Chương 1: Wake Up

[ALERT! USER VITALS CRITICAL! CONDITION: HYPOXEMIA] [ALERT! USER ENVIRONMENT CRITICAL THRESHOLD!] [INITIATE EMERGENCY OVERRIDE: SAFE-MODE -- ENGAGED] Bzzzzzzzzt A thousand cobwebs crowded his mind, clinging to each thought and dragging them to a halt. Bzzzzzzzzt A hundred bagpipes, screaming in his ears with their incessant buzzing. His teeth begged to crawl out of his head and escape the onslaught. Bzzzzzzzzt Each breath was thin, too thin, and yet settled in his chest as thick syrup.

He was shivering, his hands too cold, arms floating free rather than resting beside his body. Bzzzzzzzzt One eye opened, followed by the other. A translucent pane hung in front of him, a curved barrier backlit in a blinking red. His legs prickled, aching, pulsing with every beat of his heart. Bzzzzzzzzt A gloved hand—his hand—scraped across the faceplate but the frost didn't budge. In a motion as instinctive as a breath he released the latch holding the faceplate closed and opened his helmet.

Immediately, he was struck in a two-pronged assault. First, the light: a crimson knife, driven deep into his skull. Then came a blast of frigid air, scraping down his throat on claws of ice, but driving out the viscous syrup clogging his lungs. His entire body was wracked by a reflexive cough, agony shooting through his limbs and collapsing his awareness. When the fit subsided, he forced himself to squint, the red intermittent glow of the Master Caution light blinking in time with the wicked horns.

Again, he moved by instinct, his hand slamming into the button and silencing the incessant alarm. Breathing was easier now, though the air was still thinner than felt natural, and his eyes darted across the strange but familiar console. The panel was bathed in a steady red glow, packed full of rows of unknown switches, dominated by a trio of large, blank screens. A small display, no larger than his hand, blinked two warnings, and as he squinted the foreign, arcane symbols reformed into clear language.

Cabin Pressure Warning – Pressure 9. 4 PSI (DEC) Emergency Battery Backup – 9% His throat tightened—cabin pressure loss? Where was he? He bent over to move, but the seat restraints held him tight to the chair. He fumbled with the latches, clumsy, gloved fingers sliding off the smooth metal. He glanced down at the harness, finding purchase on the release while catching a glimpse of a name tape—his name tape—on his pressure suit's left breast: Conway. Conway.

The name settled onto his shoulders, a comfortable and familiar anchor in his slowly tumbling world. Tumbling? Conway reached out, gripping the back of his seat as he floated free, twisting in the movement. His other arm shot up, snagging a grab-bar he hadn't noticed but his body seemed to remember, halting the twist. He held still, bracing himself there, looking around the chamber.

His breath formed a cloud, barely visible in the pale emergency lighting from the console, fading away as it drifted toward the lower right corner of the covered window above the panel. A circle of frost had grown around a microscopic pinhole near the glass, right where it would seal against the hull of the capsule. Capsule. The word rose from the fog-shrouded depths, a roughly cone-shaped vessel for one man, himself, filled with everything he'd need for—what?

The idea danced at the edge of his consciousness, taunting him, drawing his attention away. Away from the hole. Right, I need to get that fixed, first. Conway pushed off from the chair, toward the netting on the back wall. Numerous padded bags, each the size of a small backpack, were nestled in the webbing, each labeled with a number rather than the contents. He was sure the list was hiding somewhere, but with the cabin leaking out precious air looking through the bags would be the faster choice.

He could clean up later. Bag two held spare jumpsuits and underwear. Conway shoved the clothing back in and sent it drifting away, pulling out bag three. Inside, a collection of vacuum-sealed, individually packed meals for up to a week. Nothing had been removed from its place in the bag. He left the bag to float. Maybe further away? He drifted down the wall, pushing on each bag through the netting. Bag Fourteen gave some resistance and despite the padding, hard edged tools pressed through the fabric.

Conway unzipped the bag and found a silver roll waiting among the various tools. Jackpot! Space tape! A quick shove off the wall sent him back to the chair, looping a foot through the floating harness as he arrived. It took another moment of struggle to unlatch his gloves, and he wiped his bare hand across the patch of frost, clearing it for the tape. The cold caused his hands to ache, and the sharp edges of the space tape he ripped off the roll bit his fingertips as he pressed it against the leaking seam.

