🚀 Sci-Fi Thriller
⭐ In Transit to Europe
by Rodriac Copen
Chapter 1. Stable Parameters
The ship was an emblem of the Danish navy. Christened “ HDMS Fjarsjon ”, it did not accelerate by bursts, but rather pushed constantly.
A
steady, almost silent flow that never stopped. The nuclear propulsion
worked without pauses, peaks, or breaks. Inside, the crew had no
sensation of speed, only the certainty that every second added distance.
At a cruising speed of almost twenty kilometers per second. A cold
figure, repeated in the logbook, without real meaning for those
traveling inside.
The light in the command room was steady. No variations. The panels responded without delay. There were no alerts.
—“General condition.”— was the terse instruction from pilot Lars Nygaard , who placed a hand on the center console.
The atmosphere in the command room was relaxed.
—“All systems normal, Lars.”— Amundsen , the Artificial Intelligence ( AI ) controlling the ship's systems, replied calmly. —“Stable propulsion. Trajectory without deviation.”—
Freja Madsen , the flight engineer and Lars ' wife , let out a soft exhalation.
—“That sounds suspiciously good.” —
—“I detect no anomalies, Freja.”— the AI observed .
—“I know, but now I’m worried about Murphy’s Law,” she joked.
Lars barely smiled.
—“Reactor status?”—
—“Constant output. No fluctuations,” Amundsen replied .
-"Consumption?"-
—“Within the expected range for current speed.”—
Freja slid her fingers over her panel.
—“Nineteen point eight.”— he said . —“It doesn’t even round up.”—
—“It’s not necessary,” Lars replied . Then he continued , “Structural integrity?”
—“One hundred percent.”— said the AI —“No microfractures detected.”—
Freja changed screens.
—“How are the hibernation pods doing?”—
—“Ten units in steady state.”— replied Amundsen
—“Vital parameters within range.”—
—“Any minor deviations?”— she asked.
—“Normal variations within tolerance.”—
Freja Madsen
had learned to think in terms of systems. Not as a natural choice, but
as a vital part of her training. Every circuit had a function, and every
malfunction a cause. Detecting a deviation early allowed for possible
correction. For the first few months of the voyage, that logic had been
sufficient. The ship responded well. The numbers from the initial
calculations added up. Time passed precisely, and the routine monitoring
left no room for misinterpretation.
But isolation did not behave like a predictable system.
Freja
understood it late. She wasn't visibly failing. She wasn't issuing any
warnings. The consequences of that isolation seeped into small
decisions: a calculation repeated more than necessary, a redundant
check, a pause before answering something simple. Nothing critical or
dangerous. Or that could be pointed out as an error. But enough to
disrupt the internal rhythm at which they worked on the journey.
Earth
faded into obscurity without much ceremony. There wasn't a precise
moment when it disappeared from the screens, just a slow transition into
irrelevance.
The outbound journey of the HDMS Fjarsjon
spacecraft would take a full year. Its destination was Europa,
Jupiter's moon. A year and a half stay on the surface, under conditions
no one would describe aloud more than necessary. Then, the return.
Another year of transit. Same route. Same rules. No guarantees.
Part
of the crew did not participate in the voyage. Ten crew members
remained motionless in hibernation chambers, suspended in an
intermediate state where the body did not age. Ten capsules lined up in
an isolated module.
Freja and Lars
would remain on duty throughout the outbound journey. The rest of the
team, a total of ten astronaut scientists, hibernated in the pods
awaiting arrival at the final destination of the trip.
The
vastness of the ship painted a heavy image of isolation and loneliness
in the couple's minds. Entire sections remained empty, illuminated only
by minimal lights, awaiting any movement that the sensors would detect
to activate full illumination. Long corridors where the sound of the
footsteps of the guard and maintenance robots seemed foreign. There were
numerous corners where robots and humans could be unseen, even knowing
that the systems' cameras recorded their every movement. This
contradiction—of being observed and, at the same time, feeling
invisible—was beginning to poison their psyches.
The
engineer didn't think of herself as unstable. Rather, she felt tired.
