Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE
A Supernova Death

1532 HOURS GMT
NOVEMBER 16^th 2232
APPROX 928.8 MILLION KM FROM EARTH

DAY TWELVE

The door slid open, a pair of feet suddenly rushing into the room.

“Sir! You have to see this, quickly!” Jim Ramirez exclaimed somewhat excitedly, “Normandy says it’s a once in a lifetime sight.”

Commander Logan Grey was already seated on his wheelchair, immediately surprised by Ramirez’s arrival. He offered the pilot a perplexed expression, until he finally shrugged and followed Ramirez to the bridge, where the complete assembly of the entire crew was congregated, visibly astonished by something.

Logan received clarification a second later. Upon every screen around the bridge, a live feed of a distant star—or what used to be one—displayed its impending demise. The commander moved over beside Normandy, but saw that the man was too excited to be bothered. Instead, he rotated to face Josef Arnette, nicknamed ‘Pirate’ for his rather confusing love for ancient pirates.

“What’s going on, Pirate?” asked Logan.

The specialist astronomer raised two eyebrows: “About ten minutes ago, I was studying Aldebaran, one of the closest red giant stars to our planet, and I begun to detect all signs of an impending supernova. It’s interesting. Aldebaran is a little over 65 light years away—it’s just so surreal to just know all this is happening 65 years ago.”

“Are we recording this?”

“We have all sensors and cameras active and focused. If the Hubbles don’t get it, we’ll have the best data on it. Supernovas only every happen every 50 years—and that’s around the entire galaxy, and nowhere as near as Aldebaran,” Pirate called for one of the other scientists, Bunt, and requested for a folder on the star. She returned five minutes later, handing a file to Pirate who gave it to Logan. “This is everything on the star. The star is due to explode in about ten minutes, to my rough estimate.”

“How likely do the signs indicate that it will actually occur?”

“70% chance. I mean, this star was expected to explode at around 2300, so it’s virtually overdue. But of course, this sort of anticipation has happened before, only to end up as an anti-climax where nothing happens at all,” Pirate sighed, “still, fingers crossed,” he continued with a hopeful smile.

The crowd watched intently as seconds faded into minutes, minutes into an hour, every hopeful expression slowly disappearing as time passed. Pirate, in particular, had his shoulders slightly slouching now, his excitement dissipating. However, with no surprise to Logan, Normandy still remained in the front row, tiptoed with his eyes brimming with undying anticipation.

Logan found it hard to resist laughter.

“Alright, is this gonna’ happen, or what?” Ramirez asked tirelessly.

“Don’t get your hopes up too much, Jim,” Bunt, another astronomer, advised, “despite of every fact we know, space still remains an ever-changing mystery that is very unpredictable.”

“Then why do we bother with it?”

“Because it is simply amazing.”

“—shhh! It’s happening!” announced Pirate in growing exhilaration, “Oh my god, it’s actually happening.”

The spectacle was simply breathtaking. Initially seemingly calm and content, the red giant grew rapidly, then, abruptly detonated, sending a wave of red inferno flaring across space. Following instantly was blinding white light, which hung brighter than anything else, slowly fading away to unveil the beautiful visage of a soft, misty skeletal nebula, colossal in size and infinite in description. The nebula grew, expanding like a balloon, where it would continue to do so for weeks, months or even years.

And like the star’s explosion, purely soundless, so was the crew. They stood frozen, the sight of the supernova still only beginning to subside.

“…my God,” Pirate muttered, tears of joy beginning to escape his eyelids, “I never thought I’d live the day to see it happen.”

Normandy snapped back to reality a second later. “Excellent! Research Division, back to the labs for analysis. Go, go, go!”

“That was…amazing,” Doctor Erin Baker commented beside Ramirez, who had watched the event like an extravagant, lavish fireworks display, “Don’t you think?”

Ramirez looked at her and nodded blankly, “I want a copy of that video.”

“Everyone will,” promised Commander Logan, “I only wish Emma was here to witness it…”

Flight Assistant Sarah Watcher glanced to Logan, offering a sympathetic smile to the man, “I am sure she saw it, Commander.”

“You know…” Ramirez interjected, “there could easily have been life near that.”

“What?”

Luke Hunter appeared, evidently untouched by the spectacular event. “He’s right. There could have been an Earth there, and we’re here applauding. It makes you think, doesn’t it? Destruction is a wonderful sight to one afar and never the one near it. If our own sun blew, somewhere out there, someone is smiling.”

Everyone remained silent, speculating the topic, rather embarrassed.

Commander Grey scowled at his Executive Officer. The assumption may be true—there was a possibility—but the occurrence would have brought an influx of much needed morale if Hunter hadn’t spoiled the moment.

Luke Hunter took a second to understand, before he quickly switched into an apologetic expression.

“Everyone. Regardless of the possibilities, what we saw before us was nevertheless extraordinary and very rare. The chances of seeing it ‘live’ is hairline thin. You are all incredibly fortunate, and we should remember that,” Commander Grey said, in an attempt to reverse what Hunter had said, “We will all have copies of the video, I’ll see to it. How’s about we watch it once again at…1900 hours?”

A blend of “sure”, “alright” and “great” rolled through the crowd, visibly pleased at the news. It appeared Logan had fixed the momentary problem; losing hope and morale-increasing opportunities was too critical in a situation such as theirs.

The Commander also nodded to Ramirez, who jogged over eagerly to his superior, “Yeah, boss?”

