“I’ve got gas! Wait, now I don’t.”

Lt. Christopher punched the console and felt it in his elbow. The blow knocked him away from the panel. His tether caught him and pulled him back.

“You want to watch that temper,” Commander Davis said, the tinny electronics in the helmet failing to dull his tone. Davis must have seen him, because he certainly hadn’t heard him.

Because they didn’t have gas.

“Sorry, sir. It’s just… I don’t see the problem. The analogs say there’s gas in 3 and 8, enough to at least pressurize this cabin, but the life support comp won’t talk to either tank. It must be a software—” Christopher shut up. Peters, the ship’s IT officer, had been in the path of the tiny pebble that killed the ship: Christopher saw his head sheared off in mid-sentence; stood there, gawping at his headless body until fading sirens drove him to his emergency suit.

As far as he and Davis knew, they were the only survivors of the ten-man crew. And the cans in the emergency suits were drying up quickly.