Chapter 12 – Man Friday, I Could Do With Your Assistance
Elapsed time on board (ETOB): LD Plus 42 days. Elapsed time at origin (ETAO): LD Plus 53 days
For the first time in the nineteen 'days' that had elapsed since the Prometheus disappeared from his locality in normal space, Jack O'Neill slept continuously for six straight hours instead of the fitful dozes he had become accustomed to. He had retired feeling relatively light-hearted and it seemed to be the obvious reason for the deeper sleep. The phrase 'going to bed' did not account adequately for the process of attaching light restraints to his arm and waist so as not to float into walls or other objects during his zero-gravity periods of sleep.
His light mood, surprisingly, had followed from the realisation deep within himself that he really was going to die within a measured time. Maybe not immediately, and not by his own hand, of that he was resolved. But it would come relatively soon when something in this oh-so-fragile Shangri-La of a spacecraft failed, or if the ice nose cone proved to be inadequate to withstand the impact of anything larger than a grain of sand. While it was nice to think that maybe Carter would find a way to do the impossible - again - or some advanced alien species like the Asgard would retrieve him and keep him intact, this time it was so unlikely as to be discounted without too much anguish. He knew too that he had experienced his last interactive contact with another human, and that memories both good and bad would be his sole accompaniment during this last great adventure. Nevertheless he would fight to squeeze every last moment of existence out of his situation: for most of his life he had known no other way.
Jack had established a routine of sorts after the first few hours of solitude when the reality of his situation had stared him in the face, and the continuing tasks essential for survival kept him busy. For reasons he didn't fully comprehend, it seemed important to him to keep a daily log of events and associated thoughts. He had written them by hand on the blank reverse sides of the many documents located about the ship rather than trusting solely to the questionable longevity and relative impersonality of electronic data. Building his 'Rosetta Stone', he called it, thinking that any future archaeologists (he always thought of them as Daniel-like clones, raking through ashes from the embers of a dying Galaxy and finding even that interesting) would be all the more thrilled with the physical evidence of his brief existence than some incomprehensible gabble stored on a disc or tape, or broadcast on the radio. He thought often about the five thousand year old warrior found buried in Alpine ice in Italy during the early nineties. 'Otzi' the archaeologists had named him, before proceeding to pick away at his few possessions and his remains to try to understand as much as possible about the otherwise anonymous man and his life. 'Not me.' he mused. 'They'll know I'm me, what matters to me and how I got here at least.' Accordingly, his first entry in the log, in large letters, had been 'My name is JACK O'NEILL, but you can call me Jack.'
His final routine task of the day before retiring to the sleeping quarters was always to transmit a broadcast on the S-band radio. The signals would radiate outwards from his position in a sphere propagating in all directions at three hundred thousand kilometres per second, travelling over thousands of light years before anyone might hear him. Sometimes he just made a verbal summary of the notes he had written minutes before, but if the mood took him, he could also talk at length about the failed expedition, of the ship keeping him alive and his circumstances, often with one of his favourite pieces of music playing in the background. But if he imagined that he was revealing 'Jack O'Neill – the inner man' to his impossibly remote audience, he was wrong. It simply did not occur to him that anyone would be interested in the random thoughts and emotions that buzzed round in his mind – just as they did in everybody's – and so anything to do with personal desires or 'what-ifs' or fantasies remained locked away in his lifelong shell of privacy. It would take a worse experience than facing death peacefully in his current predicament to breach that barrier.
Today he decided on a whim to read through his journal, after he had been through his start-up routine of washing, harvesting food and breakfasting. He strapped himself loosely into the seat by the comms console and attached the re-ordered pages to a clipboard, and then read through them as he idly fed himself fresh raspberries picked moments before from the growing decks.
He scanned the first page below the proclamation of his name.
