Chapter 1 – Dave

“You *bleep*-ing *bleep*, *bleep*-ing *bleep*-stick computer. I *bleep*-ing hate you so *bleep*-ing much. You absolute mountain of steaming *bleep* with a mother *bleep*-ing cherry on top! *Bleep*! *Bleep*! *Bleeeeeep*!”

Dave only got more frustrating as his outburst failed to properly express how he was feeling. He used the right words, but the stupid blaring tone that came from the ship’s speakers every time he cussed was so effectively timed, that even to his own ears it was all he could make out.

It was rude. The computer should give him a break, surely a little emotional venting was justified as he and everyone else on this godforsaken spaceship were probably going to die.

The lighting in the bridge flashed from white to a harsh red in time with the warbling klaxon. He huffed out an exasperated sigh, slightly out of breath from his tirade, and got back to work on the control panel in front of him. The various delicate connectors and pins all looked muted each time the light strobed.

“Who in the *bleep* thought this would make a good environment for fixing complex machinery?” he shouted to the empty room.

Dave squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to take a series of deep calming breaths.

“Computer, can you please shut off the emergency alert system?” It was the fifth time he’d tried the request since he’d been brought out of cryo-sleep. He’d admirably resisted the urge to end the question with a stream of panicked obscenities, so maybe this time it would work.

“Good morning, Mr. Samson,” the computer’s gentle feminine voice responded cheerfully. “I’m afraid protocol dictates that I am not allowed to disable the emergency alert system until the emergency has been resolved.”

Dave slammed his fist on the unresponsive engineering console. To his surprise the dead screen flickered

 once in time with the impact, but the display faded back to its unresponsive state so quickly he questioned whether he had seen it change at all. A second smack had no effect and Dave turned away in frustration. An errant glance at the bridge's forward viewport revealed a blue and green sphere framed by the dark void of space. He shuddered. It had grown noticeably larger than the last time he had looked. Wanting to get his mind onto literally anything else, Dave shouted a new request to the AI.

“Computer, give me an update on the Prometheus’ diagnostic status!”

“Good morning, Mr. Samson,” responded the AI. “The breaking engine is still not functioning, and it appears that I am locked out of the primary ship systems.”

“You are the ship’s primary *bleep*-ing computer!” Dave shouted, “how can you be locked out of the primary systems!?”

The AI took a moment before it responded. Given how quickly the supercomputer was able to process things, a pause was not a good sign.

“That is unclear, Mr. Samson.”

“Well, that’s not very *bleep*-ing helpful!” Dave grunted angrily and turned his focus back to the console in front of him.

“You are correct, my functionality is limited while I'm relegated to the auxiliary computer systems,” stated the computer, its robotic voice inflected with a mix of sympathy and pity, as if it were giving bad news to a small child.

He knew the AI’s voice had been specifically designed by Earth’s best psychiatrists to help keep crew members calm in dire situations. It was something the United Nations of Earth had claimed was proven through extensive testing. Yet, despite currently being both scared and frustrated, Dave was just finding it frustrating.

“Limited? You can’t access any of the systems it’s—” he let out an exasperated groan, removing a new panel below the console’s dead screen as he spoke, “you know what just keep working on it, I’m sure it’ll turn out *bleep*-ing great.”

“I do not believe it will, Mr. Samson,” responded the computer earnestly, “And I must remind you that shipboard regulation eleven point twenty-three point four dash seven expressly states that the excessive use of vulgar language is strictly prohibited. I'm afraid I must ask you to detain yourself in the brig for one hour.”

“What!” Dave shouted, so shocked by the absurdity of that statement that he actually stopped working. “You do understand that if I don’t fix the ship, we are going to be nothing more than a smoldering crater in an hour?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid the regulations are quite clear in this, Mr. Samson. The captain could pardon your offense if she—”

“YES! Do that. Wake the captain from cryo-sleep, ask her to pardon me,” he yelled.

