Forward: The diary entries contained herein are duly recorded by Marcus Dominique, eighty-second scribe of the noble Nomad Historians. Although the main character of this story is in fact a man by birth, his tale is intriguing and harrowing enough to be worthy of folklore. Therefore, although it pains me to commit to datalink the actions of defiled humanity, my occupation demands it.
Hence herein, faithfully recorded by Marcus Dominique, is the full translation of Alex Rowe's diary.
Mommy and Daddy said that wed have to leave soon. They said that Freeport seven might become a dangerous place soon, and that it wouldnt be safe to stay, but they also made me promise not to tell any of my friends. Thats okay though, since I dont have any.
Daddy wouldnt say anything else about it, but Mommy told me that we would be going to Freeport nine, where they were used to danger. That didnt make very much sense, but if Mommy says its alright, then it will be fine.
Transcriber's Note: There seem to have been some fifteen paragraphs of writing regarding a new toy of young Mr. Rowe's, but it seems that this invaluable glimpse in to his mind has been robbed of us by a . . . grape juice stain.
Anyway, thats why Ive started writing this diary. Mommy and Daddy told me that it might be dangerous soon, and dangerous means things might get a little hectic. I dont want to forget anything that happens, so Im going to write it all down here. That way I can remember all of the exciting times when I am old and cant remember anything.
Transcriber's Note: Marcus Dominique, eighty-second scribe of the noble Nomad Historians hereby refuses to verify the accuracy of this translation, as this child's handwriting was far too atrocious to give any guarantee of content at all. Frankly, I at first suspected this was a doodle.
Mommy and Daddy said that were leaving tomorrow. I didnt have very much stuff to pack, which is good because were going to be traveling in a normal train, and theyre only giving us two cargo spaces to live in.
I should go pack now. Mommy said that I have to take a pillow and a blanket, because we dont have enough money to travel in an armored container.
Transcriber's Note: Marcus Dominique, eighty-second scribe of the noble Nomad Historians, hereby asserts that the word "pillow" used herein refers to a small, fluffy object used to absorb saliva while sleeping. Furthermore, the word "blanket" seems to refer to a curious and ineffective device used by humans to both preserve thermal energy and protect against assassination while sleeping. Such barbarians.
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 . . .
Much has transpired between when last I beheld this diary. Blood, death, glory, murder, and remorse have all taken their winding course through my mind . . . I wonder that I can still think sequentially. There is another presence in my mind now, though I believe I have subdued it. It has brought me intelligence, infamity, and power . . . but no happiness. Indeed, I believe that the part of me which could have felt joy died on Freeport Seven, as my parents were tractored in to that Nomad ship, their horrifying screams over the radio . . .
But that time is past, and what has been done shall not be retracted. I now command one of the more curious ships in Sirius, the Silvana. Some call it an obscenity, some an abomination; others call it evil. I have been cast out, and no longer have any standing among my friends, acquaintances, or people. Only a few men tie me to society still, and they are my seedy Zoner Guard liaisons. My only reason to live now . . . But you will discover that in time, I suppose. I shall make a liar of myself, and once more take up the pen.
Transcriber's Note: It is surprising that Rowe is able to control the Nomad influence so adeptly, particularly when Mercurior was able to complete such a total synchronization with his host. Even though Mercurior was an inferior Nomad, barely qualifying for major brain status, he should not have had so much trouble subjugating a human.
I was true to my word. The day after I reached Freeport Nine, I enlisted in the Zoner military. One of the guys in my new flight group, Hodge, showed me to my quarters and told me that I'd be meeting my commanding officer at nine the next morning.
He was not a kind man. My commander pushed me through basic training at a breakneck pace, because he felt that I had the potential for a command. I brushed this off as mere nonsense; the wistful thinking of an old man. A few years later, after I had finished basic training with two confirmed kills under my belt, the old codger signed me up for tactical school. I was whisked off the next day, with barely any time for goodbyes.
To this day, I don't feel I was cut out for command school. True, I never lost more than 5% of my forces in any simulation, but that was mostly due to my overly cautious strategy. The bold and daring students went on to command early, but it took me a full six years before I reached the rank of lieutenant.
