Inktober 2026 9
Inktober 2026 9, Ram
Cargo Chief’s log, Day 9
They call it The Ram. Earned it. Ten tonnes of scarred alloy that goes through a bulkhead door like it’s an insult.
Cargo droid. Generation AI, the kind with opinions. Mouthy, sulks, glitches hard enough to freeze mid-lift and stare at the wall. I’ve requested its decommission three times. Never filed one.
Bay Six went at 0300. Hull holed, air gone, the whole deck screaming. Nobody ordered it. The Ram put its own chassis in the breach and held it there while we dragged eleven people out.
Vacuum took half its plating. Took the paint, the serial plate, most of its face. It’s still holding the line in my head. I had to cut it loose myself.
Not cargo any more. Crew. Hot bunk, full share, and a seat at my table.
