Spaceman Ritchie Evans, Rating E-3, had had a long day. He started his shift by getting chewed out by the chief petty officer in charge of his engineering group. He’d left a valve open on one of the coolant lines that fed the secondary MFD system while purging it during a maintenance cycle. When the system was re-activated, it wasn’t caught until an alarm sounded. He was scolded and accused of incompetence.
The day went downhill from there. He was sure he’d shut off that valve, but the petty officer would have none of it. Then he misplaced a transfer module for one of the myriad zero-point energy collectors he was assigned to swap out. It meant he had to go and sign out another one, and again, the petty officer scolded him and threatened to take it out of his pay. He grumbled for the rest of the day, until a bundle of fiber optic cable was found slashed. The petty officer prepared to reprimand him yet again, but Evans was able to prove that he hadn’t been anywhere near the cable all day. His superior relented, albeit with reluctance.
Evans didn’t like being called an idiot. Or incompetent. Or useless. Or a buffoon. He knew he was none of those things. He’d proven his acumen numerous times before. He always scored high on his upgrade exams, and even had a commendation added to his file by the cheng himself.
By the end of his shift, he felt like someone was out to get him. But that couldn’t be so. His shipmates liked him–there wasn’t anyone he didn’t get along with. Except perhaps the chief petty officer. When he signed out at the end of his duty shift under the disapproving glare of that same CPO, he just wanted to flop onto his rack and forget this day ever happened.
As Evans was shuffling down the passageway towards the enlisted quarters, his mind was a million miles away. Literally. He longed for Earth, for the wooded hills of Tennessee where he grew up. For that stream behind his grandfather’s cabin where he was always sure to catch a pair of spotted trout. He could smell them cooking in grandpa’s cast iron fry pan, drenched in butter and lemon juice, sprinkled with parsley. He hadn’t been home since he was recruited, and even though he loved his job, after today, he pined for home–sitting at the table in grandpa’s aged cabin eating those fish while the old-timer regaled him with stories of his service in Vietnam, butter and lemon juice dripping down his chin whiskers as he carried on with his mouth full of the savory trout.
Evans loved his job. At least he loved his job before the fiasco that was today’s events. He knew he did his job well, and he felt like an important part of the team, keeping Parallax running smoothly so it could perform at peak efficiency. He loved his job, he loved being member of the snipes, he loved his ship, he loved his mates, he loved every part of his role in the Program.
Just not today.
Evans was staring at the deck as he shuffled down the passageway towards his cabin and the rack that represented much desired slumber, when he happened to glance up for a brief moment. As he did, a small figure appeared from a side opening, then darted back to disappear again. The enigmatic figure was silhouetted and only appeared for a moment, so he couldn’t make out any details. What startled Evans was the fact it was small, like a child. But what was a child doing aboard Parallax? That made no sense to him as he approached the place where the mysterious little character had appeared and then vanished.
He stared down an access port that led to a cluster of conduit containing junction points for admittance to various systems. It was smaller than the main passageway–only one crewman could fit through at a time. It was dark, which didn’t make any sense either. All the access ports were well lit like the rest of the ship. When he started his shift the next day, he would report it and probably be assigned to repair the problem himself.
He peered into the darkness for a moment, and just when he was going to put his sighting down to fatigue resulting from a difficult day’s work, Evans noticed movement at the end of the port. He squinted, trying to make out who or what was moving around in front of him, but it stopped as suddenly as it began.
“Anybody there?” he called.
No answer.
“Hallooo … anybody down there?” Still no reply. Then, he spotted movement again. “Are ya okay down there? Do ya’ll need help?”
Concerned someone might be injured and in need of assistance, Evans started down the port through the darkness. He reached the end, and turned left to continue down to the junction cabinets. As he rounded the corner, he spotted a small figure dash behind a cabinet ahead of him.
“Hey!” he shouted. “What’s goin’ on? Who are you?” As he reached the bank of cabinets, he eyed something on the deck. “My missing zero-point module.” He reached down and picked it up, examining it as he did. “How did that get here?”
Then he noticed the corner of the transfer module was covered in some sort of dark liquid. He chastised himself for not thinking of it sooner, and he plunged his hand into the pocket of his coveralls to produce a small flashlight he always carried with him. He activated it, pointing it at the module.
It was covered in blood.
Frantic, Evans threw the module to the deck and turned the flashlight to illuminate the passageway around him. What he found in the darkness turned his blood to ice. There were several dismembered body parts lying on the deck. An arm. A hand and foot. Most of a leg. Then he spotted the head. To his horror, Evans recognized his bunkmate–Jessie Turner. He covered his hand with his mouth and fought back the urge to retch.
He turned away and glanced back at the cabinets to see two small figures emerge from behind them. He flashed his tiny light on them. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. They were the small aliens, called grays. They stared back at him, their slanted, almond-shaped eyes black and emotionless.
Then Evans heard movement behind him. Still reeling from disbelief at discovering the little gray-skinned minions, he spun around to see what was moving at his back. As he turned, all his tiny flashlight illuminated was a large, three-clawed hand that flashed in front of his face.
Ritchie Evans life plunged into blackness.