Alex Rowe

[NiCAD]

I won’t be writing in this diary after this. Mommy- no, mother and father are both dead. I have arrived on Freeport nine, destitute and starving. I have seen horrors . . . Horrors the full import of which cannot be captured by my own mind, much less this flimsy paper. Their substance and form, however, I will try to convey.

As our transport left Freeport nine, a general advisory warning came over the communications panel in our cargo pod. Nomads were inbound, and they appeared to be attacking the station. Our captain slammed on the thrusters at hearing that, but his responses were late. From what I can gather, metal shrapnel from one of Freeport seven’s biodomes struck our cargo pod, tearing an enormous hole in the other side. My mother and father were sucked through the maw instantly, and only the emergency autoseal on my survival suit kept the breath in my lungs. I was able to cling to a handlebar in the pod itself, usually used to restrain perishable cargo. A Nomad ship—a gastly, horrifying monstrosity with a massive gash on its side from some battle long before—a stretched out its feelers to grasp my parents and the others who had been lost to space. The nomad collected my parents in its cargo hold, and slowly turned to leave. The captain of our trader, cursing loudly over the intercom, kept his damaged ship on course for Freeport nine. I was moved to another cargo pod, but despite these comforts my weeping continued unabated. For hours, I sobbed uncontrollably. There was sadness, but now I have none. There was happiness, joy, sadness, blithe ignorance—all of these existed inside me once, but I fear I have lost them with my tears. Now there is only anger.

I will enlist with the Zoner military tomorrow, and I will have my revenge. I will kill every last one of the Nomads with my bare hands. Over the lives of my dead parents, I do so swear.


Transcriber's Note: Johannes Arcturus, the pilot of the Nomad vessel mentioned herein, was later rewarded for his bravery, lived a full, healthy life, and died at the venerable age of 5982 units. Furthermore, the character of this writing is much different from those prior; They say that war can do many things to a man. If it produces this sort of result on one such as Alex Rowe, however, I wish that I had been placed on active duty before being forced to take writing seminars . . .