He was the only one to wake, and that was wrong. The crew should have all revived with him, so they could do their duty to this ship and her passengers. That didn't mean he was about to worry. Deck Chief Gus had been through it all on these sleeper voyages, and he'd been around long enough to know that sometimes even computers made mathematical errors. He figured this was just a hiccup from a goofy pod, and he could put it to right. Sometimes even an officer as experienced as him could be mistaken. Sometimes math could punch a man in the gut.
He thought he was used to math putting his mind through the wringer. For one, Gus couldn't let himself think about how many trips he'd taken, and how many years passed between each one. He didn't want to know how old he was in absolute years. He only knew he was older than some civilizations, and that was too much to take in already. The only way to cope was to stay aloof to it all. Because of this, passengers who met Gus said he was a proud man. People who worked with him said he was humble. Neither of them were wrong. He was humble of his person, but he was proud of his job. Whole planets, thousands of lives, and thousands of dreams, depended on this work. He'd never get to see those people live, or their dreams fulfilled. Every time he met someone, it was knowing that the next time he woke, that someone would be dead and gone. His job was one not a lot of people would take, but one a lot of people needed him to do.
The second time math did a number on him was now. The Avalon was supposed to be infallible. Now she was dying. She didn't want to admit it, but she wouldn't survive to see her mission through. It didn't matter that the math told him this was impossible. It was happening. If she died, she would take everyone with her.
The third time came upon the words "final hours". The rest of the words vanished under the weight of those two. He was already dead, his body just didn't want to admit it yet. The last thing he did was put on his dress blues. He was proud of his job, and what it meant to all the passengers he sheperded over the centuries. It had been a long life, and it hadn't been wasted. He didn't have enough life left to see this group on their way. All he could do was hand over his ID band, in hopes that someone else could do the job in his stead. The passengers were on their own. He couldn't help them now. He couldn't even help himself. This time he wouldn't live to see the other side.
When the crew woke, they stopped to listen to words Gus would never hear, and to experience a moment he would never see. A journalist, Aurora Lane, had recorded a message on his behalf.
"You'll have noticed by now, that your crew is one short. I know you have a lot to do, and Deck Chief Gus Mancuso wouldn't want to keep you from your work. The reason he can't be here today is because he died in the line of duty, of an illness brought on when his hibernation pod malfunctioned. He spent his final day showing us how to save this ship, and the lives of everyone on board. Please take a moment of silence to remember him."