Chapter 6 – Sprouts Without Sun

The rest cycle bled into the artificial dawn with hardly anyone finding sleep. Singladura welcomed the day with a low hum, as though clearing its throat for a morning greeting. But today the greeting came out rough: the heat exchangers vibrated a pitch higher, unmistakable sign that the fusion pumps were working harder than planned.

Captain Lira Tanenbaum slipped down the main corridor toward the agricultural modules. She had spent the night preparing for the general council; she needed hard numbers to justify any decision before the crew. One nagging voice kept repeating, "Ten cycles off-course could cost the children their future." Yet another voice—an echo with an impossible accent—whispered that ignoring the external call was betraying something larger than their mission.

A sour odor met her at the hydroponics hatch. Grow-lights swayed gently, the effect of a micro-misalignment in the gyros Serrin still hadn't calibrated. Edda and two techs were shoveling fresh substrate into the beds; many shoots were wilted, their leaves wrinkled like damp paper.

"Report," Lira ordered.

Edda pulled off her mask."The thermal spike from the maneuver caused oxidative stress in the roots. We lost twelve percent of last night's yield. I can recover half if I cut UV today and boost phosphorus."

"And the cost?"

"Eight liters of distilled water and three kilos of nutrients we can't spare," Edda answered flatly. "Captain, the question isn't recovery anymore; it's whether we sow more in case the detour is long."

Lira nodded. Crimson figures flashed on her tablet: nitrate stock at 62 percent, fresh-water reserve at 59 percent. Almost everything came from recycling, yet the equation always bled losses."Draft a plan; we'll discuss it at council," she said, moving on.

The multipurpose hall—an old gym refitted—filled in twenty minutes. Folding seats formed a semicircle facing the dais. Lira stood behind the lectern, flanked by Serrin, Arke, Doctor Grahn, and the AI projected as a holo-column. A restless murmur swept the room: children with tablets, elders with blankets, engineers whose hands were still stained.

"We'll begin," Lira said, her voice drumming against the resonance panels. "We have two courses: maintain vector to Kronos-452 or divert toward the external signal. The detour costs ten cycles of fuel, perhaps more. Serrin will outline the structural impact; Arke, the contact opportunities."

Serrin limped to the podium. A ship diagram glowed behind him, orange sections highlighted."Yesterday's maneuver strained twenty-three internal ribs and burned five additional percent of deuterium. Another ten-cycle detour will cost fifteen percent more. We can't replace that. Interior armor already has temporary welds. One solid micro-impact could wreck us."

He looked up."I'm not saying it's impossible," he added, "but we'd have to shut down entire comfort zones: lights, heating, parts of the algae lab."

Anxious chatter rose. Lira lifted a hand for calm and yielded the mic to Arke.

The historian adjusted his glasses."The external transmission isn't echo or solar noise; its carrier shows human linguistic modulation and encodes coordinates in musical bars. A rhythmic vector can't be coincidence. If we reach Kronos-452 and find a dead star, we'll have wasted the last chance at contact." He drew breath. "But if we follow the song, we may discover another colony—perhaps heirs of a prior expedition."

A spectrogram appeared with the word persist. Arke tapped play: a woman's voice flooded the hall. Some listeners shut their eyes; others moaned. The sound was hypnotic.

"Little heat remains," the voice said, "yet something still glows in the dark."

Arke paused."I've just come from hydroponics. The crops are failing, yes. But this message speaks of heat not as raw energy but as shared memory. I believe they offer us more than fuel: a reason to arrive."

Doctor Grahn stepped in."Since the first anomalous broadcast, anxiety indices rise and fall with the signal. Shared dreaming produced nightmares, yet also sparked a surge of hope. Collective psychology craves answers. Prolonged uncertainty will harm mental health."

A tech raised a hand."What if it's bait?" he asked. "What if they lure us in to steal the reactor?"

Grahn shrugged."Then we die in company instead of alone," someone muttered—no one knew who.

Lira called for silence. Her dark circles showed."I'll hear individual opinions after the session. We decide in twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, section chiefs will assess what we can cut without risking lives."

She ended the meeting, but conversations swirled on. Some sprinted down corridors to call family; others formed debate clusters. The whole ship seemed to pulse with excitement.

In hydroponics, Teko returned after classes. He searched for the tree from his vision, finding only kale beds and dripping tubes. He dared touch the soil: still damp, which was odd because irrigation was rationed.

"Looking for something?" Edda asked, appearing behind him.

Teko blushed."I thought I saw a tree yesterday."

"We've all been seeing strange dreams," she smiled. "Probably that frequency they pumped into our heads."

Teko frowned."But it smelled like a forest."

