Inktober 2026 15, Hooray

Captain’s log, Day 15

The rescue is complete. Against every odd, the crew is home, and for the first time in weeks the cargo hold rings with laughter.

Banners hang from the bulkhead. Glasses are raised. And somehow, impossibly, there are balloons. We are light years from anywhere, and I will never know where they found them.

For one perfect hour, nobody is afraid.

Then the alarm sounds…

Inktober 2026 14, Lady

Medical log, Day 14

Pod survivor recovered. Unconscious. Vitals steady, which is more than I can say for me.

The rope held. Just. I keep checking the knot.

The crew are calling her “the Lady.” She looks human. Almost. Something about the eyes sits wrong, and nobody will say it out loud.

How did she get into a sealed rescue pod? Nobody launched it.

I don’t know what we’ve brought aboard. We’ll find out when she wakes. If she wakes.

Inktober 2026 13, Flimsy

Captain’s log, Day 13

Rope takes the strain. We’ve started hauling the unidentified survivor out of the pit, hand over hand, with the engineer on the line.

Then the rope starts to fray. It’s a flimsy old thing, rated for cargo and not for people, and every strand that parts is one fewer between them and the dark.

Nobody says it, but we all hear it. Keep pulling.

Inktober 2026 12, Toss

Captain’s log, Day 12

Something moved in the pit.

An unidentified survivor in a rescue pod emergency suit, no ID and no comms, just a gloved hand reaching up out of the dark.

Our engineer’s arm has always been good, and the rescue line went out on target. Hauling them up now. Lander crew standing by.

Inktober 2026 11, Rescue

Mission log, Day 11

RESCUE POD TRANSMISSION [AUTO-RELAY, SIGNAL DEGRADED]

…mayd—mayday. Pod touch-do█n confirmed. Landed. Hull ch@rred, aft sect-on b-rnt thr█ugh. Hatch popped on impact, seals gone. Cabin open to the e█terior.

Passenger g0ne. Repeat: passenger GONE. Couch empty, straps cut. No tr_ce. Beacon s-ill ping█ng from the pod.

Air 4% and f█lling. Power 11%. Ne-d re-sc– rescue… resc█e…

[TRANSMISSION ENDS]

Inktober 2026 10, Mystical

Captain’s log, Day 10

The mystical signal brought us here, and I wish it hadn’t.

At its source stands a structure so old that the land has grown up around it. The trees lean toward its walls like they are listening. The rock has folded itself around its base. Nothing about it feels abandoned.

Two enormous fins rise from the roof, tearing the air into plasma and forcing the signal upward in long, shuddering lines. It is not leaking out. It is being sent.

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.

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.