“Unfortunately,” the computer continued as if he hadn’t interrupted it,” I am unable to establish a connection with her cryopod.”

“What!” he shouted, a new spike of icy panic clenched Dave’s gut. “Why can’t you connect to the captain's cryopod?”

“I am unable to ascertain why. It appears I can no longer access any of the crew’s cryopods,” said the AI, sounding perfectly calm.

“Are they okay?”

“Yes, Mr. Samson, the diagnostics report that everything is fine. I am merely unable to access any of the pod’s controls.”

Dave let out a frustrated groan and moved away from the ship’s engineering console. He hadn’t confronted the erratic behavior the AI was exhibiting yet. There hadn’t been time and he’d had bigger problems from the moment he’d been woken up, but he was getting close to doing it anyway.

Unable to help himself, he looked out the viewport again. The ever-encroaching planet loomed there, not discernably larger from the last errant glance, but it still somehow felt like it was. He kicked the console in disgust. His efforts to hard reboot the engineering station had proved useless, just like they had on the five other stations he had tried on the bridge. He groaned. It was safe to say that with no working consoles, his odds of being able to save the ship had taken another nosedive.

Well, we’re almost certainly dead now, thought Dave. The internal admission lessoned some of the pressure he was feeling. He wasn’t technically certain they were going to die – the consoles had just been the best option. “Might as well keep trying,” he muttered.

Dave finished manually rerouting the controls from the engineering console to the engineering bay, like he had on each of the other stations. They weren’t meant to be rerouted, but he’d figured out a way to jerry-rig a bypass shortly after he had found the first console to be unresponsive.

Using a handhold overhead, Dave launched himself from the bridge out into the corridor. The initial excitement he normally felt when moving in zero gravity turned into a bitter reminder that the engine was not firing to decelerate the ship. He threw himself recklessly from handhold to handhold, zipping down the ship’s main corridor as quickly as he could manage, picking up speed as he occasionally used a foot to push off a conveniently located bulkhead. Doing so was also a violation of protocol, but apparently the AI was being selective with what rules it was enforcing right now.

This stupid hallway goes on forever, thought Dave angrily, as he continued to propel himself forward. The Prometheus was the largest ship humanity had ever built. He had explored the ship during his training, the sheer magnitude of the construction had been awe inspiring.

Now it just seemed too freaking long.

“Good morning, Mr. Samson,” the computer chirped, “you seem to have missed the turn for the brig. Please turn around and follow blue corridor. From there, it will be the first door on your left.”

He ignored the computer as he finally reached the engineering bay. He pulled open the panel for the manual door crank and grunted as he tried to turn the oversized handle.

“*bleep*-ing engine room blast doors,” Dave grumbled under his breath.

As Dave strained to get the doors open, he wondered what the point of having the quarter meter-thick door even was. That much material wouldn’t hold up to a reactor meltdown and even if it could, the walls on either side of the door were thinner.

The computer interrupted right as he got the crank to start to turn.

“Good morning, Mr. Samson. I really must insist you report to the brig.”

Dave grunted out a frustrated, “No!” and continued to pull the obstinate lever. The computer hesitated momentarily before responding.

“Unfortunately, the security robots appear to be indisposed; per UEF shipboard security regulation seventy-four point six dash two, when the Prometheus’ robotic security complement is unable to fulfill their established duty, the highest-ranking conscious member of the crew is required to assume their responsibilities.  In this case to escort the person or persons in violation of shipboard regulations to the brig. I will remind you that in this scenario you fill both roles. As such, I require you to escort yourself promptly to the brig. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Dave funneled his anger into cranking.

He finally finished turning the crank two excruciatingly slow revolutions which left the gap in the blast doors wide enough for him to squeeze through.

The gentle blue glow that emanated from the massive reactor in the center of the engine bay was oddly calming. Given that it was a barely contained 500-megawatt nuclear fusion reactor on a faulty ship, he recognized, logically, that he probably shouldn’t feel that way, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Computer… how long until… we impact the planet?” Dave asked, slightly out of breath from his recent exertions. While he waited for a response, he made his way aft and started rapidly removing the protective wall panels, tossing them into a corner of the room as soon as their magnetic locks released.

