Jaruq log -- 37906.11

[Thomas Jaruq 0]

Brain, begin recording Personal Log for Stardate 37906.11.

      My worst fears have been confirmed.  I have been deserted.

      When the Captain told me to grab an EVA suit and make for the transporter room (with an edge of urgency, I might add) the worst was all I could assume.  I mean, your can never allow yourself any comfort when told to grab an EVA suit, now can you?  Even if your Captain's intentions are honorable, or if he issues the order in the name of duty, you're not likely to find yourself in a pleasing situation when you're strapped into something that is made to protect the body from superhigh pressures and provide it with oxygen.

      I didn't assume anything noble, of course, nor did I assume that I was being called on for duty.  I just assumed the Captain wanted to get rid of me and was willing to sacrifice a perfectly good Ensign in the process.  Stuff like this happens on Felinia all the time when someone is declared unfit for duty.  And my record over the past four months hasn't exactly been commendable, what with my being nonexistent.

      I'm overreacting, aren't I?  Of course I am.  Captain Moose would never do something like that.  The lack of oxygen is getting to my head.  Hrm.  Oxygen level: 96%.  Ok, maybe it's not lack of oxygen.  But I'm floating around in a vacuum with no sign of Arcadia about, not even a simple "hey, we're sorry we beamed you into space" over the comm.  Is it fear, perhaps?  I'll admit, I've never included slow suffocation on my list of deaths I'd accept with honor.

      Fear ... preposterous!  I'm a Starfleet officer.

      Oxygen level: 95%.

      Plenty of oxygen.  We'll be fine.  Arcadia will show up.

      It's a shame about Ensign Trichon.  His first day in Starfleet.  You couldn't mistake that sparkle in his eye when we toured the ship.  He was so excited to finally be there, so impressed by the ship.  And now he's going to die, before he could even get his first shift of official duty on the clock.

      What am I saying?  We aren't going to die.  We're going to be fine.  We have hours of oxygen, still.  Oxygen level: 94.5%.  But what if Arcadia is gone?  What if they did desert us?  What if they were destroyed?  Hoping for a rescue is probably absurd.  Unless they broadcast a distress signal?  Let someone know we were out here ... before they were destroyed?  It wouldn't take long for a ship in the vicinity to show up and grab us, right?  Or the Starbase!  Right!  The Starbase will send someone to pick us up!

      Unless they've been destroyed too.

      Oh, Lianos!  So many variables!  This is why I didn't become a scientist.

      Oxygen level: 94%.  Heh heh heh.  The science of rescue.  If I wasn't sure that I'm in complete control of my thoughts and emotions right now, I'd say I was losing my mind.

      "Uhm ... sir ... shouldn't we do something?"  Oh, that startled me!  Poor Trichon.  Such a shame.  He's obviously scared out of his mind.

      "Not much we can do at this point, Ensign.  Just have to wait for someone to pick us up.  Don't worry, someone will pick us up.  Any minute now."  That'll do it.  Calm him down.  He needs constant reassurance.  He's young, new, needs to understand that stuff like this happens all the time, like I told him in the transporter room.

      "But, sir, we haven't been contacted.  There could be a malfunction in Arcadia's systems.  They might have lost us on sensors."

      Oh, great, another variable!  Why'd he have to go and say that for?!  If it is a malfunction, the ship could easily be crippled.  With me and Trichon out here, Hawkins in Sickbay, Seiben on a freighter that's gone Lianos knows where ... there's no one left to repair the ship!

      No, absurd.  There are plenty of officers left on Arcadia.  "They'd just get it repaired, Ensign.  We'll be fine."  I need to keep assuring him, yes.  Can't have him breaking down out here in the middle of a vacuum.  Too many Ensigns are lost to nervous breakdowns.  Oxygen level: 93%.  What?!  93%?  Already?  I hope there aren't any tears or faulty valves in this cursed thing.

      "Alright.  Seems like we should be doing something though."

      What to do, what to do.  He obviously needs to keep busy.  Needs to keep his mind off the imminent danger.  I need to give him a distraction.  Yeah, that's right, get his mind off the approaching crush of doom.  "1.  2.  3.  4."

      "Sir?  What are you doing?"

      "Counting the stars, Ensign.  C'mon, you can help me.  You can start over at that grouping there, and I'll start over on the right side there.  5.  6. 7."  He isn't joining in.  He must be too frightened, too focused on our collision course with death.  Oxygen level: 92%.  That drop was even faster!  I mean, erm ... "11. 12. 13."