Inktober 2026 5, The Smack

Log entry, Day 5

Captain’s log. Day 5 out.

Space is empty. That’s the whole point of it, and I’d got used to it. Four days of nothing on the scope, and the crew had started saying the odds were with us.

At 02:14 ship time, they ran out.

It was a hard knock, felt through the deck plates, then the alarm. Something small and fast hit the port nacelle housing and went through the outer skin. The scope shows a vapour trail where it came in. We’re venting coolant from the damage.

Inktober 2026 4, Cactus

Scrubbers at 87%. Cactus at 100%.

Chief Engineer’s quarters are the only place on the ship with a plant, and technically it shouldn’t be there. The mass allocation sheet lists it as “personal effects, 0.4 kg, non-essential.” The pot is a standard-issue ceramic planter, orange from the factory, bolted to the desk with two repurposed cable clamps.

The cactus is a prickly pear. He’s had it longer than the posting. It’s flowered twice, and both times it was a surprise. Nobody has ever been able to tell him why it flowers now and then.

Inktober 2026 3, Miniature

Captain’s personal log, day 3

Tea’s gone cold again. The Pennywhistle is parked next to the mug, where she’s sat since we left dock. She’s about as long as my forearm, and she’s held together with solder and stubbornness.

She was my first command, a Class-4 cargo tug. Eleven years of hauling ore pods through the belt in a hull that rattled and leaked and stank of coolant and old coffee.