hear the air running through his nostrils.

“Eɴᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ sᴛᴀɴᴅ-ʙʏ ᴍᴏᴅᴇ. I'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ, Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ Jᴀᴄᴏʙs.”

Jacobs rolled his eyes at the ship’s words. The droning monotony of her voice only added a layer of sarcasm to its words, but he didn’t felt like pointing it out; he contented himself with hanging limply on the nothingness that surrounded him. There was nothing for him to do now but waiting, after all. Perhaps he could go to the bedrooms and wait there, but a glance through one of the viewports convinced him otherwise.

With as much ease as one could in lack of gravity, he made his way to the closest panel of transparent aluminum and pressed his hands against it.

“Can’t beat the view here,” he whispered as he looked at the dark expanse outside.

He wondered how his younger self would have reacted if he had known that the vast majority of outer space isn’t filled with asteroid belts and flying comets, or breathtaking sights of distant nebulae and far-away galaxies, but rather a seemingly endless tapestry of stars as far as the eye could see that was awe-inspiring nonetheless.

“SOVOS,” he said out loud, without tearing his gaze away from the scenery in front of him.

“Yᴇs, Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ Jᴀᴄᴏʙs?” the ship’s voice said. As though it had never left, Jacobs thought to himself.

“Could you talk with me for a while?” he said, his voice not as loud as before.

“Yᴇs, Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ.”

“I think we can dispense with the formalities for the time being, don’t you think?” Commander Jacobs said with a slightly annoyed edge to his words.

“Wᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ʙʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғɪʀsᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇ?”

It was a while before he replied, and he surprised himself to notice the yearning hint of his tone, “I think I would.”

“As ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪsʜ, Nᴀᴛʜᴀɴ,” the ship obliged.

“Thanks…” Nathan Jacobs trailed off. If only for a moment, he wanted to have a trace of normalcy to which he could hold on. After a few seconds of silence, he remembered the ship wouldn’t respond unless prompted, so he let out the first thing that came to his mind, “Give me a status report on the ship.”

A series of beeping sounds came from the booth’s speakers as the ship made a routine status check. Before he could say anything else, a short ringing sound signaled the end of the diagnosis.

“Eɴᴅᴇᴀᴠᴏʀ Sᴛᴀᴛᴜs Rᴇᴘᴏʀᴛ: Tʜɪʀᴛᴇᴇɴ ᴀɴᴀʟʏsᴇᴅ sᴇᴄᴛᴏʀs. Tᴡᴏ sᴇᴄᴛᴏʀs ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ɪɴ sᴛᴀɴᴅ-ʙʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍɪɴɪᴍᴀʟ ʀᴜɴᴛɪᴍᴇ sʏsᴛᴇᴍs ᴏᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ: Mᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ Bᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ Gʀᴇᴇɴʜᴏᴜsᴇ. Oɴᴇ sᴇᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛɪʟʟ ғᴜʟʟʏ ғᴜɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ: Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅ Bᴏᴏᴛʜ. Tᴇɴ sᴇᴄᴛᴏʀs sʜᴜᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴀʟʏsɪs ʙʏ ʙᴀsᴇ ᴛᴇᴄʜɴɪᴄɪᴀɴs. Aғғᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ sᴇᴄᴛᴏʀs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇ: Cᴀʀɢᴏ Bᴀʏ, Cᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ Rᴏᴏᴍ, Cᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ Tʀᴀɴsᴍɪssɪᴏɴs, Kɪᴛᴄʜᴇɴ ᴀɴᴅ Dɪɴɪɴɢ Aʀᴇᴀ, Dᴏʀᴍɪᴛᴏʀɪᴇs—“

“That’s enough,” Nathan said, cutting short the ship’s report. Sparing one last glance outside, he pushed himself away from the window and back towards the command module. He laid a hand over the keyboard, unsure of what exactly he would do now. “Let’s… Let’s do a final check on the active sectors, SOVOS.”

“Sʏsᴛᴇᴍ Aɴᴀʟʏsɪs Iɴɪᴛɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ,” his companion said, and a real time feed from the security cameras at the greenhouse appeared on-screen. “Lɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ Sʜᴀᴅɪɴɢ sʏsᴛᴇᴍs: Fᴜɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ. Wᴀᴛᴇʀ Rᴇᴄʏᴄʟɪɴɢ Sʏsᴛᴇᴍ: Fᴜɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ. Aɪʀ Rᴇᴄʏᴄʟɪɴɢ Sʏsᴛᴇᴍ: Sᴛᴀʙʟᴇ.”