'Day 23 on board. (Note to whoever reads this: a day is one rotation of my home planet Earth about its axis. Look for it in your records). Got the Uranium-235 generator re-started just after Celia Chen and Sonja Meyer left to travel across to Prometheus (that's the name of the other ship with the propulsion unit on board that was tethered to this Bio-pod). Gave Meyer my helmet as hers was damaged in particle strike on nose cone after we started the traverse. She's a good person, deserves to get home. Likewise Chen. Celia likes me a lot – don't understand why. Fortunately the temperature on board had not reduced by much during reactor shut-down as we had only been gone a few minutes (one sixtieth part of an hour, 24 of them in the above- mentioned day – keep looking) so plants in growing decks unaffected and no water frozen.
Watched departure of Prometheus through my telescope. I hope they get back home. Their chances are as good or as bad as mine right now. Inventory check – plenty of food, either in freezer, as powdered rations or growing on other decks. Atmospheric balance oxygen / carbon dioxide / nitrogen staying as it should. Ambient temperature comfortable, maybe a little warm at 28 degrees Celsius.'
He looked up briefly from his notes. That first day alone was emblazoned on his mind and he spent several minutes staring at the page before he realised that his eyes were still unfocussed. He snapped back to reality and read on.
'Day 24. This pod was not intended to sustain crew under zero-gravity conditions all the time. Human muscles waste away and bones will become deficient in calcium unless I regulate diet and take plenty of exercise every day. Cleared an area at the end of growing deck 1 so I can run right round inner skin of hull. If I run fast enough, centrifugal force is enough to make it feel like weak gravity. Tried ten times round and was exhausted. Must persevere.
Growing decks need slight gravity force too so that water to sustain plants is not always floating around but stays mostly in root areas of plants. Must work on ideas for this.'
Reading on, Jack recalled his first realisation that he would need to closely monitor and if necessary override the on-board computer controlling the life-support program.
'Day 28. Some fruits seem to be slower growing than before. Instruments show that atmospheric carbon dioxide level is slightly lower than it should be, probably because there's only me to exhale it instead of several crew. Have taken two lithium hydroxide cartridges out of filtration circuit to see if this helps. Should know within a few days. Adjusted temperature to 25 degrees Celsius (note to futurists – that's one quarter of the way between the temperature of water ice and steam at 760mm of mercury pressure. Look that up too.)'
'Day 33. Exercise routine seems to be working. I can now run 50 times round hull circumference and feel OK afterwards, but I know that muscles are still weak compared to full-gravity environment. Need to improvise other forms of physical exercise.
Have developed a taste for strawberry-flavoured Soya and megaburgers. Found some yeast tablets in galley locker. Don't know why they were there. I have enough fruit to try to ferment some alcohol. If I live long enough will drink it on my birthday in 120 days time.'
'Day 36. The carbon fiber cable that connected the two ships together is still attached to this pod. Because it isn't under tension since Prometheus left, it is no longer running out in a straight line but appears to be curling and twisting. Could present a hazard if it starts to accumulate around pod hull. I will attempt to detach it from hull but can only do this if I can affect repair on Meyer's damaged space suit helmet. Need to restore tight fit into suit neck ring by re-shaping dented part and ensuring O-ring hermetic seal.
Nose cone impact detectors recorded multiple strikes today. Fortunately all microscopic, no lasting damage. Must keep nose cone pointed in direction of travel: detaching the cable, which could slew the ship and expose some of the plastic hull to minor impacts, has become priority. Hull will perforate rapidly if exposed.'
'Day 40. Helmet fix seems OK. Re-shaped lower helmet to best fit possible and patched it with epoxy resin from general repair kit. Tested suit integrity in airlock: no leaks. At least the end will be quick if it fails. Will attempt to detach cable tomorrow.
One of the artificial daylight bulbs in the growing decks blew. I have 3 spares: let's hope that they last a while. No light = no viable crops, and I don't relish the prospect of going back to survival rations alone. Note to archaeologists: if you find any megaburgers left, don't try eating them. They probably still won't taste great even after ageing for thousands of years. As of today I am down to the last 370 of them.'
Finally, Jack reached his latest entry.
'Day 41. Failed to release cable, even after six hours of attempts. Could not get enough leverage to release bolts and latches that secure it to the pod. Helmet started to leak slowly forcing return to airlock.
I think I hate megaburgers, whether strawberry-flavored or 'au naturel'.
Somehow, I do not think that matters will be too prolonged now.'