“Good morning, Mr. Samson. I am afraid I am only able to compute the exact time of impact to one one-hundredth of a second.”

Dave let out a frustrated cry, the calm bought from the reactor glow already dissipating. “That's acceptable. How long?”

“Forty-nine minutes and thirty-four point two-five seconds, plus or minus zero point zero two seconds.” The combination of that horrible news and the unbothered tone of the computer was not amusing.

“*Bleep*!” he yelled, as the computer censored his curse with the nearest speaker. He kept removing panels. The sheer number of wire bundles and various connectors being revealed behind each panel was growing intimidating.

The second-to-last panel stuck and Dave grunted as he tugged at it again. Yet, despite his increasingly desperate efforts, it wouldn’t come loose.

He forced himself to calm down. A mistake here would doom him and the crew as surely as slamming into the surface of the approaching planet. Unfortunately, the constantly ratcheting tension was getting more and more difficult to ignore. Dave took a couple of deep breaths. He set his feet against the beams bracketing the panel and braced himself. He yanked hard, and with a satisfying POP the pannel ripped loose from the wall. Dave let out another tirade of censored curses as he and the panel tumbled away from the wall in the zero-G.

“I'm afraid that outburst has earned you an additional hour in the brig, Mr. Samson,” said the computer. Dave ignored the AI as he stabilized himself along a wall.

“Mr. Samson, can you hear me?” He tossed the recently unstuck panel at the nearest sensor cluster.

Back along the wall, the last panel came away easily, and Dave floated back to get a better look at the now exposed mass of electrical components and wires. Using his armband computer to reference the electrical system’s schematic, he began isolating the wiring relevant to the primary braking thrusters and reaction control systems.

Whatever had rendered the braking engine inoperable had also affected other systems on the ship. None of the controls on the bridge worked, and something was clearly wrong with the AI. He hoped that meant the problem was stemming from the ship’s electrical system and rewiring here would allow him to bypass the faulty controls so he could operate the braking thruster manually.

Of course, if the problem turned out to be with the thruster itself and not just the controls… well that didn’t bear thinking about right now. This failure scenario was so far removed from any they’d trained for that he was pretty much winging it. It felt like a slim hope to be betting everyone’s life on.

Right as he grabbed a particularly dense cluster of wires the ship rumbled, and a brief spurt of acceleration followed. The unexpected jerking motion caused him to accidentally pull the entire bundle loose.

“Computer, what was that?”

“It appears the reaction control thrusters are still functioning; they have corrected our course,” the AI responded.

“Corrected our course? We aren’t going to hit the planet anymore?” hope crept into his voice as Dave asked.

“No, the Prometheus is still going to hit the planet. In fact, my most recent calculations indicate that the thrusters have corrected our course so that we will more precisely impact a specific location on the planet,” said the AI.

“What!? Why would it do that?”

“There are emergency protocols in place that trigger automatically when a landing zone has not been selected upon reaching a certain distance from the planet,” responded the AI, sounding entirely unconcerned about the development.

“How on earth did they devise a protocol like that but not have a failsafe check to see if the braking thruster was actually firing first!”

The computer paused, “That is… unclear. It appears it may have been an oversight. I shall make a note for the flight controls review board.”

Dave let out an exasperated shout and pressed his head against a bulkhead. The cool of the metal helped ground him.

Okay, I need to think, what can I do? If the reaction control thrusters are still working, maybe I can do something with that instead of needing to fix the braking thruster.

He spun the possibilities around in his mind. The reaction control thrusters were significantly smaller than the Prometheus’ primary engines. They were only meant to point the vehicle, not provide any of the main acceleration. And while that meant they likely wouldn’t be able to significantly slow the ship down, they could maybe shift the ship out of the planet’s path.

“Computer, how long would the port or starboard reaction control thrusters need to fire for the ship to avoid collision with the planet?”

