Gradually, I begin to think rationally. I need to figure out the situation, understand what happened. I crouch down slightly and walk along the row of capsules, hoping to see at least one open here, but in reality trying to get as far away from Barbara's capsule as possible. Only the dim light shining from under the translucent covers illuminates my long journey through this endless closed tunnel.
Cryosleep flight involves the complete automation of all processes. People are put into cryosleep on Earth, packed quite tightly into a spaceship, and sent to their destination. Passengers wake up after landing, having successfully avoided all the hardships of the flight. But there was no landing. Otherwise, the ring-shaped compartment would be lying somewhere on the planet, and gravity would be pulling everyone to one side. I continue to walk along the circumference with my head toward the center, which means that the wheel is still spinning, and therefore we are still in space. Then it's clear why everyone is asleep. The flight continues. But why did I wake up... And Barbara. Damn! Some kind of malfunction? Probably. But those damn smart alecks on Earth claimed that there could be no malfunctions. I recall all the curses and swear words I know, just to somehow drown out the rising fear and despair. And everything is replaced by a single question spinning in my head like a stuck record. What to do?
What are the options? I won't be able to fall asleep again. The cryocapsule only maintains a state of biological stasis and brings you out of it. Placing someone in it requires a complex medical procedure. In fact, I went into space from a medical table, hooked up to various IVs and wrapped in tubes. Lying down and falling asleep in clouds of icy mist, as they show in stupid movies, is not going to happen. What to do?
Call for help? Who? The final destination is five light years from Earth. It's fine if we're not far away, but if we're even a third of the way there, the signal will take a year and a half to get there and another year and a half to come back. I'll be dead by then. Well, let's say I don't die here... But how do I send a signal? This damn ring is basically a cargo hold. There are no malfunctions. "We have achieved 100% survivability of automatic devices in unmanned spaceflight." Yeah, right! That's why there's no fancy chair here where you can sprawl out in front of huge screens and a control panel with colored lights. The central computer, all the control systems with all the communications equipment are located in the same place as the engine compartment — in the central module, around which everything revolves. Exactly. It spun us around... What to do?
Stop, stop! I'll stop myself. Upon arrival, we exit in an orderly fashion through the central module, as instructed. Four corridors stretch from the ring like spokes of a wheel to the center. If the ring is horizontal, these exits are on the inside. That means they're above my head right now. I start walking more slowly, staring intently at the ceiling in the dim light. There it is! I feel for the coveted handle. Damn! It's locked. There should be an emergency button nearby. I press the fragile glass with my hand and push it all the way down. Inside, I hear the click of a magnetic lock. Now the handle gives way. A dark well opens above my head. Of course, there is no lighting. There shouldn't be anyone here right now. So... What to do?
A personal locker. Every passenger has one, located next to their compartment. It contains a standard landing kit and a limited amount of personal belongings. The standard kit includes a flashlight. I open the locker. I hope Jean-Luc won't mind me rummaging through his things? So, should I stand on his head to make it easier to grab the ladder inside the shaft? Great, buddy! Thanks. I climb up, clinging tightly to the steel handrails, lighting my way with a trembling spot of light. It would be unpleasant to fall from a height of 40 meters. As I climb, I feel gravity weakening. My body becomes lighter. But I can't relax. The position of equilibrium in the center will be unstable. At any moment, I could be pulled down with acceleration and smeared with a full 1g.
I rise, or rather float into the central compartment, trying to stay close to the wall. Here are the doors of the main airlock, slightly protruding outward, opening like flower petals. On the opposite side is a small door leading into the technical compartments. I manage to squeeze through it and into an even narrower space. They say that entire orbital stations used to be designed this way. But here, it's hard to even turn around. A dim light comes from the sparse instrumentation. I press the power buttons on several monitors, scanning the columns of numbers with my eyes, trying to find something understandable.
"Route completion: 65%." Damn! We're already so far away... It's time to remember what they told us about the mission on Earth. The distance is 5 light-years. We've accelerated to 3% of the speed of light. Our flight will last about 167 years. 170, if you take into account acceleration and deceleration. So we have 59.5 years left to fly... That's the figure. I find it on the screen. Damn! They even made a countdown in seconds. Space precision. And my message to Earth will take a little over 3 years to get there. Great prospect. 6 years of waiting for a response: "Our support team is solving your problem." No chance, but keep a calm!
I find the communication interface. A simple rectangular screen with white letters on a black background. The font is angular and lopsided. They could have at least added emojis and stickers with funny dogs. They would be relevant to me right now. I type a dry, factual message: "Cryocapsule failure. I've come out of cryosleep. Another passenger has died. Give recommendations." Date. Signature. I click the "Enter" button, and my message flies off into the void of space.
I wonder what the nerds at Mission Control will look like when my message arrives along with the regular telemetry reports. In three years... Maybe. If anyone still reads them. I take one last look at the countdown of the time remaining. 59.5 years... That's it. I leave the control compartment. There's nothing left to do here.