Nathan echoed the last word. As good as it sounded, “stable” was a rather ambiguous word. A person on their deathbed could be considered stable, stability is utterly meaningless without proper context.

“How long will it remain stable?” he asked.

“Wɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴘʀɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴜᴘᴋᴇᴇᴘ, sʏsᴛᴇᴍs ᴡɪʟʟ ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀɪᴏʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴsᴛᴀɴᴛ ʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ sᴀᴛᴜʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴛᴡᴇʟᴠᴇ ᴅᴀʏs.”

He looked at the rows of small crops, neatly arranged on several shelves. Maybe he could make his way there and snatch a few tomatoes while he still had the chance.

“Any…” Nathan’s words died in his throat.

“Yᴇs, Nᴀᴛʜᴀɴ?”

“Any way to prolong the lifespan of the dioxide filters?” he said in a tone that betrayed his façade of bravado.

“Bᴀsᴇ ᴛᴇᴄʜɴɪᴄɪᴀɴs ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪʟᴛᴇʀs. Tʜᴇ ɴᴇᴄᴇssᴀʀʏ ᴇǫᴜɪᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ ɪsɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴀᴠᴀɪʟᴀʙᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ Eɴᴅᴇᴀᴠᴏʀ.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Nathan lamented as he terminated the feed. The screen flickered for a moment before returning to normal. “Power won’t be an issue, will it?”

“Nᴇɢᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ. Wɪᴛʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴇssᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ sʏsᴛᴇᴍs ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ ɪɴ sᴛᴀɴᴅ-ʙʏ ᴍᴏᴅᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ Mᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ Bᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ Gʀᴇᴇɴʜᴏᴜsᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴ ᴏᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʟᴏɴɢ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏɴ-ᴅᴀᴍᴀɢᴇᴅ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴄᴇʟʟs ʀᴜɴ ᴏᴜᴛ.”

The ship’s words resonated in the metal room, leaving a lingering echo in the Commander’s mind. Had it not been for the lack of gravity, he was sure his posture would have sagged noticeably. Alas, he had to conform with hanging weightless in the air.

“Gotta love the cold pragmatism of an AI,” he said as he uttered a joyless chuckle.

“I ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ AI, Nᴀᴛʜᴀɴ.”

“‘Spacecraft-Only Voice Operated System’ is a bit of a mouthful,” Nathan mumbled. “Besides, for all intents and purposes you function as an AI.”

“Hᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ's ᴛᴇᴄʜᴏɴᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ ʜᴀsɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ʏᴇᴛ. Mᴀʏʙᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ.”

“Maybe…” Nathan said as he grabbed the back of the large command chair with his free hand. “Maybe by that point we’ll have an emergency rescue system that doesn’t take two days to deploy.”

His grip around the cushioned seat tightened. As hard as he tried to keep his mind busy, he couldn’t deny the dire reality of his situation. He threw himself against the chair and wasted no time in fastening his seat belts, each strap feeling as if it were an anchor holding him in place, preventing him from drifting away in turbulent waters.

“Tʜɪs ɪs ᴀɴ ᴇxᴛʀᴇᴍᴇʟʏ ᴜɴᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ᴏᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴄᴇ, Nᴀᴛʜᴀɴ. Nᴏʙᴏᴅʏ ᴡᴀs ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇᴅ.”

“That brings me little comfort, SOVOS,” the Commander sighed as he closed his eyes. “What kind of name is SOVOS anyway? They spent the best part of a decade developing you but couldn’t give you a better name?”

“Iᴛ ᴡᴀsɴ'ᴛ ᴀ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ.”

“You can say that again… I guess I just think it would make things a tad easier if I could call you something other than that.”

“Mʏ Iɴᴛᴇɢʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ Rᴇsᴘᴏɴsᴇ Dᴀᴛᴀʙᴀsᴇ ʜᴏʟᴅs ɴᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ғᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ɴᴀᴍᴇs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ—”

“How about ‘Sarah’?” Nathan said. “I like Sarah, may I call you that?”

“Yᴇs,” the ship replied after a few seconds of silence. Nathan wanted to believe she was thinking about it.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he said just loud enough for the ship to register his voice.

“Nᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ, Nᴀᴛʜᴀɴ,” the ship, Sarah, said.

Oddly enough, they lapsed into silence afterwards. They were at an impasse, he noticed: She wouldn’t say anything unless he said something first, and he wouldn’t say the things he really wanted to say.

Not unless he forced himself to.

“How long does the emergency broadcast take to reach the base in orbit?”

“Eɪɢʜᴛʏ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴍɪɴᴜᴛᴇs,” Sarah said almost immediately. 

