Science Officer's Log, First Entry, 371231

Begin official log for Science Officer Hedwig Larson, Consortium Space Ship Jay Hook, serial number 23-333-6476. Accepted commission as Science Officer and Ship's Counselor on Stardate 371125, serving under Captain Francis Montezuma and First Officer Cosmo D'Antonio.

Inspected science sensors and recording media; found them satisfactory. Ship's complement of exploratory probes missing five, expect delivery within the hour before departure. All escape pods present and test in working order. Library computer in excellent condition, bio equipment substandard; I hope replacement can be found en route. Work station satisfactory and living quarters adequate. Stowed my personal gear at 1310 hours and prepared for mission start.

As per regulation 4634, Consortium Regula Beta Division, I hereby absolve the Consortium from any responsibility for personal liability due to circumstances that may occur on Exploratory Mission #13234 to Sagittarius VI Delta, whether from equipment failure, negligence, consequences of entering an alien environment, acts of war, incompetence of captain or crew, exposure to radiation, or preexisting medical conditions. I hereby declare that my preexisting medical condition is Wortinger's disease, contracted 7 standard years ago in Thompson's Nebula on Exploratory Mission #11298 and treated by standard gene therapy cycle Gamma ending 371119.

My physical condition: height, five foot five; weight, 200 pounds, hair, absent as a result of Wortinger's disease; eyes, grey, also a result of Wortinger's disease; age, 45 standard years; marital status, unattached.

I declare my nearest living relatives as follows: daughter Rowena Salisbury, 28, resident of Centauri III Beta, and son, Jason Harris, 21, enrolled at New Canaan University on Hart's Planet.

As per regulation, I accept standard Ship's Discipline as outlined in Consortium Consula Standard Regulations for Exploratory Vessels and agree to any justified application of punishment as regulations specific for infractions, with Captain Montezuma as immediate authority and the Corporate Arbitration Board Alpha for all appeals.

I have accepted my commission of my own free will and will abide it to the duration of my commission or death.

Personal Log, 371231

It was a Friday night when I came aboard; raining at Terra Del Fuego station. The ship already stank. I made my way up to the bridge, and Captain Monty swung his big chair around to greet me. He was a large man, very overweight, with a huge salt and pepper beard, long arms that ended in fat fingers, and huge legs. His overall was stained with many hued splotches, and his long grey hair was already greasy with sweat. "Well, if it isn't my favorite Science officer coming on board. Hello Tits, welcome home. You know the drill." His toes wiggled in anticipation.

"Good evening, Captain Montgomery. I trust everything is well with you and your family."

"Oh, my family, yeah, they're okay. Meet the rest of the crew you'll be serving under." He gestured to the first mate's station. "This is Cosmo, First Mate and weapons officer, and the roughest motherfucker this side of Orion's belt. Cosmo, this is Heddy Larson, ship's counselor and science officer, and nicest piece of ass you'll find in hyperspace. Tits, this is Wadface."

"We've met," Cosmo said, turning his aquiline face and big nose to face me. He was tall and thin, his hands orange with nicotine stains. "Hello. How's the Wort?"

"I"m surviving Wortinger's disease, thank you. It's isn't as fatal as it used to be. They're come up with some new therapies."

"Which you can't afford yet. Pity. Well, don't get in my way or I'll kick the shit out of you."

Damn the cost of radiation therapy that left me so broke I had to sign for another trip to Hell under Monty Montezuma. Shit, health care used to mean you didn't spend every spare credit on treatment.

"Let's call the others up from the engine room," Monty said, punching a button on his command console. "Hey, Jackoffs One and Two. Get your asses up here."

The comm crackled in reply. "Why?"

"Cause I said so, Jackoff. Meet the Company Tit ration, just come on board. "

"Roger," came the reply, with a strain of despair.

