Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No one is ever truly alone on a ship. Francis has been told this many times on many different ships, but for none was it as true as on Terror. The spacecraft is, structurally speaking, unremarkable: not the biggest ship nor the fastest. Its weaponry is mostly for show since it has been retooled for the Discovery service. Its armour plating is functional, but unfashionable.

However, for all Terror lacks in speed and strength, it far surpasses its peers in computing power. The 'brain' of the ship lies beneath the command centre with its own fusion reactor core separate from the main propulsion engine. The supercomputer was outfitted when Francis was first given command of Terror in 18039 as a turbocharged, but highly experimental, navigational assistant. It had been designed to mostly help with instrument readings and calculations, but its processing power had been underestimated, even by its creators. Within months the AI had restructured the ship's organisational and administrative duties. By the end of the year, Francis began using the machine to analyse command decisions with startling and meteoric success. A lesser captain might dismiss the JOPson as only a gimmicky computer, or worse, think themselves out of a job. Francis sees it as another tool in his arsenal.

Overhead, Francis hears the telltale click of the ship's intercomm system switching itself on.

"Good evening, Sir. How was the command meeting?"  JOPson's voice hums through the speaker, evenly mannered as always.

"Three courses and a pudding." He huffs, pulling his arms free of his dress uniform's overcoat. "Just as you predicted."

"And dessert, sir?"

"Sticky date." Francis can't help but imagine the machine is pleased at another correct calculation. Officially, of course, he has never used the most advanced supercomputer in the Galaxy to calculate the most statistically likely items to appear on the Erebus dinner menu. "I still think you cheated on that one."

"I can go over the maths again if you don't believe me."

"No need." Francis mind swims with equations factoring in fruit store levels and Sir John Franklin's particular enthusiasm for butterscotch sauce. "Perhaps next time I can get you to run an analysis on Fitzjames' bloody sniper story. I swear it gets longer each time he tells it." 

It's a miracle Francis is still sober. The constant prattling of Erebus' Commander drove him to the point of missing whiskey something fierce.

"Pity SAMson and I can't record command dinners."

SAMson was Erebus' own computer system, far less advanced than JOPson. Speaking to it felt like trying to converse with a lamp, and a particularly dim one at that. It lacked a certain conversational sophistication Francis has gotten used to on Terror. All the Navy's ships are outfitted with an AI computational system, all given human sounding names like WATson and JACKson to appear more personable to their human crew. Francis thought the names made them sound more like butlers than computers. The Astral Navy has no use for the personal valets to wait on their commanding officers like in the days of old. He supposes computer assistants are this century's version of a steward.

"I think for everyone's sake it's best they're not."

"No? I could have them uploaded to the ship's podcast library. The crew would surely get a kick out of them." JOPson jokes. Yes, the computer told jokes, and they even occasionally made Francis laugh (a honour very few humans could say they achieved). There were personality controls somewhere in JOPson's vocabulary settings, in case the computer got too lippy with him, but Francis never cared to mess around with those. He likes his talking computers with a bit of backbone.

"Goodnight, JOPson." Francis tells him pointedly, continuing to discard his dress uniform as he shuffles his way towards his cabin bed. "I expect the latest navigational reports to be prepared at 0800."

"Goodnight, sir. At least fold your trousers." JOPson responds and then there's the click of the comm line being shot off.

Francis sighs but does as he's told. The lights in his cabin dim to help simulate a circadian rhythm and Francis lies back on his bed and waits to fall asleep.

"It doesn't bother you at all. Seriously?"

Manson and Young roll their eyes. Not this again.  

"You'll get used to it." Hartnell tells him.  

"That's the point," Cornelius Hickey stabs his finger down on the table. "We shouldn't have to get used to it. It's inhumane, this level of surveillance."

"Relax, man. It's not like he's listening all the time."

"He." Hickey scoffs. "First of all, it's a computer, not a 'he'. Second, that's what they want you to think! Of course it's listening to us all the time!"

"It can't though," Young finally steps in before Hickey can really begin his tirade. "All the engineers say so. If you ask JOPson to leave you alone he has to. It's one of those robot laws they have built in. Right, JOPson?"

Hickey hisses, hunching over the table as the speaker clicks to life above their heads.

"Mr Young, how may I be of service?" The reedy twat of a computer speaks.

"Can you explain Terror's privacy policy to Cornelius?" Young asks and Hartnell bites back a smile. It had been a fad a few weeks back whenever there was an awkward silence in the room to request JOPson read aloud instructional manuals until someone finally cracked and switched the computer off.

"Certainly. Terror's Privacy Policy can be found in the Security and Safety Module, which states the following: According to the Astral Navy's Articles of Space Travel, as further outlined in the Crewmember Collective Bargaining Agreement, all members of the Discovery Service are entitled to-"

"Oh, fuck off, JOPson." Hickey barks.

"Very well, Mr Hickey." The computer's speaker clicks off as laughter peels across the dining hall.

0800 the next morning, if any time in space can truly be considered morning, brings Francis to the command centre where his Lieutenants are already waiting with their (and JOPson's) reports. It's the standard headlines. Irving updates their supply lists, Hodgson goes over the latest deep space communications packets, and Little recalls what maintenance is still to be done around the ship. Blanky saunters in half an hour late with the latest instrument readings and an update to JOPson's navigational models. Francis frowns at the data package displayed on his tablet screen.

"Has Erebus seen the latest orbital projections?" Francis asks.

"I spoke with Mr Reid." Blanky shrugs. "They're not concerned."

"Of course not." Francis mutters.

"We won't have a clearer picture until we're closer to the anomaly."

The anomaly. The entire point of their exploratory voyage. The admirals back on earth were certain this sector of deep space harboured the holy grail of celestial bodies: A White Hole. A theoretical mass capable of producing and expelling matter in the opposite of a Black Hole. To observe such an event would change the science of space travel as they knew it. For now, it was only a pipe dream Francis wasn't particularly keen on following, but Sir John was insistent. The mission directive was the get close to the anomaly, take some measurements, then use an orbit assisted launch to slingshot themselves back towards earth. Such a launch relies heavily on the positioning and rotation of several nearby solar systems and a lot of very precise calculations. If they make one mistake, they could be stuck in the gravity field of the anomaly for years until the positioning is right for another attempt.

"What's say you, JOPson?"

"Current protocols dictate caution, however there is no reason the projections may become more favourable with more data, Sir."

"Very well." Francis tables that particular worry for now. "Hodgson, Command's latest message came with a software update?"

"Afraid so, Sir. Something about tightening biosecurity. It'll likely be our last communication for a while. The nearest satellite outpost is three quadrants away and the deep space transmitters won't be pointed our way again for another eight weeks."

The lieutenants look nervous at the news. Francis forgets it's their first foray into deep space, cut off from the web of satellites and telecomm transmitters scattered across the known star maps. Francis feels only relief at the thought of Navy Command no longer breathing down their necks for the foreseeable future.

"Very well," Francis nods. "Distribute the remaining comms packages and we'll get started on these updates. Let Erebus know we'll be in and out of service until they're done. Dismissed."

The Lieutenants (and Blanky) all leave, but Francis doesn't hear JOPson's speaker system click off.

"Not excited for more software, JOPson?"

"Should I be, Sir?"

Because JOPson's is less a single computer and the amalgam of multiple separate computing bodies, he will have to be shut off in parts to install the update, meaning it will take at least three times as long as it normally would on a ship like Erebus. Despite JOPson's insistence his mechanical brain leaves him with no feelings on the matter, Francis dislikes the piecemeal way the machine is brought in and out of consciousness. Last time JOPson had been in good humour about it, singing "Daisy, daisy, give me your answer do," in the command room, although Francis had been the only one to appreciate the reference.

At Francis's lack of a reply, JOPson continues. "You have a comms package, Sir. I've filed it away in your personal folder."

Francis raises his eyebrows. Personal communications were limited on discovery voyages. Every few months or so messages from family members would be bundled together and sent over the long-range telecomm frequencies to ships. Honestly, Francis hadn't expected any messages for himself. His social circle on earth had always been small and had only shrunk further after Sophia's most recent and final rejection.

"Thank you, JOPson, that will be all." He says stiffly, making a beeline for the privacy of his office.

Once inside, he pulls out his tablet and opens up the long unused Personal folder. JOPson appears to have kept it well organised in his absence. Technically not the best use of the Galaxy's most powerful supercomputer, but JOPson insisted he has the CPU to spare for more menial tasks. Perhaps the computer just enjoys good organisation.

The message is from James Clark Ross. There's a letter with several photos embedded within from his honeymoon on a lovely little Exoplanet with the most remarkable pure quartz beaches. He scrolls through the photos, watching the man's skin become increasingly pinker and pinker from the Red Dwarf sun blazing across the sky. Francis shakes his head. Gingers weren't supposed to be on beach planets, but the man seems happy enough. And of course, Ann looks resplendent by his side. He wonders of how long until there’s another announcement from the happy couple.

Francis swallows thickly. He knows it's unfair, but he can't help it. It still stings. James should be here. He drops the tablet onto his desk and swivels around in his chair to face the empty corner of his office where a bar fridge once was. His throat is parched.

First James got married, then Sophia refused to marry him. Now, Francis is alone on his ship.

Chapter Text

They take a shuttle from Erebus to Terror at Sir John's insistence. All the wardroom officers are squeezed together in the little tin can of a ship, James has to practically fold himself up like an origami sculpture to fit into his seat. The trip should only take five minutes, but somehow it stretches out to twenty before Terror opens its docking bay doors to them. 

"Apologies on the delay, sirs. Software updates are behind schedule, and we've had to reroute power through different modules temporarily." JOPson informs them.

James tries not to scoff out loud. SAMson had been finished with those updates hours ago. So much for Terror's superior computing power, he thought.  What use is a ship that's crippled by basic computer updates? James Fitzjames has kept his criticism of Terror's so-called supercomputer largely to himself. Lord knows if Crozier heard his (entirely justified) complaints he'd have a strop about it.

James remembers how the naval bases had been a flurry of excitement when Terror's supercomputer had first been outfitted. Top of the range, cutting edge, an engineering marvel. Some more dogmatic admirals spoke of it like it was some sort of digital messiah and joked that we all would be out of jobs in a decade. Within a few years the hype had finally died away and the truth laid plain. Yes, its computing and navigational powers were second to none. However, such strength came with huge energy costs, that made Terror a very expensive and very inefficient ship to run. This is just fact.

James also has the undeniable opinion that he doesn't particularly like JOPson. He's been on many ships and delt with many different onboard AI's, but there's something about JOPson James can't help but dislike. It's trying too hard to be human, but still coldly robotic in a way that lands it squarely in an uncanny valley. James could deal with these feelings quietly and without complaint in any other situation, but what really riles him up is the fact that Francis Crozier of all people seems to prefer that bloody AI over his flesh and blood fellow officers. He practically dotes on the damn thing.

He'd said as much to Sir John once, who levelled him with a soft but stern look. Come now, James. Franklin had attempted to cheer him up. You should cherish that man. If anything were to happen to me, you would be Francis' Second and not JOPson. That only riled up James more. Franklin thought James was jealous of a machine. It was preposterous.

Lieutenants Little and Irving are waiting in the docking bay to greet them, both brimming with apologies about the delays and explanations of the complexity of Terror's modular computing and power demands. 

"Were there issues with the new software?" James asks, a little grumblier than he'd like to be. His calves are still cramping a little from the shuttle.

"It's all fine." Irving assures them.

Little sighs. "There's been one a minor hardware incompatibility error, but it should be a quick fix."

"What error might that be?" Sir John asks, tone conversational. "SAMson had no such problems."

Little pulls out a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket, squinting and the lines of code printed out on it. "An error within the central processing module, to do with a part called OR-CMP-0081, which, according to our manuals, doesn't actually exist."

"Has it affected the new biometric systems?" Goodsir chimes in. He'd been a flurry of excitement about the updates, telling anyone who would listen about how these metrics would benefit the efforts to monitor the health of the crew.

"No, they seem to be functioning correctly."

"Probably just a bug." Dr Stanley cuts in before Goodsir can ask anything more and derail any hope for future conversation not centred around the newly installed non-invasive biomedical imaging techniques.

The lieutenants lead them through Terror's bow towards the wardroom dining hall. Francis is naturally waiting for them, grim look on his face like he's preparing to face down a firing squad and not a dinner with colleagues. In a surprise to everyone, it is not Francis' dour mood that ruins their dinner. At the end of the second course, two sharp pips crack over the speakers which jolts everyone from their quiet revelry.

"Sirs, there has just been an urgent message picked up on the shortrange signals." JOPson informs them, and everyone promptly makes their way to the upper deck command centre. Francis leaves his captain's seat vacant for Sir John as several crew from the comms department rush in with flashing tablets in their hands.

"We've received calls of a level one distress beacon from three quadrants over." One of the junior officers informs them, pulling up the star map on the glass table display in front of them. Sir John leans forward from the head of the table and frowns.

"From the satellite outpost?" Crozier says from Franklin's right side, sitting directly across from James on his left.

"It would seem so."

James can't recall this particular outpost well. It isn't Navy run, just a tiny research vessel that has been monitoring an icy planetoid in the middle no nowhere.

"What is the nature of their distress?" Sir John asks, mouth a thin line.

"Medical, but no specifications given."

Francis rotates the galaxy map in front of them, zooming in and out as if to measure the distance between them and the outpost with his eyes. Why not just ask your fancy little computer to do that for you? James wonders to himself bitterly.

"Captain," Hodgson looks up from his own tablet, his own map open on it. "There's the commercial supply ship S.S. Baffin two quadrants from the outpost, approaching from the opposite end of the system to us."

"Good." Franklin sighs, tension finally falling from his brow. "As the closest ship, it will be their responsibility to respond to the alert. We're to stay on course for now."

"How recently were those locations updated?" Francis asks slowly.

"Three hours ago."

Silence drops across the table like a stone. James turns to Francis, who has his head resting on his hand glaring down at the maps. He inhales slowly and James immediately understands whatever the man is about to say cannot be good.

