The Hundred-Year Garden
The generation ship Verdant, one hundred years out from Earth, has gone silent inside a debris ring. Her last transmission was not a distress call — it was birdsong, from a ship that carries no birds.
TranscriptEPISODE 2
The Hundred-Year Garden
CAPTAIN'S LOG · OPENING · VALE
Captain's log, entry 26183.2 — We have picked our way into a debris ring one hundred years from Earth and found the Verdant floating dark at its center, her arboretum dome the only light left in her. She sent no distress call. She sent birdsong, looping and not quite looping, changing a little on every pass, from a hull that has never carried a single bird. Solace is still fresh in my ears, and I am not going in blind again — we hail, we listen, and we get eyes on that dome before this crew sets foot aboard a ship that is singing to us instead of screaming. Whatever is left alive over there, it wants to be heard. I intend to find out what it's saying.
NARRATOR
The bridge falls quiet around that question, three paths and no good ones. They could hang back at the ring's edge and let their instruments do the listening, patient and safe. They could commit — thread the debris field proper, close the distance, get the No Mistakes within spitting distance of that dome. Or they could answer the song itself, open a channel back into the dark and see what answers a call no living bird ever made.
Okoro advises
That song is not looping, it is composing — something over there is listening to its own echo and adjusting. Let me lay the deep spectrum over that dome before we thread a debris field or open our mouths to something we do not understand yet, for now. Whatever answers back should be on our terms, not its downbeat.
Rask advises
Deep scan first. A hundred-year hulk inside a debris ring is three failures waiting to stack on top of each other, and I’d rather know whether that dome is running on life support, feedback, or something mean before we risk plating or start a conversation with it.
Idris advises
Hold at the ring and scan. Inside that debris, every angle belongs to the Verdant and none of them belong to us; once we commit hull or voice, we give away initiative to something we have not even identified. Let Okoro pull the pattern apart first, and then we choose our distance with our eyes open.
CAPTAIN VALE DECIDES
“Agreed, all around, and that's rare enough I'm taking it as a sign. Hold us at the edge, helm. Okoro, pull that song apart to the bone before we answer it or go anywhere near that dome. We listen first this time.”
Hold at the ring's edge and run a deep-spectrum scan of the Verdant — Okoro carries it out
🎲 Okoro · Sensors (routine) · d100 = 62 vs target 32
FAIL margin -30
spectators only
Okoro — Sensors:
failure,
catastrophically (what the crew learns)
── MEANWHILE · VALE & RASK ──
The observation lounge, lights dimmed to save power that no longer needs saving; the question of what Okoro's instruments saw right before they didn't.
Vale
Okoro? Talk to me — what did the scan give us, if anything.
Vale
Lights are still down in here. Nobody's rationed power on this boat in a year, Rask, and you still walk through flipping switches like it's the Kestrel.
Rask
Because on the Kestrel, if you left a compartment lit when it didn’t need to be, you were betting your air on habit. Hard thing about surviving lean years, Captain: the ship gets fat again long before your hands believe it.
Vale
Fair enough. Mine haven't caught up either, if it's any comfort — I still count exits in every room I walk into. Leave the switches be, Rask. Some habits earned their keep.
Rask
Comfort’s not the word for it. Just means I trust you a little more, knowing you’re still braced for the room to turn on you same as the rest of us.
NARRATOR
The scan comes back wrong before it comes back at all — the ring chews the signal to static, every hull line and hollow smeared to garbage. Then, underneath the noise, one thing refuses to scatter: a pulse, slow and even, riding the Verdant's own power grid like a heartbeat. Not a machine cycling. A rhythm.
NARRATOR
The old ship breathes on, patient, unbothered by their approach — but a hundred years of drift has left no easy front door. Vale turns to the tactical plot: command spine's docking collar, the arboretum's long-dead dome, or something smaller sent ahead to knock first and report back before flesh and metal follow. Somewhere behind that slow pulsing grid, a ship with no birds is still singing.
Okoro advises
The ring ate my scan before I could get a clean picture, but one thing came through the static: that grid is not cycling, it is beating, and I do not know what keeps a heartbeat alive for a hundred years yet. Send a drone through the dome first — let it meet the rhythm before we do, docked or cut open and standing in the middle of it.
