The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 14

Midshipman’s Log Part 104

Gregory Samuels

October 29, 1252 CNS

I bet you’re thinking it’s all sunshine lollypops and rainbows everything.  I admit, I really didn’t expect to see what I did; makes me terrified about what might have been on the other side of the door that horrifying night when I was plaything for whatever remained of my half-score of comrades smiling wickedly between the shudders of absolute darkness.  So you might remember, I managed to monkey-rig a sort of vault-cracking device that got the bulkhead open—just enough to get me access to the armory, the mess, even the command module.  I believe I was voraciously consuming the stale and time-besotted contents of a chicken sandwich of questionable mayonnaise whilst I was recording my long day’s triumph.  But we’ve got a few hiccups, not the least of which is my repeated need to shatter the porcelain goddess with the barely-digested contents of my last few days.  post-it_18Admit I hadn’t eaten much for days, but this just isn’t fair.  I’m trying to keep down a lot of water; there’s a real danger of dehydration, but there’s some sort of rust content or something in the pipes.  Sometimes they run clean, but at other times they put out H2O stained with this sort of greasy substance.  Besides someone literally scumming the water recycling system with tubs and tubs of hydraulic grease, I literally have no sane conclusion.

Anyways, you’re probably sick of my rambling, would prefer I get to the point.  Well, I can assure you I safely made it to the command module; got the doors locked behind me.  I traveled unmolested to the starboard armory, but—well—she won’t be doing anyone much good.  You couldn’t force a lock like that.  The door was ripped open—I think from the inside—and the arms were completely torn to shreds.  addendum_02 armoryI was able salvage a few mags for my pistol, but I think that’s the most I’m gonna manage.  Broken to fucking pieces.  Whatever’d done it even discharged a good portion of their contents; chamber was all scored beyond recognition.  Would have killed a normal man, and I don’t think a normal man could manage that kind of assault against inanimate objects.

Anyways, I have a tendency to wander.  My father used to make fun of me; I was never really able to communicate with other people.  There was always this disconnect.  I’d bend over backwards to make whatever rose into my noggin comprehensible to normal people, but it was difficult, and I frequently failed, and I often came across as cruelly callous and otherwise evil.  It’s not like I intended to ostracize myself.

So, back to my points.  My bowels are on fire.  Anyways, I made it unopposed to the command module.  Shit was locked down tight, same as I left it.  Who the fuck was sealing the bulkheads?  Worry it might be a question left to the generations and the academics after they haul my rotten corpse out of the waste disposal system.

So anyways, I made it back to the command module, checked out navigational data; the navigational AI was on the verge of tears.  Told her to grow the fuck up.  She complained that she received some communications from passing vessels.  This caught my attention; someone heard our emergency message.  But that was it.  They heard it, but someone from the command module relayed a response, saying that our hardware was malfunctioning and to ignore further communications of this nature.  Didn’t even follow protocol.  Passing transports might take it as a dead give away that something’s wrong, or they might not.  I don’t know.

Anyways, I go on duty in a few minutes; the lieutenant will have my guts for garters if I don’t take stock, and it’s been too long since anyone’s cared about routine maintenance.  Apparently, some shit-head ripped out a bulkhead with stock stolen from the holds.  I really have to complain about the quality of the food here.  Think I’ve gotta make another trip to the head.

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.

The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 12

Midshipman’s Log Part 102

Gregory Samuels

October 22, 1252 CNS

post-it_14 conveyanceIt’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.

post-it_15 doctorI’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.

The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 11

Midshipman’s Log Part 101

Gregory Samuels

October 17, 1252 CNS

I just wish that something would happen.  After all that madness just a few days ago—I admit I haven’t slept much in the mean-time—to just fall into this steady pace of zero progress.  I think I’ve begun to miss the noise; all that’s left me is the dull rumbling of the lonely engines and the occasional hissing switch of the hydraulics to keep you on your feet.  But there’s nothing else—no whisper of whatever monstrosity nearly tore out the bulkhead, no hint of my erstwhile comrades looming like grinning shades at my bedside.  I could believe that it’s all in my imagination—but how to explain the annihilated bulkhead?  High out of my mind or lost in the throes or psychosis, I don’t think even I would prove so capable.  Perhaps I especially would prove insufficient.  I should stop rambling on.  This isn’t going to prove of any use to you.  If in the future I should have gone silent, assuming I’m still alive, I will leave leaflets in sealed cargo containers detailing my progress, detailing my frame of mind.  Anyways, let me get to the meat of it.

post-it_13 cargo manifestSomeone’s been real busy the last few days.  I’d be convinced there’s someone else alive on the ship the way this is going if just fucking anything would show up on the closed-circuit surveillance system.  Someone’s always just a few steps ahead of me, closing off bulkheads and deactivating the lights—in one particularly brutal case I was nearly asphyxiated when in a closed section someone shut off the life support on me.  Luckily, it’s actually somewhat harder to kill a man; even bad air can support a reasonably healthy young man for a good period of time, long enough to fumble about with the half-rusted plasma torch long affixed upon the wall.

