The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 13

Midshipman’s Log Part 103

Gregory Samuels

October 23, 1252 CNS

I’ll freely confess that I rarely come across as collected, but this day was a glory, absolute glory, if only it weren’t so strange.  Aside from that, getting more than a little cramped in these conditions, getting sleep when I blessedly can.  Cabin fever, pure and simple, but what do you expect in the starliner life, even if the ship is massive enough for an internal rail network?

So I’m sure you’re waiting at the edge of your seat, eager to hear about my success or failure.  At least someone.  Back on Pilar Secundus, I never knew anyone that did.  Guess I’m lucky this’ll be your job.  Fuck you.

So, some shithead made off with anything resembling breaching gear.  No thermite, certainly no thermal lance, and even the fucking plasma cutters were stolen.  Puts me in a shitty position, as I mentioned, starving to death down here.  At least I haven’t had any unexpected pokes in the night.  Of course, it’s always night down here.  Anyways, they hadn’t seen fit to rob me of the various acetylene torches placed in appropriate positions along the hallways.  A fair sight less efficient than a plasma torch, but there was enough fuel, once I cannibalized the lot of them—just enough, bet those shitheads didn’t think of that.

post-it_16 torchFound a few valves, adhesive membranes, whatever I could, and there was a large supply of liquid helium bound for some research station someplace unpronounceable.  I’m writing this as I’m downing a stale chicken sandwich I stole from the mess.  I’m not complaining.  Anyways, took me several hours work, the bulkhead doors are like exterior armor, a foot thick on each side with an internal atmosphere to permit the movement of armored bolts to keep the whole arrangement in check.  Took me forever—five hours, hot bloody work with bits of burnished metal shooting past my face.  Couldn’t find a welding mask, had to do with O’Leary’s spectacles.  She was usually a miserable bitch—Irish, whatever that is—but she gave me a hand, passing back and forth what remained of my hand-tools until the whole arrangement was ready.  I applied the adhesive membrane and connected via tubing the helium to the aperture, all of this attached to a novelty water-pump.  Prayed to all the gods I don’t believe in that the pump wouldn’t break.  O’Leary didn’t have much to say.  Anyways, turned on the pump and ran down the hall, didn’t want to be surprised with a hail of shards.

post-it_17 olearyGods above what a mess—composite armor, not the simple rolled steel of a bygone age—would have lacerated to ribbons a whole score of men.  Way was open, O’Leary said she had somewhere to be.  And here I am.  Delicious.  I’ll be to the command cabin before you know it.