1 year, 4 days, and 13 hours. That’s how long he had left. If in that time the ship’s scanners didn’t find a suitable habitat for the remainder of humanity, he would go back in to cryosleep.

He had been standing ever vigilant on the decks of the Reverie, one of three cryoships headed to various points in the galaxy. His only companion, the ship’s AI, he thought to be colder than his unconcious cargo. “Noah,” he asked, “how long are until we can perform the next scan?” Noah replied “3 years, 26 days, and 20 hours, Sentinel.” He’d be iced over again by then.

No one had anticipated how torturous it would be to maintain the ship’s systems alone on four year stints, but of course no one knew how long this journey would take. He looked at the mission clock – just past 323 years. He himself had been on deck eight times, each seemingly right after the other. The loneliness never ceased. He spent moments every day fighting the urge to destroy the ship. He hoped the others shared the same discipline.