For all my hard work, I haven’t been able to make it to the armory, which has me really worried.  If they can manipulate the ship to this extent, can they break the armory’s encryption?  Of course, I know where they’d likely be, holed in the command module, but that just shouldn’t be possible.  It was well locked behind me.

I can’t risk seeing Sally.  Whatever they are, I don’t want them being curious about her.

I’ve gotta get some sort of trump card, something that allow me to side-step all this additional and unnecessary security.  Might be something I could use in the cargo.  I think the situation is sufficiently fucked to justify this sort of theft.

The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 10

Midshipman’s Log Part 100

Gregory Samuels

October 12, 1252 CNS

First, I’d like to apologize, extend my apologies, get on my hands and knees in thorough prostration.  Last night was just a very bad night, like none I’ve ever had before, even before I joined this little merchant marine.  I would have begun this log earlier, but my morning and much of my mid-day had been utterly wiped clean.  I didn’t get a lick of sleep, you see; the pounding had continued throughout the evening, and I’d been worried through the lot of it that the bulkhead was going to become undone from its very hinges; how the door remained firm is utterly beyond me.  Whatever it was on the other side of that door was monstrously strong, many times removed from even the most athletic of strongmen.  The door, as I had said, had indeed held firm, but with the cessation of the endless pounding, thorough racket skittering like a cockroach across the wrinkles of my mind, I eventually found the courage to test the door, see what was on the other side.  I didn’t much fancy the idea of remaining you see, for reasons I’ve yet to mention.  In any case, the door was completely and utterly jammed, and I didn’t have a lot of tools or materials to work with.  If I ever wanted to get another bite, if I wanted to resupply my military arms, if I wanted to make sure the ship was to continue to run, I had to make a break for it.  As it was, I made creative use of a crowbar, a bare thimble of thermite gel stolen from Donnelly’s locker, and a spare cooking torch to free the lock, by which I eventually was permitted just the bare necessary narrowness to strain to the exterior hallways.  What a fucking mess.  Place was covered in shit, scorch marks everywhere.  I can only imagine what cyclopean horror had battered down the hallways.

post-it_12 hallucinationsI tried to get some sleep earlier—that night—despite the incessant pounding obliterating what remaining senses I still possessed, any facsimile of my mental wherewithal.  I’m not sure I still did.  Still do.  I saw them between the flashes of the overhead looming lights activated between the echoing blasts of monstrous potential.  My crew-mates.  Casting devilish aspersions from across the room, closing the distance in the red-light, green-light of the sudden and intermittent dark—they were only dispelled with the discharge of my firearm, but they somehow always returned bearing the grim countenance of some fattened feline for a wounded and struggling mouse leaking out the crimson profusions of the very end of life.  I hid under my bed.  But they found me.  I only had one bullet left.  I closed my eyes, sobbing, and poised the muzzle against the crook of my chin, waiting for them lay their hands upon me.

My eyes are red and worn and bruised.

I’m going to the command module to check our progress, see if any vessel’s picked up our emergency, but first I’ve got to access the armory.  Wish me luck.

The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 9

Midshipman’s Log Part 99

Gregory Samuels

October 11, 1252 CNS

H-h-h-help!  *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE* H-h-h-elp m-me!  *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*  I j-j-j-j-egh.  I just c-c-can’t t-take it.  *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*  I just can’t take it.  I can’t take it.  Anymore.  Not anymore.  *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*  They’re at the door.  They’ve been at it for hours.  I thought they would have given up by now.  *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*  The bulkhead’s held up so far but *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE* several more hours of this, and even I have my doubts.  I-I-I’ve still got my pistol.  I somehow doubt I’m going to stop whatever’s on the other side with this, hurling itself at the bulkhead door with the force of a battering ram *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*.
post-it_10 no ideaThe lights have been flickering in and out.  I don’t need to tell you I’m scared shitless *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*.  I’m just at my wit’s end.  I p-p-probably shouldn’t tell you this, or I probably should have mentioned at the beginning, but a few years ago I was diagnosed with *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*.  Took *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*, but when this position opened up, I couldn’t say no, but they wouldn’t have taken me either.  Dropped the *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*, pretended I’d never heard of a ph-ph-ph-*INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*, and I had my medical data falsified.  But I never had hallucinations before *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE*.  Do you hear that?  I can see it.

*INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE* OH GOD!  The lights went out.  Oh god oh god oh god.  They’re not coming on.  Hmm… please.  Just turn back on.  Please *INDETERMINATE LOUD NOISE* at least for me.

[Intervention of several minutes intermittent with continued loud noise of indeterminate source.]

post-it_11 schizoO’Leary?  Is that… you?  What… what… fucking flickery fucking lights.

*SOUND OF A FIREARM DISCHARGING*

STAY THE FUCK AWAY!

*SOUND OF A FIREARM DISCHARGING*

GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!

*FIREARM DISCHARGES SEVERAL MORE TIMES BEFORE THE FEED CUTS OUT.*

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.

The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 7

Midshipman’s Log Part 97

Gregory Samuels

October 6, 1252 CNS

Taticius started talking to me today.  I admit, I haven’t worked up the nerve to go see him.  Says he needs to get into the command section but that he’s lost his command override—wants me to do it for him.  He just keeps calling me.  Over and over and over again.  The absence and apparent reappearance is one thing—so you’d think—but there’s something very wrong and I *KNOW* I’m not imagining it.  People, real people, not clumsily made dolls meant to terrify children, they understand to use tone and emphasis and rate of expression.  But he’s almost like, he’s almost like a robot, but a machine would at least maintain a constant means of expression.  I think he’s gauging my responses, trying to learn from my speech—not only how to speak, but also taking cues from my response.  He’s been talking to me for five hours now.  Five hours.  Repeating the same fucking lines.  “Gregory.  Come.  On.  Letmeintothecommandsection—BUDDY!” as if he were suddenly enthusiastic and congenial.  But he’ll suddenly turn angry—vicious—“PLEASEI’VEONLYGOTFIVEMINUTESBEFORETHESHOW I’LL TELL THELIEUTENANT on you, youknow?”

I keep my thumb poised above the mute, but I just can’t.  I keep worrying just “what if?”  Would help if I wasn’t a wreck.  I asked where he’d been, if he’d been playing a trick on me, if he continued to be.  He didn’t answer, just the same prompt over and over and over again.  Communicator says it’s coming from the third aft docking bay.  I haven’t been able to work up the courage, see if he’s really there, but I don’t think I can handle it much longer to be alone.

I haven’t eaten in two days.

I worry about Sally.

post-it_08 rustThe faucet water’s starting to come out rust-colored.  Just my luck, right?  I shouldn’t get too sick, as long as I don’t have too much, as long as I can make it to the mess in a few days.  I’ve had my shots.

It tastes like I imagined.  Better than tasting like shit, I guess.

Are you familiar with tetanus?  Comes from Greek.  The condition of being stretched basically to death.  Bad way to die.  Somehow, I imagine it’s the least of my concerns now.

I confess I feel a little better.  I’m going to close the log out here.  I’m going to open the bulkhead door.  I’m going to the aft docking bays, see what I can find.  I won’t tell Taticius that I’m coming.  Got my guns with me.  I’ll report what I find as soon as I can.  This might be my last report.  Maybe I should tell Sally.  If god is with me, I’ll be back soon, no worse for wear.

The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 6

Midshipman’s Log Part 96

Gregory Samuels

September 27, 1252 CNS

post-it_06 formication    Can’t get over how itchy I feel.  I mean, I’m not delusional—not seeing insects crawling over every surface and up the inviolate walls of my skin hungry for my eyes.  No bumps under the skin blistering forward with a legion of hungry baby spiders.  I’ve had to restrain myself, for otherwise I’d end up covered in lacerations boiling into infections.  I’ve considered cutting my nails painfully short, even at the risk of the draw of blood.

I’m sorry to begin like this.  I should pretend that I’m in better condition.  I just don’t care anymore.  I should pretend, but I just can’t maintain the façade.  I’ve never been so lonely, and I’ve long thought myself a lonely man.  Primary and secondary education, you see, were an absolute terror as regards my own comrades and most catastrophically the opposite sex.  For years I thought the only woman I’d ever kiss would be my own mother.  So you’d think I’d be up for this.  There are other men in history that have withstood long periods of isolation with their sanity largely intact.  I just don’t feel right, and I think it’s beginning to manifest physically.  I think I spent three hours solid scratching my throat.  On the one hand you’d expect a man, all alone in a big ship like this, would lose himself a bit, see things in the corner of his vision.  Happens to people all the time.  It doesn’t actually mean anything, long as it doesn’t bother you.  But.  It.  Does.  Bother.  Me.

