outerriftslog

[outerriftslog]

Outer Rifts, Log 3

I've woken up to my five hundred and eighty-second Saturday aboard SPSC-856A. For breakfast I had a smaller existential crisis which paired nicely with staring into colorlessness outside the cabin window.

I've been debating the pro's and cons of loneliness. In my former reality, I was constantly torn between the longing for company and the craving for solitude. Some five hundred and eighty-two weeks later, I'm still not able to discern which those two forces were spurring the other one on. I like to think that at least holds true: there would have to be one that came before the other, much like the "the chicken or the egg" nonsense that used to consume the entirety of self-proclaimed thinkers' dinner discussions a long time ago.

What I've been able to put down feels almost as nonsensical:

Pros: Alone time. What the f*ck. How does alone time constitute a sufficient answer to anything? Firstly, it is not hard to come by. Just get out of others' way entirely. Secondly, it is as vague as it is unquestionable; I can't argue with you wanting alone time because I don't understand what that means to you.

Cons: Lack of confirmation. Now this one I like better, even though it reads like something a man being alone in Special Payload Service Craft, serial number eight hundred and fifty-six A, would deliriously write after years in space. What I do like about it is the truthfulness there is to it. I think that there is something to be said for humans' abusive addiction to confirmation. I've went through confirmation withdrawals for the entire first half of this interstellar peregrination and I would not recommend it.

These are the only two points I've recorded in fifteen weeks time, meaning I've had seven and a half week to ponder each of them. I've not been able to think of any more, neither can I elaborate on what I've found thus far. Whether it's due to laziness, creative blockage, or the undeniable fear of what I might discover about myself, who can really tell?

Pathetic.

Anyway, I passed a gas giant called ZG455-49/G3 yesterday. It was desolate, pearlescent, and hauntingly beautiful.

Maybe I'll have comeuppance and getting myself together for lunch.

This is the end of Log 3.

[outerriftslog]

Outer Rifts, Log 2

Approximately the five hundred and fifty-eighth Tuesday since the onset of my mission. Routine checks of the payload completed well before what I would assume to be sunrise in what at one point was known as San Diego.

That city - my hometown, if you will - is unfathomably far away. Not that it matters, per se; last I heard, San Diego had been swallowed whole by some enormous military city-state that had been expanding out of former San Fransisco like a cancerous growth. While I haven't been to Tellus in five hundred and fifty-eight Tuesdays, the news that have reached me about the geopolitical developments since the Interstice does not stoke any fires of homesickness within me.

I passed a mercenary craft about a week ago. It always gives me the chills - there is palpable unrest in many of the sectors I pass through, even out here in the Outer Rifts. Supposedly, there are hundreds of these ships in each sector.

The mercenary crafts have made no effort in terms of camouflage or blending in: the crafts are dodecahedronical, yet oblong, with a base colour reminiscent of what was known as olive green when I left Tellus, which is accented by a broad, red stripe along the sides of the ship. Even in its maneuvering it is unmistakable; no ship with that form, should be able to move through the inky vastness of space as agile and expertly as a great white shark once moved through Tellus' oceans.

I would argue that the terms mercenary crafts and The mercenary fleet are in themselves oxymorons - if the entire fleet is made up of so-called mercenaries, are any of them really mercenaries anymore?

As with the last log, I digress. It is hard to stay on the topic of logging the mission given its nature. This is my only outlet.

I have some lightyears until i reach my next stop on the mission, and I have no choice but to trust that these logs will keep me sane.

[outerriftslog]

Outer Rifts, Log 1

If my circadian rythm computations are still trustworthy, it is Wednesday - the five hundredth and forty third Wednesday by Tellus' week reckoning. I've felt somewhat futile still trying to keep count by earthly measures - I am so far removed from the grim reality of that planet that it seems right on the edge of my concious thoughts.

While I realize this sounds glum and hopeless, it is not by design. In fact, I still hold high hopes for my mission, even though the probability of my return is negligible.

I have decided to start this log as a definitive record of my endeavour, so that if my mission should prove fruitious in any sector of the universe where it would make a difference, there will be an understanding of my methods and tough choices.

The last physical interaction I had with an organic being was one hundred and sixty three circadian cycles ago - I docked onto service craft SC14285-Z along the outer edges of the WA-335 cluster for refueling and restocking of provisions. The being whom I spent most of the physical interaction with was an organic biped from the triplet planets of Initium-C2 (translated to GSL - galaxy standard language) with a name that doesn't translate to anything outside his own tongue.

I find it fascinating, though, how two beings, with a difference that should span several galaxies, can find common ground so easily. I took to calling him John, and he seemed to like that. I can't put my finger on why it was the name 'John' specifically that came to mind when talking to him; my best guess is that our interaction felt like home, in a way.

The interaction began as most of my scarce dialogues have during the last couple of years. We started comparing our respective homeworlds. When we got to talking about music, John astounded me by humming some melodies eerily similar to some songs from Tellus. My thesis is that while there are a presumable infinity of tonal systems to adopt, in an infinite universe there would thus, statistically, have to appear se duplicates. And within the Western Tellus hemisphere's tonal system, the permutations are many, but far from infinite.

We talked a great deal that circadian evening, over one or two too many glasses of intoxicating beverages. I'd like to think I've made a friend in John, though it is not just likely, but probable that we won't be seeing each other again.

At my first encounters, that thought saddened me - the ambition to keep up interstellar relationships is a naïve one - but lately I've found myself rather enjoying the serendipitous nature of my travels. No interaction is long enough to turn sour, and I've left most all of my new acquaintances as good friends.I feel like this log will be a saving grace, though. For me as well as everyone affected by my mission.

This is the end of Log 1.