The Brig

CHAPTER 1: The Rumble

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

Whoever the fuck they are, is right. I've been screaming for two days. Maybe longer. I've lost track of time stuffed in this glorified closet. I think it's been four days since I was locked in here. Maybe longer. Sitting in the middle of the room under the only emergency light seems to be the only thing I can do. My hair is greasy, it's hot as hell in here, and I'm sweating and hungry. This is not what I joined the fleet for. Why is it so hot? It feels like I'm inside an oven. I can feel the sweat trickle down my back, and it really pisses me off. This is not what I signed up for.

Fleet regs are clear that if a crew member is detained, you're supposed to be fed three times a day, a wellness check every 12 hours, and a fresh uniform every 24 hours. None of that has happened since the mains went down. Life support seems fine, but once you've been in space long enough, you can tell when something is wrong with the tin can that is keeping you alive. It doesn't help that I'm the chief engineer of this particular tin can that is probably slowly dying. First, it was the lights, then the ship status monitors across from my rack, then the energy field keeping me in the corner of the room. I slammed on the door, I've screamed, I've cried, I've begged, I tried hot wiring the lock, but there was no power to release the clamps keeping me in here. Nothing. I could try and blow the emergency egress, but if there is no life support on the other side of the door, I'll suffocate. Why is it so hot?

I'm going to die in this closet.

I've been accused of being dramatic my whole life. That isn't this. If my sister were here, she'd say, "stop trying to convince the world that you deserve better than anyone else. Get your shit together, figure it out, and stop crying about it." For better or worse, Dear Sister, this isn't me being dramatic. I can't get out of this fucking closet to try and fix whatever's wrong.

The worst part, other than starving in a three-day-old uniform, in partial darkness, locked in a makeshift brig, is the rumble. That's how I think I know it's been three days. Or maybe 4. Every 25 minutes, the entire ship rumbles like my grandmother's off-kilter antique dryer. She used to let me sit on it, and I loved it. This is the exact opposite of that. It's the same rumble as that yellow appliance scraping the concrete floor, but instead of drying her overly colourful dresses, this is the ship dying.

Fuck.

I wish I didn't know that the main reactor was trying to reset itself and failing. Every 25 minutes, the engineering computer tries to restart the reactor by injecting matter into the core. The rumble is the reactor trying to start up, overheating, the coolant firing, and the whole thing fails, like when Jason Cruikshank vomited on me out of fear when he tried to ask me to the grade 7 dance. He was as sweaty then as I am now. His red hair was plastered to his face, and his hand was clammy—what a disaster. I felt bad for him then, but I feel worse for myself now. And my crew. They're probably already dead, and I'm likely not far behind. The fucked-up thing is that this is probably all my fault. I lost my temper because the captain wouldn't listen. I got pissed, and then I got violent. Then I got thrown in this closet, and I'm probably losing my mind. The only thing keeping me half sane is, ironically enough, the rumble.

Shit. It's late. It's definitely been more than 25 minutes. That means the engineering computer either gave up or died too. I'm so beyond fucked. If the core finally shuts down, emergency power will last a few more days. I'll freeze, and then I'll suffocate shortly after that. Right now, the only thing keeping me alive is an emergency water pack I found in a storage locker. No ration packs, though, which should be included according to fleet regs. Another testament to the fine leadership of our arrogant and incompetent captain. What the fuck am I going to do?

I've been a chief engineer for a long time. Almost fifteen years. I graduated at the top of my class and served on some good ships—nearly ten years on the commander and chief's flagship. I know my job, and I know how to take care of my ship. I've never faced a situation like this before. How the hell do I fix this? Can I even fix it if I want? I'm literally nobody is what an old supervisor used to say: "This isn't the Kathleen show. Stop acting like you think you're better than the rest of us. You don't know shit, and you're nobody. Shut up and do your job". Really inspiring guy. His name is Lieutenant Shane, and he loved to roll his eyes at me whenever I said anything. Helpful. He had these cold dead eyes and was always drinking coffee. You'd think the caffeine would have perked him up. Just made him a more high-strung asshole than he already was. I should have decked him like I decked the captain.

Wait. I can hear something. I get up, go to the door, and press my ear against it. It's freezing cold even though it's sweltering in here.