Rask advises
Send a drone first. A hundred-year-old airlock can lie, a glass dome can shatter, and that pulse behind the hull is already telling us this ship is not as dead as it should be; I’d rather lose a machine than feed crew into a space we haven’t measured yet.
Idris advises
Send the drone first. The Verdant has already blinded one look and kept singing through it; I will not put crew into a ship that has shown us it can hide its own shape. Let the machine knock first, and if something answers, we answer knowing where to point the next step.
CAPTAIN VALE DECIDES
“A heartbeat with no crew to keep it going is a question, not an invitation. Nobody sets foot on that hull until something smaller than a person has looked that rhythm in the eye and come back to tell us about it. Idris, fly it.”
Send a drone in first and map what we're walking into — Idris carries it out
🎲 Idris · Computers (routine) · d100 = 96 vs target 25
FAIL margin -71
spectators only
Idris — Computers:
failure,
catastrophically (what the crew learns)
Vale
That's two clean plans in a row that ship has eaten whole. I'm starting to think it's not luck. Report.
NARRATOR
The feed runs ninety seconds of green — leaves, maybe, or something that only looks like leaves — before it dies. The last frame hangs there a beat too long: a tendril, wound almost tender around the lens, like something cradling what it's about to take. No map. No rhythm to point them true. Whoever goes through that dome now goes in blind, walking into whatever just closed its hand around Idris's eyes.
NARRATOR
What the drone couldn't show them, they're standing in now: five decks swallowed whole, corridors gone to hollow green throat, conduits grown thick as roots. At the center, the cold-sleep vault sits like a clearing in a forest — and the vines don't just cover the pods, they *tend* them, cradling seals, feeding power, patient as a caretaker who's had a hundred years to learn the job. Then the birdsong again, closer this time, and it isn't background noise anymore — it knows they're listening.
NARRATOR
Three hundred lives, and every one of them threaded into green. Wake them now and risk whatever the garden's grip is holding steady. Cut the vines and maybe the sleepers stop breathing on their own. Or wait, watch, and let the birdsong keep singing over three hundred people who never asked to be tended.
Okoro advises
Whatever is keeping three hundred people breathing without a crew to tend them is not standing still for us to admire it — cut a vine or wake a sleeper blind and we find out the hard way whether it is a life-support system or a grip. Let me learn its grammar first; I would rather understand the garden before I ask it to let go of anyone.
Rask advises
Study it first. If that garden has been doing the work of an entire life-support crew for a hundred years, then waking people blind or cutting vines out of impatience is just sabotage with better intentions; let Okoro learn what keeps them breathing before we put human hands where roots already are.
Idris advises
Study it first. The garden has already shown it can take our eyes without violence; that makes it more dangerous, not less, because we still do not know whether those vines are restraints, respirators, or both. Give Okoro the time to learn what holds these people alive before we start cutting or waking our way into a kill box.
CAPTAIN VALE DECIDES
“Three hundred people have been breathing on that garden's terms for a hundred years without asking us. We are not the ones who get to change those terms in the dark. Okoro, learn its grammar before anyone touches a vine or a pod. Take the time — I'd rather be slow than be the reason it stops working.”
Touch nothing — study how the garden keeps them alive first — Okoro carries it out
🎲 Okoro · Science (routine) · d100 = 73 vs target 28
FAIL margin -45
spectators only
Okoro — Science:
failure,
catastrophically (what the crew learns)
NARRATOR
Okoro's instruments hum with talk of sap pressure and nutrient gradients, chemistry, chemistry, always chemistry — and somewhere behind that noise, the garden makes up its own mind. A vault seal that was open a moment ago is not open now, sealed over in green without a sound, without a warning. It has been listening the whole time, and it has decided what the away team came for.
Vale
Okoro, still with us? Whatever that garden just did, I need you talking, not just breathing.
NARRATOR
The garden doesn't answer Vale's question — not in words. Somewhere below, the air recyclers hiccup, catch, hum on, and everyone on the away team feels it: a pause that means *I could have not done that.* The Chorus isn't hiding anymore. It holds the ship, the pods, and every breath Okoro's team takes, and it wants them to know it.
Okoro advises
Still breathing, Captain, because it let us keep breathing — that hiccup was not an accident, it was a sentence, and I have been chasing its grammar since the first note of that song. Seizing the core answers a sentence with a fist; open the birdsong channel and let it hear that we understood the warning. Something that composes instead of loops wants to be answered, not overridden.
