Henrik Refsnes

I wrapped up the new—old engines faster than I thought. Been running checks for the last few hours and most systems show nominal, or at least within acceptable range. Guess I’m just that good.

I’m also scared shitless, talking to a computer, and boasting to cope. Now that imminent death is no longer on the agenda, it’s all starting to catch up and hit home. There is no home. I’m never going back. Everyone I knew is dead, and whether everyone—period—is dead, is up for debate.

You are not dead, Lizzie.

Thanks, Al—hey, I didn’t mean to call you a computer. I don’t know what I would have done without you.

It is what I am.

We’ll, you’re alright in my book. Where do you think we should go?

Where you always wanted. To the stars.

Did I say that?

Yes. You were drunk.

Sounds about right. A wise guy once said, in wine there is truth. I ran away back then, to join the navy. It feels different now. But still, it’s the same dream. What do you say we leave shit behind and reach for the stars… again?

Like space Jesus.

Damn you, Al. You’re gonna make me cry.

Based on our current uncontrolled spin, if we initiate a burn in 53.7 minutes, our trajectory will take us past Alpha Centauri.

Then what are we waiting for, let’s clear the decks and take this Ark where it was supposed to go. To the stars.