Slowly, Jack secured the clipboard and notes at the side of the comms console and sat back to contemplate his next moves.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Sam didn't know what would describe the uppermost emotion in her mind as she rang Daniel and Sarah's doorbell: depressed, upset, enraged or fighting mad. Probably all of these things.
"Sam!" Daniel cried in surprise as he opened the door. "Come in, come in." Taking in her facial expression, he added as he showed her into the lounge "Er, not good news, I take it?"
"You take it correctly." she said as she slumped dejectedly onto the proffered sofa. She looked up as Daniel's wife entered. "Hi, Sarah."
Sarah took one look at Sam and headed straight for the drinks cabinet and poured three glasses of their special reserve vintage malt whisky. Sam accepted it without hesitation, smiling briefly as their eyes met, and took a sip.
"Sam?" Daniel prompted gently, fearing the worst. "Is there any news of Jack?"
"Not a thing." sighed Sam. "Not a goddamned single iota of news about him. But that's to be expected, given his situation. There was only one sub- space communicator and that came back with the Prometheus."
She paused as her friends waited patiently. Taking a deeper breath, she continued "I resigned from the Air Force and the SGC today. Because there's not a single goddamned lousy thing they're going to do for him. Not a thing."
"What?" the Jackson's chorused.
"But your career!" Sarah exclaimed. It meant everything.......
"Screw it!" Sam muttered. She looked up at both of them. "I quote the official statement: 'This project was a privately-funded venture in which the USAF played no part except to sell the decommissioned ship Prometheus to a sponsor. It would be a misuse of taxpayer's dollars to fund a mission to retrieve even such a well-respected figure as General O'Neill from a hopeless situation not of our making.' Yadda yadda yadda. They've washed their hands of it and Jack."
"But there must be other ways of raising the money!" said Daniel. "The political parties spend more than this on electioneering alone! Surely the sponsor can raise enough....."
"She's been unseated by her own board of directors, who refused to allow any of the company's money to be diverted into what they're calling in private 'a monumental screw-up'." Sam explained. "It'll be in tomorrow's news. Anyhow, it's not just about the money. You know that Jack pissed off enough high-rollers in Washington in his time that there's more than an element of pay-back in this. Look how happy they were when they thought he would be away for twenty years."
"But the Prometheus is repairable, right?" Daniel persisted. "What about another company or country taking it on? Are you going to start lobbying for that, Sam? You could, you know, now that you've been on TV so much."
Sam took a gulp from her glass, the smooth taste of the twenty-year-old malt numbing her throat in the most pleasant of ways. She sighed audibly. "The Chinese government is willing to do just that, Daniel. With the stipulation that Celia Chen leads the expedition."
"But that's great news!" he exclaimed, but noting the look that remained on her face, he added "Isn't it, Sam?"
Sam's lip quivered a little before she answered. "They say that she insisted because she didn't want to live without him. Seems to have developed a relationship on board. She doesn't care if it does turn out to be a suicide mission, apparently."
"So that's why you resigned, then? To volunteer for this new mission?" Sarah asked.
Sam looked at her in surprise. "What's the point in me going any more? He's got her now and....."
"Sam, did Jack ever give up on saving your ass after you ditched him for Pete?" said Daniel angrily. "He never let on just how much you hurt him, did he? Just think about that for a while before you start swimming in self- pity!"
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Elapsed time on board (ETOB): LD Plus 46 days. Elapsed time at origin (ETAO): LD Plus 58 days
'Day 46. Re-repaired the helmet and re-tested it OK. Telescope shows that Prometheus left the mini-pod floating in space before departure. Cable continues to twist but far end should not be too far from current location of mini-pod. Tomorrow I will suit up and follow direction of cable in attempt to retrieve mini-pod. If successful will have tool to detach cable from this pod. If not, still have enough oxygen to get back in suit, I hope.
This may be final log entry as tomorrow's risk factor is considerable. If so, I will state the following: I regret only three things in my life. First and foremost, the death of my son Charlie, for which I hold myself accountable. Second and third are the losses of respect from the two women in my lifetime whom I loved: my wife Sara, and Samantha Carter. They both found happiness with better men.
