Predicament
Trying to adjust to the mechanics of a ship from the other side of the galaxy is frustrating, but he’s used to powering through frustration while tackling any number of odd projects. Besides, it’s also kinda invigorating, getting his hands into the guts of a technology humanity has yet to encounter. And the basics are similar enough, once Blue Baldie gets him started.
It leaves his mind loose enough to wander. And since there’s a giant minefield of topics he’d prefer it not wander toward, he uses the time to try to figure out a better nickname.
At least he knows her real name now—Peter took the initiative to start a round of introductions. And “Nebula” is actually pretty cool, both in sound and meaning. But he feels like he could do better. She’s, what, a bit like Ilia (bald), a bit like 7/9 (stern), wrapped up in the skin of… Zhaan? Doctor Manhattan? Megamind? Andorians? He can think of a lot of blue characters, but none of them really scratch that itch.
Maybe he ought to ask Peter.
“Peter Quill is a madman,” Nebula gripes from behind an open panel, as some of the sensors finally come online.
“Huh?”
“Was a madman,” she amends, a bit quieter.
Tony strides over to peer around her at the contents of the panel. Nothing looks particularly alarming. “How so?”
Moving out of the way, Nebula scowls as she leans against the wall. “That is a Longshot Jump Drive. A tool for scoundrels who lack both honor and sense.”
When Tony just stares at her, she sighs. “A Longshot Drive chooses its destination based on luck. It can cross vast distances without access to Jump Points, but it is, at best, unreliable. At worst, it causes irreparable harm to nearby systems. Small wonder it has been banned across most of the known galaxy.”
Peter’s head pops up over Tony’s shoulder. “So it just throws you in a random direction?”
“Hardly random. It sends the ship to a place of the greatest benefit… or greatest detriment, if insufficient luck has been gathered prior to the jump.”
“So it’s, what, karma? or Murphy’s Law?”
Rubbing his temple, Tony feels suddenly, inexplicably weary. He takes a deep breath, and then says, testily: “No.”
Nebula’s eyes narrow. “I do not lie.”
“We do not live in a universe where spaceships can be powered by luck.”
“The luck does not power the ship; it merely determines a suitable end point for the hyperjump.”
He glares up at her. “The difference between fantasy and reality—”
“I would not expect Terrans to appreciate the finer points of space travel, but you might at least consider that I have greater experience with—”
“All right, you know what? Fine.” Throwing up his hands, Tony turns away. “So we live in a universe where luck is some core physical trait that humans just haven’t figured out how to measure. Quantum mechanics or whatever, fine. Sci-fi predicts the nature of reality again, and we’ve got a reality-fucking Infinite Improbability Drive.”
“A what?” Peter asks.
Tony rounds on him. “You turn every possible comment into a pop culture reference, but you don’t know the Hitchhiker’s Guide?”
“Um… no?”
“Tell me you at least know the answer to life, the universe, and everything.”
Ducking his head a little, Peter ventures, “…be excellent to each other?”
Tony’s mouth hangs open for a moment, then snaps shut. “I’ll give you a pass for that one, but once we get home we are so having a crash course in the good parts of pop culture.”
“That assumes we will eventually get home,” Nebula says, from over near another set of equipment. “The fuel cells are cracked. They will be useless long before we reach an inhabited system.”
Peter frowns. “So we’re… low on gas?”
“If by ‘gas’ you mean hydrogen,” Tony says. “I’m assuming,” he adds, looking to Nebula for confirmation.
She nods. “We require resources. Primarily water.”
“And this planet’s too barren to have water,” Tony verifies, though it’s hardly a question after seeing the surface—and the illusion Thanos had made of its former beauty.
“The small reservoirs that remain beneath the surface are hopelessly contaminated,” Nebula confirms. “It would take more energy to refine them than they would provide in return. We need to find a place with fresh water. And a steady atmosphere with direct sunlight. Unfortunately, even the nearest system is beyond reach; the reserves will run out long before we arrive.”
Peter’s eyes go wide. “So we’re gonna be dead in the water?”
She turns to stare at him. “We will be dead before we reach the water; the fuel cells power life support.”
“It’s a figure of speech,” Tony explains. “And no, Pete, we wouldn’t be at a dead standstill. It takes energy to stop moving. Out here, with nothing to slow us down, no power to turn in a new direction, we’d just keep moving, forever. Until eventually we hit something.”
The kid’s eyes get even wider. “We’re gonna crash into some planet somewhere?”
“More likely a star,” Nebula corrects him. “Planets are comparatively tiny.”
Resting his forehead against a panel, Tony takes slow, measured breaths, trying not to think about a total lack of oxygen. About the last time— “Okay, so… we wait until morning, scavenge the other ships for supplies—”
“I have already gathered every usable part from the other ships,” she rejoins, leaving unspoken any criticism of his actions on the planet, or how very long he must have been out of it. “These are the only fuel cells still relatively intact and capable of providing power. Besides, this planet’s rotation is quite slow; morning is three hundred eighty-four hours away, and the storm may last longer than that.”
Still focused on his breathing, Tony runs through the options. Taps his fingers against the wall. “So we can’t stay… can’t get anywhere useful… can’t get supplies—”
Peter claps his hands together. “Maybe we’ll run across another ship that can help us.”
Opening his mouth to respond—the chances of running across a friendly ship in an uninhabited system—Tony finds himself thrown right back into the other calculations he’d been trying not to think about: One in two, one in four, one in eight—
“Mr. Stark?”
There are hands helping him to the floor, two pairs of hands, and then anxious eyes staring into his. The words seem to come from a great distance, as if through water: “Mr. Stark, are you okay?”
All that comes out of him is a despairing laugh.