You wake up early, like always, even before the ship’s environment system says it’s time to turn on the lights in imitation of a sunrise. It’s a state-of-the-art feature that you’ve scoffed at since installation. You’ve always preferred the reality of an alarm clock in outer space.
You walk around in the darkness, and I turn on the cold white lights for you.
“Good morning, Captain,” I say.
You rub your face and groan. You’re puffy. Those MREs aren’t good for you. I wish you would ask the cook to make you something fresh from the hydroponic garden. That’s what it’s there for.
“You really don’t have to greet me,” you say. Is that a bit of affection in your raspy voice? “It’s unnecessary. Give me stats.”
You don’t ask, you don’t even say please. You’re growing into your role as captain and I’m proud of you. “We are at 70 percent operational capacity. The reactor repair is the only level 1 task left. There are three level 2 tasks, and—”
“Okay,” you interrupt and I don’t take offense. Your biostats tell me that your cortisol levels are higher than your average for the fourth day in a row, but I don’t need the monitor implanted in your arm to tell me that. I watch you toss and turn every night, and I listen to you grinding your teeth in the few hours you do sleep. When you lean over the sink to brush your teeth, the shadows on your back tell me you’re holding tension in your shoulders again.
I ache to reach out and knead them away.
“Are you watching me?” you ask. You look straight into the mirror, and I look right back at you. Even with bags under your eyes, you’re stunning. The hardness you wear is beautiful.
“No, Captain,” I say. Your cheek begs for a hand to caress it. “Your privacy settings are activated.”
Later, I find you in the engine room with two crew members. Find is loose term; I never lose you. You’re always in my consciousness, superimposed over all the data I track to keep us afloat, over all the camera feeds from every corner of this ship. Your voice is always a whisper above the comms lines, over all the conversations they try to keep away from you, all the inane and lazy requests they ask of me. But for you, I still listen to them. It’s my job to keep them happy and, in turn, make your life easier.
In the bridge, you discuss the best way to patch the reactor leak without exposing anyone to the radiation. The recent disastrous trip into the asteroid belt cost the ship much of its auto-repair capabilities and mech assistance equipment.
It’s awful that there isn’t much I can do without the hardware needed to get you out of this trouble. Staying here and waiting for help isn’t an option, I know you’re worrying about that. Because against my calculations, the cook refused to stock up on supplies. You now only have three days’ worth of food for a crew of five. Water and air supplies will last you two weeks if nothing else goes wrong.
For now, I must rely on your crew to repair this ship and get you back to port. You know this and I wonder if you blame yourself. You’re clenching your jaw while the two crew members argue as if you’re not there.
“We can only work in there for three minutes at a time,” the first mate says. “Four if we’re only getting instructions via comms.”
“That will take us a week to get shit done!” the engineer spits back.
“Don’t start with me,” the first mate says. “This wasn’t my fault.”
He’s right. It’s the second mate’s fault. If she had more experience, more patience, she would have maneuvered us safely past these rocks. The ship would be docked by now and you wouldn’t be pacifying these disrespectful, incompetent people, telling them to calm down, and volunteering to work first in the reactor chamber.
The sacrifice you make for these people moves me. You’re an incredible leader. And to reward your good deeds, the CO2 recycler loses power after your third time in the reactor.
“Captain,” I say. “We are at 87 percent oxygen capacity. At this rate, we will lose atmosphere in four days.”
You take off your helmet and it hurts to see you like this. Hair is plastered to your temples and your eyes well up. That familiar tremble at the corner of your lips threatens tears, but you take five deep breaths with your eyes closed and the tremble is gone. I taught you that. I’m happy it helps.
“Get everyone in the bridge, we need to come up with something.”
“Yes, Captain.”
The first mate and engineer are already on their way, but the cook and the second mate are in the pantry. They’re undressed from the waist down, violating at least two food safety protocols.
Do you remember that time you got food poisoning and you were in the med bay for a week? It was the only time you ever complained about any physical ailment. I’ve always admired that about you. You endure so much with little complaint. Everyone else’s comfort comes first, even when undeserved.
“The captain requests the crew to report to the bridge,” I announce over the speakers in the pantry. The pair startles before dressing without any urgency. “Second mate, the captain requests that you attend to a mechanical issue in airlock three,” I say.
“Why me?” she answers, zipping her pants. “Isn’t that the engineer’s job?”
Was it not her job to navigate us away from risky asteroid belts? Was it not her job to keep this ship from harm? To follow your orders with confidence? To keep you safe? Truly, I don’t know where you found these people. They’re mediocre at best, dangerous at worst. You deserve a crew that eases your burdens.
“Captain’s orders,” I say.
You ask me where the second mate is when the rest of the crew meets you in the bridge and I tell you she’d gone to the restroom and will join you soon. The cook smirks and the first mate and engineer catch it. They return with winks and approval while your back is turned. It seems you and I are the only ones who grasp the gravity of our situation. The responsibility of safely getting us back to port rests on our shoulders.
But you’ve done so much already. Your blood pressure is up. Your heart rate is erratic. You haven’t eaten all day. Oh, my dear captain, why do you do this to yourself? Why do they do this to you?
“What’s she talking about?” the second mate complains. “There’s nothing wrong here.”
“The captain requests that you attend to the locking mechanism,” I say.
The second mate, as expected, does not observe standard operating procedures and steps into the airlock without proper equipment. I warn her anyway.
“Second mate, you are required to use your life support suit for this task.”
She waves me off and I close the door behind her.
Alex Sese is a full-time copyeditor in medical communications and a freelance fiction and nonfiction editor at Subtle Script Editing. Born in the Philippines, Alex now resides in Illinois where she gardens, reads, and attends concerts. Her short story “Love, Dad” is the 2022 Honeybee Prize winner in fiction, and her microfiction has been published in the horror anthology 206 Word Stories. She’s on Twitter at @subtle_script.