Overwhelmed, or perhaps trapped in a lethargic routine that ran without
any external friction. She kept telling herself it was circumstantial.
That nothing essential had changed since takeoff. That everything was
still under control.
But, in some strange way, I felt that I no longer fully trusted that assessment.
Lars Nygaard
, her husband and the mission's lead pilot, never doubted his own
processes. And he never had. For him, the spacecraft wasn't a hostile or
oppressive environment. It was a closed system that had to be kept
within strict parameters. And as long as those parameters held,
everything else was secondary.
His
way of inhabiting the solitary space was different. He didn't roam the
ship; he oversaw it. Each sector had a purpose, every movement had to be
justified. There were no neutral zones. There was no downtime. Even
rest was part of a structure that had to be respected.
At
first, that discipline had been shared. And it had functioned as a
common language between them. They didn't need to explain much. It was
enough to execute the orders and procedures.
But over time, Lars began to notice small variations in Freja 's performance .
They
weren't obvious or serious failures. They were misalignments. Minimal
changes in patterns. Schedules he adjusted without notification. Sector
visits that could be resolved without leaving the bridge. Responses that
arrived a fraction of a second later than usual.
The pilot didn't interpret those signals as an emotional problem. Not at first. He registered it as an operational anomaly.
The alert was brief. An amber pulse on the secondary panel.
Lars
had left his post for a couple of minutes. Freja, who remained in charge, was already on her feet before Amundsen had even finished processing the event.
—“There is a deviation in a thermal regulating valve.”— said the AI —“The margin remains within the tolerance range.”—
Freja
didn't wait.
—“It reduces the flow by two percent.”—
—“It’s not necessary.”— replied
Amundsen impassively —“The system can compensate…”
—“I prefer not to let it escalate.”— Freja didn't let the AI finish the sentence.
His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard.
—“Adjustment applied.”— confirmed the AI —“Stability restored.”—
The alert disappeared. Lars entered a few seconds later.
He looked at the panel. Then at Freja .
-"What happened?"-
—“Nothing.”— she said —“A minor deviation.”—
—“It’s already been resolved.”— added
Amundsen .
Lars
approached. He checked the records.
—“You reduced the flow.”—
—“Two percent.” —
—“But it was within the margin.”—
—“He’s better now.”
He paused. Lars stared at the data for another second, then tried to explain.
—“Yes…”— he finally said —“But
in these cases you should check the acceleration. Sometimes the thermal
valves overload within acceptable limits, especially when compensatory
accelerations occur to maintain constant speed. By compensating for the
valves' work, you prevent the engine from accelerating because, as the
pressure drops, it has to do so for a longer period to achieve the same
result.”
Freja replied:
—“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”—
—“You didn’t need to know. It’s very technical. Amundsen tried to explain it, but you wouldn’t let him.”
Lars
barely nodded. He took a microsecond to end the conversation.
—“It’s not a problem. But next time, wait for Amundsen to explain the whole picture before making a decision.”—
Freja
placed her hands on the console.
—“Understood. I just didn’t want to wait.”—
Freja
didn't smile. Amundsen said nothing more.
And
Lars ended the episode. The day ended without incident.
Lars
, like any good pilot, didn't confront anyone. His job wasn't to
evaluate specific suspicions. It was to maintain consistency. And when
that consistency began to falter, he didn't question the system. He
adjusted the variables because in space, you have to be efficient.
Freja was a variable.
And the variables are adjusted.
The
loving and emotional bond between them remained, sustained by habit, by
their shared history, by a closeness that didn't require constant
demonstrations. But they had lost something more difficult to measure in
extreme conditions: synchronicity.
They no longer moved at the same pace.
In
another context, that difference would have been smaller. Even natural.
But inside the ship, where everything depended on precision and
predictability, any deviation took on significance.
Freja was beginning to doubt herself.
Lars was starting to stop doing that with regard to her.
And
between them, without the need for words, a new space began to form.
Not empty, nor entirely visible. But real enough to alter everything
else.
Chapter 2: Inference
The incident occurred six months after the HDMS Fjarsjon left Earth .