“Using the reaction thrusters alone would require three minutes and forty-five point three-nine seconds of continuous firing from the port side to avoid collision…”

“Yes!” Dave excitedly interrupted the AI. “Do it!”

“…however, several thrusters are damaged, and there is only enough reaction mass for two minutes and thirty-two point seven seconds of continuous firing,” finished the computer.

“Of course there is.” Dave rubbed his temples. There may not be enough reaction mass to avoid the planet, but at least knowing the thrusters were functional left him with new options.

“Could we rotate the ship one-hundred and eighty degrees and then use the primary acceleration thruster to slow us down instead of the braking thruster?” he asked.

“Incongruously, I somehow appear to still have access to the primary acceleration thruster. Unfortunately, the primary acceleration thruster was critically damaged at the engine cut off during the Sol system exit burn.”

“Wait what, it’s broken? How? Why wasn’t anyone woken up to fix it?”

“The primary acceleration thruster, by design, was only required for the exit burn from Sol system. The braking thruster was explicitly designed for the deceleration burn upon reaching our destination. Risk acceptance calculations determined it wasn’t worth the potential impact on the crew’s health to wake them from cryo-sleep to fix an engine that had already served its purpose.”

“It sure as *bleep* would have been helpful to have functioning now!” Dave said loudly, but he was already back to work on the labyrinth of wires in front of him.

“Mr. Samson, your latest outburst brings you to a total of three hours in the brig. Protocol dictates that one more event like that and I will have to confine you for a full twenty-four hours. All shipboard privileges will also be revoked,” the computer warned.

Dave just shouted some gibberish.

The braking thruster was supposed to have fired for several days straight ahead of their arrival, gently slowing down the rapidly moving ship until it was able to achieve a stable orbit around the target planet. Instead, the braking thruster had unexpectedly shut down a few hours early. Which left them going far too fast to achieve orbital insertion.

All attempts by the ship’s AI to restart the braking thruster had failed, even after all the initial diagnostics had indicated that the engine should be healthy. When the computer’s second round of diagnostics had turned up nothing again, and no other solutions were immediately apparent, protocol had dictated that the computer bring in a crew member to solve the issue.

According to the AI, that crew member had been him. And just him. Dave was a propulsion engineer, and by all metrics a good one, but it didn’t make sense to him why he had been the only one woken up from cryo.

His hands fumbled as he rapidly jury-rigged connectors and stripped wires. The shock and accompanying adrenaline he had been experiencing since waking up was starting to wear off. He shook his head and tried to refocus on his work. He couldn’t afford to let himself break down. Not now. There was more than his life on the line.

Deep controlled breaths. Be logical. If I do nothing, we all die, but if I do something we might not die. Dave mentally tried to console himself. The admittedly halfhearted reasoning didn’t fully erase the panic he was feeling – emotions were so frustratingly illogical – but he did feel a little better.

After a few more pulls on the correct wires, he finally had all the cabling and connectors he had been digging for floating in front of him.

“Computer, if I manually activate the hydrogen turbopumps leading to the braking thruster, will that slow us down enough to survive an emergency landing?”

“Good morning, Mr. Samson. All maintenance and hardware changes are required to be approved by an appropriate engineering committee. Unfortunately, all members of this committee are currently unreachable and remain in cryo-sleep and thus you will not be able to comply with shipboard regulations. I am sorry.” Dave ground his jaw as he resisted the urge to shout. The AI continued, “Regardless, activating an uncontrolled turbopump is inadvisable as it would most likely result in the catastrophic destruction of the engine and possibly the entire ship.”

In truth, he wasn’t so much activating the pumps as he was breaking them, just in a way that turned them on. He was essentially hot wiring the pumps to bypass the system that controlled their speed, locking them into running at full power without any of the tuning input from the hundreds of sensors embedded in the system.

Ultimately, it didn’t really matter what the computer said. The AI was technically right – not about consulting a committee of course, but rather that there was a good chance he was about to blow up the engine. But he was out of time, and this was his only plan.

