Our colonization ship raced toward disaster and there wasn't anything that any of us could do about it.
I'm PFC Lansing. Just a nobody on the 3rd spaceship heading toward a promising planet. We're at near light-speed velocity relative to Earth - far behind. We had gradually accelerated to reach an inertial trajectory that would carry us to our destination - eventually. We had enough fuel to put us into orbit when we arrived, but otherwise we were just slaves to Newton's First Law: we didn't have enough fuel to significantly alter our path or speed. Just floating toward our destiny - light-years away yet.
We were the third ship in such a condition. The first ship was the Scout: "boldly going where no man had gone before" - years ahead of us and paving the way. Sleek, fast, and minimal. The second ship was the Construction Ship: carrying materials and personnel to build the settlement we all intended to live on. And we were bringing up the rear. We were the colonization ship: huge, bulky, and carrying the population needed to create a self-sustaining community of humans. People who had decided to cast their future on a new planet, but otherwise just regular Charlies. And Charlene's.
As with all big bureaucratic endeavors, the mission was mismanaged from the beginning. Ideally, we would have finished Ship 1's mission before launching 2 and 3, but the time frames were astronomical - literally - so it was decided to only wait a year before launching ship 2, then only one more year before my ship.
I really hadn't had a choice in the matter - being underage when we launched, joining my mother and sisters on the voyage. My father had gone ahead of us in the 2nd ship. And life generally settled in. Tolerable, but galling at the mismanagement. The Captain of our ship was the most annoying aspect of life. Captain Bitch. She had her position mostly because she was the Admiral's wife and was the most-qualified commander. Well, most-qualified after all of the real leaders - including the Admiral - had been launched in the first 2 ships. She had the mistaken impression that leadership meant "being a cunt:" exercising her authority whenever possible instead of exercising to reduce her ample butt. She went out of her way to make it clear to the rest of us that she was in charge and that we were beholden to her.
But the years passed and we all found our rhythm of life and it was OK.
Until Ship 2 passed thru the radiation zone.
Ship 1 had detected a huge zone of radiation as they passed through, but didn't detect any effects of being exposed.
Ship 2, however, had women aboard, and the radiation was a disaster. Somehow the radiation killed all females who passed through it.
All except two of them.
Extensive evaluation was conducted. Meetings and pronouncements and gnashing of teeth and finally some nobody pointed out that the women who survived - happened to be pregnant when they passed thru the radiation.
Subsequent analysis proved that, indeed, females had to be actively pregnant to survive.
And our Colonization ship was heading inexorably toward the field - to arrive in less than a year.
More studies. More meetings. More Powerpoint presentations. Time constantly ticking away. With the conclusion that there was nothing we could do about it - other than impregnating every female who was old enough to be knocked up.
There was much denial and scandal and resistance, but ultimately no one could suggest any other solution - and we were all hurtling toward the deadline of the radiation field. Now mere months away.
Further complicating the matter was that the pool of available, fertile males, was quite small. The leaders of the mission had put all of the studly men on Ship 1 or Ship 2. In addition, now that the subject was important, it was discovered that Ship life severely depressed sperm counts - with age being crucial: the older the man, the lower the count.
