Henrik Refsnes

Name’s Lizzie. Elizabeth… Betty, and what does the computer do? Put on You Can Call Me Al. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. I’m no data analyst, I’m a mechanic. But Al, if you’re accessing my logs, analyze this.

I hate Betty. And I like metal.

With the sensors gone and most other systems on the fritz, I jury-rigged a battery cell to the observatory panel and overrode the blast shield. Still in orbit, front row seats, so there’s that—and there’s plenty of grog in the mess.

I sent out a coms blast too. Radio waves. Had to go old-school on account of the sensor array. I tried to bounce the signal, but no reply. Not that I don’t trust the ship’s computer, but yea, I don’t trust you, Al.

I’m dictating this from the observatory as I try to master the art of doing shots in zero G. With the core offline, the ring has no spin, and I have no gravity. But I have mag-boots and alcohol, and hey, it’s beautiful from up here.

Unlike down there. Touchdown in 297 hours.

There’s a lot of crap floating by, and so far, Al’s been right on all accounts. It looks like a junkyard, or war zone. A graveyard. The answers to what happened are probably out there somewhere.

I should suit up. Not like there’s anything else to do, and bonus, no paperwork.

Oh, and a defense grid satellite on a drift nearly clocked us. That would have been some irony after forcing the blast shield. Lucky, I guess. I’m so bloody lucky. Never seen one up close before though. It’s impressive the amount of—

Lizzie, are you alright?

Shut up, Al. Privacy. We talked about this—wait, are any of the maintenance rigs charged up?

Yes, one.