The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 8

Midshipman’s Log Part 98

Gregory Samuels

October 7, 1252 CNS

Fucking goddamnit!  Fucking goddamn!  Who the fuck!  What the fuck!  God fucking goddamn military!  Fucking shitty-ass transport duty.  I could fucking be damned with Sally and launch myself into rude orbit than take this fucking shit!  God fucking damn!  Why the fuck did I let myself get talked into this?!

*Intervening silence of approximately thirty minutes*

I’m sorry.  I’m deeply sorry, admittedly more for myself than whatever nitwit halfwit fuckwit’s reading this in retrospect—probably above my cold corpse.  So I did as I said.  I went to the aft docking portals, investigating as I said, really just looking for any hint of human habitation—perhaps a discarded communicator or a fragment of clothing or a paper communication.  Something, for god’s sake!  I’m no genius!  I’m not a fancy military attorney, and I’m not even a fucking detective.  But this, this was beyond the pale.  I don’t even know where that term comes from.  Yeah, right outside the third aft docking portal—there he was—ugly as the day he was born, Taticius facing away, continuing to mumble into the communicator as if he hadn’t seen my arrival, and I hadn’t exactly been silent.  I knew something was wrong right off the bat, shouldered my rifle, shouted at Taticius to get on the ground immediately or I’d blow a hole in his head.  He didn’t respond, didn’t even move, even shift, like he was calling my bluff like I was a child.  I closed the distance a bit.  I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it.  What the fuck would you do considering?  I repeated my demands, and a quiet interceded, but I heard the unmistakable marker of rubber soles dragging behind me.  I was so terrified, I must have went out of my wits, and I turned about rapidly on my heels, completely forgetting Taticius.  And there was the lieutenant with a stupid fucking grin on his stupid fucking face holding his favorite fucking pistol at my fucking head.

post-it_09 dysphorias    My head felt like it was about to split open; I hit the ground screaming, and the rounds passed through the space where my throat and shoulders had been, neatly striking Taticius down, and down he fell—like a fucking throw rug.  I had dropped my rifle, which slid and skittered down and away on the floor, and I drew my pistol out and fired wildly in his general direction.  I couldn’t be sure I’d hit anything, but that piece of shit fell like a sack of potatoes.  I approached the corpse, replacing the spent magazine.  He wasn’t moving.  Put another one in his head just to be sure.  Looked around for Taticius, but he was gone, and so was my rifle.

I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast in my life.  Ran back to the crew quarters, locked the bulkhead behind me, and spent the better part of a half hour clearing out ever last fucking crevice where Taticius or god know’s what might be hiding.  Then I began writing, and here I am.  I’ve just got my pistol and the twelve rounds remaining in the magazine.  I still haven’t eaten.  I need to check the armory, need to check the command module, need to make sure Sally’s okay, but I don’t know how I’m going to make myself open that fucking bulkhead door ever again, even if I starve.  Fuck it.

Gregory Samuels signing out.

I’ll be sleeping with the lights on tonight, the lights on and the pistol at my bedside.