Lunch was proceeding normally in the dining room. Freja and Lars
were sitting near the power inverter. She absentmindedly pushed a piece
of reconstituted protein into her mouth while glancing at the blank
wall panel. Lars ate leisurely, checking data on a secondary tablet.
—“We should vary the texture.”— she said.
—“It’s
efficient this way, but it’s true. It gets a bit boring. This afternoon
I’ll adjust the controls for a variation in the available menus.”—
—“Thank you. I’m a little tired of the current menu.”—
Lars didn't reply, but smiled understandingly. He would take care of it in the afternoon.
The
constant hum of the reactor reached the dining room, muffled. It was
always there. In the background. It had become a constant presence.
—“Freja. Lars.”— Amundsen said over the intercom.
There was no urgency in their voices. There never had been. They both looked up.
—“An anomaly has been detected in hibernation pod seven.”—
Freja placed the utensil on the tray.
—“What kind?”—
—“There is instability in the airflow regulating relay. It is causing erratic behavior in the control circuit.”—
Lars was already getting to his feet.
—“Is the air supply adequate?”
—“It’s
deteriorating rapidly. Thirty seconds ago it was balanced. But now it’s
generating spikes outside the recommended tolerance in intermittent
cycles.”
There was a brief silence between the couple.
—“Let’s go to the checkpoint.”— he said.
The
control room was operating smoothly, without any persistent visual
alarms. There was only one active log on the hibernation panel and a
yellow light on the pod 7 control panel.
Freja leaned over the console.
—“Show me the sign, Amundsen.”—
An
erratic chart appeared. Most of the peaks and troughs remained within
the maximum and minimum compensation ranges, but after a couple of
minutes, some of the anomalies moved outside the recommended range.
This created intervals without a clear pattern.
—“It’s not a clean call.”— she murmured.
“No,” Lars said . “Relays don’t usually fail completely. They start with micro -cuts and erratic behavior. ”
“The relay does not maintain the recommended rate of two to six breaths per minute in hibernation,” Amundsen added . “Airflow
stability is not guaranteed. If it fails more than recommended, I have
orders to awaken the passenger even without human supervision.”
Freja opened the system's outline.
—“If it drops at the wrong time…”—
—“Hypoxia. From then on, Amundsen will act without needing to ask for authorization.”— Lars finished .
Checking the manual on the console, she asked:
—“Any redundant circuitry to derive control?”—
—“There are no alternatives available.”— the AI responded.
—“It is a critical component with no parallel line.”—
Freja and Lars switched screens. They looked for alternative routes.
—“We can redirect the signal from the secondary node.”— she pointed out.
—“It’s not enough. Look at the amperage.”— said Lars —“It won’t hold the charge for long.”—
—“What if we force more pulses, increase the frequency?”—
—“It’s a faulty relay. It’s going to burn out no matter what we do,” Lars said .
The
graph dropped again. The yellow light blinked, but now a small alarm
indicated that the pulse rate was below two breaths per minute.
—“Estimated time to total failure.”— Lars asked .
—“Indeterminate.”— replied Amundsen —“The fault is erratic. I am ready for emergency resuscitation.”—
Freja pressed her lips together.
—“We need to stabilize the flow.”— he said stubbornly.
—“There’s no way.”— said Lars .
—“We’ll have to replace him then,” she said.
-"Yeah."-
—“But not with him inside.”—
Lars nodded.
Freja exhaled slowly.
—“We can’t wait until it fails completely.”—
—“No.”— said Lars . He paused and ordered:
—“Begin the awakening procedure, Amundsen.”—
—“Initiating wake-up protocol for pod seven.”— confirmed the AI .
The panel changed state.
The occupant's name appeared in full on the main screen: Søren Halberg.
Freja read it silently.
—“What is the profile of the occupant of pod seven?”— he asked.
—“Mission psychologist.”— replied Amundsen .
The relay graph kept oscillating. But it didn't matter anymore.
Freja and Lars headed to the hibernation room.
It took the psychologist a couple of minutes to get his bearings.
—“How long…?”— he asked, in a dry voice.
—“Six months.”— she said.
