“… automated status log. Engines, nominal. Frame shift drive, nominal. Shields, nominal…”
…………..
“Consumable inventory: Thirty-one fuel limpets. One SRV. Fuel reserves, sixty-two percent. Estimated time until fuel depletion, three days ten hours. Next planned fuel scoop, two days…”
My eyes open, slowly. The first thing I see feels so incredibly bright it’s going to sear my vision. I pinch them closed again reflexively, before forcing myself to relax and try once more, squinting this time.
The blurriness resolves slowly into lines and curves and gradually I recognize it. It’s the low-light glow of a HUD, wherein the wireframe of a star is on display, and a sensor plot devoid of contacts.
That’s what had me worried I was going to suffer permanent vision loss.
How long have I been like this?
“End status log 3307-05-27, 00:00 hours.”
Thirty-Three oh Seven? What happened to 3302? Or Three or Four or…
That’s when I look up and see it again. The Milky Way in all her glory. To my eyes she’s even more radiant than I remembered. It takes me a few moments of reverie before the questions start coming back.
“Computer, status report,” I manage to half-choke, half-growl with vocal chords that are sandpaper and a tongue made of lead.
“Greetings Commander. Beginning automated status log. Engines, nominal. Frame shift drive, nominal…”
“Cancel status log. Computer, how long since our last jump?”
“Last interstellar FSD shift, 3302-07-20 at 16:15. Elapsed time to the present, four years ten months six days-”
“And how long have I been out?” I interject.
“Precise duration unknown. Emergency autopilot engaged on 3302-07-21 when life support indicated an anomalous reading and attempts to hail you were unsuccessful.”
“What the-? Current life support readout for me please?”
“Life support system status nominal. Vital signs are within margins for Fair health status. Pulse forty-six beats per minute and rising. Blood oxygenation 95% and rising. Neural activity appears normal. Subdermal nutrition delivery and organic waste disposal are operational.”
Muscles must be atrophied, though: my biceps burn just reaching for the yoke. Gonna need to do double calisthenics until literally lifting a finger doesn’t hurt.
“Computer- what was the anomalous life support reading?”
“Atypical neural patterning and musculoskeletal paralysis. Further analysis inconclusive, possibly indicative of deep space dissociative psychosis.”
Space madness? Every explorer had heard the rumours, of course: stare into the darkness long enough, and the darkness might just take notice of you. The truth however was probably more prosaic; there were riskier professions, but there were still plenty of ways for deep space to get you, whether through inattention, flying while bored and doing dumb risky things, or sheer bad luck. Plenty of pilots went into the Black and were never heard from again. No need to add a poorly-explained and scientifically-unsupported psychosis to the list of dangers.
Or at least, that’s what I’d always thought. And yet.
“Computer- where in the ‘verse are we?”
“Phroea Eaec sector.”
“Anything interesting about this system?”
“Define ’interesting’, Commander.”
“Well- how about give me a summary of the astronomical bodies, then.”
“Primary body designated ‘A’ is an M-class star, twenty light-seconds distant. Three known asteroid populations. Ten secondary and tertiary bodies which have not been mapped.”
“Does Universal Cartographics have data on the star?”
“Negative.”
“Ok, we’ll chart a course… somewhere. Computer, can you tell me where we came from and where we were heading?”
“According to your logs, Commander, you had explored the Crab Pulsar with the Crab Nebula Expedition of 3302, and were visiting other points of interest in Elysian Shore while returning to inhabited space. Currently you are 7500 light years from Lembava and 7200 light years from the Crab Pulsar. Last visited point of interest, NGC 281 nebula, 450 light-years. Next intended point of interest, Bubble sector, 1500 light-years. ”
“Can you summarize our findings?”
“Eight hundred twenty systems visited since departing Lembava. One unreported Earth-like world. A dozen unreported water or ammonia worlds.”
“Got it. Brew me an extra strength Fuelum coffee while I take a shower of historic duration, and then prepare me a summary of GalNet dispatches from the last five years.”
“Affirmative. Would you like a precis on the Thargoid situation?”
…
Frak.
“Commander?”
“Thank you computer, better make it two coffees and then I’ll take that precis.”