A second and third piece went on either side of the first, and then Conway floated back to admire his handiwork. It wasn't really much to look at. Leaning over the control panels, he scanned the rows of buttons and switches for something, anything that might repressurize the capsule. What should I do? There should be a list of instructions… a checklist! Conway examined the seat, flipping himself over to look beneath it. A tablet sat, dead, in a pocket on the side, but the opposite side held a three-ringed binder.

The enormous tome was separated by tabs, each section a different color, every page laminated for durability. The section he wanted, emergency procedures, was at the back. Highlighted in red, the sheets appeared to be darker than the other sections in the emergency lights. Settling back into the seat, he skimmed past the parts about finding the leak, past inspection, past sealing it, until he reached the correct repressurization task.

A note caught his eye: Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. DANGER: CREWMEMBERS SHOULD BE IN APPROPRIATE PRESSURE SUITS DURING EMERGENCY POWER REPRESSURIZATION. POWER FAILURE COULD RESULT IN EXPLOSIVE DECOMPRESSION AND/OR DEATH. The suit environmental pack was just as dark as the rest of the ship systems. Conway snorted and shook his head; that would be why he had been suffocating in his suit. He'd just have to skip that part and hope for the best.

Looking over the checklist, however, he frowned. EMERGENCY BUS OVERRIDE………… CLOSED PRESSURE CONTROLLER………………… REACTIVATE RESERVE AIR……………………………………… OPEN ATMOSPHERE CYCLING…………………… ENGAGE The master caution alert resumed bleating, refreshing Conway's headache and causing him to wince with the alarm's nasal cry. For the second time, he silenced it, then checked the status display.

The emergency battery had dropped another percent, meaning time to even boot the capsule's systems was running out; it would take some of the remaining power to warm up the frozen systems and bring the generator online. How much battery would the pressure controller eat? Likely too much, he thought sourly. His checklist was no help, and his memory refused to offer any further details. If there's not enough juice left for the controller, I'm dead anyway. Might as well see about main power.

Flipping back through the binder, he found the emergency restart procedure. Another caution glared at him from the page, though much less menacing than the last note. CAUTION: IT IS NOT ADVISED TO ATTEMPT EMERGENCY RESTART AT LESS THAN 10% OF EMERGENCY BATTERY CAPACITY. DOING SO COULD RESULT IN IRREPARABLE BATTERY DAMAGE. Conway shrugged. I think that's the least of my worries.

He reached over and reset several circuit breakers in the panel embedded into the lower console, just beside the seat before reaching up and depressing the CONTACT HEATER button switch in the overhead. The status display blinked, and the master caution screamed for attention again as the battery lost another percent to heater coils deep within the guts of the capsule. Conway grimaced as the alarm wailed, each blast stabbing his ears. Sparkles danced at the edge of his vision.

A new message on the status display declared the heater had done its work as the emergency battery dipped to four percent. He stabbed the next switch, and a dull ka-THUNK echoed from deep within the capsule. Lights, oranges and yellows and white, rippled across the various switches, the displays flickering to a bright standby black. Somewhere inside the panel a fan whined. Two percent. Text scrolled up the right multi-function display, faster than anyone could read. Another fan, two fans, began to pick up speed.

One percent. Come on… come on! The panel lights rippled again, from the bottom of the console to the top before spreading to the rest of the lights throughout the capsule. Another set of fans spooled up and the vents above Conway's head began to hiss. A triple-chime sounded, declaring the capsule's systems had restarted, followed by a second ping and a message warning the emergency battery had been depleted.

"Yes!" He slammed his fists into the armrests, propelling himself upwards and into the ceiling with a surprised yelp. More shocked than hurt, he put a hand against the back of his head and let out a shaky, relieved laugh before easing back into the seat. His head still ached, but now he had some time, at least. Secure in the knowledge he wasn't going to run out of air or freeze to death in the void of space in the next few minutes, he pushed off from the chair again, toward the previously discarded bag three.

While Conway would have preferred to get a look outside, activate the navigation system and get an idea where he was, he figured it was a better idea to let the capsule warm up and the depleted batteries to recharge before he went turning more on. Besides, he wasn't sure how long he'd been out and his throat was parched in the dry, gradually warming air. At the very least, some water was in order. Snagging the bag of meals, he drifted to the prep and water station.

One interior pocket gifted him a pouch, which he attached to the water fill nozzle. Recognizing the pouch by the RFID tag, the station automatically filled, then ejected it. Conway took a big sip from the straw, the cool, heavenly water wetting his thirsty tongue and mouth. He swallowed the first gulp, took a deep breath, and drew on the pouch longer, steadily, until it was drained entirely before slotting it back into the filler.