I don’t think I’ve ever had genuine comrades—maybe Taticius, maybe another boy in school.  But he saw it, didn’t he?  Taticius, before we he went silent.  Strange then that such a helpless misfit like me’s the lone survivor.  I can’t help wondering.  It’s been a constant thought on my mind.  Can it kill me?  It was fast, wasn’t it?  It took them before they could react?  But would it have to be fast to do that?  You’d think but—wouldn’t I have been taken as well?  I’m no magnificent soldier, and I think in general that I’m a fair bit less agile than my fellows.

Yesterday, I went to the mess to collect a day’s rations.  While I was reheating a freeze-dried package of roasted chicken when what sounded like the discharge of a firearm went off on some deck overhead, but before I could investigate, this pain right behind the eyes, and I was blind.post-it_07 conversion syndrome  Completely blind.  Stumbling about, trying not to fall face-first onto my steaming-hot victuals, I was completely blind—fifteen seconds I think.  That’s never happened to me before.

I ran back to the safety of the crew quarters as fast as my legs would carry me.  I didn’t even eat.  It was two hours before I could work up the nerve to investigate, finger quivering over the trigger of my rifle against the regs.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  I thought it was a little more humid than it should have been, but that’s not unreasonable considering how long we’ve gone without maintenance.  Just hope atmospheric filters hold up long enough till the end of the journey.

I’ve got the door shut, locked, and I’m considering a barricade.  I’ll report as soon as I’m able.  Somehow writing about it makes it seem not so bad.  Should be added to the regs.  I wouldn’t mind a manual citation.

The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 5

Midshipman’s Log Part 95

Gregory Samuels

September 20, 1252 CNS

I can’t really deny it.  It’s getting to me.  It’s been a some time since everything’s gone quiet.  I spent the first few days stalking through the corridors painstakingly in search of unwanted passengers and some sign or signal of the whereabouts or final destination of my comrades, but it’s all just empty; there’s nothing there, not the rattling call of a hoarse throat down a long steel corridor or the paddling reverberation of fleeing or pursuing footfalls, but it’s just empty, as vacuous as the murderer that surrounds these stalwart six walls.

I spent the first day huddled up within the crew quarters; I don’t think I even blinked the whole time, fixated upon the solid-steel door encapsulated within the auspices of Hercules’s ponderous bulkheads.  But eventually I grew hungry, hungry enough to risk murder—or worse things only imagined.  The mess was immaculate.  Not a scratch and certainly not a boom interrupted the seemingly slow preparation of my freeze-dried rations. 
post-it_05 food
Biscuits and gravy—filthy stuff—I don’t know what alligator-besotted backwater concocted it, but hunger, you see, is the finest sauce, even if it is hard to eat with your left hand while your itchy trigger-finger violates the most sacred tenets of firearm discipline.

I couldn’t get over how quiet it was, how still the shadows, how crisp the recycled air.  I didn’t know what to do.  As carefully as I could, I went from storage module to storage module, seeking perhaps something that I’d missed, or perhaps it was merely loneliness; just to observe my duties might make me feel whole again.

I visited Sally again.  Didn’t have the heart to tell her what plagued me, though I’m sure she had an inkling.

I worry I’ll lose track of the days.

I returned to the command module.  We’re on course.  The navigational intelligence demanded the presence of boatswain.  I didn’t know what to say, tried to explain that he was wounded or hurt, and she called my bluff immediately, indicating that the roster still denoted him healthy and hale and presumably on-duty.  I couldn’t help being curious.  I brought up the roster window to see what the administering intelligence thought of our status.  post-it_04 rosterFour green lights accompanied the names of my comrades.  A yellow light presaged my own.  I didn’t know what to say.

I’ve returned to the crew quarters to make this report.  I sealed the bulkhead behind me.  I can’t be sure, but I think someone’s been here, rearranged a few personal items—but none my own, so I can’t be sure.  The sheets are unblemished.  I’m pretty sure I sealed the armory doors behind me.  I’m not sure if it’s just the groaning of an old ship, but I think I hear voices, but I can’t tell what they’re saying; I can’t even tell if they’re addressing me.

It’s hard to sit upright; I’ve a splitting headache—feel like I’m going to fall face-forward onto the metal panels adorning with adornment the subservient floor.  Feel sick.  Fucking biscuits and gravy.  Fucking freeze-dried rubbish.

I’ll sign in again soon.  I’ll get her there safely.  And if I can’t, I promise I won’t let them get her.