💾 Archived View for orbital9.earth › anderson › log › 2024 › 2024-0002.gmi captured on 2024-09-28 at 23:52:18. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
⬅️ Previous capture (2024-05-10)
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The silence in the Hydroponics Bay is deafening. No gentle hum of growth lights, no gurgle of essential nutrients. Just the sterile hiss of the backup ventilation. Dr. Sato's been hunched over the control panel for hours, brow furrowed enough to crack the station hull. Her usual unflappable demeanor is a distant memory.
We're down to emergency rations. Not a catastrophe yet, but a stark reminder of our precarious situation. These damn hydroponics bays are our lifeline, our only chance at cultivating a semblance of life amidst the wasteland below. And now, they're failing.
Is it the corroded pipes? A rogue power surge? Or just another sign of this station's inevitable decline? We scavenged every spare part from the mothballed sections, but it feels like patching a sinking ship with chewing gum.
A pang of guilt claws at me. These people, my crew, they put their faith in me. They signed up for a chance at rebuilding, a sliver of hope in this desolate existence. And what do I offer them? Recycled algae paste and dwindling oxygen reserves.
I glance at the comm screen, a flicker of life from the Lunar stations. Sevastopol's greenhouse is flourishing by all accounts. Titanus reported a bumper crop of potatoes. A cruel irony, their success a stark contrast to our struggle.
Maybe they're right, those who whisper of abandoning Anderson. Moving to a more sustainable platform. But where's the hope in that? Leaving Earth behind entirely feels like admitting defeat.
No. We can't give up yet. Not while there's a flicker of life, a single green shoot pushing through the barren metal. We'll find a way. We have to.