—“Damn. We haven’t arrived. What happened?”—
—“A critical relay has failed in your pod. I can fix it, but not with you inside.”
He nodded slowly.
—“Interesting. Well, thanks for rescuing me.”—
The pilot watched him as he recovered.
—“That’s why we’re on duty.”— he said
—“Will I be assigned a role?”— he asked.
—“We can give you tasks so you don’t get bored,” said the pilot , “but the most important thing is not to interfere with the mission.”
The psychologist barely smiled.
—“Of course.” — he said and paused.
He looked at Freja.
She didn't hold his gaze.
At first, Søren Halberg did not interfere with the daily work routine, at least not visibly.
She
tried to adapt as quickly as possible. She kept to a schedule. She
attempted to take on some responsibilities and responded politely to
every request from the couple. She didn't take up unnecessary space and
observed more than she spoke.
Lars recorded that from day one.
There was nothing concrete, no action that justified a request or a warning from the pilot. But something about the way Søren
moved and behaved inside the ship didn't quite add up. He was correct.
Perhaps too correct. As if every gesture were calculated.
And yet, he did it.
The pilot didn't confront him. He didn't consider it necessary. He was content to observe him closely, analyzing his behavior.
Freja , on the other hand, tried to avoid it.
He
continued with his tasks, inspections, and maintenance. He followed the
protocols. Everything was correct, as expected of him. But there were
moments when his attention would imperceptibly shift. He would observe
him for a second longer than usual. When they spoke, he often made some
incongruous pauses.
The engineer didn't associate it with anything specific. Or she preferred not to.
The weekly route had not been modified.
Freja
had been doing it alone since the beginning of the journey. And it was
an important part of the ship's physical control. A long trek through
remote areas. And the verification of systems that didn't always send
all the information during remote tests. It was a silent routine.
—“I’m going to do the rounds,” she said, without addressing anyone in particular.
Lars raised his hand in acknowledgment. He was focused on the control console. Søren looked up, interested.
—“Can I accompany you?”—
Freja hesitated for a moment before answering:
—“It’s just routine.”—
—“I understand, but I’m interested in seeing the ship.”— he replied . —“You know. From the inside.”—
There was a brief silence.
—“It’s not necessary. Maybe Lars needs you.”—
—“Let’s ask him. Lars, do you need me for any task?”—
The pilot looked up from the console before answering.
—“It’s not right. Go with Freja.”—
Freja looked at Søren for a fraction of a second longer than usual. Then she nodded resignedly.
-"Alright." -
Lars pretended to go back to the console. But when they left, he watched them until they were out of sight.
The
corridors were long and their lighting was minimal until the sensors
detected movement. As people moved forward, the lights would turn on to
full brightness. And as they continued moving forward, they would turn
off again.
Walking
through the immense corridors and spaces of the spaceship felt somewhat
artificial. As if the ship were reacting to human presence.
Søren walked beside Freja , neither invading her space nor falling behind.
—“The ship is much bigger than I imagined.”— he said.
-"That's how it is." -
—“And much quieter.”—
—“I know. It can be intimidating at first,” the woman said.
—“It feels… like it’s empty.”—
Freja did not respond immediately.
—“It isn’t.”—
"No, of course not. But that's how it feels," said Søren .
Freja barely turned her head.
—“Amundsen records everything that happens.”—
—“I imagined it. Cameras, sensors, audio…”—
—“Yes.”— said Freja .
Søren looked away for a second, pretending to look at the side panels while observing the woman's attitude.
—“Wow… being recorded all the time, don’t you find that invasive?”—
The woman took a second to respond.
—“No… Anyway, the cameras have areas with partial coverage.”— He looked at him for a second and then continued walking.
—“Are you referring to blind spots?”—
Freja nodded.
—“Yes. Areas with technical limitations. That's why the route.”—
Søren nodded as he said:
-"I understand."-
He said nothing more. They walked a few meters in silence.
—“Could you show me those blind spots?” he said, without looking at her.
Freja did not stop.
—“They are not part of the tour.”—
—“I wasn’t saying it to follow protocol, but to know where they are.”—
There was a pause. She continued walking.