At this point, I was given command of a six-eagle force, as well as a small gunboat for myself. Over the next two years, we defended Freeport Nine from both Nomads and the odd malfunctioning harvester--all without a single man lost. I was proud of this statistic, and was even promoted to Lieutenant Commander for it.
My naivete was shattered, however, shortly thereafter. On that day, I was shaken from a lifelong reverie; dislodged from the reality I knew so well.
Transcriber's Note: As you can see, contrary to popular belief, Mr. Rowe was not a superior commander as a student. His abilities were sublime to the point of a Nomad's own, and the fools at his command school could not see that. In any case, reality quickly proved the man's worth, insofar as a human can be worth anything.
Transcriber's Note - Extended: A thorough analysis of these pages of the diary suggests that Mercurior was injecting his own blood in to Rowe's lymph at the time, thereby causing a slight inflammation in the fingers, and subsequent bodily rejection transferred microscopic amounts of the blood back out of the skin, down Rowe's pen, and on to the paper. Assuming that he continued the practice, this allows us to determine the status of Mercurior's body and infestation level at the time of each diary entry. I will record these results when I recieve them.
Transcriber's Note - Edit: The final character in the word "naivete" was not displaying properly. This has been corrected. Stupid bloody typewriter.
Some time ago, at a time separated from the present by an unimportant multitude of horrors, I lost my first soldier in combat. On that day, Freeport nine was attacked. At 1200 hours, FP9 control radioed me to report eight unknown contacts entering Omicron Theta from the Omicron Alpha jump hole. They didn't guess at the identity of the contacts, but everybody knew. The Nomads had finally made a move.
I ordered all six of my eagles to land on asteroids in the field, keeping out of the sight and scanner lines of the Nomad ships. Acting as bait, I turned my own gunboat to block the projected path of the enemies. After some time, we picked them up on scanners, confirming their identities. As my missile-boat sported only two laser-based weapons, it was well equipped to fight the Nomads . . . but not eight of them. In the opening salvos, I destroyed one Nomad fighter, and they completely eliminated my shields. As they passed, however, my fighters scrambled, catching the enemies by surprise, and killing two Nomads. With their numbers reduced to five, the fight became more even. It was a bloody dogfight in the asteroid field, and we barely defeated them.
In the aftermath, the true horror and ferocity of the Nomads became apparent: I had lost three of my six fighter pilots, and a fourth showed symptoms of Nomad infestation. He requested suicide, a right never denied to such unfortunates.
Certainly, I was decorated for the success. Statistically speaking, my victory was incredible: It was not every day that one manages to destroy eight Nomad fighters with inferior numbers . . . But no decoration will revive my dead subordinates, and no new recruit can replace their presence on the team. A hole was torn in my heart that day . . . A hole which no medal can hide.
Transcriber's Note: This is probably where Rowe's insanity began. We're all familiar with the process, I'm sure. Depression leads to psychological instability, and from there the whole house of cards that is the mind of man falls down. Silly humans.
From that bloody day onward, the Nomad presence only became more severe. Our scanners would be alerted daily to Nomad scouting patrols, and we even were forced to patrol near the jump hole located in the nearby gas cloud, adding huge repair costs to our budget- as if the newfound confidence of the Nomads were not bad enough!
Zoner high command, however, sympathized with us. After I reported our situation, they were not long in dispatching reinforcements. I remember that day, seeing the Silvana and its escort group flying past Freeport nine, ordered on a classified mission deep within Nomad space. It was such a beautiful ship, its graceful curves tempered only by the menacing firepower mounted at strategic intervals along its hull. Commander Dingle, the commander of that juggernaut, was a decorated commander of the Zoner military, his worth proven many times over.
And yet, we received the distress call just two days later. According to command`s various sources, the Silvana had been badly damaged in a joint Guard-Order raid on Omicron Lost. Dingle had managed to escape in to Kappa, but his engines were no longer functioning, and the ship barely had enough power to send a distress call. I had by then been promoted to Colonel, and as such had the right to command my own Destroyer. With this destroyer, a contingent of ten eagles, and one hired corsair Praetorian, I was charged with the successful recovery of the Silvana, or, failing that, its destruction to prevent capture.
