A thin mist swirled inside the cryochamber. Weaver could see Pamela sleeping. If you can call cryosleep sleep. Putting Pamela back in cryo to slow the babies’ growth was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. Generation ships were closed systems, each with a delicate balance. Zero population growth was the rule. The Council insisted she go back in until they could calculate how twins would affect the ship's resources. Now that it was time to get her out, the cryochamber wouldn’t open. Things malfunction when they’re in space for hundreds of years.

 

Weaver knocked on the dome.

 

“She moved,” Johnson said.

 

“No, she didn’t,” Gomez snapped and moved to the primary computer. Johnson followed him.

 

The console next to the cryochamber glitched and fuzzed. Weaver mashed the buttons, hoping some random combination would jar something loose. Will they be alright? He tapped the console again. Two hearts pattered away like tiny wind-up monkeys beating on their drums. “I’ve got this Pam.” He walked behind Gomez and Johnson. “Anything?”

 

After a minute of swiping left on schematic after schematic, Gomez stopped. A red dot appeared. “Looks like that’s the problem.”

 

The screen glitched. Gomez hit the side of the console. “Solar radiation,” he said.

 

“We’re nowhere near a star,” Johnson smirked. “I heard a story from one of the old timers about temporal radiation aging an entire generation before anyone knew what was happening.”

 

“Yeah, and when we believe anything those old-timers say, we’ll have bigger problems. It’s solar radiation,” Gomez repeated.

 

“Temporal radiation,” Johnson mouthed to Weaver so Gomez wouldn’t hear.

 

“I’m going to fix it,” Weaver said. “Give me the location.”

 

Gomez blew up the diagram, twisted and pulled it out to full ship view. “Deck 12. Outer hull. Access panel 247.”

 

Going to grab his EVA and tool belt, Weaver looked back at the cryochamber. “I’ve got this, Pam.”

 

The lower decks were silent, sealed as they waited for the next generations to populate them. It was hard to imagine that the first generation had been born on Earth and that Weaver’s great-great-great grandchildren would see their new planet. Having twins increased the chances of that. Stay calm. It’ll be okay. Things break, but the ship is designed to last hundreds of years. It’ll be okay.

 

“Open 12,” Weaver said, arriving at the sealed door. Nothing happened. He banged on the hull. The door swooshed open. Air circulators and lights clicked on. Footsteps pattered down the passage ahead of the wave of light. “Who’s there?” he called.

 

I must be hearing things. Weaver had played in the empty passages before they opened his and Pam’s section. Most kids had. The ship was his world, from start to finish. All he’d ever know.

 

Walking the empty hall to the outer hull access hatch, he heard giggling. “Anybody down here?” he called. It’s definitely children. “I was a kid once, too. I just want you to be safe.” The hum of the particle engine, the steady hiss of the air circulators. “Hello?” Must be hearing things.

 

Weaver found the hatch nearest panel 247, where the faulty relay was. He lifted his helmet toward his face and talked into the microphone. “Gomez, seal bulkheads 1238 and 1236, passage W.” He waited. “Gomez? Johnson?”

 

Does anything on this rust bucket work? Reaching into the helmet, he covered the microphone so it would produce feedback for anyone on the other end. That ought to wake them up.

 

Weaver sprung the panel and spun the handle, lowering the bulkheads. He was wheezing by the time the first door sealed with the deck. Catching his breath standing by the hatch, he wiped the sweat off his forehead. There must be something wrong with climate control. I’m in better shape than this.

 

The local network gave him the full seal notification. He donned his helmet and lifted his hand to punch his override code into the panel. A cold panic filled his abdomen. He couldn’t remember.

 

Hoping his muscles would trigger some memory, he poked his finger in the air. They did. It’s the stress of worrying about Pamela. I’ll be fine as soon as she’s out. The pressure equalized and lights flashed in the airless space between the inner and outer hulls.

 

Walking from strut to strut, fatigue set in. The suit wasn’t heavy, but he felt like he was carrying a ton. Weaver squinted at the stenciled letters on the panels. 432. At first, he thought he had gone in the wrong direction, then he realized he’d gone too far. Backtracking, it seemed to take longer to get back to panel 247, than it had to get all the way to 432.

 

Opening the junction box, his eyes wouldn’t focus. He shook his head and blinked, wishing he could rub his eyes through the visor. Looking askance, he made out the indicator lights in his peripheral vision. Weaver flicked the faulty relay until the red indicator turned green. “Try it now,” he said into the helmet comm.

 

No answer.

 

The access hatch closed behind him, the pressure equalized, and the bulkheads raised. Thank the Generations. I won’t have to crank them again. Weaver removed his helmet and gloves and rubbed his eyes.

 

Giggling tickled his ears. Weaver rushed farther into the empty wing of the generation ship, determined to find the kids and take them back with him. The pattering of feet swirled in the empty halls.

 

Turning a corner, identical girls faced him. Blond hair, about eleven years old. They wore the white and blue coveralls his children’s generation would wear. Weaver reached toward them, his voice stuck in his throat. Brown spots, withered fingers, and bulbous knuckles from years of labor. His hand didn’t look like his own.

 

Weaver stepped forward. His joints creaked and ached. A noise like a toy drum beat in his ears. His chest tightened. The girls stared back at him in horror. Two more labored steps forward and he collapsed.