Jack O'Neill.'
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Elapsed time on board (ETOB): LD Plus 42 days. Elapsed time at origin (ETAO): LD Plus 53 days
For the first time in the nineteen 'days' that had elapsed since the Prometheus disappeared from his locality in normal space, Jack O'Neill slept continuously for six straight hours instead of the fitful dozes he had become accustomed to. He had retired feeling relatively light-hearted and it seemed to be the obvious reason for the deeper sleep. The phrase 'going to bed' did not account adequately for the process of attaching light restraints to his arm and waist so as not to float into walls or other objects during his zero-gravity periods of sleep.
His light mood, surprisingly, had followed from the realisation deep within himself that he really was going to die within a measured time. Maybe not immediately, and not by his own hand, of that he was resolved. But it would come relatively soon when something in this oh-so-fragile Shangri-La of a spacecraft failed, or if the ice nose cone proved to be inadequate to withstand the impact of anything larger than a grain of sand. While it was nice to think that maybe Carter would find a way to do the impossible - again - or some advanced alien species like the Asgard would retrieve him and keep him intact, this time it was so unlikely as to be discounted without too much anguish. He knew too that he had experienced his last interactive contact with another human, and that memories both good and bad would be his sole accompaniment during this last great adventure. Nevertheless he would fight to squeeze every last moment of existence out of his situation: for most of his life he had known no other way.
Jack had established a routine of sorts after the first few hours of solitude when the reality of his situation had stared him in the face, and the continuing tasks essential for survival kept him busy. For reasons he didn't fully comprehend, it seemed important to him to keep a daily log of events and associated thoughts. He had written them by hand on the blank reverse sides of the many documents located about the ship rather than trusting solely to the questionable longevity and relative impersonality of electronic data. Building his 'Rosetta Stone', he called it, thinking that any future archaeologists (he always thought of them as Daniel-like clones, raking through ashes from the embers of a dying Galaxy and finding even that interesting) would be all the more thrilled with the physical evidence of his brief existence than some incomprehensible gabble stored on a disc or tape, or broadcast on the radio. He thought often about the five thousand year old warrior found buried in Alpine ice in Italy during the early nineties. 'Otzi' the archaeologists had named him, before proceeding to pick away at his few possessions and his remains to try to understand as much as possible about the otherwise anonymous man and his life. 'Not me.' he mused. 'They'll know I'm me, what matters to me and how I got here at least.' Accordingly, his first entry in the log, in large letters, had been 'My name is JACK O'NEILL, but you can call me Jack.'
His final routine task of the day before retiring to the sleeping quarters was always to transmit a broadcast on the S-band radio. The signals would radiate outwards from his position in a sphere propagating in all directions at three hundred thousand kilometres per second, travelling over thousands of light years before anyone might hear him. Sometimes he just made a verbal summary of the notes he had written minutes before, but if the mood took him, he could also talk at length about the failed expedition, of the ship keeping him alive and his circumstances, often with one of his favourite pieces of music playing in the background. But if he imagined that he was revealing 'Jack O'Neill – the inner man' to his impossibly remote audience, he was wrong. It simply did not occur to him that anyone would be interested in the random thoughts and emotions that buzzed round in his mind – just as they did in everybody's – and so anything to do with personal desires or 'what-ifs' or fantasies remained locked away in his lifelong shell of privacy. It would take a worse experience than facing death peacefully in his current predicament to breach that barrier.
Today he decided on a whim to read through his journal, after he had been through his start-up routine of washing, harvesting food and breakfasting. He strapped himself loosely into the seat by the comms console and attached the re-ordered pages to a clipboard, and then read through them as he idly fed himself fresh raspberries picked moments before from the growing decks.
He scanned the first page below the proclamation of his name.
'Day 23 on board. (Note to whoever reads this: a day is one rotation of my home planet Earth about its axis. Look for it in your records). Got the Uranium-235 generator re-started just after Celia Chen and Sonja Meyer left to travel across to Prometheus (that's the name of the other ship with the propulsion unit on board that was tethered to this Bio-pod). Gave Meyer my helmet as hers was damaged in particle strike on nose cone after we started the traverse. She's a good person, deserves to get home. Likewise Chen. Celia likes me a lot – don't understand why. Fortunately the temperature on board had not reduced by much during reactor shut-down as we had only been gone a few minutes (one sixtieth part of an hour, 24 of them in the above- mentioned day – keep looking) so plants in growing decks unaffected and no water frozen.
