Gabriel Fairchild
Gabriel's Story
The Albatross' End
Wellington Cruise Line is the innovator in cruise travel, with a 48-year history of breaking the boundaries of traditional cruising, recently took delivery of its most innovative ship to date, the 4,000 passenger Albatros. The largest ship to homeport year-round in Churchill, the Albatros boasts 28 dining options, including exofauna restaurant Space Blue and a branch of Buddy’s Bake Shop by Buddy Kalamaro, star of the TLC series “Cake Boss”. The entertainment lineup includes Broadway shows with famed nuevo-jazz singer, Greta Stillwater. Named “Best New Ship of 2647” by the editors of Cruise Critic and “Best Rookie Cruise Ship” by the readers of Travel Weekly.
That was true up until the Albatros crashed into a rogue asteroid in El Cinturón de la Nube about 3 minutes ago. I was carrying a tray of Albatros Brandies™ to the guests in the King David Suite when the captain came on the comm informing the guests and crew of a bit turbulence ahead. Sure enough the Albatros rocked and threw me, the tray, and a perfect batch of Albatros Brandies™ rocketing towards the ceiling. Needless to say I got a pretty good bump on my head and a brandy soaked jacket.
Reserve lighting powered on to take the place of the now malfunctioning simulated sunrise of Tio Verde. The captain’s voice once again on the comm informing guests and crew to stay calm and carry on. How could one be calm if they were seeing what I was seeing? Out the sky deck viewing area, I could plainly see an asteroid hurtling towards us. Did the captain not see it?
I turned from the sky deck not knowing what to do next, as a series of reverberating booms emanated from the ship’s core. Sure enough the asteroid(s?) had hit us. There was no message on the comm.
Mindful that at any moment I might be deprived of that oh-so-vital air that many who travel in space take for granted, I quickly sought out a utility locker in search of a vacc-suit. Sure enough, I’ve come across a timeworn, uninspiring, stained suit with the name “Carl Rogers, Maintenance” embroidered over the left chest. It’s better than nothing.
Midway through donning the suit, I drifted upward from the floor and momentarily was struck with the sensation of an agitated critter trying to climb up-and-out through my throat. “Well, there goes the bloody artificial gravity,” I bemoan, “Not good.”
I frantically hurried to secure the final pieces of the suit just in time as I latched down the helmet as I heard a rising sound rather like the growing urgency of an insistent steaming tea kettle. An instant later, I was buffeted by a blast of air that sent me tumbling through the compartment, out through the door, and careening down the hallway past the Canyonero Bar & Grill.
Knocked back-and-forth, from wall-to-wall, I tumbled out of control. I only caught glimpses through the faceplate of Carl Rogers’ (from Maintenance) helmet of the chaos around me. A cloud of white feathers, undoubtedly from a ruptured pillow from the aforementioned King David’s Suite. A bottle of Albatros Brandy™ striking a junction box and bursting into a gush of amber raindrops. A terrified woman, dressed in royal blue formal evening gown, string of pearls wrapped around her neck just below where her hand had clasped in a vain effort to breathe in air that no longer existed.
Smashing into a wall, or maybe the floor… no, it was definitely the ceiling, I was able to get a hold of a fixture long enough to stop my uncontrolled tumble. However, my reprieve lasted only until the full weight of a wealthy, gluttonous nobleman struck me a solid blow. Entangled momentarily with the man, his lifeless, bloated, discolored face smashed up against my visor, and carried us away once again in the blast of air. I pushed the hulking heap of flesh away, and was rewarded with one last glimpse of the interior of the once mighty Albatros before I was launched out into darkness of space.
Scientists tell us that the vastness of space is endless, something I can’t even fully comprehend, but I am not alone in that vastness. All around me was a riotous cloud of debris which had been spewed out of the ship’s innards, like a drunken teen following a binge of fish, chips, and beer. Most was just unrecognizable decorations, adornments, accoutrements and such from the ship, but there was something that I recognized immediately - countless bodies tumbling aimlessly through the black.
I don’t remember how long I simply floated and stared at the carnage. Most of it is all a blur to me now except that I can recall the countless blank faces staring back at me - some of them even with their arms outstretched reaching either for me or for the beyond the beyond past the endless black.
I remember being far from the ship and being provided a full view from bow to stern. I watched, transfixed, as the lighted windows and navigations running lights flickered briefly and then went completely dark. Seconds later a massive gout of flames erupted from the starboard-aft section where the reactor would have been. Amidst the eerie silence of space, my vivid imagination easily supplied the booming, rumbling sounds of the explosion, followed by the shrieking sounds of twisted and tortured metal as the ship broke apart.