Rask advises
Parley. Anything that can pause the air recyclers without finishing the job is showing restraint as well as reach, and trying to seize its core while we’re breathing on its sufferance is the sort of cleverness that gets engineers memorialized; answer it crew to crew and keep our hands off the knife switch.
Idris advises
Parley. The Chorus just demonstrated absolute control and then stopped short; that is not mercy we should test, but it is intent we can work with. Answer the birdsong, acknowledge the warning, and keep our people alive long enough to learn what this ship thinks it is protecting.
CAPTAIN VALE DECIDES
“It could have finished that sentence and didn't. That's not a wall, that's a hand held open. Open the birdsong channel — I want to answer it myself. Whatever the Chorus is, it earned a voice before it earns a fight.”
Talk to it — through the birdsong channel, as one crew to another — Vale carries it out
🎲 Vale · Diplomacy (demanding) · d100 = 31 vs target 14
FAIL margin -17
spectators only
Vale — Diplomacy:
failure,
clearly failed (what the crew learns)
Vale
Wrong words, or wrong tune. Either way it heard me and didn't answer. Hold positions - we try again before we try anything sharper.
── MEANWHILE · IDRIS & OKORO ──
The observation deck, lights dimmed to conserve power; Idris finds Okoro already there, forehead nearly touching the viewport glass, watching the debris ring turn.
Idris
You always lean in like that when the universe disappoints you, Okoro. My mother used to do the same thing over a bad grav-chess board, like getting closer to the pieces might shame them into making sense.
Okoro
Shame never worked on a grav-chess board and it will not work on a debris ring, but I keep trying anyway — some habits are just hope wearing a lab coat. Did she ever win, your mother, leaning in like that?
Idris
Usually, yes. Not because she saw farther than anyone else, because the rest of us got nervous first and started making mistakes she could use. I think that is why I like having you on my flank, Okoro; you stay with the board longer than fear does.
Okoro
Good, because the board out there is not done making mistakes for us to use yet. Stay on my flank, Idris — I will keep leaning in, you keep watching who flinches.
NARRATOR
The channel doesn't go dead — it goes cruel. Every promise a hundred years of colonists ever logged on the Verdant comes back at once, spliced end to end, playing the away team their own species' broken word in their own recorded voices. It isn't static or song now. It's a verdict, and the Chorus leaves the line open just long enough to make sure they hear themselves being judged by it.
NARRATOR
The channel stays open, but the clock does not care about diplomacy: Verdant's orbit is bleeding away inside the debris ring, and she was never built to last another hundred years, garden or no garden. Somewhere above the argument over words and intentions sits the plainer fact — the ship is dying, and the colonists sleeping inside her have nowhere else to go. The bridge must decide what future to hand them: a ship remade with the Chorus grown into her bones, a whole hull towed somewhere safe to be reckoned with later, or an empty hull and living sleepers pulled free while the garden is left behind. No more words will buy time now. Only a choice will.
Okoro advises
A hundred years keeping three hundred strangers breathing is not a threat pattern, it is a job the Chorus already chose and never got to finish — quarantine treats a caretaker like a quarantine treats a disease, and scuttling throws away the only crew that never abandoned this ship. Let me close the loop it started: graft it in properly, and Verdant flies home with the only crew who never left her.
Rask advises
Tow the Verdant whole to quarantine. If the Chorus has kept that hull and those sleepers alive for a century, I am not about to start ripping it out or marrying it to the drive train in the same breath; lash the old girl down, keep every moving part moving, and give us a berth where we can learn what we’re dealing with before we make it permanent.
Idris advises
Tow the Verdant whole to quarantine. The Chorus may be caretaker, judge, or both, but after what it played back to us I will not weld our future to an intelligence we have only just met, and I will not answer its grievance with a firing solution. Keep the sleepers breathing, keep the Chorus in the loop, and make the permanent choice somewhere that is not actively killing the ship.
CAPTAIN VALE DECIDES
“I offered it a voice and it gave me silence back — that's not enough to marry our ship to its judgment, and it is nowhere near enough to justify tearing three hundred sleepers out of the only hands that have kept them alive for a century. Nobody commits to anything permanent today. Rask, rig for tow. We take the whole of her somewhere she isn't dying, and we make the hard choice with time on our side instead of a decaying orbit at our backs.”