"The Baffin was not approaching the outpost but heading away from it." He begins slowly. "Within three hours its likely hit hyperspace and won't be able to slowdown in time to be of use in a response. We are the closest responsive ship, Sir John."

"You can't possibly know that." James says in disbelief.

"Hodgson, request an update on Baffin's positioning immediately." Francis turns to James slowly. "We'll be able to confirm it then."

"That could take hours."

Francis ignores him. "JOPson, calculate the likelihood of the current trajectory on the SS Baffin."

"Right away, Sir."

"Really Francis, is that necessary? It's a level one alert."

"Shortrange alerts can take up to eight hours to reach three quadrants distance. In that time the situation could have deteriorated significantly."

"I appreciate your concern, Francis," Sir John says with a smile. "However, the protocols on these matters are quite clear. As the closer ship, it is Baffin's responsibility to follow up here, not ours. We're making good time, and it would be a shame to retreat now. We're only days away from observable distances of the anomaly."

"If Baffin is moving away from their current position, there's a fifty-one percent chance the ship is outside of contact range." JOPson informs them.

"Fifty-one seems rather low odds." Franklin remarks.

"Practically a coin flip. You would leave the odds of another ship's safety up to a coinflip?"

"It's only a level one alert, Francis." Franklin reminds him dryly.

Then, James suggests something so utterly petty it almost shocks himself when the words leave his mouth. "What does SAMson calculate the odds as?"

Dundy leans over his comms to patch himself through to Erebus to ask. Francis shakes his head but doesn't say anything. A terse eighty seconds later, Dundy repeats the number. "Thirteen point naught five percent chance."

"That's quite the discrepancy." Franklin notes.

"Clearly, as the more powerful computer JOPson's calculation takes precedent." Francis huffs.

"Not necessarily." James bites back.

"No?" Francis smiles unkindly and James wants to lean across the table punch him a little bit.

"What were you saying earlier, Lieutenant Little? Something about an error after the latest software update?"

"One error that's completely unrelated to the task at hand."

"Coming from the central processing module, can we be so sure?" James asks the room.

"Gentlemen." Franklin begins with a tone of finality. "We will continue with our current trajectory. In a week we should be well into the fourth quadrant and begin planning our next steps in approaching the anomaly." Franklin turns to Crozier. "In the meantime, perhaps look into solving that error on JOPson. We can't afford any mistakes made at this stage of our mission."

The Erebus officers leave the command room, muttering to themselves about their now long cold dinners. Francis sits in silence for a few minutes after they leave. Little, Hodgson, and Irving know better than to break the silence themselves.

"Little." Francis begins, watching his First Lieutenant straighten up. "You are to systematically search every inch of this ship for hardware faults and find the source of this OR-CMP issue. Irving, I want you to go through that software update with a fine-toothed comb. Hodgson, redirect all our available comms power into tracking that outpost. If someone so much as sneezes in its direction, I want to know about it."

There's a grim chorus of "Yes sir" as the lieutenants leave, knowing the sheer amount of work that lies ahead of them. Francis remains sitting in the room alone for a little while longer.

"JOPson?" He eventually asks.

"Yes, Sir?" Francis wonders if the computer sounds hesitant just for a moment.

"What the fuck?"

"I'm asking myself the same question, sir."

Hickey's palms are sweating. God fucking damn it, he thinks. Shit buggering fuck. They've updated the biometric systems.  He knocks on Billy's cabin door again.

"Billy, c'mon! I know you're in there." He shouts. Theres a click and Billy appears, peaking his head through an inchwide gap in the door. Hickey smiles at him. 

"What do you want?"

"I'm locked out of my room."

"Not my problem." He moves to shut the door, but Hickey is faster, jamming the toe of his boots past the frame to keep it wedged open.

"Billy…Please…I've nowhere else to go!"

"Sleep in the lounge."

"The marines will find me! They'll shave my head in my sleep or something." Hickey is not above whining. He looks up at Billy and pouts. "Just one night. I promise I'll make it worth your while."

There's a deep, long-suffering sigh and Hickey knows he's won. The door opens a scant few inches more, but it's enough for him he slithers inside and profess his undying servitude to his tall, cherubic, mop-haired saviour.

The next morning, Hickey is prepared to approach Irving with a whole sob story about how he burnt off his thumbprints back on earth in a very tragic accident and needs his biometrics retaken, only for the third Lieutenant to pull up the paperwork before Hickey can even begin recounting it. The man looks exhausted. His usual neat uniform is crumpled, and his hair is a mess, like he's been sleeping at his desk.

"I don't care. Just fill it out and file it with JOPson." He mutters. "Bloody updates." 

Afterwards, with his new biometrics on file, Cornelius Hickey wonders if he's somehow become the greatest liar to ever grace this horrible uninhabited corner of the galaxy. Lesser men would call it luck, or even worse, coincidence. Hickey knows better than that.

Little is up to his elbows in cables, currently thanking the stars he isn't colourblind. Above him, JOPson reads off the order in which he is to plug the offending cables back into the correct outlets.

"Green first, then the light blue one with two prongs, then the azure cable."

"What's the difference between azure and light blue?" Edward despairs.

"According to the manual, azure should be the brighter cyan one."

"Can you see colours, JOPson?" He muses out loud. He's been at this current job for three hours. Once he's done here, he's got eight other pressing tasks to handle as part of Crozier's current tirade to prove JOPson isn't faulty. They've rerun the updates twice only to receive the same OR-CMP-0081 error each time. It makes no sense to anyone on board.

"Yes, Sir, although most of the onboard security cameras are black and white. The external instruments do give me access to light waves outside the spectrum visible to humans."

"What's that like?"

"I don't think I'd know where to begin describing it." JOPson explains. "Fortunately, I'm a computer and not a poet."

"Maybe they should work on that for the next upgrade."

"Captain will be thrilled."

It’s the first time a ship's AI has made Edward laugh. He'll have to remember to tell Hodgson about it later, the man would probably get a kick out of it. Irving might find it funny too, if his current task manually reading through 80,000 lines of software code haven't completely fried his brain by now. All things considered Edwards grateful to be given something to do with his hands, even if it is tedious wiring work.

JOPson is midway through reading out the next set of instructions (Yellow and blue cable, pink wire, then the other green one-) when he stops abruptly mid-sentence. Edward briefly panics, wondering if he fucked up the instructions so bad he's somehow doomed the entire ship before JOPson speaks again.

"You should head to the command deck immediately, Lieutenant."

"Fuck." Edward whispers. "What is it?"

"Update to the distress beacon. Level two." 

By the time Edward makes it to the command deck, having sprinted the full length of the ship and up three flights of stairs, Crozier is already at his command post barking orders.

"Little," the captain twists as he enters the room. "How long will it take to warm up the engines to hit light speed?"

"Fifteen minutes." Edward pants. "But it will take a lot of power."

"See it done." Crozier turns to Hodgson. "Any remaining power reroute to comms, I want our location and trajectories sent back to the outpost as soon as possible."

"Sir, Erebus is requesting you on call."  JOPson interrupts.

"Very well, patch us through." Francis steels himself, hands balled tight into fists on the arms of his chair.

"Francis," Sir John's voice crackles through the comms panel. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Research Outpost TBQ-004 has been upgraded to distress level two, requiring the immediate action of any ship within alert distance. These protocols supersede any current naval commands." He explains, firm but calm.

"Yes, I'm aware of the protocols." Sir John sounds exasperated. "The S.S. Baffin-"

"Is now out of radio distance. JOPson confirmed so eight minutes ago."

There's a pointed silence from Erebus.

Damn it. Edward thinks as he dashes across Terror's control panel, flipping switches as he goes. Crozier and JOPson had been right all along.

"Very well." Sir John says in a measuredly even tone. "Terror is permitted to respond to the alert. Erebus will continue to the next quadrant and await further updates on the situation."

Francis barely acknowledges Sir John's words. He's glaring down at the star maps where JOPson has updated their planned trajectory. At top speed it will still take them hours to reach the outpost.

"Safe travels, Francis. Hopefully it is nothing too serious." The Erebus comm line goes dead.

James Fitzjames sits beside Sir John, watching out the command deck windows as Terror hops into hyperspace. The image of the ship warps it approaches lightspeed, bending and stretching until it snaps like an elastic band and disappears from view entirely. For the first time in a good long while, James is speechless. Sir John had assured him there was nothing to worry about. A level one alert was only a precaution and most were false alarms.

"Don't worry James, I'm sure all is well."

"We're not to follow them?" He asks quietly, out of earshot of the rest of the command room.

"No, no." Sir John waves a hand dismissively. "Outposts like that are scarcely staffed by more than five people at a time. There's not much a second ship can do for them that Terror alone can't. It would be a dreadful waste of resources. It's best for everyone we stay on course."

"Yes, Sir." James watches the star maps update on their screens as the speck that was once the S.S. Baffin quietly is erased from view.

Chapter Text

Technically speaking, Harry Goodsir shouldn't even have been aboard Terror. As head physician, it should have been Dr. Stanley's task to confer with Dr Macdonald about the new biometrics procedures. However, just before Stanley was meant to leave, an AB called in sick. With the actual (MD) doctor on board called away to ensure the AB had a hangover and not an infectious disease, Dr. Harry Goodsir (PhD) was called to replace him. Harry was more than happy to be of use. The whole reason he's here is to conduct research into the efficacy of onboard health monitoring programs on deep space voyages. He's given up on anyone on Erebus sharing his enthusiasm for his study, so perhaps he'll have better luck finding a like minds on Terror.

He's only been on Terror for thirteen minutes when the alert comes through. Lieutenant Gore, who has just finished unloading powering down the shuttle, swears quietly as the alarms sound overhead.

"Should we go back?" Harry shouts at him over the whooping sirens as the crew of Terror scramble into action around them.

Graham shakes his head. "Try find Doctor Macdonald. I'll see what's going on with command."

The medical bay is only one floor above, but the walk seems to take Harry forever. He's trying is best not to panic but feels just about ready to collapse when he stumbles through the med bay's automatic doors. Dr Peddie is there to meet him, regretfully explaining that Macdonald has been called away to the command room.

"What's going on?"

"Got a level two distress call from that outpost a few quadrants back. Crozier is insisting we answer it."

"Medical emergency?" Harry remembers dinner the other night. When he'd asked Dr Stanley about it afterwards, the man had shrugged. Command had said it wasn't their duty to respond, so there was no point worrying about it. Harry is worrying now.

Peddie nods, slapping him on the shoulder "Good thing you're here then. Might need all the help we can get."

"I'm not an actual doctor." Harry reminds him.

Peddie shrugs. "I'd prefer you giving first aid than a ship's mate."

Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, for all his faults, is calm in a crisis. Sometimes he feels it is the only time he is truly in control of himself. He barely blinks when the command deck shudders as they slip into hyperspace, a slight shift in the onboard gravity to compensate their sudden change in speed.

"What's our ETA?" Francis asks.

"Seven hours, forty minutes." JOPson informs him.

Perhaps a more unreasonable captain would insist they shave more time off of that estimate. It's tempting to ask, but Francis knows JOPson. When he asks his computer for the most direct path to a destination JOPson will exhaust all options and decide on the best path. Still, eight hours away from a possibly life-threatening emergency isn't ideal.

Francis sighs. They wouldn't be eight hours away if Franklin had just listened to him. If this mission had been his to command…He looks over at Lieutenant Gore, who had appeared unexpectantly on the command deck just as they'd started to depart. Francis, ever the pessimist on a good day, had wondered briefly if Sir John had somehow sent the lieutenant over to spy on him. The timing didn't quite add up, and the transfer log did have Gore scheduled to ferry over Dr Goodsir. Unless Franklin has clairvoyant foresight, their appearance on the ship is poorly timed but genuine. A spare doctor and lieutenant could come in handy anyhow.

It's a terse seven and a half hour wait, punctuated by brief flurries of activity for the officers planning the rescue response. As they get closer, the comms team is able to parse together more information on the situation. The satellite outpost itself is offline, the emergency beacon signal originating from an escape pod circling the station. The ship is too large to orbit the planetoid, so they'll be sending a shuttle to pick up the escape pod and toe it back to Terror. The stowaways from Erebus are both eager to be part of the rescue and Crozier sees no reason to deny them. If Franklin takes issue with it, he can deal with it himself.

Crozier's willingness to designate tasks to Erebites over Terror officers surprises Edward. As First Lieutenant, he had expected such duties to be dropped into his lap. He hadn't thought his pride could be so easily wounded, but it would appear he is wrong.

Some of the crew sleep a few hours before they are due to arrive, but Edward stays awake. The left-over adrenaline in his system keeps him agitated and he rotates between pacing the length of his cabin and sitting behind his desk, drumming his fingers on the plastic tabletop and watching the seconds tick by.

"Are you well, Lieutenant?" JOPson asks.

"'m fine." He mumbles.

"You should rest while you can."

"Is that an order, JOPson?"

"I'm not permitted to give orders."

"A shame, that."

"I don’t think the crew would like it."

"No?" Some days Edward feels like the only thing he's good at is taking orders. Giving them is much harder.

"Most people don't enjoy taking orders from computers. I can make recommendations and suggest courses of actions, but it is beyond my protocols to give orders to humans."

"If you could," Edward wonders aloud. "Would you have made a different choice than Sir John?"

"I don't understand."

"When we first got the distress call, Crozier wanted to respond right away. Franklin told us to wait. Would you have waited?"

"I cannot speculate." JOPson sounds confused.

Edward sighs. At the time, Edward wasn't sure how to react. On one hand, he is Crozier's second, but it is Sir John who is leading the expedition. He could see Crozier's perspective, they had a responsibility to answer a ship in distress, but how would they have gotten Franklin to agree with him? It's a treacherous, insubordinate thought, but Franklin has been like a dog with a bone on this mission to discover the White Hole, with no interest in anything outside his pursuit. Fitzjames, for all Edward admired his military career, has been no help in reigning him in. Then there was the debacle of JOPson's reliability being called into question. Edward had scoured the ship twice and has yet to have any leads on the missing part, OR-CMP-0081. It really must have been an error in the software update. 

