An Acceptable Loss

A Difficult Choice

How much is a life worth? Is it something you can even put a price on? Or can one life ever be worth more than another?

I had been staring at this screen for the past two hours. Nothing had changed. The red light kept blinking at me.

There was no emotion, only the steady flash of a red light. The computer was trying to tell me something I didn't want to hear.

I knew what it meant. One of the hibernation pods was failing. It was just a matter of time before it failed completely and the occupant died.

But what should I do about it? That was the question.

I could do nothing; that was always an option. I could choose to just sit here comfortably in my chair and watch the screen until the slow flashes turn into a steady red light.

It might take days, or weeks, or even months, but eventually the hibernation pod would have shut down. When the occupant's brain signals cease, the computer would have automatically switched off the power to the pod.

The problem would have solved itself, and the remains would be safely preserved until we reach our destination. No one would blame me. It was even mentioned in the briefing as standard operating procedure before we left Earth.

Acceptable losses, that was what the company called them. A one per cent failure rate was expected. The technology wasn't perfect. That was just something you had to accept if you wanted to travel into deep space.

In fact, according to the logs, six hibernation pods had already failed during this journey. Though they had all malfunctioned within the first year of the voyage, so it hadn't been something I'd had to deal with. After this long, the systems were usually operating more reliably.

That was one option available. My other option? Well, I could venture down to the cargo hold and initiate a shutdown of the hibernation pod myself. No sitting around and waiting for the occupant to die. Instead, I could be proactive and shut down the power right now.

They would die instantly, of course, instead of prolonging it out for months. I could call it a mercy, except that they are not really suffering. The passengers are all in cryogenic hibernation, so they wouldn't be aware of anything that is happening around them. The occupant of the pod would peacefully slip into death while they slept. The only person bothered by this is me, so the only suffering I would be preventing is my own.

And a third option? No. There isn't a third option. That's not something I could think about, not even for a second. No, a slow death or a quick death – those were the only two options available.

I sat and watched the screen as the hours ticked by. The red light slowly flashed. It didn't get any easier.

I tried to distract myself with my other tasks, but my eyes inevitably turned back to that screen. Navigation was still showing we were on target. Engineering showed the reactor running within normal parameters. All other systems were showing normal values. It was just that one screen that showed an error.

I couldn't stare at it any longer. I needed to deal with the problem.

I sighed as I unbuckled my seatbelt and floated out of the captain's chair. I gave a small push on the console with my legs, then glided effortlessly across the command deck. With a well-practised flick of my wrist, I spun around and landed gracefully on the rack of spacesuits.

The command deck was the only one with the life support activated. If I want to breathe when I go down to the passenger hold, then I would need to be wearing a spacesuit.

It’s awkward to manoeuvre yourself into a spacesuit after this long in zero gravity. Without the weight of gravity to work against, your muscles quickly atrophy. Daily exercise helps, but it doesn't prevent the problem. Your legs eventually shrink through lack of use.