Watched departure of Prometheus through my telescope. I hope they get back home. Their chances are as good or as bad as mine right now. Inventory check – plenty of food, either in freezer, as powdered rations or growing on other decks. Atmospheric balance oxygen / carbon dioxide / nitrogen staying as it should. Ambient temperature comfortable, maybe a little warm at 28 degrees Celsius.'
He looked up briefly from his notes. That first day alone was emblazoned on his mind and he spent several minutes staring at the page before he realised that his eyes were still unfocussed. He snapped back to reality and read on.
'Day 24. This pod was not intended to sustain crew under zero-gravity conditions all the time. Human muscles waste away and bones will become deficient in calcium unless I regulate diet and take plenty of exercise every day. Cleared an area at the end of growing deck 1 so I can run right round inner skin of hull. If I run fast enough, centrifugal force is enough to make it feel like weak gravity. Tried ten times round and was exhausted. Must persevere.
Growing decks need slight gravity force too so that water to sustain plants is not always floating around but stays mostly in root areas of plants. Must work on ideas for this.'
Reading on, Jack recalled his first realisation that he would need to closely monitor and if necessary override the on-board computer controlling the life-support program.
'Day 28. Some fruits seem to be slower growing than before. Instruments show that atmospheric carbon dioxide level is slightly lower than it should be, probably because there's only me to exhale it instead of several crew. Have taken two lithium hydroxide cartridges out of filtration circuit to see if this helps. Should know within a few days. Adjusted temperature to 25 degrees Celsius (note to futurists – that's one quarter of the way between the temperature of water ice and steam at 760mm of mercury pressure. Look that up too.)'
'Day 33. Exercise routine seems to be working. I can now run 50 times round hull circumference and feel OK afterwards, but I know that muscles are still weak compared to full-gravity environment. Need to improvise other forms of physical exercise.
Have developed a taste for strawberry-flavoured Soya and megaburgers. Found some yeast tablets in galley locker. Don't know why they were there. I have enough fruit to try to ferment some alcohol. If I live long enough will drink it on my birthday in 120 days time.'
'Day 36. The carbon fiber cable that connected the two ships together is still attached to this pod. Because it isn't under tension since Prometheus left, it is no longer running out in a straight line but appears to be curling and twisting. Could present a hazard if it starts to accumulate around pod hull. I will attempt to detach it from hull but can only do this if I can affect repair on Meyer's damaged space suit helmet. Need to restore tight fit into suit neck ring by re-shaping dented part and ensuring O-ring hermetic seal.
Nose cone impact detectors recorded multiple strikes today. Fortunately all microscopic, no lasting damage. Must keep nose cone pointed in direction of travel: detaching the cable, which could slew the ship and expose some of the plastic hull to minor impacts, has become priority. Hull will perforate rapidly if exposed.'
'Day 40. Helmet fix seems OK. Re-shaped lower helmet to best fit possible and patched it with epoxy resin from general repair kit. Tested suit integrity in airlock: no leaks. At least the end will be quick if it fails. Will attempt to detach cable tomorrow.
One of the artificial daylight bulbs in the growing decks blew. I have 3 spares: let's hope that they last a while. No light = no viable crops, and I don't relish the prospect of going back to survival rations alone. Note to archaeologists: if you find any megaburgers left, don't try eating them. They probably still won't taste great even after ageing for thousands of years. As of today I am down to the last 370 of them.'
Finally, Jack reached his latest entry.
'Day 41. Failed to release cable, even after six hours of attempts. Could not get enough leverage to release bolts and latches that secure it to the pod. Helmet started to leak slowly forcing return to airlock.
I think I hate megaburgers, whether strawberry-flavored or 'au naturel'.
Somehow, I do not think that matters will be too prolonged now.'