-"After."-
It didn't sound like a promise, but it didn't sound like a refusal either.
As the days went by, the engineer got used to her new colleague.
On another tour, Søren was animated, talking about psychology:
—“Isolation often intensifies impulses that we would ignore on Earth…”— she said, looking at a point behind her.
—“Are you giving me a lesson?” — she said, somewhat amused.
—“No. I’m just talking about the context. And the loneliness.”—
He emphasized the word loneliness, looking her in the eyes.
—“I’m not…”—
—“I didn’t say anything.”—
Freja did not respond.
Chapter 3: Suspicion
The bridge was silent.
There were no alerts or course variations. Just the constant flow of data and the normal messages issued by the system.
Lars hadn't gotten up from his post for hours.
He reviewed and compared data, and made minor corrections assisted by Amundsen . Everything was routine and orderly.
Freja had retired a couple of hours ago. She said she was tired and needed to sleep.
He did not question it.
Søren
wasn't on the bridge, nor was he listed in the immediate logs of active
duties. That wasn't unusual because he didn't have any permanently
assigned duties.
He kept working, but at some point exhaustion overcame him. He stretched a little and stopped reading the console.
The
screen was still there, along with the data. But it no longer processed
it with the same clarity and for a few moments delegated control to the
AI.
He leaned back in the driver's seat. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. And he felt like having a coffee.
She got up. She went to the kitchen counter and poured two coffees. Freja liked hers with cream. She drank both cups.
He crossed the hallway until he found the bedroom door, which opened without resistance.
The lights came on. But the bed was untouched.
He didn't move for a few moments.
She looked at the two steaming cups in her hands. Then she looked at the empty space on the double bed.
He turned and left the room, closing the door again.
He returned to the bridge, silent and thoughtful.
When she arrived at her station, she placed one of the cups on the console.
The other one held it for a moment longer, hesitating imperceptibly.
Then
she tilted the cup over the waste container. The liquid fell silently. A
few wisps of steam rose, and the dark residue disappeared through the
grate.
He waited until it was over.
She
placed the cup in the cleaning system. She watched it spin for a
second. Then she removed it, dried it carefully, and returned it to its
place.
He returned to his seat to observe the command console for a few seconds.
He resumed his work.
A few minutes passed, and Freja
entered the bridge without haste.
—“I’m back.”— he said.
Lars didn't turn around immediately.
—“Good.” — he said, pausing —“Did you rest?”
Freja sat down in her chair at her desk as she answered:
—“Yes. I slept well.”—
There was silence.
—“Was it repairable?”— Lars asked without looking up from his equipment.
She nodded slightly.
—“Yes. I slept until just now.”—
—“I’m glad.” — said the pilot.
Freja was monitoring a security panel, perched on a ladder, while Søren spoke to her about what the profiles of astronauts like them should be like.
—“There are special profiles, like commanders and pilots, who react violently when they lose control…”— said Søren , who was acting as an assistant and at that moment handed him a data logger .
She listened to him while activating the device and recording the multiple data points from the panel.
—“Lars is not violent.”— he said.
—“I didn’t say that he was. I’m speaking generally.”—
—“But you're suggesting it.”—
—“I’m describing patterns.” — she paused —“Does that bother you?”—
—“No.”— she replied as she handed the data logger back to him .
As he was descending one of the steps, he slipped.
Søren caught her by the waist, preventing her fall and pulling her towards him.
Freja 's heart was pounding wildly. There was an awkward silence as Søren held her in his arms.
The man made a gesture as if to kiss her.
She pressed her lips together as she pushed him away.
—“The cameras.”— he said.
The failures began shortly after that incident.
—“There is an anomaly in a secondary valve in corridor four.”— said the AI .
"It doesn't make sense," the engineer murmured . "I only checked it yesterday. I was with Søren when I uploaded the data."
—“The anomaly has been compensated for. The system is balanced,” said Amundsen .
A little later, Lars checked the data logger that Freja should have used during the review.
He had no data recorded. He told her so.
—“It must be a battery failure. I recorded the information.”— she said.
Silence.
—“Do you suspect I didn’t do my job?”— Freja asked .