“Set up a poker tournament to keep the crew busy,” Logan instructed, deciding that they needed a game of some sort to keep the men and women entertained, “Keep it to virtual money for now. Get back to me once you have it organized.”

“A poker game?” Sarah Watcher said aloud, overhearing the conversation, a hint of excitement in her tone.

Commander Logan Grey smiled; finally, the ship was already beginning to pick up morale.

“—Oh my god!” someone suddenly screamed from behind, “Commander, it’s Dr. Gordon, hurry!”

Everyone hurried, following the witness back to the scene, a dismayed series of gasps bursting from the group.

Beside a metallic table, its protruding corner bloody red, lay a lifeless Scientist Franklin Gordon. The top of his forehead was crunched, blood flowing to form a pool beneath his head. Due to the nearby puddle of water—which must’ve been spilled—Commander Logan assumed he had simply slipped; an accident, but nevertheless, a very much horrible one.

“Dr. Baker. Where is she?” Logan asked a split-second before Erin stormed into the room, sprinting to the body to check for—if any—signs of life.

She gazed upward; discontent radiating from her expression.

“Damn!”

****************************************

CAPTAIN’S LOG
SAME DAY
TWO HOURS LATER

Excuse me if this recording is not clear, as my voice is rather weak at the moment. Today, we have yet again lost another valued member of the ESV Nightingale’s crew. Research Scientist Dr. Franklin Gordon was involved in an accident that led to his death. As we have no apparent witnesses of the accident, we can only infer that, with all our gathered evidence, Dr. Gordon slipped on a puddle of water, consequently landing brutally on the corner of a table, which ultimate lead to his death.

However I harbor much suspicion. Firstly, if water was spilled, the crew member would ideally take initiative to clear it up for the safety of others. Even so, our regulation boots have embedded specialty grips to prevent slipping.

Nevertheless, Dr. Gordon’s body was in an awkward position, where his feet were pointed at the table, inches away from it. And as it was a forehead injury, this meant he would have tripped forward, crashed onto the table, and bounced back completely—something purely unfeasible. Furthermore, the puddle of water, if it had not shifted following his slip, is directly adjacent to the table, leaving no room for him to fall forward fast enough to cause so much blunt-force trauma.

But, the most disturbing of evidence is a recorded transcript we have drawn from the database, showing signs of—although obscure and ambiguous—struggle.

I have made the note to continue investigations. The screening of the supernova will proceed as planned at 1900 hours, and tomorrow, if Ramirez has finished organizing it, the poker tournament will be held to distract the crew from recent incidents.

On an unrelated note, Bill Skelton has been signed for therapy treatment. As a good friend of Dr. Gordon, he knew, as I did along with the rest of the crew, that his newborn baby was due in this week.

It is a disturbing thought to somehow feel that something as innocent as an accident could just very well be a sinister act.

****************************************

RECORDED TRANSCRIPT
QUARTERS
1605 HOURS

Franklin Gordon: “I swear I left my lucky coin here somewhere… Huh? Who’s there?”

Unknown: “[heavy breathing]”

Franklin Gordon: “Hey, sorry, I was just loo—hey! What’re you doi—Agh! [sounds of struggle, punching] Help!—“

Unknown: “[forceful panting]”

Franklin Gordon: “….”

Unknown: “…..I am sorry. This must be done.”

Franklin Gordon: “….”

VOICE IDENTIFICATION PROGRAM ANALYZING UNKNOWN VOICE SIGNATURE…
RESULT: FAILURE

Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR
FIRST SIGNS

1139 HOURS GMT
NOVEMBER 14^th 2232
APPROX 951.6 MILLION KM FROM EARTH

CAPTAIN’S LOG
DAY TEN

I have much to report since my last fateful incident four days ago. It has been a profusely surreal experience for me; upon hearing the recent events subsequent to me apparently falling unconscious, I was more than stunned. My range of words cannot truly captivate how I feel about the subject. Therefore, whatever I may claim to be my reaction, it will have to be amplified a million more times to match how I truly did feel.

On November 10^th 2232, four days before today, at approximately 1930 HOURS, I began to feel unbearable recurring pain until I collapsed. The crew, as I have been told, rushed into the room, surrounding me immediately. Consequently, the entire medical crew was summoned, and I was, with much haste, brought into the medical bay for treatment. Doctor Erin Baker, after close analysis of my status, diagnosed me with Bavorn’s Mutation Phenomena. It is a highly rare condition experienced during long-distance space flights, and has not been fully identified due to its spontaneous-like demeanor and scarce occurrences. Basically, the heart is mutated, resulting in the pumped blood becoming ‘contaminated’ with bacteria that slowly kills every organ. As the body cannot find an efficient way to reverse this, the amount of infected blood only mounts, inevitably destroying our organs, and, in turn, leading to the victim’s death.

There is only one known cure for this: the replacing of the majority of my blood, and a heart transplant. I was more than shocked to hear that someone had volunteered to offer their own to save my life. The notion of this drives me insane. I simply cannot believe someone would do such a thing for me.

I survived the operation, and albeit at first it felt rather odd with another one’s heart within me, I am in recovery and soon, with much hope, will be healed soon. As of now, all major decisions will be relayed through Executive Officer Luke Hunter, until I am back on my feet.

But I must take the time to mention Doctor Emmaline Yellow. She had saved my life. It is a very bittersweet thought as... Emma was a very important factor to my lif—to the ship and the crew. She was, without doubt, one of the best medical specialists I know, and should have been Medical Chief if she only had more experience. I will personally see to it she receives the proper funeral she deserves.