In his current state of exhaustion, Edward can't help but circle around the crux of his current anxiety. Why is Gore leading the rescue mission over him? He doesn't realise he's asked it out aloud until JOPson replies.

"In the time I have known Captain Crozier he has always preferred to keep his Second close by. I doubt this is a personal snub on your behalf, Lieutenant Little."

"I suppose you have known Crozier the longest of anyone aboard, save perhaps Blanky."

"Oh yes. Ample time to collect data on his idiosyncrasies. I think the crew of Terror would be much improved if I could somehow supply them with a manual on dealing with the captain. Unfortunately, it violates several codes of ethics, and the captain would probably disapprove."

"Well, if you ever find a way around the ethics I would appreciate your insights. That man is a mystery to me."

"He's actually a big softie deep down." Jopson says, defensively.

Edward laughs. He'll believe that when he sees it.

Twenty minutes out from the location of the distress beacon and it is upgraded to a level three alert. Someone, or multiple someone's, being in immediate life-threatening peril. The assembled rescue team (Gore leading, Peglar piloting the rescue shuttle, a couple of AB's and marines on call, Dr. Macdonald and Dr. Goodsir) are already waiting in the loading bay to board their shuttle.

Up on the command deck, Francis swears. "Has TBQ received our latest response?"

"If they haven’t, they will soon." Hodgson reports from the comms panel.

"Get the rescue team aboard their shuttle. As soon as we're out of hyperspace I want them ready to launch."

After all these years, the jerk from light-speed travel to stationary still makes Francis's stomach drop. The gravity stabilisers on the ship make the transition as smooth as possible, but anyone with a view out a window will likely still feel the effects of such a rapid decrease in velocity. It's more the mental strain of the human eye readjusting to light travelling at the correct speed again. Blinking, it takes Francis a few moments to spot the satellite still orbiting the icy planetoid as it had in years past. From the outside, the station looked undamaged. It's chrome hull glowed white as the light from a nearby star illuminated it from behind Terror. It stood quiet and still, which under normal circumstance would be reassuring but now was only unnerving.

Several kilometres away was the tiny orb of an escape pod they had come to rescue. The command deck is nearly silent, all watching Terror's rescue shuttle glide towards the pod. When the shuttle locked on to the pod doors, a cheer goes up amongst the officers than Francis quickly silences.

"Patch me through to Gore."

There's a buzz and a click as the comms line is connected.

"Captain? Do you read us?" Gore's voice is crackly over the comms.

"We hear you. Report."

"We've picked up the two people stationed on TBQ, one is in being seen by the doctors now-it's…The man seems quite unwell."

"What happened?"

There's a female voice in the background of the call, shouting in a language Francis takes a moment to recognise. Inuktitut. He doesn't catch all of it, but he catches enough. Gas leak.

"Bring them aboard," he tells Gore.  "Be ready to transfer them to the medical bay at once."

Francis immediately exits the command deck, leaving Edward in charge. He doesn't rush to the medical bay as it wouldn't do to appear panicked among the crew. By the time he gets there, Francis finds Gore waiting outside the medical bay doors, leaning against the wall staring down at the polished cement floor. He looks up as Francis approaches. It's the first time Francis has seen the lieutenant in such low spirits.

"What happened?" He asks quietly.

Gore shakes his head.

Inside the medical bay, the room is silent. Never a good sign.  Dr Macdonald is already waiting for to him. They recovered two people in the escape pod, the sole occupants of the TBQ-004 satellite outpost. An elderly man and his adult daughter. The man had suffered from carbon monoxide poisoning before the gas leak had been found and had initially been well enough to evacuate the station. However, once on the escape pod his condition worsened and he went into cardiac arrest. While the onboard life support had stabilised him, the time without oxygen had left him brain dead before the Terror could intervene.

"The daughter?" Francis asks.

"She's in the next room with Goodsir."

Harry sits with her in silence. Dr Macdonald, seeming not to need the onboard translator, has already explained that there is nothing left they can do for her father. He isn't sure what else there is he could possibly say to her. He opens his mouth, once, then twice, but finds words fail him. The woman sits across from him on an empty cot; legs curled under her. Her grey flight suit uniform is bulky, but she doesn't make to remove it. She sits like a statue, staring past Harry's shoulder at the tiny window in the wall of the cabin. She must be in shock, Harry thinks.

Captain Crozier enters so quietly Harry almost doesn't realise. He pulls over a stool, sitting between Harry and the woman in the middle of the room. He sits with his hands clasped together on his lap. When he speaks it is in Inuktitut, which sends Harry scrambling for the translation device in his pocket.

"I am sorry for your loss."

The woman says nothing.

"I am Francis Crozier; I captain this ship. A long time ago I worked for a Nunavut research outpost called Aglooka." He speaks slowly, faltering over every second word like he's out of practice with the language. "What is your name?"

She watches Crozier for a moment, then frowns. "My ship, can you fix it?"

"No," Crozier shakes his head. "We are a research vessel, a little bit like yours."

She looks around, taking in the size of the ship pointedly. This is not the same scale of research as her own. "Then I can't go back?"

"You are welcome to stay with us aboard the HMS Terror." The last words Crozier says in English, unsure how to translate it.

"Terror?" Her lips curl around the unfamiliar word. The pocket translator in Harry's hands bursts to life, calling out the word in Inuktitut. For the first time, the other occupants of the room turn to face him. Harry flushes and apologises at the interruption.

"Strange name for a research ship." She says.

Chapter Text

The news of Terror's latest addition travels quickly around the ship, although very few have yet to see her. Some loiter around the med bay doors, but JOPson forbids anyone from entering. In the absence of information, the crew turn to gossip.

"I heard there was an explosion and they're still treating all the burns." Manson says over dinner.

"I heard there was a gas leak." Armitage frowns. As a steward, he has quickly become a steady source of gossip from the wardroom. The accuracy of his claims, however, could not always be verified. 

"Well yeah, what do you think caused the explosion?"

Hickey eyes Tom Hartnell as he walks pass their table and makes a grab for his arm. "Tommy," He grins. "You were on the shuttle, weren't you? Sit down, tell us about it." He all but shoves Evans off his seat to make room for Tom at the table. Unbeknownst to them, the next table over filled with marines’ quiets down to listen.

"I'm not supposed to say." Tom looks around nervously.

"Come on! You're with friends." Hickey nudges his shoulder. The only official word from command was that they were on their way back to meet up with Erebus at the next waypoint.

"I don't know much." Tom lowers his voice to a whisper. "But one of them died."

The table falls silent. This was not the hot gossip they were expecting. Tom avoids eye contact staring down at the table and tries not to think of his brother. If John were here right now, he'd know just what to say.

"Well, we don't have to worry about gas leaks." Hickey pats his caulker's kit on his belt. "I've got us covered."

There was no use going back to the outpost, this much Silna knows. Still, the prospect of joining a Navy vessel with over a hundred crew headed for deep space isn't exactly appealing. The last eleven years alone with just her father had her grown comforted by solitude. Now she could barely turn a corner on this ship without being met by another unfamiliar face. It chills her to the bone.

This new face Goodsir introduces to her is a Lieutenant. She supposes that title should mean something, but the intricacies of command hierarchy never particularly interested her. Lieutenant Irving is young, well-kept, with a trimmed beard to cover up his boyish facial features. He speaks more to Goodsir than to her, forgetting the translator that is now permanently clipped to the lapel of her jacket like a dull metal broach.

He goes over paperwork to have her officially registered with the onboard computers, then about assigning her a cabin now it is clear she can't live in the med bay any longer. Most of the crew sleep with four to six in a single cabin, although the officers all have private rooms. Apparently, they're outfitting an old storage closet for her on the other ship, Erebus. Another strange name. She'll have to be introduced to the crew officially at some point, which she isn't looking forward to. All those cold eyes on her. Perhaps she can manage to hide away in the storeroom for the rest of the voyage, however long that will be. No one seems to be able to give her a clear answer on that when she asked. Perhaps this Lieutenant will know more.

She holds at her translator, squeezing the on button and waves to get Irving's attention. "How long is the voyage?"

He looks over her for a moment, considering. His voice is smooth but cold. "It depends," the translator tells her. "If we can collect all the data we need, it should be several months before we're back on the regular star maps."

With his paperwork completed, Irving seems eager to leave. "Goodsir will show you around. Should you need anything, contact JOPson."

Silna huffs. Another thing she finds unsettling about this ship. The onboard computer is very talkative. Of course, it can translate and converse in Inuktitut easily, but Silna has nothing to say to it. If she is to suffer through awkward conversation, she'd prefer Goodsir's stilted attempts at small talk or the captain’s straightforward demands, rather the fussy little robot.

It's going to be a long few months.

The journey to reunite with Erebus takes a couple days now they are not going for broke at lightspeed. They send a long-range signal out to let them know they're on their way but don't hear anything back. It's not unusual this far in deep space where comms lines are virtually non-existent. After the last day's chaos, the command room is looking forward to an uneventful return trip. They return to regular duties, which for Little and Irving means a third and final sweep of Terror for OR-CMP-0081 before putting the matter to rest.

"You're sure you don't know where it is, JOPson?" John asks. Edward rolls his eyes, like that simple question isn't one he's asked before. "You can't…feel it or something?"

"Can you feel where your spleen is, Lieutenant?" JOPson asks dryly, Edward bites back a smile. They're standing in the computer's server room where the bulk of JOPson's brain is stored. All the wiring is now neatly tucked away, thanks to Edward's previous work.

John places a hand on his torso, feeling around. "I guess not. Should I know where it is?"

Edward shrugs. He's an engineer, not an anatomist. "We could call for Goodsir if you're worried. Borrow a textbook off him or something."

"It's on your other side." JOPson explains to Irving. "I think this is a wild goose chase, trying to find an organ through feel alone that can't be found in any textbook."

An apt metaphor Edward supposes. The only other option would be to switch the computer off and perform a mechanical autopsy, but they needed JOPson online and functional for this expedition. If the admiralty takes issue with this, they can gut the ship themselves when they're back home.

"The only other place we haven't looked," John frowns. "I dare not suggest."

JOPson's fusion reactor. Tucked safely away below the room they stand in now, the nuclear core is strictly off limits. They'd need to evacuate half the ship before they'd even be allowed to open the safety hatch. However, as the most dangerous component of the ship, it is also the most well documented. Each nut and bolt has a recorded serial number. If there was an issue, even a single screw loose, they'd know about it.

"No." Edward agrees. And just like that, they put the matter of the missing part to rest.

As they approach the agreed upon waypoint, the maps update their positions. Erebus is 3000 kilometres off course. Another captain wouldn't blink at that number, the vastness of deep space made even hundreds of kilometres a meaningless distance. Francis, who is well aware of Erebus' navigational capabilities, feels his stomach sink. Something is wrong. There's been no emergency alert, so it can't be disastrous, unless Sir Johns ego has once again gotten in the way of common sense. Given the track record of this expedition, Francis has a bad feeling about this. He tells as much to Blanky, hoping his old friend's lighter spirits will assuage his concern. Blanky just bites the inside of his cheek. The pit in his stomach widens.

Then, minutes later, Erebus comes into view. Francis holds back a string of curse words, but Blanky spouts them profusely. There's a long thin trail of space debris trailing behind the flagship like a whip cutting through the darkness. It's difficult to tell from so far away, but Fracis has to guess it is coming from one of the aft thrusters.

"Patch me through to Sir John."

"Right away, Sir." Hodgson's hands scramble across the comms system. The call connects immediately.

 "Francis," Sir John's sounds calm, almost jovial. It grates on Francis immediately.

 "What's happened?"

"Oh, just a minor run-in with a meteor field a couple quadrants back. No matter."

"No mat- Erebus is leaking debris!"

"A stray meteor knocked up an auxiliary thruster. Engineering tells us there's a minor dip in manoeuvrability, but our speed hasn't been affected. We're planning repairs as we speak." Commander Fitzjames butts in, at least having a fraction of sense not to sound quite so nonchalant about the matter. It's the only thing that stops Francis from losing it altogether.

"Any compromise to Erebus' manoeuvrability leaves it at risk to further meteor strikes." Francis reminds them.

"A very unlikely scenario." Sir Johns tone becomes lightly scolding, like it is Francis who is acting childish.

"This is deep space, any odds are bad odds. We shouldn't be taking risks-"

"We can discuss this at a command meeting when you come aboard." Sir John quickly interjects. "You should bring along your new guest while you're at it.” The comm line goes dead.

The mood in the Erebus command room is jovial, especially with the return of Gore (and, to a lesser extent, Goodsir). Francis remains silent as pleasantries are exchanged over the opening course of dinner, occasionally he catches Blanky's eye from the seat next to him. Somehow, Silna has managed to escape dinner and a formal introduction with Sir John. Wherever she is hidden away on the ship Francis deeply envies her.

Finally, when the second course (tomato and basil soup) is served, Sir John turns to business. He glosses over the timeline for ship repairs, pausing to regale his excitement that Second Mate Henry Collins will be leading a spacewalk across the stern of Erebus to fix the external damage. Then he turns to Fitzjames for the results of their latest work observing the anomaly.

"The readings become stranger the closer we get to it." He recounts. "We've had to recalibrate our instruments three times in as many days."

Francis hums. For the best results they should be recalibrated every twelve hours. For his first deep space mission Fitzjames couldn't be expected to know that, but naturally Francis does.  Fitzjames looks at him, but he says nothing. Sir John put him in charge of data collection, not Francis. Another snub.

"Our long-range telescopes are starting to give us a better visual of the Anomaly. SAMson is processing the images as we speak." Fitzjames continues.

"It's all very exciting." Sir John smiles. "To think we may be the first people to ever see a White Hole, gentlemen."

"Here, here." Fitzjames toasts. Francis eyes the lemon water in his own glass but doesn't drink.