—“I’ll check the battery,” Lars replied , offering no further answer.
The valve malfunction in corridor four left no trace.
It had existed. Amundsen had recorded it. A brief variation in the secondary regulation system. Nothing critical. It was compensated for in seconds.
Freja said she had taken the measurement. A little later, Søren confirmed that she and the engineer had taken the measurement and that the data logger was working properly.
Lars didn't respond at that moment. The panel was in a blind spot, where the cameras couldn't reach.
He nodded at the psychologist's statement and continued working.
A
few hours later, he returned to the system log for valve four. The
sequence of events was complete. The device showed an erratic period
prior to the problem. The fault occurred, the system detected it and
compensated automatically. The reading stabilized.
But there was no manual reading. Nobody had connected any data logger to record.
He stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary.
Freja had said she had taken measurements. But she hadn't registered any connection for data extraction.
He closed the register, thinking that it wasn't the first inconsistency.
Small
things. Shifted schedules. Responses that are too quick or too late.
Presence in sectors that did not require intervention.
His manner was expeditious, so Lars
did not confront him.
He opened the monitoring system while calling the AI :
—“Amundsen.”—
—“At your service, Lars.”—
—“Show me Freja’s route during the last round.”—
—“Processing.”—
The screen changed to show a trace over the ship's plan. The sectors traveled. The dwell times.
Søren appeared in the same recording, synchronized with the engineer for much of the journey.
He continued watching.
—“Show me the full video of this tour”—
-"Applied."-
The video of the route provided a clearer picture. There was a deviation from the usual route.
A brief detour.
On a side section, in a secondary corridor.
It was an area with no requirements, with nothing to check.
Lars zoomed in on the image.
—“Show me the video about that area.”—
—“No visual coverage is available.”— the AI responded.
—“This is an area with monitoring limitations.”—
He fell silent. Lars didn't look away.
—“Are there audio sensors in that area?”—
-"Yeah."-
—“Play the sound of that hallway during the tour.”—
The sound took a second to load.
A slight background noise from the ventilation system.
A few steps and then, nothing clear.
Suddenly, a low-frequency murmur.
Lars didn't move.
He adjusted the volume.
Another sound. Closer and more irregular.
A stifled exhalation.
A silence followed… and then, something more.
It wasn't a word, nor was it system noise.
Lars stopped adjusting. He never played it again.
—“End of recording.”— said Amundsen .
Lars didn't respond. He just leaned back in his seat.
He looked at the route one more time.
The blind spot. The deviation. The absence of data.
I didn't need anything more.
He shut down the system and went back to work.
Søren 's trips with Freja were common.
—“Psychological deterioration in isolation can manifest as a need for extreme control…”— said the psychologist.
—“He’s controlling too much.”— she said.
—“It’s making up for it.” —
-"Because?"-
—“Because of what he perceives he is losing.” — said Søren.
There was silence.
—“And what does he/she lose?”—
The psychologist looked at her.
—“He’s losing you.”—
She looked away.
Freja returned to the bridge without haste.
I
try to mimic the same rhythm, his steady pace. His breathing is
controlled. He stops at his desk and places both hands on the console
before sitting down.
Lars did not speak immediately.
She finished checking a line of data. She closed it and waited another second.
—“Where were you?”—
Freja didn't look at him.
—“During the tour. In sector four.”—
There was a pause.
—“With Søren.”—
It wasn't a question.
Freja barely turned her head.
-"Yeah."-
Lars rested his fingers on the console, without typing. He just left them there.
—“I was checking the records of the secondary valve in that sector.”—
Freja did not respond.
—“Every time they go there,”— he continued —“an irregular reading appears.”—
The engineer looked at him.
—“What kind of reading?”—
—“Brief instability. Nothing critical. Compensable.”—
—“Then it’s not a problem.”—
—“Not the classic problem,” Lars said . “But it is a problem. And it keeps happening.”
Freja held his gaze.
—“It can happen.”—
Lars scrolled through a graph on the screen. He didn't show it to her.
—“Coincidence is possible,” he admitted . “But recurrence is becoming… unlikely.”
The silence grew tense.