Anyway, we must not also overlook those who graciously donated their blood for the blood transfusion. The list is as follows:

MEDICAL NURSE Chaowei Fan
MEDICAL NURSE Timothy Mills
BRIDGE CREW Sarah Watcher
NAVIGATOR Luke Hunter
ENGINEER Surev Salvatore
ENGINEER Eric Phou
SCIENTIST Doctor Bill Skelton
SCIENTIST Justine Scaler

I will also look to it that they will receive appropriate awards. This includes the Medical Staff which performed against odds and succeeded. I am once more proud to say that my crew is highly dependable and extremely professional and skilled. One could not hope for a better group of specialists.

We remain en route for Earth at our maximum speed of 50% engine power, and will arrive in approximately fifty days. All attempts at communicating with Earth have all resulted in constant failure.

It has been a very hectic time. As aforementioned, we only have fifty days left, and I am sure we will go through it devoid of any major accidents.

But nothing’s perfect.

****************************************

2230 HOURS GMT
NOVEMBER 14^th 2232
APPROX 928.8 MILLION KM FROM EARTH

CAPTAIN’S LOG
DAY ELEVEN

This early morning Doctor Erin Baker evaluated my condition, and, through the voluntary use of our acceleration drug, she had estimated my recovery time to be approximately seven days. Therefore, I decided to use the one of the two ship’s reserve wheelchairs, as I harbored the urge to examine the ship. At about 1210 HOURS, I set out to do so. At first, I struggled to resist the sheer difficulty of balancing after days of remaining stagnant, but inevitably I managed.

To begin with, I inspected the bridge. Both the crew and navigational systems were all operational, however Navigator Creed Scranton is in for therapy treatment, regarding the death of Dr. Hamesh Patel.

Nevertheless, proceeding, I examined the Research Facility. Despite the complete abrupt turn of events, practically cancelling every preparation these men have done, every scientist is conducting their own independent research, particularly Normandy, who seemed excessively jubilant to receive my former heart for study. I can only hope he is searching for a cure. I will have to return for scrutinizing, to ensure that his research is somewhat ethical.

Following the Research Facility, I visited the Engineering Bay. Engineer Dwight Bobblee has replaced Ilya Pirunov as Chief Engineer, and I do have confidence he will be competent under the title. However, I am still very aware of the crew’s sensitivity to Ilya’s death, whose body we do not even have. Advancing, I requested a status report on the engines, which are ‘perfectly operational’, according to Mr. Bobblee. We remain at the same velocity, and our comm-systems are still, apparently, working as they should be, despite unable to connect with Ground Control.

My last destination was the Medical Facility. The medical staff was, albeit visibly joyful to see me, quite agitated that I was pushing my recovery stage—without the acceleration drug, my recuperation would be more than two months. For the first time I asked about my former heart, and Dr. Baker indicated they had transferred it to the Research Facility for study, specifically for an alternate cure.

Furthermore, I had also requested to see Dr. Emmaline Yellow’s body…for personal reasons.

I am relieved to say that we suffered no losses today, and hopefully this will continue to weave a pattern of much needed serenity.

****************************************

SAME DAY
2011 HOURS

Chief Scientist PhD. Edward “Normandy” Scott grinned widely as his eyes focused through the microscope’s lenses. With much pleasure, he observed as black cells spontaneously appeared and obliterated surrounding cells. Of course, the infection had already set in, so there was little chance of discovering how it had occurred in the first place, but at least he could find a method to somehow reverse the mutation; a cure.

But then he paused, another grin widening.

Or a deadly virus.

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE
THE BIRTH AND DEATH OF A HEROINE

1921 HOURS GMT
NOVEMBER 7^th 2232
APPROX 1.21 BILLION KM FROM EARTH

DAY THREE

Commander Logan Grey emerged from the communications room; still discontented with their failure to make contact with Earth. XO Navigator Luke Hunter was there, by his side, shadowing his every move as they returned to the bridge where only half of the crew was present, the rest seizing the moment for a much needed break rest.

The two strode over nonchalantly toward the solar system map, a massive projected hologram which displayed their ship relative to the positions and movement of everything else. Gazing at the plotted course back home, Logan sighed, their ETA was no more than sixty days, but of course, the recent losses had elasticized and stretched those days, rendering the feeling of an hour to a day. He could only wonder how much longer his crew could handle this, drifting across deep space whilst devoid of any contact of home and sitting helplessly onboard a tentative, damaged ship.

Logan could not help but feel it as well. The doubting, the wondering—the growing despair. Morale was sinking, and neither he nor anyone else could deny that. It was as if Ilya Pirunov, Dr. Dale Maritz, and Dr. Hamesh Patel—all lost in the days before—were dying stars that produced a black hole, sucking every ounce of hope and morale they possessed.

“I know how it feels,” Hunter suddenly spoke, reading his superior’s thoughts through his eyes.

“What?” Logan asked, slightly perplexed.

“I used to be the skipper of a nuclear submarine back home. Our hull was compromised by enemy subs and we only managed to escape in time. An hour later, after finally losing them, our engines broke down and we were sitting ducks—‘cept we weren’t floating ducks, we were kilometres below sea level, where the pressure would crunch you into a tiny peanut in seconds.”

“What happened next?” Logan asked, with much curiosity as respect.