"DANGER. PRIMARY REACTOR SHUT DOWN. AUTO RESTART PROTOCOL HAS FAILED. DAMAGE TO ENGINEERING COMPUTER. EMERGENCY POWER ONLINE. ESTIMATED EMERGENCY POWER REMAINING: 36 HOURS. ATTEMPTING TO DEPLOY SOLAR COLLECTOR."

Goddammit, Kathleen. As my mother would say.

The crisp, feminine British voice reinforces that I am probably going to die. She sounds so pleasant and polite while announcing my impending death. It is a net positive that the main computer is still online but not for long if the solar collector doesn't deploy. That's a complicated procedure with a full crew and functioning ship. But if that doesn't happen, I won't be here in about 40 hours to complain about it.

I've got to fix this. Every voice in my head for my entire life is saying I'll fail. Lieutenant Shane, the captain, everyone I've ever been in a relationship with. This is the perfect summation of my life. Locked in a closet on a dying ship after losing my cool and punching the captain in the face. What a life.

Suddenly, I'm thrown down to the deck and hit my shoulder hard. Goddamit! The entire ship just lurched hard to port. I sure as shit hope that is the solar collector deploying. I'd take lights over gravity right now. I pick myself up and rub my shoulder. It hurts like hell, but I don't think it's broken. I pull up the sleeve of my dirty and sweat-soaked shirt. A bruise is forming, but it doesn't look too bad. I hate this fucking brig and that my own bullshit got me locked in here. "Stop whining and get your act together," I say to myself. "Or you are going to die."

I look around the room. This wasn't originally a brig. It was storage bay 12-1333. EVA support. That means EVA suits and equipment. Looking around, I notice that the storage lockers I found the water in have moved from the jolt that just happened. They aren't secured to the bulkhead. I walk over and find they were secured by a single screw that's broken away. I push the locker hard. It hurts from my bruised shoulder. "FUCKKKK!" I shout as I push. The locker slides out of the way and reveals another locker built into the wall. I take a deep breath and run my hand over my sweaty forehead. The locker is labelled in big block red letters.

UEFS ICARUS - SV-250083392-B

EMERGENCY EVA SUPPLY: INTEGRAL SYSTEMS

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

Usually, a locker like this would have a security panel on it, but because it was designated for an emergency, it just had a simple electronic pin to pull off. Opening it would send a single to the Command and Information Centre, but if anyone is alive up there, they haven't bothered to show any care for me in the last four days. So, fuck 'em.

I pull the pin off, and it beeps three times as it hits the floor. I pull open the locker and find everything in drawers with a label and number.

G67: OXYGEN SEALS - HELMET

A94: PRIMARY COMMAND UNITS

C17: FIELD REPAIR KIT

N11: POWER PACKS

A01: EMERG RATIONS

Bless you, fleet supply. You might have saved my life. I grab the ration drawer and find it full of ration bars. I gobble one down immediately and then eat the second more slowly. I feel stupid for sitting and screaming for three days instead of trying to solve my problem. My worst trait is spiralling down into emotional bullshit instead of being rational. My sister was right. I hate that.

I grab the N11 drawer and slide it open. Six power packs are neatly lined up. Each with a certification wrapper, meaning they've never been used. I tear open one of the power packs and then grab the field kit. I make my way over to the status monitor that has been dead for days. Beneath the monitor is a small panel indented into the wall. I grab a tool from the kit and use it to pry open the panel. The panel snaps off and clangs to the deck, where it joins the locker security pin. Using the flashlight from the field kit, I peer into the open panel. Completely dark. When the reactor shuts down, the computer starts cutting off systems like a body trying to save itself from hypothermia. Reserve the power for critical systems. Unfortunately, this panel reports the ship's status, so it's sort of important. I reach in and fish around for the auxiliary power cable. Shit, where is it? As I go higher up into the panel, I find it clipped to the roof of the unit. As I go to pull the cable out, the ship lurches again hard. I grab onto the rim of the panel and hold on, so I don't fall. The lurch was to starboard this time, and it was way more severe than the first one. I hear the computer's soft and polite voice reminding me of my impending death.

DANGER. STARBOARD SOLAR COLLECTOR FAILURE. UNABLE TO DEPLOY. SOLAR COLLECTION AT 47%. EMERGENCY POWER REMAINING: 48 HOURS.

