The Station, Part 40

As I get to know this whale more and more, I find that I know myself less and less. An effect of inverse proportions that disturbs me. I have no control over what is happening to me on the inside, but simultaneously, there is my renewed sense of purpose, of hope, that my predicament is finite. There is a way to get to Frontier, although I haven’t gone over the logistics of how to actually get into her. According to my sleep lesson, she was exposed to vacuum, or at least appeared to be. That remains to be seen. The threads that hold her in place are not exactly threads, just very thin in comparison to the station itself.
They would be rather thick if seen up close, perhaps thick enough for passage through. I know this is all speculation at this point, but I surmise that as with the rest of this place, this walking access even there. There was a thread in the hologram that lead there. I know I must have seen it. There is no corner of this place that has been left inaccessible. The station would be no exception.

Along with my new purpose, my new knowledge has given me the direction I need. And like I said earlier, it’s all down. And I also now know that coming towards the mountains was the right choice, not just in terms of finding food and water for the survival, it also served as my way station for the next leg of the trip. The tunnel I seek, a Tunnel Wide to be more precise, lies within one particular mountain. That’s where I been heading while I’ve been talking to you.

Speaking of you, whoever you may be; is any of the wonder I have provided your imagination sunk in? Have I made it hard to envision what all this manner of alien place looks like? In a way, you’re just as trapped as I, wanting to discover for yourselves the very first true contact. Even if that contact happens to be a go-between. A middleman. But a middleman for what? I feel a bit sorry for you; as you probably harbor a desire to trade places with me. I’m just a glorified radio man, while I’m sure there must be a legion of exobiologists, anthropologists, archeologists and a representative of just about every scientific discipline sitting out there right now, just waiting. And listening to me. And rotting for me. But there’s one catch—why aren’t any of you at the station? Is there something blocking your way? Or are you afraid. If the military is involved, and I would expect no less of them, than the utmost caution is being taken. I was…am….after one of them. Takes one to know one they say. So, yes, there’s some general or admiral out there shouting on about procedures and caution and the like. I know the type. And then there are the weapons. Plasma guns, antimatter missiles, fusion cannons, all mounted on cruisers that are keeping a discreet distance away. Showing force, but not provoking. The unending standoff. And after all of that, I, a lieutenant Robert…Bradley, know infinitely more than all of you. Must be driving the brass nuts.

Hey, once this is over, do you think they’ll pin a medal on me. Or, once they have seen just what one of their officers has become, throw a net over me and toss my ass into cage? I honestly wonder about that. Am I truly compromised? No, I don’t think so, perhaps corrupted in a way, but not in the sense of loyalty. I still love my species and my world. I am still who I am, but that person is more and more an enigma. At what point, if any, do I cease being me and become someone else. Am I just being paranoid, or am I discovering the beginnings my own multiple personality disorder? Wouldn’t that be a wonder?