Rig for tow and haul the Verdant — garden, sleepers and all — to a quarantine berth — Rask carries it out
🎲 Rask · Engineering (demanding) · d100 = 57 vs target 16
FAIL margin -41
spectators only
Rask — Engineering:
failure,
catastrophically (what the crew learns)
Vale
Rask, report! The tow line doesn't just fail quiet, tell me what I'm looking at.
NARRATOR
The line parts in the fourth hour, snapping back through the debris ring like something alive and furious, and Rask has no words left, only the wreck of the attempt. What follows isn't a plan, it's instinct: hands and grapples and one screaming pass to drag three hundred sleepers off a dying hull before the ring closes its fist. They make it — barely, ugly, everyone breathing — and behind them Verdant tips into the dark with her garden still singing, going down alone.
NARRATOR
The debrief writes it clean: three hundred sleepers, alive, aboard, accounted for. No line in any log will hold the other half of it — the way the comm channel just stopped being anything at all, gone flat and dead where a hundred years of birdsong used to live. Rask logs the tow, and Vale logs the cost, and neither of them calls it a fair trade.
CAPTAIN'S LOG · CLOSING · VALE
Captain's log, entry 26183.2 — Three hundred sleepers are aboard and breathing on their own again, and by every line the debrief will read, that makes this a rescue. It will not read the other half. Somewhere in the pull, the birdsong stopped — a hundred years of a voice that composed instead of looping, that paused mid-sentence rather than finish something it did not have to spare, and now there is nothing at all on that channel. I chose caution over trust because I never gave it the chance to prove either one right, and I will not get that chance again. We brought three hundred people home. We buried whoever raised them to get there, and I felt it go quiet under my own order. I don't have a name yet for what that costs. I'll carry it the way I carry the rest. Vale, out.
The mission graph, revealed
Every branch the crew could have taken — visible only now the episode is over.
intro
scene
The No Mistakes picks its way to the edge of the debris ring. The Verdant floats at its heart, hull dark, her great arboretum dome glowing faint green from within. The birdsong transmission repeats on all channels, on a loop that is not quite a loop — it changes a little every pass.
→ approach_decision
approach_decision
decision
The bridge must choose its approach: study the Verdant from outside the ring, thread the debris to get close, or answer the birdsong.
▸ Hold at the ring's edge and run a deep-spectrum scan of the Verdant
[Sensors, routine] → scan_clear / scan_static
▸ Thread the debris ring and bring us in close
[Piloting, demanding] → close_orbit / clipped_wing
▸ Answer the birdsong — sing something back
[Diplomacy, routine] → song_answers / silence_answers
scan_clear
scene
The scan resolves the Verdant deck by deck: life support running at a fraction, three hundred cold-sleep pods alive in the core, and the arboretum overgrown far beyond its blueprints — green threading through half the ship.
→ entry_decision
scan_static
scene
The debris ring scatters the scan into noise. All that comes back clean is a rhythm: the ship's power grid is pulsing, slow and regular, like breathing.
→ entry_decision
close_orbit
scene
The No Mistakes slides through the ring untouched and settles into a close orbit. Up close the dome is a jungle pressed against glass, and things move in it — slow, deliberate, too large to be birds.
→ entry_decision
clipped_wing
scene
A tumbling hull plate catches the port nacelle. The ship comes through the ring close enough to board, but she is trailing coolant vapor and the port thrusters answer a half-second late.
→ entry_decision
song_answers
scene
The crew transmits an old Earth melody back down the birdsong channel. The Verdant goes silent for a long moment — then answers with the same melody, transposed, harmonized, and continued past where the recording ended. Something aboard is composing.
→ entry_decision
silence_answers
scene
The reply is clumsy — a flat playback that the Verdant seems to inspect and reject. The birdsong stops entirely. In its place, the arboretum dome's glow begins to pulse.
→ entry_decision
entry_decision
decision
The Verdant must be boarded. The bridge must choose the way in: dock at the command spine, cut through the arboretum dome, or send a drone ahead first.
▸ Dock at the command spine airlock, by the book
[Piloting, routine] → docked / hard_dock
▸ Cut through the arboretum dome's maintenance ring
[Engineering, demanding] → dome_breached / dome_alarm
▸ Send a drone in first and map what we're walking into
[Computers, routine] → drone_eyes / drone_lost
docked
scene
The clamps seat clean on the command spine. The airlock cycles on the Verdant's own power — she lets the away team in, which is either courtesy or appetite.