The coolness spread throughout his body, and the headache seemed to subside a little more, though he still caught the occasional sparkle dancing at the edge of his vision. Hopefully it's not brain damage. Bag three, once opened fully, revealed eighteen different meals ranging from breakfast to dinner, some needing just a bit of water to properly rehydrate into something worth eating, others ready to go out of the pouch.

He grabbed one of the breakfast pouches—a strawberries and cream oatmeal—and locked it into the rehydration side of the prep station. Again, the machine read the RFID tag, identified the meal, and after a moment's wait for the internal boiler to heat the water, began to fill the bag. While the station prepared the meal, he drifted back to the netted section of wall and other bags strapped against it.

He thought briefly about changing out of the pressure suit, but the cabin temperature was still a bit on the chilly side, so the extra insulation was rather nice to have. Since bag two had contained the spare clothes and three contained food, he disconnected bag one from the wall and opened it to find exactly what he'd hoped: a handful of personal belongings. A chime announced the oatmeal was ready, and Conway drifted back over, bag one in tow.

He looped his foot through the strap next to the station and opened the food pouch. A whiff of brown sugar and probably-not-entirely-artificial strawberry tickled his nose and set him salivating, stomach growling. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd last eaten, so hopefully the oatmeal would be gentle enough to keep his stomach from getting upset.

The first bite was delightfully warm, taking an edge off the cool capsule air and he could relax a little more, even cracking a smile after letting that little bit of oatmeal settle. A second bite confirmed his body wouldn't reject the meal. Alright, time to see who I am. The first item out of bag one was a book, a Bible with the name Felix Conway embossed on the corner. He flipped through the thin, onion-skin paper pages, the occasional passage highlighted.

Memories danced at the edge of his consciousness as he passed a few verses, but slipped out of his grasp like a wet fish when he tried to take hold of them. Felix. Felix Conway. The name felt right, and something in the back of his head seemed to click, as if the name were slotting into an open hole. Felix took another bite of oatmeal and returned the book to the bag— his bag —and withdrew a folder. Opening it, he found a single photo of two people on a beach somewhere tropical.

The man on the left—black haired, green eyes, tall, fit, olive-skinned, in a vibrant floral shirt, flip-flops and cargo shorts—struck a chord; he knew he was looking at himself. And on the right, a woman. She was a bit shorter, but not too much, long auburn hair running down her shoulders and disappearing behind her back.

She wore a brilliant sundress, covered in flowers of reds and oranges and golds, a thong sandal dangled from one raised foot as she beamed toward the camera, blue eyes glowing while she pressed against him. He was unsure about her age, though she did appear to be younger than him in the photo. Something deep in Felix ached, gripping his heart, as he flipped the photo over. Felix & Ana, Hawaii, 2056. He blinked as his vision blurred and wiped at his eyes. Crying? Why was he crying?

His head began to throb, the sparkles at the edge of his vision growing more prominent. Felix slid the photo back into the folder and closed it, placing it gently back into the bag, and the ache seemed to ebb away, the points of light fading. Whomever Ana was, he knew she was deeply important to him, but that was enough exploration for the moment. Until he had a handle on what was wrong with his head, any more trips down memory lane would have to be brief and careful. In the meantime, at least he had his name.

Felix took a few more bites of his oatmeal, finishing the pouch and discarding it into the refuse bag next to the meal station. The next order of business would be sorting out where he was, and why he was there. That hopefully wouldn't be too hard, as long as he could find— The capsule shuddered, as if it were a toy suddenly caught up by a massive dog, accompanied by the unmistakable clunk of something latching onto the capsule hull.

Musings forgotten, Felix pushed off from the station and back to the command chair, where he slipped his arms through the straps and jabbed his finger on the button to open the exterior window shutters. The protective cover motors whined through the frame of the capsule, light flooding into the vessel. Felix squinted, shielding his eyes as he adjusted to the bright exterior glow. It took a moment, but his eyes began to focus and he sucked in a surprised breath. The light wasn't from a star, or a nearby planet.

It was a ship. Another, larger ship. And it was pulling him in. if you're reading this and not on Royal Road, this work has been stolen. It is a work by the user ZeeWulfeh, under his penname of ZeeWulf. This has not been released for sale by the author on any book selling platform.