Freja straightened up in her seat.
—“What are you implying?”—
Lars did not respond immediately.
—“That there is a correlation.”—
—“That’s not an answer.”—
—“It’s all I have.”—
Freja placed her hands more firmly on the console.
—“Are you accusing me of sabotage?”—
Lars barely denied it.
—“I’m saying there’s a pattern. And I can’t ignore it.”—
Freja barely lay down. The tension didn't ease.
—“It’s a minor fault,” he said . “And we’ve already compensated for it.”
-"Yeah."-
—“So you’re creating a problem where there isn’t one.”—
Lars didn't answer. He was looking at the screen. Then at her.
—“I’m preventing it from happening.”—
Freja looked away.
—“Søren doesn’t have access to those systems.”—
—“I didn’t say I have it.”—
—“But you are thinking about it.”—
—“I’m considering the variables.”—
Freja let out a short exhalation.
—“This is ridiculous.”—
—“You defend him.”—
Without responding, Freja returned to her console. She did not resume work immediately.
Lars neither.
Between them, the silence was no longer the same.
Chapter 4: Breakup
—“He doesn’t trust you.”— said Søren.
—“He doesn’t trust anyone.”—
—“That’s even worse.”
—“And you?”— Freja asked .
—“What about me?”—
There was a pause.
—“Did you get into the lock?”—
—“Yes. But not as many times as Lars says. Just once.”—
-"Because?"-
—“Just curiosity.”—
—“It’s not your area.”—
—“Nothing is.”—
There was a pause.
—“Do you know that could be interpreted as sabotage?”—
—“Anything is possible.” — Søren dismissed it.
The engineer began to fail repeatedly.
A miscalculation. A delay in a minor correction. Nothing critical. But it was cumulative.
—“You weren’t like this.”— said Lars .
-"I'm tired." -
—“I don’t think it’s tiredness.”—
-"So?" -
He stared at her.
—“Some kind of interference.”—
-"About what?"-
—“You tell me.” —
The area was not included in any control route.
It
was a side section, barely lit, where the sensors took longer to react
and the cameras had no direct coverage. The air there was colder.
Stiller.
Freja couldn't remember when they had stopped walking.
Søren had taken the initiative.
At
one point, they had come too close. And the contact wasn't immediate.
There was a moment beforehand, like a silent calculation that neither of
them had made in advance.
Then, it just happened.
Brief and restrained at first. As if they were both testing a boundary. When they separated, they didn't go completely apart.
The space between them remained minimal.
Freja avoided looking directly at him. She was breathing faster than usual. She didn't say anything for a few seconds.
—“Are you sure?”— he finally asked.
Søren did not respond immediately.
-"About what?" -
She barely looked up.
—“From Lars.” —
A brief silence. Then, the psychologist leaned his back against the panel, without moving away.
—“I’m not sure about anything.”—
Freja frowned slightly.
—“You were before.”—
—“Nobody can be sure of anything. There used to be fewer variables.”
She paused.
-"And now?"-
Søren looked her in the eyes.
—“Now he doesn’t just distrust me. He distrusts you too.”—
Freja swallowed.
The ventilation system emitted a faint pulse behind the panels.
The bridge remained stable. Freja
was working on a secondary panel. Lars
was checking the trajectory. Amundsen
was maintaining a constant, uninterrupted flow of data.
The incident happened suddenly.
—“Failure in corridor four airlock.”— said the AI
—“Partial depressurization in progress.”—
The alert wasn't audible. It appeared as a change on the screen: a flashing of bright yellow signals.
Lars looked up.
—“What is its origin?”—
—“A
tampering with the secondary valve in corridor four. The external gate
was affected by an unscheduled opening. Pressure dropping.”—
Freja was already standing.
—“Who is in that sector?”—
—“The last recorded presence corresponds to astronaut Søren Halberg”—
—“Can you close the lock, Amundsen?”—
—“I need the valve to be manually readjusted to increase the pressure and thus close the sluice gate.”
Lars didn't hesitate:
—“Seal the hallway to contain the leak. I’m on my way.”
It was already moving.
—“I’m going with you.”— said Freja .
