Midshipman’s Log Part 102
October 22, 1252 CNS
It’s just one bad thing after another. If I didn’t know better, I could swear someone was working against me, someone who knew me better than I did—could see what I’d do before I did it, before I even conceived it. You’d be a fool not to wonder. Anyways and thankfully, I still have access to a handful of cargo modules, as most of the ship’s been locked down; I can’t even get to the mess, can’t even make it to the internal transportation network. Of course I’ve still got the cargo manifest. I was even able to identify several objects I might find useful in prying open the doors—rather permanently I’m afraid; the bulkheads are as much an internal security network as a provision against explosive decompression; they’re as strong as starship armor, and there’s no way under the sun you’d ever peel through them with a hand-held torch alone. I was able to discern wreathes of cording, pressure lifts, even a supply of thermite; it was all written there on the manifest. Problem is, I went down the line looking for the thirty-seven digit designation and—well—it’s not there, none of it, like someone beat me to the punch and somehow absconded away with all of it. Manifest’s now functionally useless.
I—I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I’m being punished or if I’m just out of my mind. Am I responsible? I just can’t accept that. All that I’ve done, all that I’ve suffered—I refuse to believe that was all a creation of my imagination. I’m not that clever. I was never a creative man, never talented—never important. No-one would come to weep at my funeral.
I’ve still got one bullet left. I can pass it between my fingers, the factory imprint along the rear of the rim. This can all be over, become someone else’s problem, a problem I can’t even conceive. Or do I imagine myself a hero? And what about Sally? Don’t I have a responsibility, at least for her sake?
There’s got to be some solution, some amalgam of parts I can strip from the available cargo. I know the doors are vacuum sealed and magnetically locked. Is there any way I can use that?
I don’t know if anyone’s responded to our distress signal.
I’m sorry. This might be my last communication. I just couldn’t stay. I had to get out. There’s just something so utterly wrong about other people. If this is the last they’ve ever heard of me, check my medical records at the now-defunct offices of Dr. Suppiliulimus. Somehow, this is probably my fault.