"Roger," he whined in imitation. "Damned idiots. If they get us killed, I'm going to haunt them till they shit their pants." The lift hissed and two men emerged, one tall and thin, the other short and scrawny. "Tits, these are the crew we're putting up with. The tall piece of shit is Greg Jones. He's the brains of the outfit, which isn't saying much. He's from Mars, that's why he's so fucking tall. The short piece of shit is Paul Dingle, who plays with his dingle while sniffing ether every chance he gets. He's from Akron. Both of them have been in space before, though you'd never know it. Boys, this is Tits Larson, the only science officer who knows her shit in the universe. She outranks you, so if you disobey her she gets to fry your nuts. She's also your counselor, so if you miss you mommy or want to jackoff with a brillo pad with your nuts on fire, talk to her. And she's morale officer, and you'll find out what that means a week from today. Questions?"

They shook their heads sheepishly. "Then get below and get this goddamned rust bucket into hyperspace."

Monty turned away and started inspecting his monitor, his practiced hand bringing out a pinch of marijuana snuff and bringing it to his nose. A long sniff, a few walrus shakes of his head, and a sneeze and he started typing. After a moment, he turned and looked at me like I was an idiot. "Dismissed. Shit, don't stand on ceremony here, you know that. Get your ass downstairs and get your nest made. You don't have to worry about anything till next Friday."

I went below and found my quarters. Company standard: a barely upholstered closet with a sink and a bucket. My small bag produced three changes of overall and a spare pair of shoes, which went into the locker above my bed. Then came a holoreader, personal log recorder and two prints of my children and grandchildren, the only personal items I ever bring. I put them on the ceiling and lay down to stare at them.

Rowena said I could live with her, but her little girl is in the terrible twos and we'd kill each other inside a month, and Jason's too close to the standard student existence to want his old mother hanging around. No place else to go, and thanks to exclusivity agreements, I can't work for anybody else than the Consortium. The plagues of retribution were completed when I was assigned to work for Monty again.

We're going to the Sagittarius VI system, which hasn't been explored that much. There's a rare element there that a new broadcast power generation system depends on, so if we hit a big strike, my money worries are over. The initial probe results were promising, so I hope we can bring it home with the rusty equipment we have.

No sign of intelligent life, so there'll be no limit what we can take away. Damn Consortium. Being based on Keptman II, they can sashay around Federation regulations any damn time they want, and even if there is intelligent life, they've got no chance. Monty's mean enough to wipe them out if they give him any trouble and thanks to his connections they will be non entities without a whimper.

I just have to hope he's got enough Marijuana snuff to forget holding Party Nights.

Science Officer's Log, Second Entry, 38113

Progress through the wormholes toward Sagittarius VI Delta is on schedule, with arrival in 12 standard days. All systems are now adequate, and ready for use. Have reviewed all crew profiles and interviewed same for fitness reports; all crew members in good condition and fit for duty.

Enthusiasm for the Mission is riding high, and the crew has high expectations of profit from the cruise.

Personal Log, 38114

Comso still believes in overkill. He's got more firepower on this ship than we need, going to an uninhabited world away from the Cartesian Empire, and I bet we've got enough to blow a whole fleet out of the sky Some Security officer, and he's First Mate as well.

The twerps in the engine room must have barely passed their exams. Greg Jones is a six five rail thin dork who loves to tinker and babble about capacities. Paulie Dingle (what a stupid name!) is good at finding things not to do, and spending all his free time on morphine masturbating to his collection of interspecies copulation videos.

Monty's still a pompous ass, who thinks he's the Universal Despot. His father's a bigwig in the Consortium, so regulations are something I can wipe my ass with. Party Night is basically Get Drunk and Fuck Me night.

Damn Party Night. Monty hasn't changed at all; I'm sailing the wormholes with a bunch of rancid goats who are more desperate than the drunks of Blenheim colony.