-"No."-
—“It’s my sector.”—
Lars
didn't respond to that. He opened a side compartment. He took out his
service weapon. He checked the load. His movements were mechanical and
precise.
—“Now I’m in charge.”—
There was no need to raise one's voice.
Freja took a step towards him.
—“I’ll go with you.”—
Lars closed the compartment. He looked at Freja through the window.
—“No. One of us has to stay safe.”—
She stepped back.
—“It could be a technical glitch.”—
—“I might. Or maybe not.”— Lars holstered his weapon.
The pilot glanced at her for a second. Barely.
—“Stay. And seal off access to the bridge.”—
Freja did not respond, while holding his gaze.
He turned towards the console.
—“Seal the command and control, Amundsen.”—
The bridge gates sealed with a still, final sound.
Communication with Lars was cutting out.
—“Intermediate door blocked.”— said the AI .
—“Manual override.”— the pilot ordered.
—“It requires double authorization.”—
—“I authorize it.”— said the pilot.
—“Second authorization required.”—
There was a pause.
—“Engineer.”— said Lars .
She did not respond immediately.
—“I authorize it.”— Freja finally said .
—“It won’t open.”— he said.
—“Unstable pressure.”— the AI replied .
—“Where is Søren?”— Lars asked .
—“I can’t see it.”— said the engineer from the bridge.
—“Your biometric signal is intermittent.”— Amundsen interjected .
There was a tense pause.
—“Open it.”— ordered the pilot.
—“There is a risk of expulsion.”— warned the AI .
Lars did not respond immediately:
—“Open it.”—
The cameras couldn't film properly. The voice recording revealed the sound of air escaping into the void.
A distorted voice was heard. Then a bang.
Perhaps a scream, which it may or may not be.
Finally, nothing.
After a few minutes, the bridge gate opened after the safety seal was overridden.
Lars entered slowly.
The
suit still bore traces of frost at the seams. The internal pressure of
the ship had already normalized, but the cold seemed to cling to the
surface of his skin.
He didn't look at Freja .
He walked straight to the decontamination module. He sealed it. He waited for the entire cycle to complete without moving.
When he came out, he began to take off his suit.
First
the gloves. Then the torso fasteners. The system released the anchors
with a click. Each piece fell into its assigned place.
There was no rush.
The helmet was the last thing he did. He placed it on the tray without looking at it.
Freja said nothing.
Lars
went to the side compartment. He opened the drawer. He took the gun out
of its holster. He checked the chamber, and unloaded it with a clean
motion.
He put the magazine away separately. Then the gun.
And it closed.
—“I’m going to rest.”— he said, without looking at her.
Freja remained motionless in her position as Lars was already walking away.
—“Amundsen.” —
—“Yes, Lars.”—
—“I am temporarily out of service. You assume command.”—
—“Registration confirmed, Lars.” —
Before relinquishing control, the AI added:
—“You were exposed to critical depressurization. The margin for survival was limited.”—
Lars did not respond.
—“An immediate rest is recommended.”—
Lars stepped off the bridge without looking back. The gate closed behind him.
Freja was left alone.
—“Depressurization event in lock four.”— he read from the AI-generated report. It continued: —“Technical failure while handling the secondary valve.”—
Freja read silently.
—“Anything else?”— he asked
Amundsen .
—“The last proximity record belongs to Søren Halberg.” —
—“Are you sure?”— the woman asked.
—“The facts prove it.”— the AI replied imperturbably .
—“I understand.”— she said.
Then he ordered:
—“Give me the records from lock four.”—
—“The file is incomplete.”— said the AI .
-"Because?"-
—“There is a corrupted memory segment.”—
—“Is it recoverable?”—
-"No."-
He paused.
—“Who accessed those records?”—
—“Access registered from the pilot's account.”—
He was silent.
—“Anyone else?”—
—“Access from Søren’s account.”—
A couple of hours later, Lars entered almost silently.
—“Any news?”— he asked.
-"None."-
-"Good."-
—“We are two weeks away from Europe.”— Freja added .
The ship moved forward. Steadily and relentlessly.
END
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