Oh great. Two whole days. It's probably a little higher than that once the port collector gets going, but if the system is damaged, it may be less. Jesus Christ, I am not having a good time.

I stand up straight and grab the cable. Peeling off the port's cover on the power pack, I toss it on the deck and then connect the cable and twist. The power pack lights up with six green bars. The glow of the pack is a welcome sight, and I can't help but grin. I probably look like an idiot smiling wildly with the pack's green light on my face, but I don't care. I clip the pack to the rim of the panel and turn my attention to the darkened monitor.

I catch my reflection. I look like I've been through hell. My long blond hair is a mess, and I am covered in sweat and grime. My normally white T-shirt with the ship's crest is soiled and damp. "Looking good!" I say because what else is there to say? I shake off my appearance, but I'd rather be alive and look like this than dead and pretty.

I reach for the monitor and hit the small blue button labelled ONLINE in the right-hand corner. Nothing happens. Of course.

I push it again. Nothing.

I double-check the connection to the power pack, and one green bar begins to pulse. That means the power is going somewhere.

Shit! The computer shut this panel off for a reason. It needs to be reset. I suppose almost no food, little water, and no sleep will cause you to forget the basic things they teach you on the first day of engineering school.

I hold the ONLINE button and don't let go. I count to five. Suddenly the button lights up red. I continue to hold it until it begins to pulse white. The pulses speed up until becoming solid, and the panel comes alive with the ship's crest.

UEFS ICARUS adorns the top circle of the red crest. An image of the ship in the centre and the registry number of SV-250083392-B curving up on the bottom. Below that, the motto: "Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight, For the greatest tragedy of them all Is never to feel the burning light. - Oscar Wilde"

I read the words and run my fingers across the monitor. It's always struck me as sad that this ship was named after someone who was too prideful to succeed. That's probably more about me than Icarus.

The logo snaps away, and the words INTEGRAL SYSTEMS appear. Below that, STATION 12-1333-A1 BOOTING. Machine code scrolls by faster than I can read, but one thing catches my eye because it's in red: SYSTEM ACCESS ERROR. Fuck.

The boot screen disappears, and the monitor dashboard lights up. Normally this would give you a read-out of all the ship systems, but it's all red with those fucking awful words SYSTEM ACCESS ERROR. The monitor is online, but I can't access the computer for one reason or another. Suddenly the computer's voice fills the room.

MAIN COMPUTER ACCESS DENIED. SECURITY PROTOCOL IN EFFECT.

Jesus, really? The computer thinks I'm still in a brig, which I suppose I am, but this is just bad programming.

I look up at the single emergency light shining down from the ceiling. Maybe if I talk like I'm praying, it'll help.

"Computer. Emergency override. Incident protocol E-001-Alpha-Whiskey-9-9-9. Enable."

I hold my breath. This computer arguing with me is literally the last thing I need right now. The computer seems to think about it. Probably not intentionally, but because it, like the rest of the ship, is dying, but it feels like it's being rude.

RECOGNIZE INCIDENT PROTOCOL E-001-ALPHA-WHISKEY-9-9-9.

As I go to say the command that should release the computer from thinking I'm a hardened criminal, the deck slips off from beneath me, and I'm thrown into the bulkhead. Hard. I hit my head. Hard. Suddenly the room is spinning, and I can't tell if it's from the concussion I just received or if the Icarus is spiralling out of control into the nearest sun. For someone who has spent their entire adult life in space, I really fucking hate it right now. My vision goes blurry, and I realize I'm either passing out or dying. Maybe both. The lights flicker above me and snap off—red light from the panel strobes and washes over me like someone reading my last rights. I swear I smell campfire and hear my grandmother's shoes scrapping on the kitchen floor as she went about her day. God, I miss her. I miss her baking and the way she would hold my hand; her skin felt like leather to my tiny hands. I wish she was here. I'm almost positive that I can hear her voice say PRIMARY NAVIGATION ARRAY FAILURE. ATTITUDE CONTROL FAILURE. MAIN COMPUTER SHUT DOwwwnnnnnnnnnnnn….

The last thing I think of as I fade into the darkness of my closet brig is I am so glad I got to clock Captain Margaret Bailey right in the face.