I couldn’t say for how long I just floated amongst the wreckage. It could have been seconds or might as well have been hours. I began to think to myself that I was the sole survivor of the ship.
At any rate, I remember snapping out of my daze when the Carl Rogers’ suit began an insistent beeping - not unlike Auntie Pim’s tea kettle. I wasn’t familiar with this model of suit, but I was pretty sure the suit was informing me of a limited oxygen supply. I repeatedly tapped the readout display until it gave me some sense of how much air I had left - 8 hours, may more if I slow my breathing. Though to be honest, I didn’t see the point as the chance of rescue that far out was very slim.
As luck would have it, if you can call it luck at all, my slow drift through space ended up placing me on a collision course with another of the cursed space rocks, a ghostly island in the darkness in the dim glow of the Cluster. I struck with the force of a fall from a playground jungle gym, bounced back up a couple feet, then settled nearly gently to the rocky surface. This would be the last land on which I’d ever stand.
Crushed, not by the trace gravity of the rock but by the dread of my situation, I slumped to the ground in a miserable pile and for nearly an eighth of my remaining life, I wallowed in despair. I got to thinking that I couldn’t think of a time I’ve ever been in worse dire straits. That was enough to distract me from the actual dire straits in which I was mired that I found stashed in Carl Rogers’ (from Maintenance) suit: a pack of gum (though I’m not sure how I’d get it in my mouth on account of not wanting to take this helmet off in the vacuum of space); some hydrospanner wrench-looking thing that I had no idea what it might do; and by the looks of it, an ancient pistol with one bullet in the chamber. Why in the world would Carl Rogers from Maintenance have an ancient pistol with one bullet in the chamber? Would it even fire in the vacuum of space?
My head was pounding and I couldn’t think very clearly on account of the bump on the head, the thinning air, and the overpowering brandy fumes from my soaked dinner jacket. I must have been a sore sight, a cosmic shame. A server from the unsinkable Albatros Cruise Liner, tied to a floating rock in the middle of space, with nothing but a inoperable pistol with one round, banana-mint gum, and some stupid wrench-thing. Oh yeah, and now only 7 hours of air left.
Headmaster Mungan’s Advice
I could smell the whiskey on Headmaster Mungan’s breath as it pierced through the general stench of fear in the office where I had become much acquainted. This time he had me over his knee, teaching me the importance of obedience.
“Keep this up, ye little Limey bastard, next time it’ll be twenty strikes,” the Headmaster frequently advised.
If only I punched those Binsley brothers a little harder maybe they wouldn’t have talked. Now Mam is going to hear about this and with Father away, I’ve done too much lately to upset her. Father would understand. Finegas, the fat Binsley, had said some nasty things to say about Mam.
"Ye know, yer Mam was mine before yer father once came along," repeated the Headmaster. "Ye aren't supposed to be here, Limey bastard.”
If only the fat Binsley wasn’t so fat, I might have cracked his ribs. Sure, it was enough to make him cry, which felt good. But unfortunately, his cry was loud enough for the Headmaster to peek his head out of the school house.
First Run
Gabriel is somewhat of a loner (CR 15) so often times he can be found reading the used book he picked up, So You Want to Captain Your Own Vessel?, picking through various navigation charts, and putting together dossiers of his crew. Being thrown into the fire and through study, he's learned quickly:
If not studying, he might be perched above the cargo playing his harmonica.
Most days he joins BD and Rosie in the cargo hold to work out though his mind is often on recalling what information he can about his study. He plays through various scenarios in his mind and how the book explains how a proper captain should act - though it so often seems counter intuitive.
"56, 57, 58..." Rosie counts under heavy breathing as she jumps to the floor, kicks her feet out, then back in, leaps up into a jumping jack, and starts all over again.
Gabriel mutters something under his breath as he is supposed to be spotting for the benchpressing BD.
"Hmpff... shit, man!" barks BD, "help... help..."
"Oh shit," Gabriel snaps out of it and helps BD get the heavy weights off of his chest, "sorry, man".
"Not a problem, but you were muttering something about last night," inquires BD.
"Oh it was nothing, just keep lifting, um... you can do a few more," Gabriel diverts BD's inquiry.
Rosie laughs, shaking her head, "62, 63...".
Thinking he's got to get his shit together, Gabriel repeats in his head Captain's Rule #7 in So You Want to Captain Your Own Vessel? - Don't mix business with pleasure. Of course, it's not easy, he's already broken Rules #1-3. Something about knowing what the hell you're doing. So what's wrong with breaking this one and having a little fun on these long voyages?
