ASSIST

July 25th, 2155, 21:30 Earth Time. Four months prior to the Alpha Centauri gravitational Assist, disaster strikes. One of the Casimir engines malfunctions and goes offline, forcing a complete Reactor shutdown. The enormous sound is like a train roaring to a stop, with further noises that sound like a cross between a jet engine spinning down and a helicopter landing. The PA System blasts a message in a pleasant female voice: “Warning. Reactor and propulsion systems shutdown. Please follow the arrows on the floor and proceed to your safe location immediately. Please be careful, as artificial gravity is temporarily disabled. Warning . . .” For most of the crew, that means space walking down to Shuttle dock on the maintenance level in the dark and in 0G. When the reactor goes offline, The ION Rockets shut down immediately as well. With the ION Rockets unable to fire, the ship is effectively adrift at 1% light speed. Only the side thrusters can maneuver the ship. Suddenly, Commander Marsha McDonnell’s voice blasts over the PA system: “Aesculapius Crew members, a few moments ago we lost power from one of the Casimir engines, leading to a Reactor shutdown. I have been in contact with both the Reactor and Propulsion teams and they are working diligently to remedy the situation. Please follow all instructions on your safety card, including emergency egress procedures. We are momentarily switching to battery backup which may cause temporary electrical disturbances.” Up on the crew decks, the lights flicker and buzz angrily. The flywheel glides to a stop. People begin to float. The decks rattle furiously, knocking just about everything loose in all directions. The decks go dark save for the emergency light strips and floor arrows. The cacophony of the crew grows louder and more disordered. Someone screams. Suddenly, the PA systems light up. “This is Commander Marsha McDonnell,” she says, “Please remain calm. We have some of our best Engineers working to restore our power. It should not take long, as they are well trained for this contingency.” If the faulty Casimir engine is not repaired, within six months the ship will experience a Type-I emergency, which is a shutdown of non-critical onboard systems. The flywheel would spin to a stop, leaving the crew to hand-walk their way to commissary, their workplaces, and their cabins. Spacecraft lighting would revert to motion-detect mode only, and the HVAC would be dialed down to the minimum safe temperature. Six months later, critical systems will shut down as the ship enters a Type-II emergency. In a Type-II emergency, power gets cut to most of the ship’s power-hungry mission systems, including the Cryogenic facility and Biolab, conveyance systems, large-scale food production and Shuttle operations. This level of support is sustainable for another six months. One year after the ship first encounters distress, if not repaired, it will enter a Type III emergency. The Starship will remain adrift without Autoguide steering capabilities for the most part, save for six battery-operated side thrusters. The only functions that will remain at operational levels are flight deck operations (comms and navigation), Cryocrew, and an absolute minimum of life support and food production. This will be survivable for up to six months, at which point the ship will “wink out” leaving the crew to slowly freeze and starve while floating in 0G. Nobody knows for sure, but comms and AI are expected to continue operating for at least the next several years. These are just some of the doomsday scenarios that haunt the shaken Crew. A dead silence overtakes the ship. Everyone is now pinning their very hopes for survival on recently promoted Nuclear Reactor officer Thomas Christiansen, and Amy Corrigan, First Electrical Engineer. The teams immediately report to the Reactor Bay on the maintenance level. Slow walking hand-over-hand, they look like gymnasts performing walking handstands. Thomas and his team are the first to arrive in the Reactor Bay. “Well trained?” Thomas quips, “Nonsense. We’re just a bunch of hacks!” The pressure on Thomas, Alex, and their teams is intense. In order to diagnose and potentially repair a Casimir unit, they must electrically isolate the Reactor. Thomas and his team enter the Reactor control room from the maintenance bay wearing augmented reality (AR) head-mounted displays (HMDs) over their face shields. The AR HMDs are optical systems that project supplemental information onto the user’s natural world view, such as the location of control panels. They are also very useful for diagnostics and repairs. It helps them navigate a crowded Reactor room full of large computer racks, power electronics panels, and greasy electrical components. With their AR HMDs, they locate the Reactor master switch easily. “Commander McDonnell,” Tom says into his wrist device, “switching off the Reactor and cutting over to battery backup.” “Copy Nuclear Team, switching off reactor and cutting over to battery backup.” The team gathers around the Main Reactor switch cabinet. Thomas punches his level-3 codeword into the switch lock control. The switch clicks into manual. “Now, this is either going to light us up or blow us to smithereens, so hold on to your bootstraps! On 3,” he says, “3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . PULL!!” Thomas yells. The three men strain to pull the Reactor control lever into the down-off position. They all tug fiercely, propping themselves on the walls to get sufficient leverage. With a loud bang, the switch pops into the down position, physically disconnecting the Reactor from the Aesc’s energy grid. “Now” Thomas shouts, “cutover to batteries!” Amy, the First Electrical Engineer, is smartly stationed at the battery control panel. She steps up and crisply enters her level-3 security code. “System armed for battery backup,” says the maintenance level PA system. A big round button goes from red to green. “Now” Tom says. Amy presses and holds the button for five seconds.