I hung there in the Zero G area: strung up naked with my wrists and ankles bound to lines that kept me spread out. Looking at the video, I can't believe what they see in me. I'm five foot nothing fat woman, completely hairless, my skin a battlefield of green, yellow and blue splotches due to Wort's syndrome, my face caved in with no dentures (the bastards took them out), and a huge red boil on my ass. They stood around beating off and drinking as they contemplated my availability.

Monty started the seduction. "Ya know, Tits, you look like the old Goodyear Blimp."

"Really? You really know how to charm a girl."

He took a snort of Mary Jane's snuff and sputtered. "Yeah, like the old blimp. Guys, I think we should have some fun. Jackoff Two, get the tattoo gun."

"Yes, boss." Paulie screeched and bolted off. He came back momentarily with an old fashioned tattoo device, loaded with black ink.

"I think we need to have some decoration here before we get off. Humor and Sex go together, don't they boys?"

"Sure, Monty," Cosmo purred. "Let me, I have some experience with this."

Paulie handed him the gun and Cosmo entered the weightless zone, floating over to my huge side. It took him forever, the fire on my skin lasting an eternity, before he pronounced himself satisfied.

"Excellent, Wadface, excellent. Now she looks the part. Let's go fuck a blimp."

They fucked me, of course, Cosmo sending his pencil thin dick into my vagina, Greg showing his nine inches up my ass and Monty taking 20 minutes to fill my mouth with foul tasting goo.

Yeah, it's harassment and exploitation, and under company policy I could get the lot of them fired. The connections Monty has and the Consortium Arbitration board would guarantee I'd never work again. Yeah, I knew what I was signing on for in this trip. Shows you how desperate I am for work.

As ship's counselor, I can honestly attest that I'm working with a bunch of hopelessly sick bastards. I'm not sure I'm not one myself. I almost enjoyed it.

Science Log, 38201

Entered orbit, Sagittarius VI Delta, at 0500 Standard Galactic Time. No exceptional local phenomena approaching destination, and initial scans from orbit confirm large amounts of Tirillium near the surface. This availability is what makes Sagittarius VI Delta so valuable; the ship's share of this voyage will be enough that all crew members should be able to retire on return to Terra

Personal Log, 38202

Damn this company. Just got a message from Rowena three weeks old, telling me my latest payment on my medical plan is due last week. Shit, I'm going to have to re-enroll when I get back at twice the cost. After the company docks me for living expenses for the trip, in flight treatments for my disease, and any other piddly shit they feel like, I'll be lucky to be in the black for two years.

The boys are creaming their jeans over this planet. Paulie has been giggling like an idiot since we got the first readouts. Little do this idiots know the telemetry on the planet is only one third online, so it will take forever to do the analysis of how we're affecting this planet while we screw it over. Hope there's no sentient life there: we won't know until we set down if anything's out there.

Greg had a present for this week's party night, just before orbit. Flashing nipple rings. He said the blimp needed some headlights. The bastards used an old fashioned needle, and the fucking jewelry was thick. I have to leave them in, or Monty'll dock my pay. They're ridiculous, flashing under my tunic.

We looked like a spastic accordion in the Zero G room. Paulie got the privilege of being in the middle, and his face looked like he was in heaven while Greg's dick was up his ass and his was up mine. Damn Cosmo did the Goodyear tattoo with Gothic lettering, which made my sorry naked body even more pathetic.

Cosmo looked up at me while fucking me and talked. "Having fun?"

"Mmm?" I had a mouthful of Monty, so it wasn't a good time for exchange of pleasantries.

"I hear fucking a Wort's patient makes you sterile."

"Hmm mm mmm."

He gave an evil smile. "I hope so, too. Got seven bastards already, and can't afford to get fixed."

"Mmmm mmm."

"Do Jones and Dingle know 'bout this?" Paulie was whimpering in delight, ejaculating into my rectum; Greg was grunting like a caveman as he worked Paulie's butt over.

"Mmm mmm mmmm."

"Well, it's a Darwin award if they don't. The universe'll be better off without their spawn."