"But that's not all, is it?" Sir John smiles like he's been let in on a private joke. "Our charting has revealed a new, unnamed solar system right on the cusp of the Anomaly. A young star with a few rocky planets, but I thought we could name it in honour Sir James Ross." He looks to Francis, expecting this to impress him.

"Would that he was here with us now." says Fitzjames.

"I'm sure he'll be pleased." Francis gives a tight, unconvincing smile. He scans over the newly sketched star map. The Ross Star System is nearly colliding with the outermost rim of the Anomaly's orbital range. If the Anomaly is a White Hole, spewing out new matter from nothing, this little star may have been born directly from it.

"The star’s positioning is ideal. SAMson gives us a three-month window before we can use its orbit to jettison us back home."

Francis stills. "You mean to approach it?"

"Why of course, why shouldn't we?"

"Is it wise to get so close to the Anomaly? We can observe it just as well from this distance."

"Are you concerned?"

"I believe our situation is more dire than you realise."

Across the table Fitzjames smirks. "A dramatic opening shot."

It takes all of Francis' poor patience to ignore him. "There are a lot of unknown variables. To approach it at all is a risk, and considering Erebus is lame-"

"-Momentarily lame." Fitzjames corrects him.

"We know next to nothing about the Anomaly. If FitzJames' readings are correct," Francis opens his data tablet and scrolls through the numbers. "Then it is emitting energy and mass at a rate that beggar's belief. We have no idea what will happen to our ships at such close proximity. It could spell disaster. We can collect all the data we need right here, while we wait for Erebus to be repaired and then return home."

"Without an orbital launch from Ross' Star System, we add almost a year to our return journey. If this is a White Hole, if it is emitting pure matter and energy, then we are hardly at risk of being sucked into it. The opposite in fact is more likely to be true, it should repel us, correct?” Fitzjames points out. A few officers around the table nod.

"Perhaps," Francis glares. "Perhaps not."

"If you're so concerned, Francis, have JOPson run the numbers for you."

"Oh, I will."

Sir John intercedes, sensing the rising tension in the room. "Gentlemen, we have not come all this way to stumble at the last hurdle. We will proceed with caution," He nods to Francis, "to the newly named Ross Star System, complete repairs on Erebus all the while we become the first people to confirm the existence of a White Hole. Then, in three months' time, we go home the greatest deep space explorers of our age ."

The stewards then enter with plates piled high with beef cheek and potatoes. Francis can barely swallow a single mouthful. After dinner, as the Terror officers prepare to board their return shuttle, Fitzjames approaches him. He smiles, reassuring Francis that all will be well. Despite barely eating, Francis stays up most of the night plagued with heartburn and indigestion. Eventually he gives up on sleep and calls for JOPson to bring him Fitzjames' research logs.

The numbers swim before his eyes, making little sense.

"JOPson, if we miss the three-month window for the orbital launch, when is the next one?"

"Eighteen months, Sir."

"…And after that?"

There's a pause, not from JOPson needing the time to calculate. "Twenty-seven years."

Francis' throat is parched.

Boredom leads many a crew to strange dinner time conversations. Tom Hartnell remembers long rounds of Would you rather and Never have I ever on his last voyage. Tonight's game, spurred on by an additional round of alcohol rations, is much more stupid.

"Absolutely not." Tom flushes when it's his turn.

"Come on," Manson's face is flushed with drink. For a big man he sure is a lightweight. Tom really hopes he's not on duty tonight.

"They're not really my type." He says honestly. Someone boos him. Probably Hickey.

"I'm just saying, Hodgson seems nice enough." Young shrugs.  "He's chummy with all the lads. I reckon you need someone you can banter with in a marriage. Little's way too moody-"

"That's kind of the appeal, right? All dark and mysterious."

"So you'd fuck Little?"

"Might cheer the poor bastard up." Golding grins.

"That leaves kill Irving." Hickey is keeping tally with his fingers.

"Nah, I'm saying fuck Irving. You seen him in the gym? He's proper fit."

"He had the record time on the climbing wall. Took Tozer a month to beat it. Good grip strength." Armitage points out.

"Steady on." Seargeant Tozer calls out. The table of off-duty marines has steadily gravitated closer to their own table each night. They might as well squeeze the benches together at this point. "It wasn't a month. Maybe a few weeks at most." 

"I don't think you could fuck Irving without marrying him. He's probably old-fashioned like that, right?"

"What do you think, Billy?" Hickey finally draws attention to the one man at the table who has remained firmly silent throughout the conversation.

Gibson looks like he is wishing to disappear entirely from view. "Pass."

Half the table joins in with Hickey's booing.

"I work with them!" Gibson sputters.

"You know them best, then!" Hickey lays his head on Gibson's bony shoulder. Most know the only reason Gibson hangs out here is to be with Hickey. Tom can't understand the appeal for the life of him. "Know all their little habits."

"After seeing their cabins, I don't want to marry any of them." He says grimly.

"Suppose that's it then." Tom says quickly, hoping to finally let the topic rest.

"Not quite." Manson burps. "What about JOPson?"

"Yes, gentlemen?" The robot sounds overhead. "How may I help?"

"Fuck, marry, kill: the Lieutenants."

"I don't understand."

"It's a game. Which one would you fuck, which one would you marry-"

"I understand the rules." JOPson interjects. "You don't seriously expect me to answer?"

"Leave the computer alone." Tom groans. "He can't fuck-"

"Not with that attitude."

“But could he kill?” Hickey muses.

"Good night, JOPson." Tom tells the computer. It's the command phrase which switches JOPson's surveillance systems to sleep mode.

"Okay, I've got another one." Hickey sits up.  "Fuck, marry, kill: the commanders. Franklin, Crozier, Fitzjames."

The men around the table groan.

Chapter Text

The ships are moving again. Silna asks Goodsir why.

“To get closer to the anomaly, to collect more data.” He explains through the translator. He’s expressed interest in learning Inuktitut to speak with her directly, has even began learning a few words, but for the most part they speak to each other in their own mother tongues.  

Silna looks across the lab and through the glass windows. The biological lab is adjacent to the room that houses a library of instruments and recording equipment. Crew members have been in and out all day, excitedly discussing results of this or that instrument reading. By contrast, the bio lab has remained empty. Just Goodsir alone looking through microscope slides while Silna sits with her own computer and the limited data she could salvage before evacuating TBQ. Compared to what is left on her hard drives, it seems like a ship this size should have enough data already. What would getting closer accomplish?

She’s known about the anomaly since she first boarded the TBQ outpost. They all knew of its existence, its strangeness as an astronomical object, but it did not concern their own research.

“What about your own data, any luck?” Goodsir switches off his microscope and dons his wire-frame glasses.

She shrugs. There’s enough of it to do something with. His eagerness takes Silna aback. It’s been a long time since anyone has shown interest in her research. Her father’s work monitoring hydrogen stores beneath the planetoid’s icy surface had been the primary directive, her own research was secondary. When she first shared her background as an organic geochemist, Goodsir’s eyes had lit up.

Many people from many different organisations had gone to space in attempt to explain the origins of life. Ice planets, with their abundance of water on the surface, were of particular interest. Her research on TBQ wasn’t groundbreaking, but she’d found it interesting, as did Goodsir. The ice penetrating radar had recorded the chemical composition of deep-water hydrothermal vents beneath the surface of her planetoid. There were no signs of organic compounds yet, but time would tell.

Towards the end of the day, the other doctor on board, Dr Stanley arrives in the lab. He scarcely pays Silna any attention, calling Goodsir away for a meeting. Goodsir looks reluctant to leave. She isn’t allowed access to the lab without one of the doctors present.

“Sorry.” Goodsir tells her. “Maybe we can meet tomorrow?”

“Okay.” She tells him. What does it matter? She has nothing else to do.

The distance between the laboratory and her cabin is short, only down the hall and up two flights of stairs, but she hates it. There’s no time of day where the hallway isn’t buzzing with people who stop and stare at her as she walks by. She doesn’t look at them.

Her heart is racing by the time she makes it to her room. The cabin is small and dark. She keeps the lights off. Lying on the bed with her eyes closed she can almost imagine she’s never left TBQ-004. She hears the sound of the air conditioning hum, and the pipes creak over her head. She waits and waits to hear her father’s voice singing to himself as he walks down the hallway but never does.

“There’s a patient coming over from Terror. JOPson’s biometric scans caught a shadow on the lung of one of the ship’s boys.”

“Who?” Harry’s eyes widen.

Stanley looks down through his notes. “Mr David Young. MacDonald suspects it’s cancer, but he wants a second opinion. Looks like your pet project may have saved a life already, Goodsir.”

Harry swallows.

Young is already waiting for them in the med bay. True to his name, he looks scarcely old enough to be aboard the ship. They go over this blood tests, medical history, then a chest X-ray and CT-scan. It all confirms from MacDonald had suspected.

“The good news,” Dr Stanley explains calmly, “is we’ve caught it early.”

Young looks terrified. “Am I going to die?”

“With treatment you should make a full recovery.” Stanley pauses, nodding at Harry. “While we don’t currently have methods to treat you here, we have the next best thing.”

Young looks to Harry in confusion.

“We have cryogenic pods on board.” He tries to smile reassuringly. “We’ll keep you in stasis and stop the cancer spreading until we’re back on earth.”

“You’ll freeze me?”

“It’s perfectly safe. We have enough resources to keep everyone onboard in stasis for a century.” Harry smiles, Young still looks apprehensive. “But you should only need a few months until we’re headed back home.”

Stanley narrows his eyes at Harry but says nothing.

“If it’s just a few months, Can’t I wait?”

“This is a very aggressive type of cancer, Mr Young. You may not have a few months to wait.” Stanley says plainly. It’s harsh, but the truth, and clearly what Young needs to hear.

“Alright.” He nods.

Harry takes him down to the cryogenic pods. They’re stored in the hold; in a large dark room that’s more like a warehouse than a medical building. As he switches on the lights and prepares the empty pod, he explains it all to Young.

“These are the newest models of the Goldner line, top of the range I’m told. I interviewed several patients who spent decades in cryo before new treatments became available to cure their diseases. They described the process as relaxing, as easy as falling asleep.”

Young is sitting on the bench by the large metallic cylinder that will soon encase his body. There’s an IV cannula already attached to the back of his hand that will administer the cocktail of drugs to sedate him. Once asleep, they fill the chamber with a gas that will perfectly freeze his tissue and keep his body temperature at 0 degrees Kelvin.

“Did they dream?” He asks, shivering in the cotton gown he’s been stripped down to.

“I don’t believe so.” Harry swings open the pod door and checks the inside. Everything is in order. “It’s a very deep sleep.”

He beckons Young over, to come have a look for himself. He pears inside, then reaches over to test the little metal bench where he’ll be strapped into. “Looks cozy.” He jokes.

“Are you ready, Mr Young?”

“Guess so.” He steps inside. Harry slides the thick plastic tube into his IV port.

“You won’t even age a day while in here.” He doesn’t know quite why he says that. It doesn’t seem particularly reassuring, but Young smiles at him anyway.

“See you soon, doctor.”

Harry presses down on the port, letting the drugs work their way through his veins. “Count down from ten.”

“Ten…nine…” He’s asleep before eight.

Edward trips over Neptune’s prone body in the officer’s kitchen. He swears, stumbling, as the black lump on the floor lifts his head to stare at him forlornly.

“Sorry buddy.” He says, but the dog seems unphased by the interruption.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?” JOPson asks, clicking on the overhead lights in the kitchen. In earth hours, it is approaching midnight. Edward’s shift finished hours ago, but he hasn’t been able to fall asleep, so he snuck into the kitchen to make use of the hot chocolate packets he keeps hidden at the back of the officer’s pantry.

“I’m fine.” He searches for his favourite mug (the one from his sisters that has World’s Okayest Brother written on the side).

“You haven’t seen Mr Gibson around, have you?”

Edward hasn’t. Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen the man all day. “You can’t find him?”

“He’s not where he’s scheduled to be. I didn’t want to search for him unless it was urgent yet…”

“What is it?”

“Only Neptune, Sir. He’s due for his medication.”

“Oh,” Edward blinks. “I can do that. Where is it?”

“Top cupboard.” JOPson replies. “There’s treats in there you can hide the pills inside.”

Edward reaches up and finds an orange plastic container with the prescription printed on the side. He squints at the writing and huffs. Prozac.

“What is it?”

“Oh, nothing. Just me and the dog are on the same anti-depressant. Great.”

“Prozac is highly effective on deep-space voyages, for animals and crew alike. There’s no shame in that.”

Edward supposes that is true. The onboard pharmaceuticals were stocked with years’ worth of supply. Deep-space voyages with close living quarters and the lack of sunlight for years at a time were rife for mental health trouble. Each crew member dealt with it differently. Edward, who has been on some sort of medication since his adolescence, sticks to what he knows. He stuffs the pill inside a dog treat and feeds it to Neptune, who has woken up again with the promise of food. He scratches his floppy ears as Neptune slobbers on him happily. “What do you have to be depressed about, eh?”

“It’s a tough life, being the ship’s mascot.” JOPson says sarcastically. “Perhaps next time Captain Crozier could choose a mascot that sheds less fur.”

Edward looks down at the state of his pants now covered in a thick layer black hair. “Neptune’s a good boy.”

“The wardroom exhaust fans have to be cleaned out every week at this point. It gets everywhere.”

“Maybe we could trade him for Jacko.”

“I’ll blow up my own servers before I allow a monkey on board this ship.”

Edward laughs at the contempt in JOPson’s voice. He can empathise. Hodgson and Irving still think it’s cute when Jacko climbs on their shoulders and combs their hair, but Edward just finds her a little creepy. JOPson appreciates neatness and order. For all of Neptune’s perceived faults, the dog is predictable. A capuchin monkey is less so.

Normally, Cornielius Hickey would be thrilled with the opportunity to slack off work. His job hasn’t been particularly strenuous so far: it’s mainly standing around like an idiot while the actual caulker ensures their ship is airtight and not about to suck them all out into the vacuum of space. Today however, instead of checking airlocks and slapping duct tape over them, he’s been pulled aside for ‘re-education’.