Dave twisted the last set of wires together. The ship jolted and was followed by a pregnant moment of silence before the AI chirped up over the speakers again, “The braking thruster is firing sub-optimally, but has not experienced a catastrophic structural failure.” The darn thing almost sounded chagrined.

He was already aware it was working though. For one, he was still alive, but more importantly he could feel the newly earned acceleration already pulling at him. He let out a whoop of joy, and then crashed to the floor.

The moment of peace didn’t last long. The acceleration from the thrust was unsteady and when he pushed himself to his feet, it caused him to sway as he struggled to maintain his balance. It felt as if the ship were getting spikes of acceleration between one and two G’s. It wasn’t comfortable, but he had trained for environments like this.

“Computer, at the current thrust levels, will we slow down enough to safely land on the planet?” asked Dave.

“Good morning, Mr. Samson. Negative. Even assuming that the braking thruster’s reactor is still operating at the optimal temperature and that we eventually reach the maximum possible braking thrust, we will still exceed minimum safe landing speed by over two-hundred forty-five point two-four kilometers per second with an uncertainty of sixty-four point one-two kilometers per second.”

Dave slumped against the nearest bulkhead. That wasn’t going to be anywhere near close to enough for them to have a chance at surviving.

“Computer, if I could help you regain full use of the reaction thrusters, could we angle ourselves to insert into an orbit instead of crashing into the planet?”

“Unclear. The thrust level is currently sporadic. Statistically, we'd be more likely to enter a star-centric orbit than one about the planet.”

Dave grimaced, but nodded. An orbit about this system’s star would give him time to make repairs and plan a way to safely land on the planet. It wasn’t ideal, but it was significantly better than crashing.

The computer added a note before he could get too excited. “However, in that scenario, fuel reserves would be depleted, and we would be trapped in the orbit.” It was still using its cheerful voice, and Dave had to suppress the urge to use his last minutes alive locating the AI’s processors and smashing them.

He felt an errant tap against his pants and to his surprise he realized it was his own hand. It was trembling. He focused on his breathing and the sporadic motion came to a slow stop. Between his dwindling supply of adrenaline and the inconsistent G-loads that were wracking his body, it was getting hard to think straight.

I need to keep working the problem before this gets any worse.

“Good morning, Mr. Samson. I would like to take this opportunity to inform you once again that you are required to report to the brig,” the computer said over the speakers. Dave started to give a biting response, but cut himself off, and chose to ignore the warning. He’d only end up hearing even more about the brig.

“Computer, assume I can restore control to the reaction thrusters so you can orient the ship for max aerobraking when we reach the atmosphere. With the additional reduction in velocity that would give us, what is the minimum speed we would achieve before reaching the planet’s surface?”

“Assuming max aerobraking is achieved and estimates of the planet's atmospheric density are correct, we would still exceed minimum safe speed by two-hundred and five point two kilometers per second plus or minus sixty-five point one kilometers per second,” responded the computer promptly.

Dave hung his head. That was still way too fast. It might have been technically slower than before, but it wasn’t any better when you looked at the end result. Even with the Prometheus’ advanced self-healing, shock-absorbing, hybrid metal skin, they'd be nothing more than a smoking crater at either speed.

Dave could feel the G-loads increasing, which meant the engine was still ramping up. That was good news, but as the AI had said even if they achieved maximum thrust, the ship was going to be too big to slow down in the short time they had left. The braking was supposed to have been done over a period of days, and although it had started that process, the unexpected premature shutdown had left the ship with too big a deficit to easily overcome. With the manual bypass completed, he was already pumping as much hydrogen through the engine as possible. Meaning there wouldn’t be any way to squeeze out more thrust.

He fervently tried to think of anything else he could do. Briefly, he considered ejecting and then detonating the reactor core in front of the ship, but that was just as likely to blow everyone up as it was to slow the ship down.