I spent three cycles in the shower cylinder afterward. When we make planetfall it will be worse: I'll have take something for the muscle cramps being on all fours for half an hour. Monty's dick is still awful tasting, between the Marijuana snuff and all the damn garlic he eats. I hope I don't run out of universal lubricant.

Science Log, 38203

Initial scans of the surface indicate an ideal area for the first experimental extraction. It's an unusual island of a half mile circle surrounding an inner lagoon that appears to be isolated from the planetary oceanic system. We will touch down tomorrow to begin operations; the crew is working hard to prepare for planetfall. All equipment has been checked and found satisfactory.

Planterary flora and fauna appear to be within expected limits. A large amphibian seems the highest form of life, and is probably semi-intelligent at best, rating around 2.3 on the 5.0 Universal Intelligence scale. No real threats to the crew's safety are apparent.

Personal Log, 38204

Well, we set down without killing ourselves. I'm always amazed these rustbuckets travel the universe without blowing up. The computer system needs rebooting every three hours, and only half the hand scanners work. The worst is I have to lie in my official logs: the company hates looking bad and people who've been too honest in their official logs have had bad things happen to them. I've gotten sodomized by the company enough to know better. The universe would have been better off if we blew up in transit.

The mammals playing in the water outside are so lovely. All new species look beautiful to me: this one is a cross between Earth's Walrus and Manatee, although there is a huge bulge behind the eyes that probably holds a huge brain. If there's intelligent life here, they're it. Their eyes are huge as well.

The sky has an orange hue, which is lovely at daybreak and dusk. In a couple of days when the ship's dork squad gets into full exploitation mode, I'm going swimming.

Science Log, 38205

Equipment set up for Tirillium extraction working at 70% efficiency and producing industrial grade product. No indigenous infections or contagions threatening human life present. Crew morale still high. Solar and background radiation within acceptable limits.

Indigenous species #867799 is showing some ill effects due to local environment change from extraction process. Ship scan's inconclusive; crew planning on capturing two for testing.

Some random radio signals around 0200 hours. Probably the nearby gas giant passing by; I will work up the telemetry tomorrow.

Personal Log, 38208

The Walrus-Manatees are getting sick. Some analog tests show our process is turning the lagoon from salt to fresh water; this species may not be able to survive the transition. Monty said, "Fuck 'em" when I told him about it. Cosmo stunned a couple and brought them in. They're docile and easily intimidated; their main food source seems to be a underwater tuber that grows thickly around here. The WalManas peel the fruit back and suck the nutrients from it; the plants normally replenish themselves in 48 standard hours, although this process seems disrupted by our operations.

I went out at dawn this morning, slipping naked into the water to watch the sunrise. It was warm and soft and made my skin tingle. My flashing nipple rings looked strange underwater, and it was even funny to watch them bob up and down.

A new world always makes me feel nostalgic for Proxima IV. It was a heaven there for Mark and I, the kids running around the lake, and the universe was young and full of possibility. Then the Consortiums started taking over resources, and labor lost its power. Enough of that. . .

As I lolled in the lagoon, floating in the high salt content, a native swam up to me. I swear, there was intelligence in those big eyes, we stared at each other and it seemed I almost understood what the creature was thinking. If I don't get gangbanged tonight, I'm going out tomorrow morning to understand what this race is about.

Science Log, 38217

Extraction process going as scheduled, maximum output reached. Local flora changing colors and withering; mammals growing more and more lethargic. Situation should recover after departure.

Crew in excellent health and morale, except the science officer. Relapse of Wortinger's disease making concentration difficult; standard stimulants are compensating.

More random electrical discharges and radio signals. Gas giant is not the cause, probably solar wind affecting the biosphere atypically.

Personal Log, 38219

Business as usual for the most part. We're halfway done with our little rape of the planet; the big rapists are waiting at Starbase 2003. The dork squad's working hard to get things done; their arrogance still strong.