This isn’t the usual reprimand he’s come to expect by now. They’ve already docked his pay as much as they are legally allowed to. It is a poorly kept secret that Hickey had the most duty owing of anyone on Terror. Now, when he is given more duty, he smiles and thinks put in on my tab. It isn’t like they can just fire him anyway.

This latest punishment seems to involve sitting through HR training modules, and it is the most effective punishment yet. This fucking sucks. All because Irving caught him and Billy fooling around on duty. Apparently, there are rules about onboard relationships. Hickey didn’t actually think HR would need to get involved.

Was Billy being forced to sit through this too? He wonders as JOPson downloads a series of online pamphlets onto his tablet. Probably not. He’s probably talked his way out of danger with the lieutenants as usual.

It had almost been worth it to see the look on Irving’s face, the way he blushed and spluttered when he realised what Hickey and Gibson had been up to in the storeroom closet. Billy had been mortified too, of course. He’d scolded Hickey for laughing afterwards, because now we’re really in trouble that’s my fucking boss Cornielius I can never look at him again it’s over we’re done.

He's only thirty percent of the way convinced Billy is actually done with him.

“Mr Hickey, are you listening to me?” JOPson asks.

“Nope.” He smiles. If he’s going to be stuck here, he might as well take it out on the evil computer.

“It has been requested you retake the Appropriate Workplace Behaviour Quiz. Would you like to proceed?”

“Not really.”

“Question One: Which of the following is not an acceptable way of greeting a crewmate? A. Good Morning. B. Hello. C. How are you? Or D. Get out of the way.”

“Do you have any other games, JOPson? This one’s boring me.”

“The quicker you complete this, the easier it will be on both of us, Mr Hickey.”

“What’s the rush? We’ve got all day.”

“Question 2.” JOPson continues. “What is the appropriate number of times to enter a crewmate’s room without permission?”

“Ooh, I used to know this one.” Hickey hums. “Three?”

“The correct answer is zero.”

“Ah, well. I was close.”

“You really weren’t.”

With Erebus lame, Terror takes the lead position. They travel slowly, weaving through empty pockets of space towards the star newly named in Ross’ honour. When Francis isn’t watching over the command deck, he’s back in his office combing through pages and pages of instrument readings with JOPson. The size of the Anomaly, as far as they can currently make out, is smaller than expected but far denser. It may be the densest thing in the universe. Yet for all its supposed mass and density, a White Hole should be repelling other objects, not keeping them in stasis. Ross’ star and the three planets that orbit it should be moving away from the Anomaly, but all readings suggest it is staying put.

He puzzles over this with JOPson, spending slow weeks running simulation after simulation with no conclusive findings. There are simply too many unknown variables for even JOPson to grapple with.

He sends these findings over to Erebus but hears little back in response. Command is preoccupied with the repairs, making a proper spectacle of it. They’ve set up an observation platform at the rear of the hold, where the large plexiglass windows overlook the damaged thrusters. Apparently, Sir John spends most evenings there, chatting with the crew on duty, discussing the upcoming spacewalk with second-mate Collins. Spacewalks in open space are always a risk, but it will be needed to patch over the damaged hull and reconnect the thruster to the energy supply on the ship.

Given all the attention on Erebus is pointed towards the back of the ship, it is those on Terror who first spot the White Hole. From this distance, it is no more that another star twinkling in the darkness of space, but as they get closer, the light becomes brighter. It pulses white light so intense that JOPson has to up the tint on all the external windows. The doctors remind the crew daily not to stare directly at it when men report to the med bay with spotted vision and headaches.

Sir John congratulates the crew on becoming the first to ever lay eyes on a White Hole, now visually confirmed. They pass out an extra ration of chocolate after dinner.  

Chapter Text

By the time they are within orbit of Ross’ star, the White Hole almost obfuscates the entire view of the surrounding space. After over a year in the darkness of space, the crew are pleased with the change in view. Already, Francis is sick of it. It reminds him of a pulsing hangover. JOPson has increased the dark tint on the windows as far as it will go, which seems to have abated the worse of the crew’s headaches.

The HMS Terror and Erebus now sit just beyond the three rocky planets that orbit the star. One of them is large enough to have a thin atmosphere, although there is no water or tectonic activity that would make it viable for life.

They’ve made good time given the state of Erebus and now have two months remaining until they can ready the orbital launch back home. Naturally, Sir John has called for another wardroom dinner to celebrate their turn of good luck. JOPson correctly predicts a fruit cake for dessert.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sir John says to Francis, the two of them alone on the observation deck. The rest of the officers remain in the dining room, enjoying a round of post-dinner drinks and old war stories. As the two sober people in the party, it had been easy for them to slip out without question. “I’ve never felt closer to God than I do now, looking out at the light.”

Francis keeps his agnosticism to himself, wishing to draw the curtains down to block out all that damn white light. Instead, he turns away from the White Hole, towards the other side of the ship where the nearby star is breaching the horizon of Erebus’ bow like a dawning sun.

“I wonder if I I owe you an apology, Francis.” Francis turns, protests on his lips, but Sir John silences him. “Perhaps you were right about the distress beacon.”

Francis swallows. It’s a sore point.

“I understand that my…eagerness…has perhaps led me to take greater risks than what is wise. But this is still my expedition to lead, Francis, and I can’t have you undermining my decisions in front of the crew.”

He recalls his panic when he saw Erebus leaking debris, how he had shouted from the command deck at Sir John. It was neither of their proudest moments, but Francis had only wanted Sir John to see sense. He hadn’t thought on how it would look to outsiders.

“But I hope that this is all behind us now. We have found the White Hole and we’ll be well on our way to a heroic welcome home in just a few short months.”

He says softly: “Perhaps we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.”

The smile of Sir John’s face fades. “What is there left to be pessimistic about?”

“Erebus isn’t fixed yet. We should at least explore our back-up plans. I was thinking we could send some probes ahead along our projected return path to ensure there are no hazards in our way.”

“Must you undermine me at every step?”

“I’m only trying to-”

“This is not your expedition, Francis.” He snaps. “You act as if we’re constantly on the brink of needing rescue. We are on the most technologically advanced ships of our age. We can take care of ourselves.” Sir John speaks of we, when it is clear he means himself. It is clear the Admiralty’s lack of faith in him still irks him even now.

“You are the captain,” Francis reaffirms, “but Terror is still my ship, and if JOPson tells me there’s a reason for caution I’ll follow it.”

“That machine is as pessimistic as you are.”

Francis doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t think you understand how dangerous our predicament is. Any deep space voyage could turn to disaster in an instant. Is it pessimism, or honesty you fear from me, Sir John?”

“You are the worst kind of second, Francis. I had thought perhaps sobriety would lift your spirits, but you are morose as ever and persistent on bringing everyone else down with you. And you wonder why Sophia-” 

“Don’t. Just don’t.” Francis can’t listen to this anymore. He rushes to the door. Sir John doesn’t follow. As the automatic doors shut behind him, Francis realises he isn’t alone. James Fitzjames stands frozen in the hall with a glass of wine in his hand. His eyes are wide, but his mouth stays shut. Francis wonders how much he overheard as he brushes past.  

The next day brings the final stage of Erebus’ repairs. Francis remains on Terror’s command deck, the head of the ship pointed to watch over her sister. Several hundred meters away, the men in silver spacesuits look like jewelled beetles scurrying over the ship’s back. They have a clear view of the observation platform overlooking the damaged thruster, although the windows are too dark to see anyone inside. No doubt Sir John is there, wishing desperately it could have been him instead on the spacewalk.

Francis has been part of a spacewalk once when he was a midshipman and was not keen to ever repeat the experience. The spacesuits are heavy and cumbersome, each step feels like dragging feet through concrete. As the hours go by, the suits become warmer and warmer. Francis thinks he must have lost half his weight in sweat by the end of it.

They have the comms channels open, listening in as Collins directs his crew. The repairs will likely take upwards of several hours. It would appear Collins has a novel approach of keeping himself occupied while he works, judging by the heavy metal music currently blaring through the comms line.

“Does he know the onboard libraries have other genres of music available?” Asks Hodgson.

“Could be worse, he could be playing disco.” Little shrugs.

“You take that back. I won’t have you disparaging the classics.”

“ABBA is not classic.”

“Here we go again.” Irving mutters to himself, having heard this exact argument three times already.

“Patently false. Besides, disco is all about good vibes! Your music is so depressing, Edward.” Hodgson shakes his head.

“It’s not that bad.” He says defensively. He honestly doesn’t hate disco all that much, but it is entertaining to rile Hodgson up.  “It’s better than Dancing Queen.”

“Clearly you have never felt young and sweet, only seventeen.” 

“Gentlemen, focus.” Francis says warily. If they find Little’s preferences for indie rock depressing, he can scarcely imagine what they think of their captain’s own penchant for blues and folk. JOPson makes little playlists for him from time to time, having gotten Francis’ music tastes down to an exact science.

Over the comms line, Collins speaks. “We’re ready to reconnect the auxiliary thruster.”

Francis is impressed by the second mate’s speed and efficiency.

“Excellent.” Sir John sounds pleased. “James?”

“Say the word and we’ll begin routing power to the engines.” Fitzjames says from the Erebus command deck channel. They’ll need to recalibrate the thrusters, running them up to full power to simulate hyperspace conditions to ensure they’re functional.

“Ready to proceed.” Collins puffs, out of breath from the long climb down the external ladder running down the side of the thruster. There’s still a long walk back across the stern to the airlock.

The head of the thruster pivots around to face the same direction as the larger main thrusters, turbines beginning to glow blue. The noise doesn’t travel in space, but Francis knows the sounds well from his time on Terror.

“Power at thirty percent and climbing.” Fitzjames says steadily. “Now at fifty. Engaging lightspeed engines.”

“Captain.” JOPson cuts in urgently. “There’s something strange coming from the Anomaly.”

The screens in front of him flick over to the infrared video feed of the White Hole. The surface of the astral body flickers, white strands bursting out like a solar flare.

“The energy readings have spiked.” Blanky leans over to read the numbers climbing in the bottom right corner. Francis chews on his lip for a moment then pauses. The air suddenly tastes like ozone.

“Erebus, do you hear us?”

“What’s going on?” Fitzjames voice crackles as the comms channel fills with static.

“Switch the engines off now. Full emergency stop.” He shouts, hoping somehow his voice will carry through to the comms line. “Sir John, are you there?”

“The line is dead.” Hodgson shouts.

The air is buzzing now. He turns away from the screen to look out at Erebus. White specs of light flitter in the space between the ships like a strange snowfall. The buzz on the comms line becomes louder. Alerts on the control panels begin to wail. Radiation flares. In seconds, the ships are overrun. He can’t see anything out of the window; it looks like a static tv screen.

“We can’t-bzzt- the engines -bzzt- I can’t hear-” The Erebus command channel squeals, Hodgson flicks switches and turns dials, trying to lock on to the signal. There’s a crash, and a low metallic groan. “-ir John! -bzzt- hold is compromised-”

Jesus christ, Francis can only listen and look on in horror. It’s tearing Erebus apart. “JOPson,” Francis calls out. Help us. Think of something. There is no answer from the computer.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the static storm ends. The command room is silent, every pair of eyes in the room glued on Erebus. The damaged thruster is gone. Where it once sat on the stern is a deep gouge tearing through the hull like a tin can.

“Ready every available shuttle.” Francis rasps, spurring the room back into action. “JOPson?”

“He’s offline.” Irving explains, face white as a sheet.

“Oh my god, he’s still alive.”

The next thing Henry Collins remembers is waking up twenty hours later.

A miracle, they call it. His tether had broken off in the storm and sent him hurtling into empty space between the two ships. A crew assigned with recovering the bodies found him, spacesuit intact with three minutes left in his oxygen stores. Collins had then looked around the med bay, expecting to find others in the beds beside him. There was no one else.

Twenty-five crew in body bags, if there was enough left of them to put in a bag. Collins frowns at the number. He’d only had six men out on the spacewalk with him.

The hold had been damaged, tearing through the small group inside staged up on the observation deck. Sir Franklin. Lieutenant Gore. Many more good men lost.

But I’m still here, Collins thinks. The thought does not cheer him.

The emergency airlocks had shut down Erebus in parts, saving everyone else on board. Francis has seen the damage for himself on the shuttle over. It’s a wonder the ship is still functional at all. They’ve installed a tether between the two ships now, in the hopes to keep Erebus close should they need to perform a full emergency evacuation to Terror.

Fitzjames is the only man still on the command deck. Francis can tell he’s been crying, but he’s quiet now. Francis is only relieved to find James hasn’t been drinking in his grief.

He pulls over a chair and sits next to him.

“I’ve never wanted anything as little as I want this now.”

Fitzjames finally turns, realising just now that he is no longer alone. His dark eyes are rimmed with pink.

“We should discuss what happens next.”

“They’ll need a few days to plan the funerals.” Fitzjames’ voice is fragile but unwavering.

Francis considers the most delicate way to say this. “There are other, more pressing concerns. We need to figure out how and why this happened.”

Fitzjames turns away with a shake of his head. “How are you so calm about this? Do you not feel what has happened?”

“I do.” Francis wonders what would happen if he reached over and put a hand on James’ shoulder. Would he welcome the comfort or recoil from Francis? “For the sake of everyone onboard, we have to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“Fine.” He is Francis’ second now, he realises. “Do what you must.”

“You’re back.” Edward could cry with relief. JOPson had only been down for little more than an hour, but the onboard computers had been chaos in the AI’s absence. Edward is back in the server room, on the floor crouched over one of the main processing units.

“Are you alright, lieutenant?” JOPson asks, his voice sounds colder than usual, less human. Perhaps the computer is still waking up. He doesn’t ask what happened while he was out. Knowing JOPson, he would have absorbed all the relevant information in seconds.

Edward lies back on the carpeted floor; the stiff synthetic bristles scratch his back. “I’m alive.” It’s more than he could say for the poor souls on Erebus.