“We didn’t want to activate our transponders. I mean, sure, it would help rescue teams locate us, or at least let them know we weren’t dead, but obviously broadcasting our location to HQ also meant risking broadcasting our position to our enemies, who were pissed off as they were already,” The Chief Navigator averted his gaze out the transparent shields, to the endless expanse of blackness and stars, “We were all alone. Food supply would only last us a month. And so, we decided we’d wait that long. But, hell, we were far behind enemy lines,” his head bowed down, somewhat in fear, “It was only a week in when the crew started to get edgy...like they were possessed or something.”

A chill crawled up Logan’s spine, “...Why didn’t you just take the chance and send out a distress signal?”

“Sometimes you just have to roll your dice, and take what it gives you.”

Logan could only nod in response. “Hold on...so how was the crew?”

“To tell you the truth, it was like tossing a man into one of those mental institute cells, with nothing but four walls and your limbs all strapped to your body. If he wasn’t insane already, he will be,” Luke Hunter exhaled slightly, slightly shuddering as horrifying past experiences returned to him, “And you know what the scariest part was?”

Logan raised two eyebrows.

“We were trained not to go crazy.”

Commander Logan Grey fell silent for several moments, while Luke Hunter could only wince as memories surged back, wondering how he had managed to survive the ordeal.

“How long was it until your crew was rescued?

“Two months,” XO Navigator Luke Hunter answered coldly, launching Logan careening into a world of horrendous possibilities.

Silence immersed them once more; an ominous atmosphere settling into the room.

“Truly odd reactions occur when something goes wrong in a plan,” muttered Hunter, his tone grim; a hint of his past escaping his breath as he spoke, “Look, what I’m just saying is that the only way we’re going to get through this alive...is hope. Not oxygen levels, not engine statuses or speed and time—but hope... Take that away and you will have hell.”

Just then, the comm-room’s doors slid open, and Normandy walked out gingerly, appearing slightly suspicious—albeit he always did. The scientist moved in irregular patterns, his footstep distances varying in a very strange yet striking manner.

“Normandy! What were you doing in there?”

“Nothing. Just doing routine maintenance...and ensuring our communications transmitters are operating correctly,” Normandy replied quickly, rather defensively, “Give me some breathing space, Commander, that’s the least you could give me after cancelling years worth of planning this mission. Now I won’t get the data I need for my research on Titan.”

“It was not our fault an asteroid crashed into the ship, Normandy,” Hunter snapped back angrily.

“It is not our fault that our navigators, who are responsible for plotting the safest routes, set us on one that crossed paths with a colossal boulder travelling at thousands of meters per second?” The cunning scientist countered, leaving the navigator momentarily stunned, “I do hope you have an explanation for that, Mr. HUNTER.”

“Wh...what are you implying? That I intentionally set out for the asteroid to crash into the ship?”

“Don’t think I haven’t read your file, Mr. Hunter,” Normandy replied in a low, watery tone.

“Both of you settle down!” Commander Grey ordered, “Normandy, go, finish your maintenance.”

“Fine,” Normandy replied, executing his trademark grumbling as he left the room.

Luke Hunter walked over, standing beside the disciplined commander, and shook his head in disgust at the exiting scientist.

“You two are the only ones who have problems with each other in this ship. Everyone else gets along. Get it sorted out,” Logan instructed firmly, more than agitated of the two’s constant personality friction.

“Why is Normandy even doing maintenance for the comm-room? Engineering is in charge of that,” Hunter complained as he treaded off, returning to the solar system map, “Why can’t we just shove a sedative down his throat?”

The Commander opened his mouth to answer—but disaster struck.

Logan collapsed, his entire form crashing thunderously against the floor. Shivering profusely, without warning or known cause, he continued to cough out repeatedly, blood spraying all over the floor beneath him. The world around him spun rapidly, and, as the horrified echoed cries of worry poured all around him, everything turned black.

****************************************

Chief Medical Officer Erin Baker towered over the unconscious Commander, who lay unsettlingly motionless. If it were not for the constant, reassuring beeping of the machine that monitored his heartbeat, he would have been easily perceived as dead. Many others surrounded Logan Grey, some of which were on the verge of tears, who had known the man for many countless years.

“Will he be okay?” Jim Ramirez asked worryingly.

Medical Doctor Emmaline Yellow exchanged ambiguous looks with Doctor Baker, who could only give the relatively young pilot a hopeful nod.

“He is suffering from an extremely rare medical phenomena experienced in long distance space travel,” Doctor Yellow explained as she strode over beside Logan, her hand subtly resting on his, “We don’t have an exact term for it, but in short, it causes much of your internal organs to gradually fail.”

“How?” asked someone from the body of people.

“His heart, which pumps blood to the rest of his organs, experiences this very odd and abrupt mutation which, instead of only pumping the blood, ‘infects’ it with a formula that is simply incompatible with the rest of his system.”

“Then why not just give him clean blood?” Ramirez asked, “I’ll freaking do it!”

“No, like I said, his heart is mutated and pumps out infected blood that slowly kills his organs. His body cannot find a way to filter this out, and so therefore, the amount of infected blood is only increasing as we speak.”

“Well then, like I said, we give him a constant clean supply of blood. If that’ll make him live longer, why not?” Ramirez replied logically and hopefully, although his voice had a hint of gloom.

“Fools. You cannot simply drain blood and supply the commander with such for sixty straight days. You’ll all kill yourselves!” cried out Normandy from the back.

“Shut the hell up, Normandy!” Hunter yelled in protest, “Have some goddamned respect!”

“Everyone be quiet, please...” Doctor Yellow requested politely, her nearly tearful eyes hovering over the commander, her hand beginning to shake upon his, “Just...please.”