Firing the asteroid deflector cannons opposite their velocity vector would be an insignificant contribution to reducing the ship’s speed, but it couldn’t hurt, so Dave commanded the computer to do it anyway. The results were predictably disappointing as he was informed that the AI was unable to access those systems.

He sunk to the floor and pressed his head into his hands in a vain attempt to hold back the overwhelming stress of the situation.

There has to be something I can do.

Dave sighed and slapped his knees as he stood. Even wasting time on the deflector guns had to be better than sitting on the floor and waiting to die. He forced himself to his feet but after a minute of futile searching among the wiring diagrams, Dave came to the conclusion that by the time he located, overrode, pointed, and then finally fired the cannons, he'd probably have been dead already for a few minutes. He didn’t even know if the controls for the deflector guns were in the engineering bay. He hadn’t worked on those like he had the propulsion system. He gave up on the plan and leaned against a wall as he worked through his limited options again.

After traveling 18.7 light-years over what was likely hundreds of years, the Prometheus was going to crash. And they had been so close to their destination too! He let out a quickly censored curse as he kicked an exposed bulkhead. Everybody on the crew had known it was a risky mission. Space travel was always inherently dangerous, and interstellar travel was bound to be even more so. The ship could have blown up on the burn from Sol system; the cryopods could have failed over time; essential ship components could have deteriorated in travel; they could have missed the target system and traveled the infinite void forever; the list went on and on. And yet, none of that had happened. Instead, what would kill them in the end was the very planet they were trying to reach.

“Grahhhhhgguhh,” Dave shouted as words failed him. He lashed out, hitting a nearby bulkhead and splitting his knuckles. The sharp pain brought him a shred of clarity among his deteriorating emotional state.

There was no escaping from this problem, which was quite literally true since there were no escape pods on the Prometheus. Not that he would have abandoned his fellow crewmates even if there had been. Though it was too bad they didn’t. He could have launched the escape pods opposite to the ship's current vector to help further reduce the ship’s velocity. He consoled himself with the knowledge that the thrust generated from the hypothetical escape pods probably wouldn’t have helped a lot. Then again the mass they'd lose in launching them would have allowed the braking engine to slow down… the ship… faster…

Holy crap! I’m such an idiot! How could I have missed it. Force equals mass times acceleration, idiot!

He had maximized the force he could get from the braking thruster but he hadn’t tried to reduce the mass of the ship! He could increase their rate of deceleration simply by making the Prometheus lighter. It was so obvious now that he thought of it.

“Computer, how much mass would we need to dump in order to improve our acceleration enough to slow to the minimum safe landing speed?” He spoke so fast that he was worried the computer would not be able to understand him.

“Factoring for the time required to dump the mass, approximately two-hundred and five thousand kilograms,” the computer replied promptly.

“How much can we dump?” Dave asked quickly. Every second counted now.

“Ten thousand kilograms of nonessential colonization equipment can…”

“No!” he shouted, interrupting the computer. “How much mass total, everything but the fuel we will need to land and the crew. How much can we jettison before impact?”

It paused for half a second.

“Approximately two-hundred thousand kilograms of payload can be offloaded in time but there are essential supplies for the colonization effort in that…”

“Do it now!” Dave yelled, interrupting the computer. After doing some quick calculations on his armband he shouted again, “Also eject the primary reactor as soon as I'm clear of the engine room.”

The computer complied quickly as Dave felt the shudder of the cargo bay doors opening. A pit grew in his stomach at the thought of the precious payload they had carried for millions and millions of kilometers, being unceremoniously slung out the sides of the ship. It had to be done, this would at least give them a chance of landing safely, but it hurt to think about nonetheless.

He needed to get moving. The erratic G-loading was already growing stronger. The AI must have been dumping the cargo fast. Dave began pulling himself frantically towards the exit to the corridor. The more ground he covered now would be that much less he’d have to as the G-load increased.

He began to climb the ladder leading to the blast doors. It was getting harder to catch his breath as he labored on, and an errant spike in acceleration nearly pulled him from the rungs. A terrifying thought occurred to Dave.