“Has Captain Crozier already moved Erebus?” JOPson no longer detects the captain on board.

“He’s gone to speak with what’s left of their officers. He’ll be back.”

“As the de facto leader of the voyage, the flagship is now his to command.” JOPson sounds worried.

“You really think he’d move ships?” He asks. “You know him better than that.”

“It would be statistically unlikely.” JOPson concedes.

“Not unless he can pack you away and ferry you over to Erebus.” Edward supposes in that scenario he would have to find an excuse to transfer too.

“Might be difficult to remove my fusion core. It would make more sense to transfer the flagship to Terror, given the damage to Erebus.”

Edward hums, feeling his eyes begin to droop close. It’s been a long day. He doesn’t even know where to begin unpacking it.

“You really shouldn’t sleep on the floor.”

“’m not sleeping.” He mumbles.  

“Your uniform is getting dusty.”

Edward doesn’t respond.

“Well, if you insist on sleeping here, perhaps I could play some music to help you unwind.”

A piano riff bursts through the speakers on the wall. Dread fills Edward. It’s Hodgson’s ABBA mega mix.

I’ve been cheated by you since I don’t know when,

So I made up my mind, it must come to an end,

He jolts upright. “Okay, okay, I’m up.”

Look at me now, will I ever learn?

I don’t know how, but I suddenly lose control,

There’s a fire within my soul.

“JOPson, please.” Edward isn’t above begging. “I promise I’ll go sleep in a proper bed.”

JOPson mercifully switches off the music. “Sleep well, Lieutenant Little.”

It’s a nice sentiment, but Edward doubts anyone on board will be able to sleep well tonight.

Chapter Text

The meeting takes place on Terror. James is seated at the command table; Francis still sits opposite to him. The head of the table, Sir John’s chair, remains empty.

“We have two main concerns.” Francis begins without ceremony. “Keeping ourselves alive and getting out of here. To do that, we need to understand what has happened.” He nods to Blanky.

“The crew’s started calling it the ‘white out’.” Says Blanky.

“Accurate enough description.” James concedes. His voice is rough from a lack of sleep. He pours himself another mug of coffee from the pitchers left out on the table.

“JOPson and I’ve gone through all the readings we have of the event.” As Blanky talks, the screens in front of them switch to various camera and telescope footage of the White Hole. “Three seconds after Erebus’ engines engaged for lightspeed, the white out began.”

“That can’t be a coincidence.”

“JOPson agrees with you on that, James.”

 “If we can’t hit lightspeed, we won’t be able to use an orbital launch.” Little sits stiffly at the far end of the table, his straight posture hides none of his anxiety.

“We don’t know that for certain.” Francis says, quelling the brief swell of panic in the room. They need to be calm. “There could be other factors we’re missing here. We need to run tests and we need to get Erebus back in shape. Regardless of what we find, I doubt we’ll make the orbital launch in two months’ time. That leaves us with eighteen months to sort this out.”

“Is that enough time to fix Erebus?”

“Should be. The thrusters took a beating.” Dundy explains. “But most of the damage was superficial. Structurally, she should manage once we get the hull patched up.”

“What about the ice?” Blanky asks. After the white out, it was discovered that both ships were covered in a layer of space ice. On Erebus, the ice had expanded through the breached hull and covered half of the hold. “Have you collected any samples?”

“The hold is closed off right now.” James reminds him. “Surely we have more pressing matters.”

“We need all the data we can get.” Francis says, “and we already have on board an expert on the formation of deep space ice.”

James looks to Blanky. Blanky looks to Francis.

“Who?”

“Silna.” Francis is met with blank stares. “Did no one read her onboarding documents? It was listed under her occupation.”

James looks away, embarrassed. He had not read them. What kind of commander is so negligent with the people onboard his ship?

“No matter,” Francis awkwardly moves on. They’ve much more to discuss for the next coming months.

The next time Silna leaves her room, the hallways are empty. The only noise she hears is the sound of her own footsteps echoing down the cement corridors. She isn’t sure she’ll find Goodsir in the laboratory, but she doesn’t know where else he would be. Thankfully, he’s at his usual bench, sitting with his notebooks open but not moving. He startles when she walks up behind him.

“Sorry,” He says. Silna isn’t sure what he’s apologising for. “Are you alright?”

“Are you?” She asks instead.

“No.” He looks down at his notes. “twenty-five people are dead.”

She knows this already. SAMson had informed the crew of the final tally come the morning. Some of the bodies are still stuck in the hold and haven’t yet been retrieved. She thinks of her father’s body, thankfully left untouched on Terror.

Goodsir takes a moment to collect himself, wipes his face, and sighs. He opens up his tablet where the onboard biometric monitors are being displayed. It reads thirty-eight heartbeats aboard Erebus and sixty-four on Terror. Goodsir frowns for a moment before the screen flickers and the counter on Terror flicks down to sixty-three. It still glitches out like that sometimes.

Silna looks up as the doors to the lab swing open. There’s a tall man with long, chestnut hair in a pristine officer’s uniform striding toward her. She doesn’t recognise him. Goodsir does.

“Commander- I mean Captain Fitzjames,” He quickly corrects himself. Ah. Silna recalls the previous captain has died.

“Doctor Goodsir…Miss Silna.” He says, eyes flickering down to the translator still pinned to Silna’s shirt collar. He then pulls out a stack of papers and slides them over to her.

It’s a contract, translated into Inuktitut poorly by SAMson. She doesn’t recall reading as many errors with Terror’s AI.

“Your expertise is requested by Captain Crozier.”

Silna flips over to the second page and hurriedly reads through the mission directive. She’d heard about the ice that now covers the ship’s hull but thought it was of little consequence. Ice forms all the time in deep space. “Why?”

“He has a theory.” James looks a little miffed as he continues to explain. “He thinks it’s a signal of the attack. We’ve detected no bodies of water or ice on the nearby planets. Francis wonders if they’re somehow protected from the white out. You’ll have access to any supplies onboard you’ll need for your research.”

“I can help,” Goodsir’s tired eyes brighten. “If you need an assistant.”

This seems to amuse Fitzjames. “If Dr Stanley can bear to spare you.”

Silna keeps reading but pauses on the final page of the contract. “Renewal in twelve months?”

 “Ah,” Fitzjames chews his thin lip. “We may be stationed here a little longer than expected.”

Silna doesn’t groan. The promise of a few months has now ballooned into a year, maybe more judging by the look on the captain’s face. She pulls out a biro from Goodsirs desk, signing on the dotted line while she shakes her head. If she’s going to wait around for a year, she might as well do something.

After the funeral, the crew gets to work. Much to do is the official word from the command deck, but Tozer knows busy work when he sees it. They want to keep the men occupied. He can’t blame them fore that. It’s going to be a tough year and change until they can escape this place.

Ever since he stepped foot on Terror, Tozer has had a sinking feeling that he isn’t supposed to be here. He’s always trusted his instincts, but if something is off it won’t do to panic and scare the crew. Not when they’ve got a year and a half still left in this place.

Hodgson has enlisted the marines in the gunnery. On a research mission, Tozer hadn’t expected the guns to see any use, but he’s not complaining. They’ve loaded deep space probes into the canons ready to be launched; three pointed towards the White Hole and three pointed away from it. Running tests, had been Hodgson’s reason for the endeavour.

Tozer’s men are hard at work positioning the canons, the gunnery steward Armitage running back and forth between consoles inputting passcodes. There’s a small crowd of AB’s watching on from the open doorway. Tozer isn’t surprised to see Hickey among the audience members. If there’s an excuse to slack off, Hickey will be there.

As a sergeant, he’s well aware of Hickey’s standing with command. How the man has racked up so much duty owing in a year is honestly a little impressive. Despite his status as a troublemaker, he has plenty of friends on the ship, including a couple of Tozer’s own men. Having listened in on a lot of his dinner time conversations, he has to admit Hickey has a way with words.

He accidentally catches Hickey’s eye across the room, the man smirks at him, watching on with keen interest. Tozer knows that look, knows when he’s being sized up. The lanky, curly-haired steward that typically follows Hickey around has been noticeably absent of late.

Heather jostles him, drawing his attention back to the task at hand. The marine raises an admonishing eyebrow at Tozer; it’s not like him to be easily distracted.

When they’re ready to launch, Hodgson gives the word, and the cannons are fired. The crew cheers, and Tozer turns back to where Hickey had been watching and finds the man is gone.

Hickey is called away to a section of the ship he’s never seen before. While he’s disappointed to have missed the gun show, he’s not about to pass up the opportunity to get a glimpse at the command deck, but it turns out the leak is in the corridor just outside. Mr Darlington, the caulker-in-chief, and a disgruntled Lieutenant Little are crouched over a thin metal pipe running up the wall. As Hickey arrives, Little steps away, his usually pristine uniform stained with the strange liquid currently seeping out from a split in the pipe.

“What the fuck is that?” Hickey’s ungloved hand reaches out to touch the clear, but oddly viscous liquid.

“Coolant.” Darlington mutters gruffly, scrambling for his patching kit.

“Why would engine coolant run through the command room?” He asks. The engines are positioned at the stern, right at the other end of the ship. They’ve had to patch up leaks in there a few times, but he remembers the coolant there being a muddy brown colour.

“It’s not for the engines. It’s some special formula that runs through JOPson’s computers.”

“It’s gross.”

“It’s expensive is what it is. Bloody thing burns through it like crazy.” They’ve managed to slow the leak to a trickle. Darlington continues patching with one had while he gestures for Hickey to start mopping up.

“What happens if it runs out of coolant?”

Darlington shrugs, the answer is beyond his expertise. “I guess they could reuse what they have, might slow it down through.”

Hickey looks around, noticing Lieutenant Little now gone. Instead, it is Captain Crozier watching them from a distance, arms held behind his back. He spies Hickey and nods at him. Hickey smiles, returns to his work wringing out saturated towel into a bucket. As the coolant accumulates at the bottom of the bucket it coagulates and turns slightly opaque. Under the overhead lights it holds a pinkish sheen.

Gross. Hickey thinks. It’s going to be a nightmare washing this stuff out of his clothes. He could really use Billy’s help with that.

His shipside situationship hasn’t been speaking with him since the incident with Irving. He’s been avoiding Hickey in the dining hall and rec rooms too. Naturally, Hickey had camped himself outside Billy’s cabin one night, insisting he just wanted a quick chat, but that stunt only got him additional mandatory HR training. Still, Hickey is not discouraged. Billy will come around to him eventually.

He has to.

He has no idea how the washing machine works.

Chapter Text

The meeting takes place on Terror. James is seated at the command table; Francis still sits opposite to him. The head of the table, Sir John’s chair, remains empty.

“We have two main concerns.” Francis begins without ceremony. “Keeping ourselves alive and getting out of here. To do that, we need to understand what has happened.” He nods to Blanky.

“The crew’s started calling it the ‘white out’.” Says Blanky.

“Accurate enough description.” James concedes. His voice is rough from a lack of sleep. He pours himself another mug of coffee from the pitchers left out on the table.

“JOPson and I’ve gone through all the readings we have of the event.” As Blanky talks, the screens in front of them switch to various camera and telescope footage of the White Hole. “Three seconds after Erebus’ engines engaged for lightspeed, the white out began.”

“That can’t be a coincidence.”

“JOPson agrees with you on that, James.”

 “If we can’t hit lightspeed, we won’t be able to use an orbital launch.” Little sits stiffly at the far end of the table, his straight posture hides none of his anxiety.

“We don’t know that for certain.” Francis says, quelling the brief swell of panic in the room. They need to be calm. “There could be other factors we’re missing here. We need to run tests and we need to get Erebus back in shape. Regardless of what we find, I doubt we’ll make the orbital launch in two months’ time. That leaves us with eighteen months to sort this out.”

“Is that enough time to fix Erebus?”

“Should be. The thrusters took a beating.” Dundy explains. “But most of the damage was superficial. Structurally, she should manage once we get the hull patched up.”

“What about the ice?” Blanky asks. After the white out, it was discovered that both ships were covered in a layer of space ice. On Erebus, the ice had expanded through the breached hull and covered half of the hold. “Have you collected any samples?”

“The hold is closed off right now.” James reminds him. “Surely we have more pressing matters.”

“We need all the data we can get,” Francis says, “and we already have on board an expert on the formation of deep space ice.”

James looks to Blanky. Blanky looks to Francis.

“Who?”

“Silna.” Francis is met with blank stares. “Did no one read her onboarding documents? It was listed under her occupation.”

James looks away, embarrassed. He had not read them. What kind of commander is so negligent with the people onboard his ship?

“No matter,” Francis awkwardly moves on. They’ve much more to discuss for the next coming months.

--

The next time Silna leaves her room, the hallways are empty. The only noise she hears is the sound of her own footsteps echoing down the cement corridors. She isn’t sure she’ll find Goodsir in the laboratory, but she doesn’t know where else he would be. Thankfully, he’s at his usual bench, sitting with his notebooks open but not moving. He startles when she walks up behind him.

“Sorry,” He says. Silna isn’t sure what he’s apologising for. “Are you alright?”

“Are you?” She asks instead.

“No.” He looks down at his notes. “twenty-five people are dead.”

She knows this already. SAMson had informed the crew of the final tally come the morning. Some of the bodies are still stuck in the hold and haven’t yet been retrieved. She thinks of her father’s body, thankfully left untouched on Terror.

Goodsir takes a moment to collect himself, wipes his face, and sighs. He opens up his tablet where the onboard biometric monitors are being displayed. It reads thirty-eight heartbeats aboard Erebus and sixty-four on Terror. Goodsir frowns for a moment before the screen flickers and the counter on Terror flicks down to sixty-three. Since the update, it glitches out like that sometimes.

Silna looks up as the doors to the lab swing open. There’s a tall man with long, chestnut hair in a pristine officer’s uniform striding toward her. She doesn’t recognise him. Goodsir does.