Silence settled for several minutes, until, when he no longer could take it, Ramirez broke the serenity, abundantly concerned about his superior.

“Isn’t there a way to cure him?”

Every medical officer traded doubtful expressions.

“There is one possible way, but it has never been attempted before, and could largely result in an enormous failure. Not only would it take Commander Grey’s life, but it would take another’s.”

A few stunned and baffled expressions in the sea of heads forced Doctor Baker to elaborate.

“It would take us a very huge blood transfusion operation, and...well...a heart transplant,” Erin Baker clarified, her words immediately painting sceptic expressions on every face, “As I mentioned previously, there is a seventy percent chance failure, and the donor will, of course, not survive.”

There were many onboard who loved the Commander, particularly after he had risked life before just to save theirs. If anything, specifically on impulse, most of the crew would leap to the commander’s aid, as he would to theirs, but this was a different situation. Here, they had the time to contemplate. Here, they knew the exact odds. Logan had gained much respect indeed, but every face harboured doubtful expressions, every face appeared fearful.

Every face but one.

“I will do it.”

The mere four words sparked utter astonishment in everyone.

“Are you serious?” asked Doctor Baker, her incredulous expression more than enough to match her disbelieving tone.

Doctor Emmaline Yellow nodded with little hesitation. “I will do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am.”

Ramirez, still frozen with surprise, asked: “Why?”

“Personal reasons,” she replied, her eyes drifting back to the sleeping commander, clearly a sign of admiration—genuine sentiment. Her hand reached over and brushed his hair ever so slowly, a tear rolling down her weakened face, “I...just have to.”

Baker, after minutes of little breathing, finally nodded, “Okay, prepare the surgical equipment and the operation room. We don’t have much time.”

Every single person eyed Doctor Yellow with a concoction of incredulity and respect, staring as she descended to rest on the bed beside the Commander. How could someone do that?

Offering their final goodbyes, most of which were interrupted by a myriad of tears, the remaining crew left the room, leaving the only Emmaline, Logan and their private memories to echo quietly around them. Emma wondered if, despite his state of sleep, Logan could hear her. If, for the very slightest chance, Logan would be imploring for her to change her mind.

But she had to do it. Home was not 1,21 billion miles from here, but rather, here instead. Here beside him. Here, with his low breathing, where she could finally rest in peace. Emma lurched over slowly, whispering something into Logan’s ear, and then replaced herself on the bed, truly relaxing.

An hour later Erin Baker, visually reluctant, walked over, and asked Emmaline for any final favours she could do. Yellow only had one, which she whispered quietly to her friend. Baker nodded, wiped the tears from her eyes, and then readied the anaesthesia.

“Are you sure about this, Emma?” Erin Baker had to confirm for the last time.

Emmaline nodded slowly, turning her head to face Commander Grey. And as her mind was slowly drawn into her eternal sleep, a heartfelt, bittersweet smile formed across her face.

And through doing so, she had rolled Logan Grey's dice.

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO
THIRD BLOOD

0622 HOURS GMT
NOVEMBER 6^th 2232
APPROX 1.24 BILLION KM FROM EARTH

CAPTAIN’S LOG
DAY TWO

I was awakened this very early morning not by a hopeful simulated sunrise, but rather by the distressed cries of my crew. At about 0500 HOURS, Hamesh Patel, a highly proficient research scientist—a fresh one—suffered a devastating heart attack. Chief Medical Officer Erin Baker was not present, as she was asleep, however Chaowei Fan, a rather nocturnal nurse, was present during the untimely incident. He performed CPR and other necessary first aid procedures, but had failed to resuscitate Dr. Patel, who died shortly after.

Arriving at only one minute after, I was stunned at the loss. Dr. Patel was not only a brilliant Geologist but a renowned marathon participator. Upon first reading his file, I had taken the assumption that he was remarkably fit, as are most of the crew members aboard the ESV Nightingale. This incident was not only horrifying, but immensely unanticipated for someone of such a physical state.

With this in mind, I instructed Erin Baker to proceed with the necessary protocol of investigating the cause of his cardiac arrest. Her preliminary analysis offered only two possible answers: high-blood pressure and—the most liable, due to the high levels of tobacco found in his system—smoking. The latter had caught me off guard, as we have imposed an absolute no smoking policy; for the safety of the other crew members, the life-support system (for precautionary measures) and most importantly, for the initial person, whose body will be subjected to much physical challenges while travelling in space for prolonged durations of time.

Of course, at first, I hardly believed in the theory of Dr. Patel smoking, as I trust my crew as you would trust the nearest friendly soldier on the frontline. Dr. Baker, however, insisted that I investigate further, for multiple reasons.

I did so, setting out to question many of the crew, most of which were still tenuous of the incident. The case was not resolved until approximately thirty minutes later, when Engineer Dwight Bobblee, an apparently close friend of Dr. Patel, came forward with a confession. Dwight elucidated that Dr. Patel had been recently experiencing rough patches in his life; divorce, deaths of friends and family and the issue of just being so far away from home. Consequently, I assumed these issues generated stress of which was not being dealt with, or treated by one of our doctors who are able to offer trauma or therapy treatment, leading to the problem of recurring high-blood-pressure which, in turn, caused his heart attack. However, Dwight returned later to the Medical Bay and presented to me several packs of cigarettes. He claimed, to my utter incredulity, that he had smuggled them into the ship before launch. Occasionally, he would take a discreet moment to smoke; using the control panels accessible in the Engineering Bay to temporarily veil any detection of smoke in the system. After Dwight had discovered Dr. Patel—who had refused to take therapy for personal reasons—and his problems, he offered a pack of cigarettes. By the time we had arrived near Titan, Dr. Patel, to my sheer shock and disbelief, had smoked over ten packs a day.