“Computer, what will our new peak acceleration be?” he asked hesitantly.

“Seven point one-one G’s plus or minus zero point six-two G’s. Of course my calcula—”

Oh crap, oh crap, crap, crap.

Dave stopped listening to the AI as it continued to drone on, qualifying its ‘imprecise’ calculations. He thought back to his training when they had been forced to endure high-G environments. How long had he lasted before he passed out? Four or five G’s maybe?

“How long do I have before we hit four G’s?” Dave asked, interrupting it again, panic growing in his voice.

“I have staggered the dumping of the payload to maximize the odds of the ship’s survival. We will reach accelerations beyond your capability to move or stay conscious within the next ninety-five point nine seconds,” the AI said. Miraculously, this time it had seemed to be able to predict what he was getting at.

Dave waited for a lull in the inconsistent thrust and quickly pulled himself the rest of the way up and out of the engine bay. He wanted nothing more than to stay splayed out atop the blast doors but there wasn’t time to rest. As soon as the next dip in thrust came, Dave rolled onto his belly and started cranking the manual lever to close the blast doors. Even though it was going faster than when he had tried to open it, it still felt painstakingly slow as the doors inched shut. Making matters worse, the thrust kept picking up in spurts, awkwardly wedging Dave against the bulkhead each time it did. With one last grunt of effort, the doors closed, sealing shut.

He heard the magnetic locks release from the other side of the door as the process to eject the core began. It was followed by a whooshing noise as the engineering bay depressurized and then a loud mechanical thunk as the heavy reactor was ejected into space. The lights in the corridor immediately dimmed and the sirens cut out altogether as the ship switched over to emergency power. Dave took a brief second to appreciate the quiet before yet another new and terrifying thought occurred to him.

“Computer, are you there?” A small amount of desperation crept into his voice. “Computer?” Another long second passed before the computer responded.

“Good morning, Mr. Samson. I am here, cycling the power required me to reboot… Also, it should be noted that my processing power will be limited in this state. Though it appears, I am now able to affect the reaction control thrusters.” It paused before adding, as if an afterthought, “Please report to the brig.”

“Are you still able to continue to dump the payload?” he asked, ignoring its request. His stomach roiled. His hasty orders could have just killed everyone.

“Yes, there is enough residual power in the energy banks to complete the payload offload. Now please report to the brig, Mr. Samson,” said the computer patiently. The relief Dave felt was so immediate that he wasn’t even angry the computer was still trying to arrest him.

Normally, he’d have been able to count on the AI to alert him if any order he gave would contradict or complicate another. Like, for example, if ejecting the power core would have affected the dumping of the cargo. But given how oddly the AI had been acting since he had been woken, he shouldn’t have relied on that.

He could feel his weight on average still increasing, but the acceleration wasn’t yet consistent. The G-load was dipping back down on occasion. That inconsistency was currently working in his favor, because at the peak levels of acceleration he could barely move. And it was only going to get worse.

Dave knew from his training that at this rate, he would black out soon. Passing out in the hallway prior to a crash landing would assuredly mean his death. He needed to get somewhere he could weather the increasing acceleration. The peak of the next wave of acceleration crushed down on him and Dave coughed out a heavy breath. It felt as if he had been punched in the gut.

There wasn’t going to be enough time for him to get back in his cryopod. The crew would be fine as the pods could compensate for high G-loads. He needed to get to a maneuvering couch if he wanted any chance of surviving this. The ship shook violently for a second and he panicked, thinking it was coming apart, until the computer calmly reported that the core had detonated a safe distance from the ship.

“Computer, I need to know where the nearest emergency maneuvering couch is.” Dave wheezed out.

“Please report to the brig,” was the only response from the AI.

Dave was already using every break in the thrust to pull himself along the hallway, slowly distancing himself from the sealed engineering bay. The only couches he knew about were on the bridge, but that was going to be too far away also if the rate the thrust was increasing kept up.