“Commander- I mean Captain Fitzjames,” He quickly corrects himself. Ah. Silna recalls the previous captain has died.

“Doctor Goodsir… Silna.” He says, eyes flickering down to the translator still pinned to her shirt collar. He then pulls out a stack of papers and slides them over to her.

It’s a contract, translated into Inuktitut poorly by SAMson. She doesn’t recall reading as many errors with Terror’s AI.

“Your expertise is requested by Captain Crozier.”

Silna flips over to the second page and hurriedly reads through the mission directive. She’d heard about the ice that now covers the ship’s hull but thought it was of little consequence. Ice forms all the time in deep space. “Why?”

“He has a theory.” James looks a little miffed as he continues to explain. “He thinks it’s a signal of the attack. We’ve detected no bodies of water or ice on the nearby planets. Francis wonders if they’re somehow protected from the white out. You’ll have access to any supplies onboard you’ll need for your research.”

“I can help,” Goodsir’s tired eyes brighten. “If you need an assistant.”

This seems to amuse Fitzjames. “If Dr Stanley can bear to spare you.”

Silna keeps reading but pauses on the final page of the contract. “Renewal in twelve months?”

 “Ah,” Fitzjames chews his thin lip. “We may be stationed here a little longer than expected.”

Silna doesn’t groan. The promise of a few months has now ballooned into a year, maybe more judging by the look on the captain’s face. She pulls out a biro from Goodsirs desk, signing on the dotted line while she shakes her head. If she’s going to wait around for a year, she might as well do something.

--

After the funeral, the crew gets to work. Much to do is the official word from the command deck, but Tozer knows busy work when he sees it. They want to keep the men occupied. He can’t blame them fore that. It’s going to be a tough year and change until they can escape this place.

Ever since he stepped foot on Terror, Tozer has had a sinking feeling that he isn’t supposed to be here. He’s always trusted his instincts, but if something is off it won’t do to panic and scare the crew. Not when they’ve got a year and a half still left in this place.

Hodgson has enlisted the marines in the gunnery. On a research mission, Tozer hadn’t expected the guns to see any use, but he’s not complaining. They’ve loaded deep space probes into the canons ready to be launched; three pointed towards the White Hole and three pointed away from it. Running tests, had been Hodgson’s reason for the endeavour.

Tozer’s men are hard at work positioning the canons, the gunnery steward Armitage running back and forth between consoles inputting passcodes. There’s a small crowd of AB’s watching on from the open doorway. Tozer isn’t surprised to see Hickey among the audience members. If there’s an excuse to slack off, Hickey will be there.

As a sergeant, he’s well aware of Hickey’s standing with command. How the man has racked up so much duty owing in a year is honestly a little impressive. Despite his status as a troublemaker, he has plenty of friends on the ship, including a couple of Tozer’s own men. Having listened in on a lot of his dinner time conversations, he has to admit Hickey has a way with words.

He accidentally catches Hickey’s eye across the room, the man smirks at him, watching on with keen interest. Tozer knows that look, knows when he’s being sized up. The lanky, curly-haired steward that typically follows Hickey around has been noticeably absent of late.

Heather jostles him, drawing his attention back to the task at hand. The marine raises an admonishing eyebrow at Tozer; it’s not like him to be easily distracted.

When they’re ready to launch, Hodgson gives the word, and the cannons are fired. The crew cheers, and Tozer turns back to where Hickey had been watching and finds the man is gone.

--

Hickey is called away to a section of the ship he’s never seen before. While he’s disappointed to have missed the gun show, he’s not about to pass up the opportunity to get a glimpse at the command deck, but it turns out the leak is in the corridor just outside. Mr Darlington, the caulker-in-chief, and a disgruntled Lieutenant Little are crouched over a thin metal pipe running up the wall. As Hickey arrives, Little steps away, his usually pristine uniform stained with the strange liquid currently seeping out from a split in the pipe.

“What the fuck is that?” Hickey’s ungloved hand reaches out to touch the clear, but oddly viscous liquid.

“Coolant.” Darlington mutters gruffly, scrambling for his patching kit.

“Why would engine coolant run through the command room?” He asks. The engines are positioned at the stern, right at the other end of the ship. They’ve had to patch up leaks in there a few times, but he remembers the coolant there being a muddy brown colour.

“It’s not for the engines. It’s some special formula that runs through JOPson’s computers.”

“It’s gross.”

“It’s expensive is what it is. Bloody thing burns through it like crazy.” They’ve managed to slow the leak to a trickle. Darlington continues patching with one had while he gestures for Hickey to start mopping up.

“What happens if it runs out of coolant?”

Darlington shrugs, the answer is beyond his expertise. “I guess they could reuse what they have, might slow it down through.”

Hickey looks around, noticing Lieutenant Little now gone. Instead, it is Captain Crozier watching them from a distance, arms held behind his back. He spies Hickey and nods at him. Hickey smiles, returns to his work wringing out saturated towel into a bucket. As the coolant accumulates at the bottom of the bucket it coagulates and turns slightly opaque. Under the overhead lights it holds a pinkish sheen.

Gross. Hickey thinks. It’s going to be a nightmare washing this stuff out of his clothes. He could really use Billy’s help with that.

His shipside situationship hasn’t been speaking with him since the incident with Irving. He’s been avoiding Hickey in the dining hall and rec rooms too. Naturally, Hickey had camped himself outside Billy’s cabin one night, insisting he just wanted a quick chat, but that stunt only got him additional mandatory HR training. Still, Hickey is not discouraged. Billy will come around to him eventually.

He has to.

He has no idea how the washing machine on Terror works.

Chapter Text

Nine months since last chapter. Fifteen months in total locked in orbit around Ross’s Star, and three months until next orbital launch window.

There’s knocking at his door again. Francis rubs his face, feeling the scrape of stubble against his palms. He tells JOPson: “Let her in.”

His office door clicks open, and Silna enters. The annoyance on her face wavers for a moment as she takes in Francis sitting alone at his desk in the dark. For the sake of decorum JOPson flicks on a lamp. He tries not to flinch at the light.

“Do you have something to report?” Francis tries to remember if JOPson had scheduled a meeting between them he had somehow missed. Silna pulls out her translator that sat unused in her pocket. His Inuktitut is still very basic, Silna observes, while Goodsir’s has gasped the language much quicker in so many months.

“No.” She huffs. “Why aren’t you following Goodsir’s recommendations?”

Francis is surprised by her question. Stanley and Goodsir’s latest reports came with a list of recommendations for getting the crew ready for long-term cryo sleep.

“I’m still weighing our options.” Francis tells her. “The cryo plan hasn’t been decided on yet.”

“What other plan is there?”

“If we can figure out the lightspeed issue-”

“You can’t.”

“We don’t know that for certain.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “The cryo pods are our only hope to get out of here. You must know that by now.”

“If we follow that plan, we won’t be back home for eighty-three years. Everyone we know and love will likely be dead.” Francis closes his eyes. “How do I explain that to the crew?”

“It’s either that or die.” She looks around the room, taken in the state of disarray. “Why do you want to die?”

Francis’ silence speaks for itself. Silna wants to scream; she wants to claw at the walls like a caged animal. She wants off this ship but there’s no where to go.  She can’t look at him anymore. Before she steps out the door, she turns back a final time and speaks, “You know what you have to do, and you won’t do it.”

When she’s gone, Francis tells JOPson “Cancel the rest of my meetings today. I need to think.”

“Sir, if you need someone to talk to-”

“That will be all, JOPson.”

“Please,” the computer’s voice takes on a note of worry. “Don’t push me out.”

“Goodnight, JOPson.”

The computer is promptly shut off.

Hickey catches Billy sitting alone on Terror’s observation deck with a pile of laundry in his lap.  Through the wide plexiglass windows, the Terror overlooks the smallest, outmost planet in the solar system. It’s about as large as earth’s moon and a similar silvery grey colour. He quietly sits down next to him and pulls out a vape pen. 

“You’re not allowed to vape in here.” Gibson doesn’t look up from the shirt he is sewing a button back on.

Hickey smiles, a thin stream of cherry scented vapour leaving his lips. “You gonna rat me out?”

“The smoke detectors will do that for me.” Gibson makes no signal to move, so Hickey settles in and tucks the vape back inside his jacket. He gives it five minutes before Billy is begging him for a hit. “What do you want, Cornelius?”

“I can’t just enjoy your company?”

Gibson rolls his eyes. Fine. Hickey can get straight to business.

“You know as well as I do the crews are restless. There’s something command isn’t telling us. I want to know what.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“You wouldn’t have to guess now, would you? You’re back there most nights in officer’s country.”

“They don’t exactly let me in on their confidential meetings.”

“But you do hear things.”

“And what do I get in return for this?” Gibson pricks his thumb with his needle. Hickey watches him lift his thumb to suck away to drop of blood before it falls on his white shirt. 

“I’ve got something for you.”

Gibson finally looks at him, eyes narrowed.

“Close your eyes, give me your hand.”

When Gibson finally relinquishes his hand, the one that isn’t bleeding, and Hickey slides the ring onto his pinkie finger. He looks down at the cool metal warming quickly on his hand. It’s hardly a work of art. Gibson knows cheap gold plate and cut glass when he sees it, but still…Hickey had given it to him.

“Where did you get this?”

Hickey just shrugs. It had been embarrassingly easy to guess the code of David Young’s locker. It wasn’t like he’d be needing it. “It doesn’t matter.”

Billy hums, picking back up his needle and thread. “The officers are worried about something.”

Hickey leans back on the bench and pulls out his vape.

They throw a party for Strong in the gunnery. With the decreasing number of probes being shot out of canons these days, the lieutenants have permitted the crew to decorate the place with what ever they can find: dinky little sculptures moulded from scraps of aluminium foil, strings of LED lights hung down from the roof, and sheets of paper from the print room forming a banner on the wall that reads ‘Happy 25^th Birthday Will!’ Diggle even brings a fresh tray of biscuits shaped like stars and moons from the kitchen.

There’s a decent turnout for the party, even Officers Hodgson and Irving even stop by to relay their well wishes. Naturally, the marines were also invited, although Tozer doesn’t know Strong very well. Strong sometimes sits with Hickey at dinner but doesn’t say much, but Tozer is not one to turn down the opportunity for a free beer and neither is Heather.

 “Shame Sir Franklin’s beer pong ban is still in effect.” Heather notes dryly. The two of them had been the barracks’ doubles champions three years running back home.

“We’re too old for drinking games.” Tozer reminds him taking a swig of his watered-down cider and wincing. Not even the drinks had been spared from the rationing crackdown.

The two marines have parked themselves by the snacks table on the far side of the room, which gives them a good vantage point to people watch. Strong is overseeing the ships boys as they hang up a pinata that is supposed to be in the shape of Terror made from an old cereal box. Hickey is on the makeshift dancefloor trying (and failing) to drag Gibson into joining him. Peglar sits by the window looking out wistfully at Erebus, probably wishing his fella could have joined him. Poor sod, Tozer thinks, a secret romantic at heart. At this point, everyone knows why he’s the first to volunteer to relay supplies between the ships and lets him. Why the captain of the foretop doesn’t just request a transfer at this point is a little ridiculous.

Finally, Tozer spies Tommy Armitage in the corner like a floppy-haired wall flower surrounded by AB’s chatting away around him. Armitage doesn’t seem to be paying attention, hardly moving as the boys break into raucous laughter. Tozier smirks. Knowing Tommy, he’s probably switched his hearing aids off to not waste the battery on boring conversation.

When the alarms go off overhead, everyone in the party groans. They’ve had several drills now testing the ship’s newly devised ‘white out’ emergency protocols. Tozer feels his stomach drop. He knows for a fact command wasn’t planning any more practice drills.

“Move out now!” He shouts, ushering men towards the exit.

Out in the hallway there’s a white stripe painted to the concrete floor that directs them to the emergency muster point. They follow it across the hall and down the stairs, the air growing increasingly tense as more and more people realise this is not a drill. In the centre of the hold there’s a reinforced steel chamber that’s just big enough to squeeze them all inside.

Just as they reach the door, Evans pauses looking around frantically. “Where’s Strong?”

“I swear he was right behind me.” Tozer frowns, turning to look around also.

“I haven’t seen him,” Heather turns to Tozer, “did you sweep the gunnery before we left?”

“No.” It wasn’t technically protocol for them to do it, but what good marine doesn’t? “No, fuck, I didn’t.”

Heather nods. “I’ll go back and check.”

“Wait, Will!” Tozer shouts, but the man is already off. Then, Evans is running past him too, his small frame sliding out of reach before Tozer can grab him.

Tozer stands frozen by the door, watching the two run for the stairs before someone grabs his jacket and pulls him inside. It’s the captain.

“Get in, we don’t have much time.” He tells Tozer.

“Sir, there’s still men outside!”

Crozier hisses, looking towards to the steel door now closing. “JOPson!”

“They’re still in the gunnery, I’ve locked down all the windows, but there’s less than twenty seconds until it’s on us.” JOPson tells Crozier.

There it is again. That crackling fills the air and the ship shudders around them. The white out only lasts thirty, maybe forty seconds. When it’s done, they have to unlock the doors manually as JOPson is once again offline.

Tozer is the first out the door. He can hear others running behind him but doesn’t look back to see. He takes the stairs three steps at a time, nearly tripping at one point and scrapes his shin something fierce. Still, he is the first to reach the gunnery, but finds the room locked. He slams himself against the door. Above it, red lights flash, alerting that the gunnery airlock has been compromised.

They’d lost three more men. On his own ship and Francis has done nothing. He could only stand there as the bodies of Strong, Evans, and Heather are carried away. He says nothing to the crew, only turns his back and walks to his cabin. The lieutenants buzz around him: reporting that Erebus is safe, that there’s been no other hull leaks, and divvying up repair duties. Francis hardly says a thing, but nods from time to time.

The ships should have been protected this close to the other planets. Francis was supposed to figure a way out of here. He’s failed them at every step.

What would happen, he thinks to himself, if there’s another white out while everyone is locked away in the cryo pods? Will they be safe? Will they all die anyway?