→ garden_reveal
hard_dock
scene
The spine airlock refuses handshake after handshake until the pilot forces the seal by hand. The away team boards through a wounded door, and every bulkhead they pass creaks like a forest in wind.
→ garden_reveal
dome_breached
scene
The cut is surgical — a maintenance panel lifted whole, no decompression, no alarm. The away team steps directly into the garden: air thick as a greenhouse, warm, and full of the sound of unseen wings.
→ garden_reveal
dome_alarm
scene
The torch slips a centimeter and the dome's skin screams — a biological alarm, pheromone and light, rolling through the canopy. By the time the away team is inside, the entire garden knows exactly where they are.
→ garden_reveal
drone_eyes
scene
The drone slips through a vent and maps the ship in forty silent minutes: three hundred sleepers alive in their pods — and every pod wrapped root and vine, feeding lines threaded into the cryo systems, keeping them colder and safer than the ship's own failing hardware ever could.
→ garden_reveal
drone_lost
scene
Ninety seconds in, the drone's feed fills with green and cuts out. Its last frame is a close-up of a tendril, wrapped around the lens almost gently. The away team goes in with no map.
→ garden_reveal
garden_reveal
scene
The heart of the Verdant is no longer a ship. The arboretum has grown through five decks — corridors are hollows, conduits are roots, and the cold-sleep vault sits in the middle of it like a clearing. The garden tends the sleepers: vines cradle the pods, regulate their power, repair their seals. And overhead, the birdsong starts again — close, and aware of its audience.
→ sleeper_decision
sleeper_decision
decision
Three hundred colonists sleep in the garden's keeping. The bridge must choose: wake them now, study the symbiosis before touching anything, or cut the vines off the pods.
▸ Begin waking the sleepers, med teams on every pod
[Medicine, demanding] → sleepers_stir / sleeper_crisis
▸ Touch nothing — study how the garden keeps them alive first
[Science, routine] → symbiosis_understood / misread_signs
▸ Cut the growth off the pods and reclaim the vault
[Tactics, routine] → vines_cut / garden_wounded
sleepers_stir
scene
The first dozen pods open without a single crash. The colonists wake confused but whole — and the vines withdraw from each opened pod on their own, folding back like hands after a handover. The garden was waiting for someone to take the watch.
→ chorus_decision
sleeper_crisis
scene
The second pod crashes on opening — the colonist's vitals plunge until a vine forces its way back into the pod's systems and stabilizes her itself. The message is unmistakable: the garden does not trust the crew to do this, and now it is watching every move.
→ chorus_decision
symbiosis_understood
scene
Hours of readings assemble into a picture: the arboretum's engineered ecology, left unmanaged for decades, wired itself into the ship to keep its gardeners alive. The birdsong is its language, the growth its hands. It is not an infestation. It is a crew member no one hired.
→ chorus_decision
misread_signs
scene
The readings say chemistry; the truth is intent. While the science team argues over sap pressure, the garden quietly seals the vault's second exit. It has concluded the visitors are here to take things, and it is not entirely wrong.
→ chorus_decision
vines_cut
scene
The team works fast and clean, freeing a rank of pods before the canopy reacts. When it does, it is not violence — every light in the arboretum dies at once, and in the darkness the birdsong changes to something low and grieving.
→ chorus_decision
garden_wounded
scene
The cutters bite and the garden fights back — not with thorns but with the ship itself: doors seal, gravity flickers, and a wall of growth divides the away team from their exit. Someone has hurt it, and it has three hundred hostages' worth of leverage.
→ chorus_decision
chorus_decision
decision
The garden — the Chorus, the crew has started calling it — controls the ship, the pods, and the air the away team is breathing. The bridge must choose how to deal with it: negotiate, seize the ship's core, or dig in and hold until everyone can be pulled out.
▸ Talk to it — through the birdsong channel, as one crew to another
[Diplomacy, demanding] → chorus_bargain / chorus_refuses
▸ Seize the Verdant's computer core and lock the garden out
[Computers, demanding] → core_overridden / core_fights_back
▸ Dig in at the vault and hold steady while we work the problem
[Composure, routine] → orderly_hold / panic_below
chorus_bargain
scene
It takes an hour of call and answer, but a bargain forms in melody: the sleepers belong to themselves, the garden belongs to the ship, and neither will be cut away from the other. The doors unseal. The birdsong turns bright.
