New day, new take. I almost deleted the last log. Didn’t seem right. Talking to myself, to Al, is all I got, and I need to focus on the hours I have left, not dwell on shit that can’t be erased.
I don’t have a plan but doing nothing is not an option. Any port is good in a storm, and I think better when I keep busy. So, I spent the last 6 hours in and out, repairing the hull. I should be able to boot up a few more systems if I can get enough bulkheads pressurized.
Cooling, I’m looking at you.
If I can restore power to the CIC, I might also be able to find out what the fuck is going on. The wreckage of a ship floated by, real close. Familiar design but not built at any shipyard I know. Sure, I’ve been out for hundreds of years, probably, and new ship types make sense. Given there was someone around to build them. But then why leave all the debris orbiting Earth? It doesn’t add up.
Too many fucking questions.
I need someone smarter than me to figure this shit out, and Al’s surprisingly unhelpful. Freakishly good at math and able to tell me the odds with six decimals, but doesn’t know what day it is. At least with the coms satellite wired in he’s able to track all objects that fly by.
That way we’ll know with incredible accuracy the velocity of anything that might hit us. I guess that’s helpful.
Suppose I could wake someone from cryo. An extra set of hands would be useful, but another engineer won’t change a thing. Neither would a marine. By the looks of it the shooting stopped centuries ago. Heck, maybe I should wake up the cook. Or not. I’m pretty sure the chili is beyond saving—but there’s got to be a way to save this ship.
And the people on it.
What I need is a scientist to figure out the radiation problem. A biotech. But who? And what do I tell them? I can barely keep myself from coming unglued, and I don’t flatline the Geiger counter. If I bring someone out of stasis, I’m the one murdering them, and for what?
If I can’t save this ship it doesn’t matter.
Henrik Refsnes 
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