A beeping noises wakes you. The air tastes wrong. The cryo-chamber is already open, and you rise shakily to your feet. Visions of ten thousand dreams blur into nothing behind your eyes and you pull yourself together as wrench pull on your uniform and lurch to the control panel in the bulkhead. You flick the switch for a status readout, and a printout begins to spool out from the wall. In block text, the computer reports;

//S.N.S. DAWN, STATUS REPORT;
//HULL INTEGRITY: [HOLDING NOMINAL]
//PRESSURE AND OXYGEN: [HOLDING NOMINAL]
//REACTOR INTEGRITY: [DECLINING, NOMINAL]
//REACTOR FUEL: [CRITICAL]

Your conditioning kicks in before the panic can rise in your throat. You and your crew have slept in her bowels in the embrace of cryo-chambers for long enough that the computer has auto-woken you - the reactor is running out of fuel. It might've been decades. Centuries. You realise you can't even remember your mission - why you were sent down. A jolt runs up your spine. Your antennae clatter against the low ceiling. Right now you have more immediate problems. If the reactor dies while you're down here you'll be stuck floating until you starve or freeze to death. The rest might not even make it long enough to wake up. You have a few options, though - at least the mechanism isn't breaking down, so you won't end up microwaved down here.

You take a deep breath, and;

>Set the engines to surface - try to contact the [Network]
>Consult the [Charts] - see if you can triangulate your position from the computer's records and orient yourself.
>Wake the crew and give the sub a maintenance run and once over. That's the protocol. You will maintain [Discipline].