We had an issue where piercing attacks leading to death could cause a system-wide malfunction, leading to a blue-screen and blah blah blah. I isolated the problem, and the fix was trivial. Shouldn't give us any more problems from here.
It's... 22:13, GMT. There are no comms from the pod, and no lights to trace its path by.
The lumoscite chunks we picked up on the last ball of rock are now in transit. Somewhere out in that big smear of void and stardust is a little grey container travelling at about 500mps, forced to obey the same stupid laws of Newtonian mechanics, gravitation and thermodynamics that we all do. In this regard we're the same. I think about it far too often.
I think these days I'd consider myself an animist - to a non-crazy degree. I feel a small sense of sympathy, empathy and connection to silly things. Inanimate things: the drones, recovery modules and even this pod. When I find myself hating the cramped space and ever-present plastic smell I'm aware that it's the same emotions elicited by a partner's too-loud-cereal crunching, or the dog's barking long after the mailman's fled.
As for the sample pod... damn. It's so dark out there. It has no lights. No comms. It's just barrelling through space, alone, following on a complex arc worked out by an uncaring computer we assume didn't make a mistake. Same way we got here. It'll be picked up by a drogue-net once gravity has decelerated it to a reasonable speed. Then it'll be pulled in, opened, and probably discarded.
To travel all that way without complaint or expectation of reward, to fulfil a mission so laden with risk and potential for disaster ("Sorry, we hit the euro-sat relays! Oops!") and then just end up in a trash can. It seems wrong. Ungrateful. But then I'm aware it's the same rules that apply to me, too. Even the little fanfare I'll get when (if) I return from this mission will be largely performative: an action taken to assuage those feeling guilt. For me? No amount of parades and convertibles on Main Street will really alter anything for me the day after. I'll still have to put on my underwear, hope I can pay the mortgage, spend time healing the relationship rot that's inevitably set in with the people I've neglected while I'm out here. The only thing that really matters is the mission. Collecting the lumoscite. Sending it where it needs to go. And if that's the case, that little courier pod is just as valuable to the whole endeavour as me.
Sun's going to be visible in about 3 rotations. First time I saw it through the window it looked like a miracle. Second time, less so. I probably won't even look at it this time around. Haven't for a while, now.
I'm going to sign off. It takes me about a month to get these messages to you. It takes me that long again to get anything back. It's lonely. At least the panels produce enough energy from starlight and the wan sun to keep the dark at bay.
But the pod? It has no comms. No lights.