0198: Crisis Central

Ziggurat #106

The interior of Westward had a strange, apocalyptic feel. As Lamont walked through it on his way from the landing bay to the forward section of the ship, he found some areas bustling with focused activity as small groups of crew members worked together to solve some problem, rapidly exchanging technical observations between themselves. Other areas were entirely vacant, eerily silent, with lights dimmed to something close to a single candle power to help preserve every volt of energy. With over a hundred people confined to a relatively small space, it was unusual to pass through one of the long outer corridors without running into somebody, even in the small hours. The surreal quality of the experience was amplified by Lamont’s fatigue. Following Rosemary’s advice, he had popped a blue pill in his mouth as he prepared for each of the two subsequent trips to the tower and back. Whatever they were, they did seem to provide him with a boost of nervous energy as he undertook a task that had become almost routine by the end: Settling the passengers in for the ride to the tower, orienting them in the lift, shuttling them to the garden, briefly assessing the situation there, and returning to the asteroid pod. By the time he slumped back into the control chair beside Lazarus, the energy had dissipated into a vague unease accompanied by a cotton-muffled buzz between his ears. He was still experiencing this sensation as he finished what felt like a very long walk, but in fact could not have taken more than five minutes. 

Looking down to the end of the corridor on the starboard side of the ship, he could see that it was flooded with bright light. Four crew members were sharing space in the hall, standing just outside the translucent plastic barrier that had been installed to separate the area of the ship that had been structurally compromised from the rest of it. Two of the crew members wore pressure suits and carried helmets under their arms. Out the window to his left, Lamont saw countless points of light passing across each other as a thick cloud of ice crystals drifted across a scrolling sheet of stars. The pressure of the escaping oxygen had set Westward into a spin, the correction of which was apparently a relatively low priority.

One of the crew members looked up at the haggard newspaperman with an expression combining concern and amusement. “Where’s the bear?” He asked.

Lamont ignored the quip. “I’m looking for Santana. Is she in there?” He nodded toward the plastic barrier.

The crew member shook his head, then tilted it in the direction of the corridor that led toward the center of the ship. “She’s in crisis central, AKA, the O.D.”

Lamont nodded. “Cheers, mate,” he mumbled, shuffling to the right. He was relieved that another pressure suit didn’t seem to be in his near future.

The observation deck was typically the center of social activity on Westward. A relatively large open space at the front of the ship, it featured a galley, food and drink dispensers, collapsable tables and chairs, and big windows looking out into space. Now it bustled with another kind of activity. Lamont estimated that half the remaining crew was probably in that room, clustered around dining tables that had been grouped together and were covered with a collection of papers, diagrams and spare parts. The air here normally smelled like instant coffee and burnt toast; now it stung his nostrils with sweat and ozone. He was breathing easier now that the strain on the ship’s oxygen supply had been reduced, but the atmosphere still felt oppressively thin.

Lamont’s eyes darted around the room. At one table, a group of crew members was pouring over a stack of diagrams, pointing fingers and talking over each other. At another, people were sorting through a pile of wires and electrical components. Further ahead, near the windows, Lamont could see the large, pink cranium of Phobos rising above everybody else’s. Stepping to the side, he found what he was looking for: Chief Santana was conversing with the Martian, her arms folded, her diminutive figure almost precisely half the other’s height. Her black eyes flashed in his direction as he wound his way through the clustered tables toward her.

“Townsend,” she greeted him. “You look terrible. Is anything the matter?”

Lamont rubbed the stubble on his jaw self-consciously. The Chief of Operations had probably been awake at least as long as he had and working the whole time, but aside from dark patches under her eyes, she looked as put-together as ever.

“No, ma’am,” he answered. “It’s done. The final group of colonists and crew have been transported to the tower.”