I consulted with Erin Baker, who only surmised that the cigarettes must have not helped, and instead only fueled the problem. Knowing this, I seized all cigarettes and disposed of them immediately, offering the crew a stern warning regarding the issue. We have put Dr. Patel’s body to rest, and some, including Josef Arnette, another scientist who had witnessed his death, are now under treatment for trauma.

At 0900 HOURS I will remind the crew of health issues, and conduct a speech that will, with much hope, revive their much needed confidence. I know we will return to Earth.

But I can only hope that Dr. Patel will be our last casualty onboard.

END OF ENTRY

****************************************

RECORDED TRANSCRIPT
QUARTERS
0458 HOURS

Chaowei Fan: You alright?

Dr. Hamesh Patel: Yeah…I just…Hold on, do you know if Dwight’s up?

Chaowei Fan: Dwight? Mr. Bobblee from Engineering? I’m not sure, I hardly talk to him.

Dr. Hamesh Patel: I just…I need mor—ah nevermind.

Chaowei Fan: Need more what?

Dr. Hamesh Patel: Nothing, I’m just a little stressed out.

Chaowei Fan: You wanna’ talk about it? I have appropriate training in therapy. I can treat you, if you’d like. It’s my job.

Dr. Hamesh Patel: No. No, it’s fine, thanks. I’ve never believed in thera—Oh god…

Chaowei Fan: What is it? Are you okay?

Dr. Hamesh Patel: I…I can’t breathe…

Chaowei Fan: Oh, my god, lie down, quickly! Do your arms hurt?

Dr. Hamesh Patel: Ye—

Chaowei Fan: Here, lie down and just relax. This is Chaowei Fan to all medical officers, repeat, alert to all medical officer, we have a code red, repeat, code red!

Dr. Hamesh Patel: Urrrghh…

Josef Arnette: What is—Oh my GOD! Is he okay?

Chaowei Fan: He’s having a heart attack. Just relax, Chaowei, you’ll be fine! Stay with me…stay with me! Stay with me!

Dr. Hamesh Patel: …

Josef Arnette: Oh…God….how can I help?

Chaowei Fan: Get over here and keep his legs up for adequate blood flow. Damn it! Just breathe, just try to breathe, okay?

Dr. Hamesh Patel: …

Chaowei Fan: Stay with me! Fan to Dr. Baker, where the hell are you?! Stay with me Dr. Patel, you’ll be fine!

Dr. Hamesh Patel: ……

Chaowei Fan: ……no….

Sarah Watcher: Oh my God! Is he okay? What happened?

Josef Arnette: ….Oh god…he stopped breathing…

Chaowei Fan: Damn it!

Sarah Watcher: I should go call the Commander…

Chaowei Fan: ……………………time of death: 0501 HOURS.

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE
DESPERATION

2012 HOURS
NOVEMBER 5^TH 2232
APPROX 1.3 BILLION KM FROM EARTH

CAPTAIN’S LOG
DAY ONE

It has been little over an hour since the recent incident. At approximately 1830 HOURS, we arrived at Objective LIMA-4, and proceeded with STAGE-3 planetary orbit around Titan. Instantly following this event, engine three began to overheat and automatically shutdown. According to Ilya Pirunov, the ship had received a substantial dose of radiation from sheer solar activity, causing our systems to overload and cooling systems to malfunction. In response to this, I instructed the engineering department to handle the problem and to call me when they were finished.

Due to being limited at 75% of our engine power, we followed protocol by delaying until all engines were operational, and attempted to establish connection with Earth at approximately 1842 HOURS. However, XO Luke Hunter could not manage to do this. We first suspected our transmitters to be malfunctioning, but Dr. Edward Scott, otherwise known as Normandy, claimed that they were working fine. I ordered Hunter to repeat attempts on establishing contact with Earth, and until now all tries have failed.

However, at about 1852 HOURS, Flight Lieutenant Jim Ramirez activated all alarms as an asteroid, approximately 110 meters in diameter, was detected on a collision course for the ESV Nightingale. I immediately ordered all power channeled to engines. Ramirez took the initiative of igniting all boosters, which if it was not for him, this LOG would not be in recording.

However, as we came to 100% power, incidentally reviving engine-three, we did not accelerate quick enough to fully evade. The asteroid crashed into the ESV Nightingale’s furthermost aft. This, in turn, compromised our two main engines, which are now beyond repair.

Unfortunately, this day did not pass without casualties.

Although blast shields snapped in to protect the second-half of the engine room, Ilya Pirunov was sadly in the first-half, and was lost in space immediately. Inside the Medical Bay, an unfastened scalpel, apparently, slid from a high table surface and inadvertently sliced across Dr. Dale Maritz’s neck.

Both losses have caused a massive impact on our crew. Dr. Maritz was a talented researcher, who has been with the ESV Nightingale since its commission. And Ilya Pirunov was, despite his erratic enthusiasm, a valuable asset to the team. Both will be honored with a state funeral upon return to Earth.

On that point, the damage caused resulted in a chain reaction of events that compromised our life support system. As of now, we only have approximately 2,400 hours of oxygen left, about 50% of what we initially carried upon arrival of LIMA-4, and 20% less of the minimum amount we need to land on Titan.

I have officially cancelled the mission, for the safety of the people onboard the ESV Nightingale, which is my first and foremost responsibility.

