Joe looked up. The Earth filled every inch of the observation window and it was getting closer by the second. The Navigation screen flickered blue and green.
“Status? What is our current status?” he barked.
Silence.
“Status?”
More silence. Joe punched the radio again.
“Mayflower this is Horizon. Come in Mayflower! Come in Mayflower!”
A static hiss then nothing.
“Mayflower this is Joe. Something…I don’t know what….no one’s awake….Dad….are you there? Are you there?”
The screen switched from blue to white.
“Status?”
Silence. He banged the screen with his fist.
“ETA……….”
The bland voice of the computer startled him.
“ETA when?” he demanded, gripping the screen.
Silence.
“ETA when? When? When is ETA?”
And then
“ETA…………...….unknown”.
Joe slapped the screen.
“No, no, no! ETA unknown, what does that mean?”
As Joe kicked the air in frustration, the ship suddenly lurched, pitching him forwards and sending him crashing into the consoles below the captain’s chair. The lights on the bridge flashed and then died, the emergency klaxon screamed and the solar landing shades on the observation windows began to close down, slowly shutting out the Earth. The ship pitched again, throwing him across the floor. His head smashed against a stanchion and he passed out for a moment. When he came to, the ship was shuddering and jerking, shaking him up like a pebble in a wave.
He panicked.
“Dad,” he screamed. “The ship’s crashing, the radio…..”
Not dad.
He punched the radio.
“Ground control, this is Horizon. Come in, Ground Control. Ground control, do you read me? Please, do you read me?”
He thought he heard static.
“Ground control, this is Horizon….Mayday, Ground control, Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”
Nothing. No one. He switched the radio to all frequencies.
“MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY!”
Nothing. On his own, no adults, no dad, no computer. No Leila.
“I can’t fly the ship, Dad.”
But he could work the radio and he jabbed away at the control pads.
“MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY!”
The ship careered wildly, tumbling, descending and a head splitting noise, metal on metal, shrieked out from the lower deck. It was getting hotter by the second and the bridge disintegrated before his eyes. Smoke began to rise from the Pads and the screen in front of him imploded. Oxygen masks flopped down from the ceiling like the trailing legs of jellyfish.
Above the captain’s chair, the main Life Monitor screen was still working and he could see the sleeping quarters. The canopies of the sleeping pods were drawing back and the sleepers’ bodies were twitching uncontrollably. Some of the sleepers opened their eyes.
Some didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Joe whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
He grabbed the oxygen mask but there was no air and he struggled for breath. The ship was falling faster now and collapsing, closing in on him, crushing him between the walls and the consoles and the screens; a metal beam crashed down from the ceiling and struck him on the side of the head, knocking him to the floor. The light began to dim and the bridge became a tunnel of darkness, a small disc of light at the far end; and he wondered whether he would ever have enough energy and time and strength to crawl his way up out of the darkness towards the light, before it faded away forever.