Translator`s Note: It is curious that Rowe failed to mention his promotion to destroyer captain prior to this writing . . . Perhaps in the face of greater things, he forgot about it- but is that not a tribute to the magnificence of the ship he then commanded? Even human engineering can be marveled at in such remarkable cases as that of the Silvana. I once saw that vessel, and it was indeed a marvel. The humans combined the best of Zoner firepower and an almost Nomad-level beauty to create the Juggernaut . . . But it was still more beautiful under Rowe`s command, as you will soon see.
Two hours after receiving the order, my small fleet departed for the jump hole. Preparing for the worst, I traveled through first, with the eagles and Praetorian following. (Corsairs bring up the rear in any Zoner operation, usually by their own choosing; bloody cowards.) As we had been expecting trouble, we were not disappointed.
The moment we materialized in Omicron Kappa, a salvo of Nomad energy blasts tore through the ranks of the fleet. My eagles scattered, and I myself was forced to consume half of my shield batteries after only a few seconds of battle. We were able to sustain minimal losses, however, as my cruiser`s missile turrets were more than a match for the unshielded Nomad fighters. With only two lost eagles, we proceeded to the Silvana`s last known location, but we knew the situation to be catastrophic long before our arrival.
The Silvana was covered in Nomads. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, were crawling over its surface, through its windows, infesting every inch of its mechanics. As despair filled me, I picked up my radio and attempted to contact commander Dingle, to no avail. Anticipating that the Nomads had already disabled all means of self-destruction, I formulated a plan to rob them of their prize. I quickly barked orders in to the wide-area command system, the hearing of which caused four eagles and the hired Corsair to immediately flee the system. Those who remained had resigned themselves, I suppose, to honorable suicide.
Powering up my cruise engines, I assumed the lead position, with the remaining eagles surrounding my ship. We beelined for the Silvana, breaking formation once we had been completely encircled by the Nomad swarm. The eagles were quickly destroyed by superior Nomad firepower, though they took many enemies with them. My destroyer fared little better, but it held together long enough. Eighty meters from the Silvana, I sealed my evacuation suit, bracing against the commander`s chair.
My ship smashed head-on in to the Silvana`s bridge, destroying the glass and bending the frame out of shape. I leapt through my cruiser`s destroyed windows and in to the Silvana, landing on the floor of the bridge. There, before me, was Commander Dingle.
Seeing the Nomad on his head, I wasted no time. I drew my knife, severed Dingle`s head from his body, and began to tear the major Nomad brain away from its host-to-be. Upon the host`s death, the creature retracted its tentacles immediately and began to lash at my face. I would not be deterred, however, and I planted both of my hands firmly on the Nomad`s primary cerebral nexus, raising it to my own head. I almost hesitated, but my resolve was firm. I planted the Nomad on my own head, and as its tentacles tentatively curled around my body, I thought, knowing it could hear, We could be partners.
The Nomad was ecstatic. It eagerly wrapped its tentacles around my body, enveloping me, embracing me, and we became one. I felt my mind expand, my mental capacity exceeding that which I had thought possible by many thousandfold. I felt myself brimming with a new monstrous intelligence, and began to issue orders to the Nomads onboard. There was a Nomad battleship nearby, which was staying sentinel over the Silvana for the duration of its transformation. I commanded the small Nomads onboard my ship, helpless to resist my orders, to rotate the main weapons and obtain a firing solution on the Nomad battleship. I gave the order, and the Silvana's two forward-mounted heavy mortars blazed to life, sending two meteors of fiery death hurtling in to the side of the unshielded Nomad battleship. As it exploded, I sat back in the commander's chair, now smeared with the blood of my forebear.
"It is time," I said to the emptiness assembled, and all of Sirius, "For my revenge."
Transcriber's Note: This is where the narrative ends. To the best of our knowledge, this Rowe-Mercurior hybrid now commands the Silvana, and generally confines its operations to Omicron Kappa and the surrounding systems, killing off careless brethren who stray too close. It seems that Rowe has a liaison with the Zoner Guard, from who his orders come.