“Understood, Commander.”
…………..
“Consumable inventory: Thirty-one fuel limpets. One SRV. Fuel reserves, sixty-two percent. Estimated time until fuel depletion, three days ten hours. Next planned fuel scoop, two days…”
My eyes open, slowly. The first thing I see feels so incredibly bright it’s going to sear my vision. I pinch them closed again reflexively, before forcing myself to relax and try once more, squinting this time.
The blurriness resolves slowly into lines and curves and gradually I recognize it. It’s the low-light glow of a HUD, wherein the wireframe of a star is on display, and a sensor plot devoid of contacts.
That’s what had me worried I was going to suffer permanent vision loss.
How long have I been like this?
“End status log 3307-05-27, 00:00 hours.”
Thirty-Three oh Seven? What happened to 3302? Or Three or Four or…
That’s when I look up and see it again. The Milky Way in all her glory. To my eyes she’s even more radiant than I remembered. It takes me a few moments of reverie before the questions start coming back.
“Computer, status report,” I manage to half-choke, half-growl with vocal chords that are sandpaper and a tongue made of lead.
“Greetings Commander. Beginning automated status log. Engines, nominal. Frame shift drive, nominal…”
“Cancel status log. Computer, how long since our last jump?”
“Last interstellar FSD shift, 3302-07-20 at 16:15. Elapsed time to the present, four years ten months six days-”
“And how long have I been out?” I interject.
“Precise duration unknown. Emergency autopilot engaged on 3302-07-21 when life support indicated an anomalous reading and attempts to hail you were unsuccessful.”
“What the-? Current life support readout for me please?”
“Life support system status nominal. Vital signs are within margins for Fair health status. Pulse forty-six beats per minute and rising. Blood oxygenation 95% and rising. Neural activity appears normal. Subdermal nutrition delivery and organic waste disposal are operational.”
Muscles must be atrophied, though: my biceps burn just reaching for the yoke. Gonna need to do double calisthenics until literally lifting a finger doesn’t hurt.
“Computer- what was the anomalous life support reading?”
“Atypical neural patterning and musculoskeletal paralysis. Further analysis inconclusive, possibly indicative of deep space dissociative psychosis.”
Space madness? Every explorer had heard the rumours, of course: stare into the darkness long enough, and the darkness might just take notice of you. The truth however was probably more prosaic; there were riskier professions, but there were still plenty of ways for deep space to get you, whether through inattention, flying while bored and doing dumb risky things, or sheer bad luck. Plenty of pilots went into the Black and were never heard from again. No need to add a poorly-explained and scientifically-unsupported psychosis to the list of dangers.
Or at least, that’s what I’d always thought. And yet.
“Computer- where in the ‘verse are we?”
“Phroea Eaec sector.”
“Anything interesting about this system?”
“Define ’interesting’, Commander.”
“Well- how about give me a summary of the astronomical bodies, then.”
“Primary body designated ‘A’ is an M-class star, twenty light-seconds distant. Three known asteroid populations. Ten secondary and tertiary bodies which have not been mapped.”
“Does Universal Cartographics have data on the star?”
“Negative.”
“Ok, we’ll chart a course… somewhere. Computer, can you tell me where we came from and where we were heading?”
“According to your logs, Commander, you had explored the Crab Pulsar with the Crab Nebula Expedition of 3302, and were visiting other points of interest in Elysian Shore while returning to inhabited space. Currently you are 7500 light years from Lembava and 7200 light years from the Crab Pulsar. Last visited point of interest, NGC 281 nebula, 450 light-years. Next intended point of interest, Bubble sector, 1500 light-years. ”
“Can you summarize our findings?”
“Eight hundred twenty systems visited since departing Lembava. One unreported Earth-like world. A dozen unreported water or ammonia worlds.”
“Got it. Brew me an extra strength Fuelum coffee while I take a shower of historic duration, and then prepare me a summary of GalNet dispatches from the last five years.”
“Affirmative. Would you like a precis on the Thargoid situation?”
…
Frak.
“Commander?”
“Thank you computer, better make it two coffees and then I’ll take that precis.”
“Understood, Commander.”