Eventually the lieutenants leave. JOPson comes back online. The lights overhead switch over to the nighttime settings and the curtains to his window remain drawn. Francis skips dinner. He sits in his cabin past midnight, staring out at the darkness and lets the futility wash over him. The thoughts that have been lingering in the back of his mind come bubbling back up to the service.

Fuck it, he thinks as he stands. There’s no point, anymore.

The officer’s kitchen is deserted at two in the morning. He keeps the lights off as he slides into the pantry, a section of the ship he’s never found himself before. At the back, locked away, is the drinks cabinet.

“Captain, what are you doing?”

“Not now, JOPson.”

“The alcohol stores were locked on your request.”

“Well now I request they be unlocked.”

 There’s a pause. “Sir-”

“That’s an order, JOPson.”

“I won’t do this.”

Francis’ mind races. It should be impossible for JOPson to refuse him. His fist collides with the cabinet door. “Open it!” He shouts.

“No.”

“Damn you, you stupid machine.” He growls. “Open it now or I’ll go upstairs and unplug you for good.”

“Your crew needs you, sir. We need you.” JOPson’s pleads. “You’ve come so far, I can’t let you stumble now.”

Francis pounds at the cabinet again, before slowly sinking to the floor. He doesn’t recall when his started crying, but now his cheeks are wet. “What’s the point? We’re all going to die.”

Before JOPson can reply, there’s a clatter of footsteps in the kitchen.

“Francis? Are you in there?” Blanky calls, running in. He leans against the pantry doorframe and looks down to find Francis. “He’s in here.” Blanky pants.

Damn it. JOPson must have been stalling him out while he called for backup. More footsteps approach. Dr Macdonald and Edward Little appear behind him. Blanky steps into the room, taking in the sight of the locked cupboard with relief. “Looks like we got here just in time.”

Francis can’t rise to meet anyone’s eyes. Instead, Blanky joins him on the floor.

“What are you doing down here?”

“It doesn’t matter, none of it matters.”

“Of course it matters.” Blanky nudges his shoulder. As if on cue, Neptune lumbers in and plants his drooling head on Francis’ lap.

No one speaks while Francis cries. Dr Macdonald finds a roll of paper towel to dry him up with. Little, mercifully, remains outside standing vigil.

“JOPson’s already dobbed you in.” Macdonald eventually speaks. “He tells me you haven’t been taking your medication.”

“Forgot.” It’s half a lie. Some days he had genuinely forgotten, other days he just couldn’t be bothered.

“Perhaps you should take a few days to get back on your feet.” The doctor suggests.

“We don’t have time for that,” Francis tries to protest but is shot down.

“We’ll make time.” Blanky nods. “Won’t we, JOPson?”

JOPson is silent for a moment.

“JOPson?”

“Um, Captain Fitzjames is currently coming aboard.”

“What?”

“I may have panicked little bit before. I can send him away if you want.” JOPson typically hates being so rude to other officers, which shows how much he must really care for Francis in this moment.

“No,” Francis sighs. “If I’m being forced to take leave, he should probably know about it.”

They meet James in Francis’ cabin. James was clearly asleep when he’d been summoned, now dressed in long sleeve silk pyjamas with his coat thrown over top and bare feet jammed into fuzzy slippers.

“Has something happened?” he asks, biting back a yawn.

There’s no point beating around the bush, so Francis gets into it. “I’m unwell. I suppose I have been for a while. I need…some time. To recover. I’m sorry, I know this could not come at a worse time.”

James eyes widen, taking in Francis’ defeated form.

“Edward will take command of Terror,” Francis nods to his lieutenant, dark eyes downcast. “but that leaves you in charge of the expedition.”

James remembers Francis’ words many months ago. I’ve never wanted anything less.

“Take what time you need,” James tells him. “We’ll be here for you.”

After Francis and the rest retire to bed, James stays on board Terror a little longer. He wants to talk to Blanky, although that could wait until morning, but he also has several questions for JOPson. Thankfully, the computer does not need to sleep.

“What do you think caused this latest white out?”

“It appears to have coincided with a radiation flare from the nearby star. The radiation signature is very similar to that expressed by our lightspeed engines.”

“I had wondered as much.” James hums. “How many long-range probes do we have left?”

“Between both ships: eight.”

James hopes that will be enough. “I have an idea.”

Chapter Text

Blanky emphasises to James that it isn’t just Francis who has been feeling the extent of their dire situation. The crews are restless. With the orbital launch window fast approaching, they need to have a plan ready to tell the men. The only problem is James won’t settle on a plan without Francis.

“There’s one last round of tests,” James tells the assembled wardoom, “before we can rule out the launch. Although, it wouldn’t hurt to start getting the cryo pods ready.”

Dr Stanley nods. Goodsir has already begun preparations.

“In the meantime, we need to lift the crew’s spirits.”

 “Oh god, not another round of Erebus’ Got Talent.” Edward mutters, seeming to take the ‘act as Francis’ proxy’ order to heart. 

 “I was thinking of a Carnivale.”

Next to him, Dundy grins.

“We’ll hold it on Erebus,” James adds quickly at Edward’s despondent expression.

“Do we even have the supplies for it?” Edward looks to Irving, who pulls out his notepad.

“Probably.” Irving confirms. “If we make the launch date, we’ll be back on a star map soon enough to restock, and if we’re going into cryo we won’t need much at all.”

“Sir John has left a bunch of costumes in storage.” Dundy adds.

Edward sighs in defeat.

Terror crewmates are ferried over to Erebus in shifts to work on the Carnivale decorations. The floorplan for the event was initially restricted to the mess hall and rec room but has now ballooned out to encompass nearly the entire floor of the lower deck. They’re even building a fake hedge maze down the main hallway.

Gibson is set up outside the kitchen, tasked with polishing silverware. Hickey is supposed to be helping him but got bored after five minutes and is instead practicing knife tricks when no one else is looking. Other crew from Terror and Erebus work nearby: Manson pulling glasses down from the high shelves, Hartnell and Armitage stacking plates, Mr Diggle cleaning out one of the walk-in fridges and swearing under his breath about the state of disorganisation. Two of the marines, Pilkington and Tozer, are stationed by the doorway. Pilkington is talking with the Erebus officer Des Voeux, but Tozer keeps to himself. He’s been quiet since the incident in the Terror gunnery.

“Heard anything lately?” Hickey asks Gibson, knowing his voice will carry across the room. Everyone else continues working around them, but no doubt listening in closely.

“They’re still talking cryo.” Gibson says quietly.  No one is surprised by this, but the thought still sits heavily. If the cryo plan goes ahead, it means they’re decades away from rescue.

“But they’re still sending out probes for some reason, why?”

“Maybe there’s still hope.” Gibson shrugs sarcastically.

“They’re running out of ideas.” Hickey shakes his head. “What about our inspiring leader?”

“No one’s seen him.” Tozer says suddenly standing above them in his red coat, arms folded across his broad chest.

Hickey looks up, momentarily surprised before his face morphs back to his cat-like smile. “Convenient, don’t you think?”

“In what way?” Gibson looks around. No one is pretending to work anymore, they’re all watching Hickey with keen interest.

“They’ve got us all too busy to pay command close attention. It’s smart. It’s what I would do if I was looking to save my own skin.” He looks around at the men hanging onto his words as horror dawns on their faces. He’s got them now. “I think if we want to survive this, we’re going to have to save ourselves.”

Edward, once again, finds himself in JOPson’s server room in an attempt to hide from Carnivale planning. He’s beginning to think Crozier wouldn’t approve just how much time and resources are going into the party, but Fitzjames will not be swayed. He can sympathise with the captain’s reasoning: give the crews one last night of fun before they’re frozen away for nearly a century. He does, however, draw the line at the costume and masquerade aspect of the party. Hodgson and Irving call him a wet blanket but so be it. He hasn’t dressed up since he was a child with an overzealous mother who revelled in needlessly complex family costumes.

“Is something the matter, lieutenant?” JOPson asks. 

“No,” he reassures the machine. “Just…hiding.”

“Hiding?”

“Dundy and Hodgson are fighting over the music for Carnivale. I’m trying not to get involved.” The two have been going back and forth on the Terror and Erebus comms lines for hours, and now Dundy is boarding a shuttle to Terror to ‘sort out the problem himself’. Edward knew to make himself scarce before that happens.

“Ah, understandable. I tried to suggest a setlist with more broad appeal, but I think I only succeeded on making them both cross. If anyone asks me, I won’t tell them where you are, sir.”

“Thank you, JOPson.” He sighs.

“Not looking forward to it?”

“Not really my thing.” He’d much prefer a quiet night in if it were up to him. Edward can practically hear the other lieutenants calling him a stick in the mud. Even Irving for all his Christian virtues seems to appreciate the chance to let loose a little. Thankfully, he had managed to land himself on the second dog watch that would take place halfway through Carnivale, that gives him a convenient excuse to duck out early and replace Irving on watch. Perhaps he can keep JOPson company, if the computer wouldn’t mind.

“I think the captain would agree with you there.”

“How is he?”

“He’s doing well.” JOPson has been notoriously protective of Crozier’s privacy since his brief enforced sabbatical. “He hopes to make an appearance at Carnivale.”

Edward is relieved.

“Looks like everyone will be in attendance then.” He pauses, remembering JOPson will be left on Terror. “Well, almost everyone. Sorry.”

“I had an idea about that, actually, if you’d be willing to help.”

Edward perks up. “Of course, what did you have in mind?” 

JOPson divulges his plan to reoutfit a broach, like one of Silna’s portable translators, with a radio. While he can’t attend Carnivale physically, he’ll be able to see the festivities through the little camera attached. It’s a simple design that Edward can easily make himself.  It’s the kind of busywork with his hands Edward has missed since his lieutenancy.

He chats idly with JOPson as he works, mostly about the small inconveniences about living on a spaceship. JOPson responds with his own lived inconveniences: disorganised software backends, coolant leaks, and the steady yet inexplicable uptick in CPU usage.

When the broach pin is complete, Edward encases the device in a bright teal outer coating. For some reason he thinks the colour suits JOPson. However, there’s an issue when JOPson tries to connect to the microphone and speakers.

“Still can’t hear anything with it.” JOPson tells him after their third round of troubleshooting.

“Maybe we should try resetting your vocal components.” Edward reaches for JOPson’s control panel.

“Wait!” JOPson barks.

Edward freezes. He’s never heard the computer sound so frantic. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s fine…Sorry, sir. I’m not sure what came over me.” 

He looks over the panel, hands hovering over the buttons. Perhaps JOPson is hesitant to have his voice switched off. It should only take half a minute, but he supposes the machine will be helpless in that time. “It’s alright, we can try something else.”

“No, no. Please continue, it’s fine.”

Edward resets the vocal commands. The server room falls eerily silent. A terse thirty seconds later, JOPson comes back online. This time, he connects to the broach right away.

“All well.” The computer informs Edward, who sags with relief.

“What do you think?” Harry steps out from his room wearing Silna’s flight suit. She laughs when he does a little spin, reflective strips on the jacket catching in the light. The suit is a little short in the arms and legs, but otherwise not a terrible fit.

While neither one of them is particularly excited for upcoming Carnivale, they had agreed to swap uniforms for their costumes. Silna herself is less taken with the Navy uniform, being far less practical than her own. However, Harry insists the waistcoat and cravat look quite fetching on her.

Silna hasn’t had much work to do since she passed on the last of her ice reports to the officers. Her last report was a month ago, delivered to petty officer Des Veux who poorly hid his disinterest in what Silna had to say.

With time on her hands, she helps Goodsir’s own work compiling the bioinformatics data and preparing the cryogenic storerooms. The medical staff on Erebus have been run off their feet the last few months with a steady increase in health complaints from the crew. Headaches, insomnia, depression: all common symptoms of deep space travel.

“It’s very comfortable.” Harry pulls the hood over his fluffy curls.

“More comfortable than yours.” She looks down at her feet. She’s stuffed a pair of socks in the toes of Harry’s boots so she can fit them better.

“Form over function.” He supposes.

The pager on Harry’s belt (now attached to Silna) beeps suddenly. Silna removes it to pass to Harry. She doesn’t quite understand the shorthand texts that appear on the screen, but by the look on Harry’s face she knows it can’t be good.

The doctor runs from the room; Silna follows, trudging along in the borrowed boots. To her surprise, they are not heading towards the medical bay. Instead, Goodsir races down the stairs towards the hold, nearly tripping twice.

The lights in the cryo room have switched from blue to red.

“No no no-” Harry follows the white LED strips illuminated on the floor through a labyrinth of empty cryo pods.

Silna pauses as Harry splashes through puddles of melted coolant, seeping from a gap in the glass cryo pod. He pulls at the emergency release, fog spilling out as the door slides open and the body inside slips to the floor. Harry lifts him up, the flesh should be so cold that it should burn him without gloves, but he doesn’t flinch.

The body is a young man, hardly more than a boy to Silna’s eyes. Even under the red overhead lights, the skin looks pale and bloodless. His eyelids have slid open, revealing milky, colourless eyes.

“David? David, are you with me?” Harry’s hands cling to the boy’s wrist searching frantically for a pulse.

Silna reaches for the defibrillator kit on the wall as Harry lays him out on the wet floor and begins chest compressions. He keeps talking to the body as he pumps, a thin stream of blood seeps from his nose and mouth. The skin is wet, and it takes two tries for Silna to get the electropads to stick to his chest. The first shock barely jolts the body.

“There are no signs of brain activity.” SAMson warns overhead, but he continues resuscitation.

It takes the arrival of Dr Stanley for Harry to finally stop, shaking and out of breath he collapses on Silna’s shoulder.

“Dead.” Dr Stanley drops his hand from where he tested David Young’s wrist for a pulse. “For a while it seems. What happened?” His tone turns accusatory to Goodsir.

Harry sucks in air attempting to catch his breath and looks down at the liquid that has seeped through their clothes. He has no idea what has happened but realises grimly it will be up to him to find out.