Henrik Refsnes

It’s like Shrodinger’s fucking cryo in there.

I finally psyched myself up enough to take a walk among the tombstones in cryonics an hour ago. To pay my respects, say something, sing Amazing Grace, I don’t know. 3000 souls. I didn’t really know any of them, but I scrolled through the subsystem figuring I might as well divert auxiliary power from that graveyard to the air cyclers. The heat’s killing me.

Master chief would not have approved my current uniform. Anyway.

They’re all alive.

And dead.

It won’t hit them until they come out of suspended animation. Then they have a week or two, and I’m not smart enough to figure out how to get the cat out of the box without the radiation killing it.

The ship has enough rad meds to keep one person alive for a year at that level of exposure. Or two for 6 months. Three for—heck, if I wake them all up we could die together in 265 hours. Party it up at the end of the world. 600 years late, but still.

Fuck.

I can’t cut and run. I can’t abandon ship. I have to save this piece of junk and what’s left of humanity.

No pressure.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.