LOG 1
Though not on the ship, it feels prudent to record my experiences on-planet while searching for sampling sites for Switchblade. Here's the first:
Shortly after landing, securing the ship, and setting up my hammock, I ventured out into the small corpse of trees visible just a mile or so south of ship. Everywhere else, far as eye sees, is prairie. Fortunately, the local star is not so hot, at least not at this placement of rotation. Still, after the short hike, it was a relief to set down my toolpack and sit for a spell under the shade of trees.
I had just uncorked my canteen when a curious bellow noise came from above, in the tree I leaned my back against. I looked up to the source of the noise: vaguely squirrel, but large, maybe 40 kg, with a long snout like an elephant's trunk. Its pelt was mostly a dark purple suited well for shadows, with soft stripings on the neck, legs, and tail of a brighter magenta. Altogether, it blended well with the pale pink-ish leaves of this species of tree. The native did not seem threatening, nor afraid, but kept its distance in a bough to my right. Again it made that bugle, trunk lifting a little to produce the sound, and held out a clawed foot in my direction. I raised my canteen, and when it clambered down the tree's trunk closer to me, allowed it to grab it, though I kept ahold of the strap.
The striped creature examined the canteen, shook it to hear the liquid slosh, then tested a long black tongue down to sample. Though it is merely purified water, flavored only by the leather of its container, the native recoiled and threw the canteen before scrambling high up and trumpeting angrily at me. I managed to yank the canteen towards me as i t fell, but fumbled the catch and ended up with half its contents soaking my head and chest. I cussed the native out, but it began throwing tree nuts at me, so I hoisted my pack and continued on. Looking for a good site to collect soil samples. Hopefully in a quieter spot.
LOG 2
Switchblade was unimpressed with my samples, so the next local morning we took off and flew in atmosphere until coming across a geological feature more interesting to the scientist-mechanic: a slumbering volcano. Switchblade tells me it's been likely over a hundred years since its last eruption, based on the location and the amount and variety of flora surrounding it. It took longer to land, given the uneven landscape and thick foliage, but I eventually found a perch suitable for us both on a cliff a mere mile from the volcano's cone basin.
Switchblade accompanied me this time, which proved prudent as during our circumvent of the volcano, we came across a village built into the craggy black sides of the volcano. While I was interested in meeting the locals for trade and picking up any mail, Switchblade was too impatient to wait and slithered on ahead in search of a site to Switchblade's liking. So I entered the village alone, which welcomed me with friendly curiosity. The inhabitants are crustaceaous beings with shiny black carapace reminiscent of obsidian -- something Switchblade may wish to test, if a volunteer agrees. The villagers are multi-legged, built very similar to a centipede but massive, longer than myself if slimmer, and they often rear up half their body in a mimcry of bipedalism when talking to others. To me, most are a head or so taller in this pose, though that height varies between individuals.
No pidgin language could be found between us, but through gestures and drawing in the dirt, we made known to each other our base intentions. The obsidian-pedes are deft weavers and architects, fond of geometric patterns and vibrant colors in all their creations. I myself bartered some ship's supplies in exchange for one red and orange blanket, as well as a basket of native fruits brightly orange and ridiculously sweet. I cannot handle more than a bite or two at a time, but they are delectable nonetheless, and the villagers were pleased to share. Through more expansive and creative pantomime, I conveyed to them that I was a mail carrier, and asked if they had any messages or packages they'd like to be delivered somewhere. I also offered to add their village to the Inter-Stellar Postal Service (the planet is marked on starcharts, but no occupants requiring service) in order to receive any off- and on-planet mail and more visits from couriers. Perhaps it was my own inadequacies at communication, or simple suspicion, but the head villager was unsure. Those I'd traded with, however, were enthusiastic about my foreign wares, so perhaps they can still be persuaded. I told them I would check in again before leaving the planet.
Then I looked for Switchblade, and helped collect and store samples of several different types of volcanic rock the ratsnake decided would serve best for lab analysis, and we returned to our ship for the night. Switchblade liked my selection of woven blanket.
LOG 3
Writing this under the yellow emergency reserve power light of the ship, as our primary fuel tanks were damaged in our forced landing to this glacier. I keep by the porthole yet unburied by snow to check on the storm's progress, but it shows no sign of dissipating yet. Beyond the fuel tanks and half-burial in snow, the ship doesn't show too many alerts, and seems to be in mostly good shape -- Switchblade is checking the inner systems one by one right now. Both meticulous and restless, without access to the lab.
Once the blizzard abates, we'll be able to climb out, dig the ship free, and do any necessary repairs. Hopefully no fuel is leaking, but Switchblade has isolated the tanks the best possible, so in that we will simply see. I do not believe we will perish here, as the emergency power keeps essential systems running and we have food supplies aplenty -- excuse any orange juice splatters on the page. These fruits are terribly messy and yet irresistible. But regardless, it is wise for the pilot to record all incidents, wehther they prove to be lethal or not. For that, I will explain how we came to be in this situation.
This local morning, Switchblade wished to gather one more sample, from the icy polar region we had seen on the planet while in orbit before entering atmosphere. As we flew towards those coordinates, a strong wind picked up, attempting to push us off-course, so we were already expending more fuel than estimated to counter that effect. But as we entered the polar region, I became aware of strange cloud formations building around us, and the ship's weather sensing system alerted too late to a sudden gale snatching us in its jaws. Immediately I searched for a safe place to land, but much of the land was not suitable, and we had not affixed floatage devices to the ship's landing gears before setting out, so a sea landing was out of the question.