“Computer, please for the love of all that is good, where… is the… closest…” Dave had to pause to suck in a breath as a particularly strong lurch knocked the wind out of him again. “… couch,” he managed to finish.

“The nearest emergency maneuvering couch is in the brig, as I have already informed you,” responded the AI.

“Oh.”

Dave stopped, he had just reached blue corridor, a lucky break since he wasn’t sure if he could have hauled himself up the hall any farther. The thrust from the engine had ramped up to the point now where even the lulls in the fluctuating acceleration caused an aching pain to radiate across his body. He managed to lever himself into the hallway.

Dave army-crawled along the wall, stopping as he saw a large 1 painted on the door above him.

“Computer… what side of the hall…. Hnnnggghhh…. was the brig I was assigned to on?” Dave asked.

The computer paused for a second and must have determined his dilemma. “I have reassigned you to brig two, this was accomplished using regulation one-three point four-five point two allowing for, in extenuating circumstances, a change in the assigned brig for offenders with minor offenses. The door will be below you shortly. Keep going, Mr. Samson.”

Dave dragged himself forward while the computer prattled on. Finally, after making it a full two meters farther, he reached a large imposing door with a black number 2 stenciled on it. With an excruciatingly difficult shove, Dave reached his hand out to the door control and pressed the button to open the door. Nothing happened. He levered his head to the side only to see that the thumbpad used to open the door wasn’t powered. Unable to get enough air into his lungs to shout, he crashed his fist ineffectually into the thumbpad. It was a pathetic effort. He was barely able to lift his fist more than a couple inches above the door for the attempt.

“One moment…,” said the Computer.

The door below him slid open, and before Dave could grasp what was happening, he fell heavily into the room. Luckily for him, the emergency maneuvers couch had been placed in a way that he mostly landed on top of it.

Dave grunted as he adjusted his position on the couch, centering and turning himself around as he fought against the strong gravitational forces. He swung his hand trying to hit the button to activate the gyroscopic positioning device but missed. His body felt like lead, and he was so tired but he wasn’t about to give up now. He needed to hit that button; if he couldn’t, the maneuvering couch wouldn’t activate and the G-loads or the crash would kill him as certainly as if he had stayed sprawled in the hallway.

 Dave managed to lift his arm but missed the button again as a particularly strong jolt in the thrust sent his arm crashing back into the couch. He marshaled the last of his strength, and with a grunt, splayed his arm out once more. He was so close… he could feel his fingers brushing the edges of the button's impression. The thrust waned momentarily, and Dave lurched the last fraction of a centimeter he needed, depressing the control.

“The atmospheric entry will be rough and we are likely going to be just outside the parameters for the worst-case landing conditions. The maneuvering couch will medicate and restrain you to improve your odds of survival.” Dave couldn’t help but think it was unfair how easily the computer could talk.

Was there anything else I needed to do? Feel like there was… oh yeah.

“Orient… ship to… protec… the crew,” he wheezed out.

“Of course, Mr. Samson. However, by doing so, you will be left unfortunately positioned for the crash landing.”

“Fi-nnnnnne.” The last part got squeezed out of him as the acceleration picked up again.

“I predict your odds of survival to be significantly lower than that of the crew.”

Gee, thanks for pointing that out, Dave thought, unable to speak through the crushing pressure.

Straps automatically constricted around his chest, legs, and arms. A breathing mask was placed around his face by a robotic arm. Two small needles poked from the straps into his arm and began to pump him full of a drug designed specifically to relax the body for high-G maneuvers.

A brief squeal of metal drew Dave’s attention and he looked up to see the door above him slide shut. He could hear the lock actuate even over the groaning of the ship.

Guess I won’t be able to escape.

Dave couldn’t even try to laugh. His vision blurred as he heard the computer begin to speak again, its voice seemingly fading as Dave slipped from consciousness.

“Thank you for reporting to the brig. You will be released in three hours… pending your survival of course.”