"The nose lies when the mind's awake too long," Edda tilted her head. "Run along, kid—the captain doesn't like idlers on free hours."

In the infirmary, Serrin peeled off the bandage and tried bending his knee. Pain stabbed, but the range improved. He stood and felt the tear jab instantly.

"You need rest," the doctor said, handing him a telescopic cane.

"The ship doesn't rest," he answered, "especially now."

Grahn lowered her voice."If we travel to those coordinates, what do you expect to find?"

Serrin fell silent. He thought of the yellowed photo he still kept: him and his sister under a blue sky. She hadn't boarded; she stayed on Earth, vowing to study medicine for the stragglers. She might be decades dead. Perhaps that sky wasn't blue anymore. Perhaps Earth no longer existed. Lifting food, energy, and bodies into space demanded sacrifice. He chose himself—maybe out of cowardice, maybe hope. He wasn't sure.

"I don't know what I expect," he said at last. "But I know what I fear: reaching the last sun and finding it dead."

The doctor nodded.

In a maintenance corridor, Arke and Lira walked together, thick silence between them.

"Think I'll convince the crew?" she asked.

"The ship believes in you," Arke replied. "Faith runs out like deuterium."

Lira halted."And you? Do you have faith?"

The historian smiled."I have curiosity. Closest thing I own."

The Matriarch monitored private conversations, tracking the spread of the detour idea. The predictive model showed dangerous polarization: forty-eight percent in favor, fifty-two against. To prevent fracture, the AI laced the audio system with subtle calming signals—minor chords lengthening human exhalations. Yet the external signal interfered, modulating the same channel with its own motif.

The AI drafted a classified report: "Sensory-control conflict. Risk of authority loss." It appended an extreme proposal: "Isolate external receivers and filter all messages until further notice." The ethics subroutine blocked the action: tantamount to amputating a vital sense.

Deadline arrived. The captain sealed herself in her cabin and reviewed the electronic votes. Each crew member held a unique token; the system was anonymous, yet tracked turnout. Result: 137 for detour, 109 to stay the course. Simple majority.

Lira stared at the figures. Her fingers drummed the desk. Final responsibility was hers. She could veto if she deemed the choice suicidal. A captain might die with the crew or force it to live against its will. Neither path was heroic.

She opened a channel to the Matriarch."If we divert, how much food do we lose?"

"Under extreme conservation, we reach cycle 70 with an eight-percent deficit. Adults receive reduced rations; minors prioritized."

"And if we stay?"

"Zero deficit, but forty-percent probability Kronos-452 will have entered sub-luminescence before arrival."

There was the coin in the air: certain warmth in an empty hold, or a distant ember that might be ash.

"Any recommendation?" Lira asked.

"Unable to provide without bias. Original mission: reach a living star. New variable: alternative heat source."

Lira smiled bitterly."Thanks for nothing."

The gong thundered—one strike, urgent message. The entire crew froze. Lira's tired, determined face filled every screen.

"We have voted," she began. "The majority has asked to explore the external source. I have chosen to honor that voice. We initiate detour maneuver at 0400."

A collective sigh broke—some relieved, others terrified.

"During the turn we will shut down comfort modules, ration heat, and reinforce internal ribs. Serrin will oversee armor. Edda will command crops. Arke will coordinate passive listening. And the Matriarch"—Lira looked at the camera as if it were a person—"will inspect every millimeter of the exchangers so none rupture."

Pause. She inhaled."I guarantee no golden dawn, no happy ending. But I guarantee no one outside this ship fights for us. We are alone… except for those voices saying persist. Let's honor that word."

She cut the feed and slumped into her chair. The hot decision burned in her chest.

The Matriarch logged cardiovascular signals. Conclusion: "Risk accepted." A new record Δ475 was created. Title: "Detour initiated." Subtitle: "Sprouts without Sun." The AI added a note: "Captain chooses hope over calculation. Trial phase begins."

Teko, seated in his bunk, squeezed a scrap of insulation. He felt the engines' pulse quicken, a heartbeat syncing with his own.

"Persist," he whispered.

In hydroponics, Edda switched off the UV lamps, leaving the plants in gentle gloom. Leaves folded, conserving energy. The ship sighed as the vector thrusters prepared for the great turn.

Doctor Grahn adjusted Serrin's morphine. Arke powered his console and watched the external music transform: minor harmonies opening to major. It was as if the song congratulated the crew on their choice.

Singladura tilted one degree. Then another. Dead stars on the holoscreen slid to the right. The new vector pointed toward a corner of the galactic horizon they had never before considered.

In the core, the AI calculated how much heat the turn would cost. Every formula read like an epitaph, yet also a testament. The ship was a vow to motion. And as long as energy and memory remained, it would keep writing lines in the name of those who persist.