On another screen, Paol pokes at a small puddle of that green shit. It’s hot outside—the temperature gauge reads into the upper forties Celsius and the heat index is worse out here in the wastelands. The green scum looks iridescent in this weather, like insect wings, and heat waves radiate from the ship, filming the screens until it feels like we’re in an oven looking out.
Nearby, Jareth watches the captain, his gun aimed at the ground. He keeps shaking his head like he’s trying to calibrate the mods in his eyes or clear his vision. It’s a scary motion that almost looks uncontrollable. Why the hell he’s out there instead of lying in his bed with a regiment of antibiotics swirling through his system, or in the lab hooked up to the hemoflush machine, I don’t know.
Now he’s…oh fuck.
* * * *
Log Entry 05.11.3021, 14:32 hours
I can’t believe that happened, any of it. I’m still shaking.