The WalManas are suffering greatly. Most of their young have died, as well as several older sickly individuals. They were fairly placid when we first arrived, but their competition for food has increased their aggressiveness geometrically. Two were captured several days ago, and scans have confirmed that our process is killing their food supply and them quickly. In a month, all the WalManas will be dead and the lagoon sterile.

The perverts have discovered the creatures are more fun to fuck than me. A human penis resembles their food enough to appeal to them, and the WalManas have no teeth or oral structures that would harm a human. It is clear that human semen is causing their systems great stress, but the bastards don't care. I have mixed emotions: I feel for the animals suffering, but I'm enjoying the vacation from being a universal fuck cushion.

Last night, I saw a giant figure silhouetted against the fading sunlight. He looked like the old Terran deity Herne the Hunter. I gazed at it from just after sundown until full night, just to be sure it was real. Captain Clueless and his crew saw nothing but a thunderstorm.

Science Log, 38229

Extraction process almost complete, analysis of product is still within industrial quality. Lift off for Starbase 2003 expected in 3 Standard Days.

Effects of process on the planet appear to remain within acceptable Consortium regulations. No scientific obstacles to comprehensive systematic extraction of Tirillium exist at this time.

Captain and crew in good spirits, and work at top efficiency. Ship's discipline is within Company regulations.
Electrical storms and radio static increasing; cause unknown. Captain suspects Cartesian spy ship or probe in vicinity

Personal Log, 38229

I saw him again this morning, during my swim. His worry furrowed his brow, and he frowned. His eyes traveled down, and he smiled at my flashing nipple rings. Only a moment, then back to worry that was turning toward anger.

"It's the fucking Cartesians, Tits. Don't get your nipples in a wringer, we'll do that on the way home. Seems to be a static hurricane on the horizon; I've seen it before a dozen times."

I could see the face on the monitor, but the other guys could only see a static storm. Wish I knew if I was going mad; gave myself a scan but everything was normal for me.

"Take the day off, Tits, we don't need you. Soak your sorry ass. Get drunk. We'll get this cleaned up and be outta here in a coupla days. You'll be back with your family for a year or so, and you'll feel better with the new treatment. You'll see."

Shit, Monty must be hallucinating or fascinating about riches to be this nice to me.

I hate giving a planet a death sentence. The Consortium doesn't care if they leave a planetary desert behind; they're done it before. Most of the human governments have severe penalties for destroying indigenous life in commercializing a planet, but since the Consortiums are all based in Garkhamite space, the laws don't apply to them.

This morning I had a transcendental experience. While I was out swimming, floating naked in the water by one of the WalManas, I felt my consciousness merging with hers. I say hers, since I knew instinctively she was a female like me. We shared memories at first of our children, of carrying them and raising them. I got flashes of memories that seem to go back for centuries: this race is sentient and as intelligent as we are. There was nothing like language, no words, just images and emotions.

We shared sorry at the fate of this planet, and I got images of a Deity, standing huge in the sky and throwing lightning bolts at the WalMana's enemies. It looked like the figure I saw at sundown, and tonight I got another look at him as the daylight faded, only tonight he was closer.

Cosmo's pissed our electromagentic scanner wasn't working: the satellite we put in orbit is good at solar and planetary fluctuations, but it's shit for everything else. .

Personal Log, 38302

Today was my birthday, dammit. The bastards decided to celebrate by getting me drunk, spanking my ass angry red, then taking turns fucking me from behind. Greg was last and I thought he was going to rip me open. I'm glad we're lifting off tomorrow; if we were still planetbound, I'd have to walk bowlegged for two weeks.

Another vision of the giant in the distance; this time I could almost see what he was thinking. This time I ran the sensor logs and their readings were inconclusive. Telemetry showed a static storm, the same bullshit Monty's going on about. His eyes were flashing; I'm worried. Monty, Cosmo and the boys see nothing unusual.

Science Log, 38303

Mission completed. Output above expectations, extraction process proven effective, environmental impact negligible. Crew spirits high in expectation of visit to Starbase with shore leave, and return for second phase.