Slowly, Jack secured the clipboard and notes at the side of the comms console and sat back to contemplate his next moves.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Sam didn't know what would describe the uppermost emotion in her mind as she rang Daniel and Sarah's doorbell: depressed, upset, enraged or fighting mad. Probably all of these things.
"Sam!" Daniel cried in surprise as he opened the door. "Come in, come in." Taking in her facial expression, he added as he showed her into the lounge "Er, not good news, I take it?"
"You take it correctly." she said as she slumped dejectedly onto the proffered sofa. She looked up as Daniel's wife entered. "Hi, Sarah."
Sarah took one look at Sam and headed straight for the drinks cabinet and poured three glasses of their special reserve vintage malt whisky. Sam accepted it without hesitation, smiling briefly as their eyes met, and took a sip.
"Sam?" Daniel prompted gently, fearing the worst. "Is there any news of Jack?"
"Not a thing." sighed Sam. "Not a goddamned single iota of news about him. But that's to be expected, given his situation. There was only one sub- space communicator and that came back with the Prometheus."
She paused as her friends waited patiently. Taking a deeper breath, she continued "I resigned from the Air Force and the SGC today. Because there's not a single goddamned lousy thing they're going to do for him. Not a thing."
"What?" the Jackson's chorused.
"But your career!" Sarah exclaimed. It meant everything.......
"Screw it!" Sam muttered. She looked up at both of them. "I quote the official statement: 'This project was a privately-funded venture in which the USAF played no part except to sell the decommissioned ship Prometheus to a sponsor. It would be a misuse of taxpayer's dollars to fund a mission to retrieve even such a well-respected figure as General O'Neill from a hopeless situation not of our making.' Yadda yadda yadda. They've washed their hands of it and Jack."
"But there must be other ways of raising the money!" said Daniel. "The political parties spend more than this on electioneering alone! Surely the sponsor can raise enough....."
"She's been unseated by her own board of directors, who refused to allow any of the company's money to be diverted into what they're calling in private 'a monumental screw-up'." Sam explained. "It'll be in tomorrow's news. Anyhow, it's not just about the money. You know that Jack pissed off enough high-rollers in Washington in his time that there's more than an element of pay-back in this. Look how happy they were when they thought he would be away for twenty years."
"But the Prometheus is repairable, right?" Daniel persisted. "What about another company or country taking it on? Are you going to start lobbying for that, Sam? You could, you know, now that you've been on TV so much."
Sam took a gulp from her glass, the smooth taste of the twenty-year-old malt numbing her throat in the most pleasant of ways. She sighed audibly. "The Chinese government is willing to do just that, Daniel. With the stipulation that Celia Chen leads the expedition."
"But that's great news!" he exclaimed, but noting the look that remained on her face, he added "Isn't it, Sam?"
Sam's lip quivered a little before she answered. "They say that she insisted because she didn't want to live without him. Seems to have developed a relationship on board. She doesn't care if it does turn out to be a suicide mission, apparently."
"So that's why you resigned, then? To volunteer for this new mission?" Sarah asked.
Sam looked at her in surprise. "What's the point in me going any more? He's got her now and....."
"Sam, did Jack ever give up on saving your ass after you ditched him for Pete?" said Daniel angrily. "He never let on just how much you hurt him, did he? Just think about that for a while before you start swimming in self- pity!"
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Elapsed time on board (ETOB): LD Plus 46 days. Elapsed time at origin (ETAO): LD Plus 58 days
'Day 46. Re-repaired the helmet and re-tested it OK. Telescope shows that Prometheus left the mini-pod floating in space before departure. Cable continues to twist but far end should not be too far from current location of mini-pod. Tomorrow I will suit up and follow direction of cable in attempt to retrieve mini-pod. If successful will have tool to detach cable from this pod. If not, still have enough oxygen to get back in suit, I hope.
This may be final log entry as tomorrow's risk factor is considerable. If so, I will state the following: I regret only three things in my life. First and foremost, the death of my son Charlie, for which I hold myself accountable. Second and third are the losses of respect from the two women in my lifetime whom I loved: my wife Sara, and Samantha Carter. They both found happiness with better men.
Jack O'Neill.'
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