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Message Incoming.Source Melchizedek.Hyi,

Found at: cosmic.voyage:70/Melchizedek/024.txt

Message Incoming...

		
Source Melchizedek.0294
β Hyi, 3rd Planet
Ascension 00h 25m 45.07037s
Declination –77° 15′ 15.2860″
Distance 24.37ly
Equinox J2000.0 SOL
Year 3782, QEC adjusted

		
[Autotranslator enabled...]

		
Stephanie Janssen, Specialist First-class
:::
Doctor Nguyen (the medical one, not the biologist) thinks I'm
crazy. No, seriously. She actually said that in our session today.
So, either I'm certifiable or she's the worst psychologist on the
planet. Actually, it's probably both. She's only one of five
people on the planet after all, and the only psychologist, so that
makes her the worst one. Yes it also makes her the best, shut it.

		
According to the worst doctor on the planet it's not okay to break
things or throw things at doctors when you are angry. That's
apparently a problem, which I think is just ridiculous. I mean,
they have special hospitals and stuff back on Earth for people
like that and I bet those doctors get things thrown at their heads
all the time. And I'll bet they don't call their patients crazy
and run out of the room. I mean, seriously, it wasn't like it was
a knife or anything. A microscope can't hurt that bad. She's such
a drama queen.

		
So in good news I have this habitat to myself now. In the bad news
category I'm not allowed to leave it without an escort. I'm not
sure how that's fair to the escort, though. I mean, it's going to
be Eva cause they make her do everything where I'm concerned and
Eva didn't do anything wrong at all. She's perfect. And what sort
of punishment is that for throwing a microscope, anyway? "You,
stay in this tent and you're only allowed to spend time with this
hot science lady on this totally foreign world where there's like
nobody around. No duties, just private tent time." Okay, I think
I might like the sound of this, actually.

		
Jerome, though. First Dr. Idjani and now Jerome and that
cold-hearted bitch won't even go look for him. There's something
out there eating our crew and she just wants to mess around with
a machine that sprays man juice all over the ground. If you ask
me, she's the one that's sick in the head. That's like totally an
Oedipus complex, or Odysseus complex or one of those old Greek
dudes that was into spraying man juice all over. I dunno, I'm not
a historian. Yeah, we're here to bring life to the galaxy,
awesome. And what's the count on that so far? OH, NEGATIVE THREE!?

		
No, this is all wrong and I'm going to fix it somehow. I've got to
get off three and over to four, though. All the equipment is on
four, unless I'm going to laser-measure my way into saving Jerome
from an interstellar octopus or whatever is out there. Range-find
him right into oblivion, yeah. No, for real, we have actual stuff
on four that could help. Probes and whatnots. We don't actually
need to risk a ship! I told her this and still she pulls this
rank-and-file shit as if there's some echelon of command waiting
to check in on us. THEY ARE ALL DEAD! YOU ARE ALL DEAD! Or might
as well be. 1300 years? Yeah, is the Rhetorical Ecclesia even
around anymore? We haven't heard a peep out of Earth since we woke
up. Plenty of sad sappy screaming from all the other ships out
there, though. This universe hates us and wants to kill us all and
I am the only one who wants to god-damn fight back!

		
Eva. She's with me. Or, well, she's like physically with me. She's
sleeping on the cot right now and I snagged her tablet to write
this. I'm encrypting this shit too, so it doesn't echo back to the
rest of the team. One-way QEC messages, bitches. Didn't know you
could do that, did ya, Prezzi? Yeah, the fascists forgot I'm
actually on this mission cause I know shit. At least when I'm not
drunk. And I'm sober as anything right now.

		
Oh my god, Sandy. Holy shit, I'm a horrible person. Jerome is like
my ship dad or something, so I talked about him and I totally
skipped over Sandy. She's a gem. I met her before she started
transitioning and it has been the best decision ever. She's
a god-damned inspiration. Live your truth, be who you are meant to
be. She deserves better than this, not just from me. I'm not going
to let her down, or Jerome. They're out there, I know it.

		
"Oh Stephanie, that's nonsense. You read the transcript, something
happened to them. They were hallucinating. Bullshit bullshit
bullshit." No. I've heard it all. Prezzi's logic is Right and Just
and Holy and it's utterly wrong. I HEARD the recording when I read
it. I can feel it and hear it in my head. I know the sound those
alarms make. I know the voice of the computer speaking and there's
no way to confuse that with Dr. Idjani. There's no way the captain
would confuse it. And even if he did, even if both of them heard
some crazy stuff or their nitrogen mix was wrong, the transcript
finished. It came through!

		
"Autodisconnect after 5 minute silence". That's what it says.
That's what it did. Something happened and they stopped talking
for five full minutes and THEN the ship relayed the message. That
shuttle is out there and they need us. They need help, and I'll be
damned if I'm going to leave them to the black.

		
Eva will help. She knows what's at stake. I trust her, but I need
more. If I do this, whatever this is, I'm not jumping in without
a plan. The Vos 144A has 6 shuttles and they can peer-dock without
an umbilical, but only if someone is awake on both sides to link
the seals. That's a problem. Also it sounds like Jerome was doing
his funny math to backtrack to the spot we lost the doctor. I'm
a fair whiz at maths but those sort of transverse orbitals
accounting for stellar drift will need a proper navigator. Lucky
me I've got best navigator for 20 light years drooling on my
pillow. So gross. So cute. What else? Oh, right, I'm on the wrong
planet.

		
That's not so bad, as far as plans go. Get Eva, get others, get
a ship, get to four, get more stuff, find Jerome and Sandy, bring
our people home, punch Prezzi in her dumb face, make out with Eva.
This is doable. I can do this. We can do this. Please let me be
able to do this.
.

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