Two indigenous creatures returned to wild after examination. No threat to human life present on this world. Phase two of this operation can begin when data of current expedition finished.

Crew anxious to return to base and offload. All in excellent health and morale.

Personal Log, 38305

I'm still shuddering as I float here in space. The escape pod is still holding up, and I'm waiting for the rescue ship from Starbase 2003 to pick me up. I could care less: I would be happy to die here and now.

As we began departure procedures, a storm seemed to build in the West. As usual, it didn't register on our shitty equipment, and Monty blew off any threat as negligible. Cosmo got drunk and tried to rape me, but Monty stopped him and told him to wait until we got back into space. Twerp 1 and 2 made their minimal contributions.

It was after daybreak that we started launch sequence, and a commotion outside drew my attention. All the WalManas were in the lagoon, in neat columns and rows, their mouths open and chests heaving. I plugged my headset into an external monitor, and immediately my ears were filled with a macabre chanting. It rose and fell, traversing a scale unknown to human ears, building in waves to a climax before falling to rise again.

"Look at what's happening outside, I said."

Monty let loose a belch, and Cosmo tuned his monitor to the external feed. "It looks like a farewell chorus. They're singing their farewells to us. Goodbye, you sodding bastards, enjoy what's left of your lives."

Monty belched again, and the comm came to life with incoherent gibbering from the engine room. He punched a button and shouted: "What the fuck are you Jackoffs doing down there?"

"Some small issues with catalytic conversion," Greg said, "We'll have it patched in a sec."

"You damn well better or I'll have your nuts on a skewer."

Paulie cut in: "No problem, Cap'n, full power now."

Monty hit his panel and saw friendly readouts at last. "Prepare for departure. Begin launch sequence."

"Yes, Captain Bligh." Cosmo replied, touching pads that brought the boosters to life.

I kept my attention to the exterior of the ship, and saw a huge buildup of clouds, inky black clouds shooting from the far horizon and covering the sky in 30 seconds. "Bad weather moving in , Captain," I announced.

"Nothing, Tits, don't get yours in a wringer. We'll drive through it, nothing can stop us," Monty said calmly, before taking a pinch of snuff. After the ritual sneeze and discombobulation, he shook his head and looked again. "Clouds came in pretty damn fast, didn't they?"

"Clear for takeoff," Paulie's voice crackled.

At that moment, I saw a figure striding in from the distant horizon. Larger and larger he grew, until he stood on the far side of the lagoon. Rage creased his face and it shone red.

A lurch told me the ship had taken off. The compensators had been acting up since half way through the trip. I almost lost my balance; Monty and Cosmo hardly registered the jerk. With a tooth rattling shuddering we ascended.

Suddenly, the ship rocked in a huge explosion. "Enemy attack, shields up," Monty shouted.

"Cartesian ship at 9:00, " Cosmo chimed in, letting loose a barrage of torpedoes.

"Damn it, Cosmo, I'm supposed to order deadly force," Monty carped. "Altitude?"

"150 Kilometers and climbing. Orbit in 30 seconds," I reported. The readouts from the containment fields were quite alarming.

"Another barrage, then nothing more until we're in free space," Monty ordered. "We need some room to cope with these guys."

"Aye, sir," Cosmo said calmly, sending another set of torpedoes.

On my monitor, I saw the figure of a giant on the shore of the lagoon, gazing upward maliciously. The first wave of torpedoes reached him and passed through harmlessly.

"No effect," Cosmo reported laconically. "Shall I use energy weapons?"

"When we get to free space, Wadface," Monty barked. "We can't get things lined up right while we're lifting off, and our atmospheric capabilities suck. Our weapons will do us no good until we're in the black."

"Power at 130 percent and rising," Greg babbled. "Shields at 60 percent."

"60 percent? What the fuck have you two been doing that past week and a half, doing marathon circle jerks? Get those shields up to 100 percent. Now, you motherfuckers."

