The main telemetry array suffered what Houston calls a “catastrophic hardware failure.” I call it “the shelf bracket gave way.”

I was calculating the delta-v required to intercept DARPA’s new robotic deep-space repair satellite. They say it’s launching this month. I thought, finally, a tow truck for the outer rim. I was halfway through the orbital mechanics when the main server rack—previously known as my winter coats—collapsed onto the primary data drives. Sparks flew. Smoke filled the cabin. Eugene the fern heroically absorbed the worst of the carbon monoxide, but the archives are gone. All of it.

I sat in the dark for a long time. Just listening to the silence of the void, and the distant, rhythmic hum of the neighbor’s leaf blower simulating micro-meteorite impacts against the hull.

The tapes are ruined. The logs are wiped. All those days spent drifting, recorded and lost to the great vacuum. It feels like waking up with amnesia in orbit. Did any of it happen if the drives are clean?

Yes. I can still taste the tang of recycled oxygen. I can still feel the cold press of the airlock door.

We begin again. Day 1.

Flight Engineer Whiskers slept through the entire disaster. His heart rate never spiked above resting. A true professional. He’s currently draped over the remaining functional comms unit, providing thermal insulation.

SpaceX sent up another Starship yesterday. I watched the live feed on my secondary monitor (a cracked tablet I found in the kitchen). They caught the booster again. Show-offs. Down here in WD-1, we don’t have catching arms. We just have gravity and a stubborn refusal to submit to it.

I wiped a bead of condensation off the starboard bulkhead. Tasted it. Still salty. Still tastes like the dream of flight. They can take the logs, but they can’t take the coordinates burned into my retina.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 0.8 meters (and climbing)