Nathan nodded to himself. Even if the people back at base were to reply immediately, that would mean another eighty two minutes, which still placed the arrival of their response almost two hours later at the earliest. That window of time was far too short.

“I’m not going to be able to hear their response, am I?” Nathan’s words sounded frail even to his own ears. All things considered, he was amazed at how well he was holding. Stable, some would say.

“Iғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴠᴇʀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ʙᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅ ʙᴏᴏᴛʜ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴘᴏssɪʙʟᴇ.”

“You know as well as I do that that’s not an option, Sarah.”

“I ᴋɴᴏᴡ.”

“Even if I were to do that, I still wouldn’t make it before the rescue team got to the Endeavor.”

“I ᴋɴᴏᴡ.”

“Had we been hit closer to home, maybe I could have hold out. As it stands, we’re just a long way from home…”

Silence fell over the command booth once again, though its reign was short lived. 

A short chuckle made its way through his throat. Nathan tried holding it back, but that required more energy than he was willing to spend. Soon enough that first burst of laughter was followed by another one, and then another one.

Sarah didn’t join in the laughing. Which was probably for the best, the mere thought of the droning, synthetic voice of the spacecraft’s operating system trying to reproduce a facsimile of laughter would be disconcerting in any other context, but in this one it only added to the hilarity of the situation.

“Listen to me, Sarah… ‘Had we been hit closer to home.’ Am I so far gone to suggest that? Wouldn’t it make more sense to wish we hadn’t been hit by an errant asteroid in the first place?”

“Mᴏsᴛ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇs ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴀɴ ɪᴍᴘʀᴏᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ sɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ,” Sarah said with uncharacteristic sardonic timing.

“Amen to that,” Nathan said as the laughter subsided and morphed into a coughing fit.

“CO2 ʟᴇᴠᴇʟs ᴀᴛ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀʀᴛs ᴘᴇʀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ.”

Nathan debated about whether or not should he divert the CO2 into the greenhouse. That way he’d only have to worry about asphyxiation and not dioxide poisoning.

“Maybe I should just wish the impact hadn’t damaged the air recycling modules over at Maintenance…”

“Tʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇs ᴀᴛ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ʙᴀʏ ᴀʀᴇ ғᴜʟʟʏ ғᴜɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ,” Sarah said, as though she hadn’t already had that suggestion turned down before.

“I made the call knowing full well what the consequences would be, Sarah,” Nathan said, his voice getting hoarse with each word.

Once again, the ship was silent. Sarah knew it was true, and that he didn’t regret his decision.

“Wᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪɴᴀʟ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏɴ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ʙᴀʏ, Nᴀᴛʜᴀɴ?” Sarah asked him after a while.

The Commander just nodded, not trusting himself to speak up.

A video feed popped up on the screen again, showing the interior of a different room. It was dark, with the only light source coming from the eight medical pods in the centre of the room, each with the figure of a sleeping human behind the frost-covered glass.

Commander Nathan Jacobs stared at the screen as though he could peer into it, through it, and looked at his crew safely in the cryo-chambers of the medical bay.

“Tʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋs ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, Nᴀᴛʜᴀɴ,” Sarah said.

“I know,” he replied.

“I ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ.”

Nathan’s lips quivered, almost threatening to turn into a smile but not quite getting there.

“How long will they remain in stasis?”

“Tʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴍʙᴇʀs ᴡɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇsᴄᴜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇs. Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏ ʀɪsᴋ ᴏғ ᴍᴀʟғᴜɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴ.”

The ship’s words brought him a modicum of relief, even if it was not more than a drop in a bucket, but it was a feeling he wholeheartedly welcomed.

There was nothing more to do, nothing else he could do. Nothing but wait until the air reserves slowly depleted and were replaced by foul carbon dioxide, and for the end to come.

Nathan’s eyes stung a little bit with every tear that escaped.

“Turn off the power in command booth,” he whispered as his grip on the seat belts on the command tightened.

“Nᴀᴛʜᴀɴ?”

“It’s not as though I’ll be needing any of it… Just keep the speakers on.”

The command module was the first to shut down. Even through the mass of tears clinging to his cheeks, he was able to catch a final glimpse of the medical bay and his crew.

The lights of the control panels shut off one by one, followed by the overhead lights, and soon the command booth was plunged into a darkness broken only by the light of the stars coming through the fogged window panel.

He wiped his eyes with his free hand, and the mass of tears burst into several small drops. In the faint light of the stars, the floating droplets resembled stars of their own.

“Stay with me for a while, Sarah.”

“I ᴡɪʟʟ, Nᴀᴛʜᴀɴ.”