"Aye, aye," Paulie replied.

"300 kilometers and 10 seconds from orbit."

"Engine room, prepare for superlight at my command."

"No, Captain, not this close to the planet," Greg whimpered

"Shut the fuck up and do what I tell you. I've done this before, stupid. Prepare for a parting shot, Wadface, give him all the energy we can spare."

"When?" he asked calmly.

"On my orders, Wadface. Engine room ready?"

"No, no, no, no!"

"Get ready, damn it!"

The atmosphere dwindled away, and we were in the black of space. The lagoon was a small dot on the planet, but magnification showed the giant still standing there and reaching to point heavenward. More gibbering on the comm, and Monty ordered the shot of pure energy.

The ship rocked, throwing me to my feet and hurling the men in the bridge hard against their restraints. I was back on my feet in an instant, and realized we were in deep trouble. Guidance systems were going to fail in three minutes, and we weren't going to see home without help.

Alarms sounded, and Monty bellowed: "Report, all systems."

"Compensators offline," I said harshly, swallowing my panic. "Guidance systems down in 3 minutes. Shields at 10 percent. Thrust decreasing."

"Weapons had no effect," Cosmo said blankly.

"Fire in the engine room, fire in the engine room," Greg shouted. "Protocol 7"

Monty pounded his fist: "You mean Protocol 1, Jackoff. Tits, get down there and help them."

The lift was out, so I dropped down the ladder as fast as I dared. Greg and Paulie were in full panic: the wiring was on fire and the automatic system wasn't extinguishing it. I grabbed a tank to freeze it, but it had no effect. Hitting the comm, I reported: "Fire out of control. Cargo endangered. Fatal detonation in 2 minutes."

"You mean there's nothing we can do?" Monty demanded.

"I'd like to go home with money, too, Monty, but this will definitely blow. If we're not gone in 30 seconds, we're dead no matter what we do."

"Shit," Monty said. A few clicks indicated he'd checked some monitors on his own, then his voice came out loud and clear: "Abandon ship. Abandon ship. Abandon ship."

Greg and Paulie fell over each other getting to the escape pods. Two shuddered told me Monty and Cosmo were away. I stumbled over the twerps and got to the farthest pod. As I entered and hit the button, a fizzle followed by a series of short bursts made me think my life was over before the pod jumped away from the ship and the rocket pushed me away.

Tirillium is very unstable, and any potential for ignition demands caution. Any fire usually sets the damn stuff off in 90 seconds. Monty did the right thing, and no review board would have condemned him. All pods worked as they were supposed to, thank God, as Greg's and Paulie's pods finally kicked away. We were gone in time. As we shot away, I continued to receive data from the Jay Hook systems.

I saw the figure, huge and looming, impossibly big, appear next to the ship, its face lined with anger. He pointed his finger skyward, and the other escape pods holding the other crew members burst into bright microns as they traveled away. Then the Jay Hook exploded in a huge fireball and I lost all telemetry.

The face appeared on my monitor, no longer angry. His face was soft, kind and compassionate. An ancient face, lined with pain and wisdom. It gave me an astounding feeling of peace; He knew me and my trials, He loved me anyway. A nod, and He disappeared.

As I float through space, my marker beacon chiming every hour on the hour, I remember our journey. I do not mourn my shipmates' deaths; the universe is better off without them. I mourn the WalManas we have set on the road to oblivion. I mourn the loss of my independence: I will land and never travel in space again, even if it means baby sitting a two year old in the short run and living with Rowena the rest of my life.

I don't know what this tingling all over my body means, but I feel better physically than I have in years. My MedTechs will still laugh their heads off when they see Goodyear tattooed into my side, but I need some reminder that this really happened.

I mourn what the human race has become: lost in greed and selfishness. My life's work has meant nothing, nothing at all, and I have no future. Perhaps the God of the WalManas, or Herne the Hunter, will have mercy on us all, and I will find some peace at last.