The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 4

Midshipman’s Log Part 94

Gregory Samuels

September 14, 1252 CNS

I can’t believe this!  I can’t believe this!  I must be out of my head!  I mean!  I mean!  I mean, come on!  How!  What what what?!  Shoot shoot.  I should calm down.  Really must calm down.  For posterity, right?  What else am I to do?  Command isn’t going to believe this.  I can’t rightly blame them.  But it’s real!  It happened!  And you’re mad if you take all this exclamation for child-like excitement.  Of all the places one could be in the universe, I would choose any—just not here.

I’ll start from the beginning.  In my previous log entry, I discussed the acquisition of an anomalous object and the subsequent bizarre behavior of my fellow crew members.  Well, I don’t know how to say it; they’re gone—all of them; they’re gone—flung to the far winds.  It began as if a maintenance accident.  I couldn’t get hold of Donnelly or O’Leary.  I got on the PA and called for the lieutenant, who replied as if I’d caught him masturbating, with the vile vitriol of which only the commissioned are capable.  But mid-sentence, without a word, a sound, or even a whisper, he was gone, his live communicator continuing to buzz with the noise of the ambient electronics.  Taticius was the last I heard alive.  And yes, I think they’re all dead.  I tried to get him up, tried to warn him—get to the armory—and get himself ready.  I thought we were being boarded.  He dropped the communicator which scratched and reverberated upon the ground from its fusilli cord, and I heard it.  But I couldn’t make sense.  I regret not coming immediately to his aid, but I had to put out a distress signal, lock out the command module, and then I went straight for the armory, using the lieutenant’s key I’d several weeks ago stole from his private compartment.  A short-barreled rifle and a pistol, and I was out like a flash—playing soldier—but Taticius was already gone.  No blood, no body, no hint he’d ever been there but for the dust and detritus of his ignored obligations.

I was in a daze.  I thought I’d give way and faint.  My knees buckled, but it was not out of fear; I just felt so dizzy.  I moved from station to station looking for any hint of my frankly incompetent comrades, but I found nothing.  The engineering bay was humming with the gentle ruminations of the octopartite engines.  The storage modules were undisturbed all but for one.  Starboard module 23, the object’s container had been violated; whatever within was no longer there, but even though I’m not a proper detective, I could swear it was forced from within.  It was difficult not to cry.

I checked on Sally.

I returned to my living quarters and locked the door behind me.  As I write this, I’ve got my rifle cradled between my legs and my eyes fixated upon the door.  If this is my last communication, I promise you that I wasn’t taken alive.