Drip. Drip. Drip. Plonk.
Drip. Drip. Plonk.
For some reason, the rhythm of the leak changed now and again. It was a tiny thing, but noticeable to anyone who might linger in the bowels of the ship for any amount of time. The brand new, three-months-off-the-line, state-of-the-art cruise ship that shouldn’t have any leaks in the first place.
The Connemara had everything a captain, crewmember, or passenger could ever want. She was big enough to fit ten professional-sized, anti-grav football fields, had enough stores to feed a planet for a year, and could almost anticipate what anyone would request based on the personal information entered into her database.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Plonk.
During her shakedown cruise, the Connemara had performed above and beyond expectations. Her captain, an experienced man in his fifties, had nearly wept with joy at how responsive she was, how easily she cut through the solar winds. The crew went about their jobs with the proud posture of those working with the best.
Drip. Drip. Plonk.
It was such a tiny leak.
A tiny, arrhythmic leak that couldn’t possibly affect much of anything.