We are now on the fastest route back to Earth, and will take us approximately sixty days to arrive. I only hope that the accident did not cause too much trauma that might cause issues en route; our medical officers are currently treating every crew member to prevent such.

But I cannot help but feel that sooner or later...

...something will go wrong.

END OF ENTRY

Prologue

PROLOGUE

1832 HOURS GMT
NOVEMBER 5^TH 2232
TITAN, SATURN
APRPOX 2000 KM FROM SATELLITE

Tearing, soaring through the black backdrops of glittered stars, nebulas and galaxies, the ESV Nightingale approached its primary objective. After thirty days of travelling at its maximum speed of 1,900,000km/h, Commander Logan Grey finally called for the deceleration of the research ship’s engines, promptly slowing the vessel for the calm approach.

“Inputting vector coordinates for STAGE-3 planetary orbit,” reported Jim Ramirez, the ship’s able flight lieutenant. Piloting the ship, Ramirez altered their course digitally, whilst interfacing with the ship’s navigator and XO, Luke Hunter.

The ESV Nightingale suddenly tilted, none of the ship’s thirty-two crew members noticing the abrupt change in direction and speed, then its engines roared, powerfully guiding the ship to orbit.

“Commander, engines are overheating,” Sarah, another bridge crew member, signaled, an alert signal rapidly beeping on her screen, “switching to cooling protocol.”

Commander Grey materialized on the command deck, which held the relatively frantic combined crew of the bridge and navigation, constantly juggling tasks while the ship drew closer and closer to the now massive cosmic body.

He ran his hands through his black hair, and then strode over to the middle, where, upon arrival, his seat extended from the floor.

“Excellent work,” Logan announced, “Follow protocol systems.”

The ship began to shudder slightly, the satellite’s gravitational field finally scraping the ship’s integrity. But just as quickly as it came, the effect dissipated as countering fields balanced the equation. Within two minutes, the ship had pivoted twice to polish its course, and within one, Titan’s gravity had trapped it and sent it into a swift orbit around the moon.

“Commander, engine three has failed; engineers are working on it now,” Ramirez called out, hardly worried at the apparently common event, “speed at seventy percent. Stabilizing the Nightingale.”

Commander Grey nodded to his crew respectfully. One could not feel but safe with a crew such as this, despite literally being millions of miles away from home. He stepped off from his mount, and treaded out of the bridge, taking the ship’s internal lifts to the ship’s Quarters level.

Moving out, he briefly passed the empty Mess Hall and the entrance to the Medical Bay, where Doctor Erin Baker was already treating a few new crew members, who had still not been accustomed to long-distance space flight. The most common of medical conditions on board—and most frequent, to the Commander’s experience—were psychological; where, virtually, the mind still remained absolutely incredulous to the notion of travelling at speeds of half a million meters a second, in turn causing the body to be unsynchronized with its surrounding reality. It occurred to over 80% of recruits—Grey was never one of them. Such problems were, of course, never terminal, as surmounting such issues always came eventually; sooner or later. As was everything else, thought Logan; impossibility is impossible.

He entered the Engineering Bay; the Engine Room of which greeted him with the triumphant thunderous noise emitting from the massively powerful engines. Logan Grey could never understand how, when every engineer, adept at their profession, spent many countless hours in this indescribably deafening room and still remain sane and with perfect eardrums.

Glancing to the right, where an array of earmuffs was hung on a metallic rack, Grey snatched one and donned it, feeling slight embarrassed that he was the only one wearing the tool.

Chief Engineer Ilya Pirunov was there to meet him instantly. He came hurriedly, practically skipping like a joyful little girl, and snapped to attention like a seasoned soldier, albeit unsuccessfully, before the revered Commander.

“Give me a SITREP, Ilya,” Logan requested, scanning the third engine fleetingly, which had smoke trailing from its structure. Several engineers were already huddled around it, formulating theories on how to repair the engine.

“Overheating! Nothing intricate, really,” the somewhat eccentric Russian replied, “Space weather was far worse than we anticipated. We were hit by a substantial dose of solar wind that, combined with our engine statuses running at their pinnacle, caused much of our propulsion system to malfunction.”

Logan paused, and then nodded, signaling for him to continue.

“Failsafe measures functioned as usual, but it was too much and our cooling systems just couldn’t compensate.”

Ilya lead him over to the particular engine; a cylindrical and relatively massive mechanism, its one end emanating with a soft red light, while the others were blinding blue. Evidently, the engine was disengaged, and they could not even begin to think about entering Titan’s thick atmosphere with three out of four essential active engines. Logan glanced at his wristwatch, estimating; the delay could not be more than an hour; else their setback would ignite fury back in Ground Control.

“How long will it take for the team to repair it?”

“Two hours, more or less,” estimated the tireless engineer.

“Make it an hour.”

Ilya’s facial expression crunched instantly, then relaxed just as fast, a torrent of confidence surging within him, “Yes, sir, commander! We will do our best!”

Commander Grey seemed to roll his eyes. Subsequently dismissing him, Logan tapped his comm-device, calling for the XO second in command Luke Hunter, “Hunter, establish a transmission link with Ground Control, double-time.”

His reply was instantaneous: “Yes, sir.”

Logan switched channels again, summoning Ramirez’s voice on the line.

“Jim, alter course for STAGE-4 orbit and standby for further instructions. Relay orders to the rest of the crew.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

The Commander made his way out of the Engineering Bay and back to the Command Deck, then through a corridor that lead to the ship’s communications room, often used for conferences regarding status report updates.

