The Sprague Diaries

[jammi]

07/06/819 - PERSONAL ENTRY

Well, isn't this fun? We've been given new marching orders. We're to change vector from south-east to north-east; one big ol' triangle. We're going back to the equator, joy of joys. They're looking for a site to place the spaceport, and we happen to be relatively close by, so far as longitude goes. Shame they didn't say so five days ago. Could have saved all of us a load of useless hassle. Anyway, some bright spark thinks there's a hopeful looking mountain range they could perch the launch pads and storage warehouses on top of. Time will tell, I suppose.

White is packing up all the sensor equipment and pulling us up to high altitude. Says we'd be covering dead ground if we kept up on high intensity. Man has a point, and up above the low-level atmo fluctuations, we should make good time. Took us just under a week to get this far down, but we should have burned most of the way back in forty eight hours (give or take) - providing Capt' White and Mike (co-helmsman Dravis) run a staggered shift and go through the night. Can't see it happening, personally. We'll probably anchor for the night, go into power conservation and carry on in the morning.

Lets call it three days travel for optimism's sake. At least I'll sleep better during them - John offered to swap bunks with me. He knows I don't like this one. Too close to the engineering compartments. Repulsion plates rattle the decking, drives me nuts. Pretty sure he isn't being altruistic though. Lauren's holed up on her own next door. I'm sure that's got nothing to do with it though. Because none of us have noticed the looks they've been giving each other. Jesus, they make me sick. What happened to professional standards? More to the point, why didn't it work when I offered some unprofessional fraternisation?

---

08/06/819 - PERSONAL ENTRY

No real duties to attend to today. Sensors are all stowed, so the Capt's got us all recalibrating and priming weather beacons. We're chucking one out the airlock every 100 miles or so, like a high-tech bread crumb trail. We all know there's nothing wrong with them, but monkey does as monkey's told. He's just giving us something to do, as menial and mind-numbing as it is. I might start a novel. "101 Ways to Die of Boredom on an Alien Planet." Would sell for a bomb on Leeds.

Grass is starting to thin out again. We're moving back into the dead zone, "the place where nothing lives". Temperature has been rising accordingly. Probes were reporting a balmy surface recording of 33°C at our most southernly point. We're up to 46' as of right now, and that's during a night cycle. A little hot for my liking, but more or less tropical. Humidity is the kicker, of course - drier than a nun's unmentionables. Not a lot of water moisture floating around this planet. You get the odd cloud though. I think we hit one earlier on. Most exciting thing to happen all day.

The post got beamed through from orbit this morning. It was piggybacking a Bowex convoy that was heading out to Ol' Doug' I think. No chance of instant messaging until they sort out the docking ring. Even then, we're in isolation until our tour is through. Sue sent me the latest album from the Gaian Death Cult. Atrocious music, but it helps leaven the mundanity of my day. Urban legend says each member of the band to play a set has rapidly died a grisly death, thank grief. I tried establishing a Yahtzee club to undercut the poker game. No-one attended. Probably wasn't a good idea.

---

News article library, feedback and content requests.