Adding to the difficulty was the clouds themselves, which built and moved in ways I have never before experienced. I've played back the ship's outer visual sensors, and they confirm what my own eyes saw. The clouds moved with purpose, or intended direction, at least. I have half a mind to send the data to a mathematician associate of mine to see if she can calculate . . . angles, or whatever. Figure by numbers and equations what my brain instinctively senses. Something moved those clouds, whether themselves or some outside, unknown entity. I certainly saw no one, but nonetheless, the clouds quarreled between themselves, almost like two predators fighting over a select piece of prey. Fortunately, our small skimmer was not their target; we merely got caught up in the outskirts of the struggle. Even that was enough for winds to force our craft down prematurely -- we landed badly, damaging the primary fuel tanks and in an out-of-control skid before slamming abruptly into a snowback and a small avalanche covered half the vessel. I dare not try to open the cockpit before knowing it is safe to step foot outside, so here we stay.
It has taken too long by far to write this entry. My eyes are continually drawn outside, through the porthole, to those strange clouds that roil overhead. Ah. Yes. They do look like teeth.
LOG 4
Locked on course to our black hole, I have time to update the logs. The storm did cease, after two full rotations, and we had The Eclipse flightworthy in another rotation. I had hoped to return to the obsidian-pede village, for both supplies and to hear their decision on the ISPS, but our fuel reserves are simply too low to permit such a detour. I did not have time to search for samples from the glacier for Switchblade either, as we needed to make the deadline for launch into orbit, so we depart the both of us disappointed. Alive and in most pieces, however, which always suffices, eh? Perhaps we will find chance to return to Planet 703 (as tracked on ISPS starcharts) sometime. Perhaps, if after Scalpel tries one of these fruits, she will agree to a favor if I fly back.
END LOG.
LOG 1
Never been to this planet. Gaseous—big swirls of clouds greeted us in The Eclipse, like a spun glass marble of bronze and green But not noxious enough to burn up the ship's metal as I took us into the atmosphere. Not a planet I've been to, but a fellow carrier must've stopped here on their route and set up a drop for the locals, cuz I've got a package for them now.
Said locals live inside a big suspended membrane flat as a pancake and wobbly as pudding. Must help with riding the storms. I wonder how many membranes there are around the planet? I could hardly land The Eclipse on such a surface, could scarcely take my hands off the controls for a moment, much less set up the mail drop. Switchblade did that for me, though it took longer for the ratsnake than for me. I ran the calculations and gave Switchblade a countdown, the drop released, and I watched via the ship's sensors that the package hit the membrane on target.
The clouds had begun forming into ghostly insectoid legs skittering on the Eclipse's hull, glimpsed through the windshield, so it was high time to peel out.
That's Planet 438-ASKAGE taken care of.
END LOG
LOG 1
Damn tracker is out. I've been circling this supposed area where the locals are supposed to signal me for pick-up and haven't seen a thing in well over two hours since deploying The Eclipse's beacon. Mail order says they're based in a city of some kind, so I'd expect to be able to see it. But there's only sea ice in all directions.
LOG 2
Six hours later now. I took The Eclipse in wider loops, hoping to pick up a ping, no luck. Returned to original site and set the ship down—and its sensor finally gave me a shadow of something—beneath the ice. Mail order failed to tell me that. A Skimmer model is not equipped to handle a swim in subzero temperature, but technically this was home habitat for me. (Probably why it was placed on my route, huh Vector?) Switchblade wasn't pleased, but a job's a job, so I hoisted my survival pack and let myself out onto the ice.
With a handheld tracker, I found the central ping and slipped under the waves at the nearest edge of the ice sheet. Fucking cold, yeah yeah. I was fine. Had to punch a predatory fish-thing that liked my smell, but the tracker did lead me to the city. What was once a city, hung beneath the ice in individual pods connected by sinewy ropes, and is now just ruins. Broken walls, gaping holes in translucent membranes that must've held in the locals' air, little to none possessions remaining. No bones. Yet the tracker kept beeping, and I found the city's mail bag, just the one, awaiting me in a pod with its air bubble still partially attached. Most of the letters are wet beyond comprehension, but maybe the restoration team will be able to salvage something.
Punched yet another curious predator on my way back up. Planet seems infested with them. Little wonder what happened to the city.
LOG 3
Switchblade and I weren't in the grandest of moods following that, so we took a break and parked the ship near an outcrop of stone. Frozen over, it didn't look like much, but I took samples inside to defrost and what was found was curious indeed. Fossilized remains of some era long past—Switchblade can give a better time estimate—modified by a more recent artist who carved around the shells in a purposeful design. Its shapes are pleasing to the eye and more so in my hands, tracing the curves once held by someone(s) before me. Switchblade is also pleased to have something new and interesting to run analysis on and contextualize in Switchblade's database.
I wonder if the artist belonged to the same below-ice hanging city whose mail I picked up. Reminds me, gotta update this planet's status on the Inter-Stellar Post Service's starcharts. No contact with patrons confirmed on Planet 439-SaFi. Fuck.
END LOG
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