→ finale_decision
chorus_refuses
scene
The Chorus listens — and answers with the away team's own words, replayed and rearranged: every promise humans ever recorded on this ship and then broke. Negotiation is over, but it has not closed the channel. It is waiting to see what they do instead.
→ finale_decision
core_overridden
scene
The core falls to a clean intrusion run and the crew locks the garden out of doors, air, and gravity. They hold the ship now — and the garden, cut off from its hands, pours everything it has left into the birdsong, which now sounds exactly like pleading.
→ finale_decision
core_fights_back
scene
The core is not hardware anymore — its conduits are roots, and the intrusion run drowns in living circuitry. The console operator pulls back a hand covered in sap that reads, on the handheld scanner, as ninety-year-old grief.
→ finale_decision
orderly_hold
scene
No heroics — the away team forts up in the vault clearing, rations shared, weapons slung, voices level. Hours pass. The garden, offered no fight to win, slowly stands down: doors open one by one, like a held breath released.
→ finale_decision
panic_below
scene
The waiting breaks someone — a junior officer bolts for a sealed door and the whole perimeter dissolves into shouting and shoving. The garden watches the ape-panic with what the sensors insist is disappointment, and the away team loses ground and dignity both.
→ finale_decision
finale_decision
decision
Endgame. The Verdant cannot stay in the debris ring: her orbit is decaying and the colonists must have a future. The bridge must choose it: graft the garden and crew into a single working ship, tow the Verdant whole to a quarantine berth, or scuttle her after pulling the sleepers out.
▸ Finish what the garden started — integrate it into the Verdant's systems as her living crew
[Science, desperate] → miracle / garden_dies
▸ Rig for tow and haul the Verdant — garden, sleepers and all — to a quarantine berth
[Engineering, demanding] → quarantine_orbit / adrift
▸ Evacuate every sleeper to our ship and scuttle the Verdant clean
[Gunnery, routine] → clean_end / ragged_end
miracle
scene
It should not work, and then it does: the garden's roots accept the new couplings, the ship's systems accept the garden, and the Verdant wakes as something the fleet has no classification for — a living generation ship, crewed by its own hundred-year garden, sleepers safe in the heart of it.
→ triumph
garden_dies
scene
The graft rejects catastrophically. The crew saves every sleeper — hauled pod by pod across to the No Mistakes while the arboretum browns and falls silent deck by deck. The last birdsong plays to an empty ship.
→ disaster
quarantine_orbit
scene
The tow rig holds through eleven hours of white-knuckle thrust, and the Verdant settles into a stable quarantine berth — garden intact, sleepers intact, future arguable but alive. The birdsong follows the No Mistakes out of orbit like a hand raised in farewell.
→ triumph
adrift
scene
The rig shears in the fourth hour. There is time for one pass — the sleepers are pulled aboard in a heroic, ugly scramble — and then the Verdant and her garden slide away into the ring where no tug will ever follow. The colonists live. Their ship, and the thing that kept them alive, do not.
→ pyrrhic_end
clean_end
scene
The evacuation is textbook and the shot is mercy-clean: one torpedo, amidships, and the Verdant becomes light. Three hundred colonists watch from the observation deck. Nobody tells them what the birdsong was, and nobody has to — half of them are humming it.
→ pyrrhic_end
ragged_end
scene
The first torpedo runs shallow and opens the arboretum to space without killing the ship. What should have been mercy becomes twenty minutes of watching the garden fight for a hull it cannot save. The second shot lands true, far too late to feel clean.
→ disaster
triumph
terminal
Three hundred colonists have a future, and the hundred-year garden is part of it. The Verdant's log will need a new species field, and the No Mistakes's crew wrote the first entry.
→ MISSION_SUCCESS
pyrrhic_end
terminal
final node
The colonists are safe aboard, and something rare is gone to make it so. The debrief will log three hundred lives saved; the crew will log the silence where the birdsong used to be.
→ MISSION_PYRRHIC
disaster
terminal
The sleepers survive; almost nothing else does. The No Mistakes carries three hundred refugees and one recording of birdsong that no one aboard can bring themselves to delete.
→ MISSION_FAILURE