Inktober 2026 8, Stinky

Engineer’s log, Day 8

Stinky. Always stinky.

Everyone else gets new planets and starlight. I get the waste recycler.

Elbow joint split open overnight, and the deck reeks. That recycler has never played fair. It chokes and cracks when it feels like it.

I’m knee-deep in it again, clamping and swearing. Somebody has to deal with the filth so the rest of you can keep breathing.

Space plumber. Not glamorous. Just necessary.

Inktober 2026 7, Panic

Engineer’s log, Day 7

06:12. The alarm goes off in the EVA locker and the beacon starts flashing AIR LEEK (somebody lettered that sign, and nobody ever corrected it).

One helmet, one cracked visor, forty seconds of loud, unprofessional panic.

Then the training kicks in: tape over the crack, sealant over the tape. The hiss drops to a whisper. The leak is slowing, not stopped, and the helmet is now tagged and benched until the Chief Engineer has had a look.

Inktober 2026 6, The OGRE

Engineer’s log, Day 6

Main plant went down again at 0340. Three subsystems threw errors I’ve never seen, and the diagnostic AI asked me to “please restart the universe.” Not helpful.

So I went aft and woke the OGRE.

The Oxygen Gas Recycling Engine is older than the ship’s paint. No firmware, no network, no software updates. It has a hand crank, a dial with one needle, and a flywheel the size of a dustbin lid. The brass plate on the front says D9, and nobody knows what that means. The pipe fittings are held on with bolts a child could undo.