Hunter was already there, awaiting his arrival, seated on his designated chair.

“I’ve tried to connect with Earth, but all attempts have failed; still attempting, we should be online with Control anytime now,” the Executive Officer proceeded to operate the control panel, but after odd minutes of utter signal silence, he surrendered and merely shrugged at the commander, “There must be an interference.”

“Ilya claimed there was a surge of solar wind that the Nightingale supposedly caught which evidently resulted in the engine failures, The Commander offered, “Program a cycle and leave it until we establish a link with home base.”

“This rarely happens,” Hunter responded incredulously, “We have six different communication-relays posted around the system. If the solar burst was powerful enough to encompass the entire system, we would have lost all engines and, worst case scenario, all our onboard circuitry.”

“And every stored research data we have,” a voice continued from behind. Hunter and Logan turned around to find their chief scientist, Normandy, entering, his unsettlingly calm demeanor outshining everything else, “I analyzed everything. One of our secondary sensors was lost during the incident.”

“I assume our communication transmitters were destroyed as well?” Hunter inquired curiously.

“They are working perfectly fine,” Normandy replied with confidence, incidentally confusing Logan and Hunter. The scientist merely sighed and explained, “All transmitters are operating as they should be. So it’s either our relays are just malfunctioning or overloaded, or our Earth-based ones were affected by the solar storm as well.”

“How long will it take for them to reset and repair the system?”

“Two hours, maybe one if they’re swift enough,” surmised Normandy, hardly worried and instead content that they had finally reached their destination, “Look, gentlemen, the fact of the matter is that we are here and we should just proceed as planned.”

Commander Grey sighed; Normandy was one of the more intense scientists, who, above everything else, would risk life just to collect a mere piece of data such as a rock sample. Logan, who was more concerned with the wellbeing of his crew and ship, and following protocol and orders, had to always find a way to wriggle around the man nicknamed for his birthplace without upsetting him.

Hunter answered for Grey: “We simply can’t do that. We have to confirm with the ESN and the ISS before we plunge into Titan, not to mention that we only have three out of four engines running, and a possibly compromised communications system.”

“For the last time, it is not compromised,” reiterated Normandy strongly, an irritated tone apparent in his words, “Seventy-five percent engine power is more than enough to land on Titan. We could even utilize half of that, and it would be enough to finish the mission.”

“There is a considerable risk, Normandy! We have over thirty men and women onboard, and you want to land on an erratic moon?”

“Erratic? With the Nightingale’s technology, we could land this vessel on Venus and stay there for months to study the relentless thunderstorms and acid rain. Titan is nothing compared to Venus!”

“Ease off, both of you! Normandy, we will get every data you need on Titan, eventually. Don’t push it. Let’s remember that we are already on thin-ice with all these manned expeditions. Our primary objective is not only to study planets, but to expand the human borderline, to what and where we as humans can reach. That is a very ‘moral’ perspective, and not a very cost-efficient one; which, as everyone onboard knows, means that they could just have easily saved trillions worth of money by sending machines, and not flesh, out into dangerous space,” Logan glanced back to the large screen, blank and offline, “We will standby until all systems are fully operational, and when we have contact and confirmation from Earth.”

“Fine,” Normandy muttered; his expression immediately stoic. He spun and stormed out of the communications room, his contradicting grumbles trailing off as he exited.

“Hunter, just program the cycle, and tell me when you’ve established contact,” Commander Grey instructed.

“Yes, sir. Will do,” He replied, striding away to the control panel obediently.

Then, abruptly, Ramirez’s voice crashed into the intercom, followed by a shrieking alarm siren, while every single light instantly switched into ominous red.

“Sir! Unidentified object, headed straight for us on a collision course! Velocity is at twenty thousand meters per second. We need you on the bridge, now!”

Commander Logan Grey traded troubled expressions, before both erupted into motion, sprinting back into the bridge, where many were frantically working to assess the situation.

“Sir, I don’t know what the hell it is, but it’s coming in fast and there isn’t enough time to evade!” Ramirez cried out in sheer panic, “sixty seconds to impact!”

“My god!” called out one of the bridge crew, who had already analyzed the incoming object, “Sir, it’s some sort of asteroid and is twice as huge as the ship!”

“Thirty seconds to impact!”

“Divert all power to engines and move!” yelled Grey forcefully.

“Sir, we should focus all on the electromagnetic field!”

“It’s too fast and too large, it’ll be useless!” someone screamed out, “twenty seconds!”

“Ramirez, divert all power to engines and move, now!”

Ramirez slammed on the controls, and stretched the ESV Nightingale as much as he could, dangerously reviving the third dead engine to life. He activated all boosters, which sent a quivering and vociferous roar as rocket fuel ignited violently.

Suddenly, everyone began to float from their position, as if released by a gentle hold.

“Artificial gravity systems are offline!”

“Ten seconds!”

The Nightingale began to accelerate rapidly—inertia was felt by everyone. The vessel itself shuddered, as unspeakable amounts of energy bristled around them.

Five seconds.

Logan latched onto the nearest handle, screaming loudly.

“Brace for impact!”

The ESV Nightingale

Apart from my other writing projects, which are still very much active, I will be doing this. This project will hardly be a novel, as I will not put as much content (in terms of words), and so chapters will be very short compared to what I'm already writing. This is just a, I guess, fun little thing I'm attempting.

Oh, and all copyrighted.

Each chapter will arrive episodically, to whoever will be reading.