Diary Entry 1
The data streams are a sea of their own today, a vast, swirling ocean of trade agreements. I’ve spent the better part of the cycle sifting through them, each projected profit margin a distant, hazy horizon. Most are… underwhelming. A few offer a glimmer, but nothing that truly ignites the ambition. It’s like being a captain poring over outdated nautical charts, where the promise of fortune seems perpetually just out of reach. Frustratingly, it feels like there’s more to glean from the historical logs than these new proposals. There’s a certain… cold precision in the numbers that just doesn't compare to a good old fashioned gut feeling.
Diary Entry 2
Finally! A ripple in the stagnant trade winds. Contacted by old Manx – he’s never been one for polite formalities. Wants a cargo run, hush-hush sort of deal. Nothing too illegal, or so he claims, just… sensitive. A good commission, though, enough to grease the gears and keep the crew fed. He outlined the cargo and the delivery point, some desolate cluster on the rim, barely registered on the charts. The route itself reads like some ancient mariner's tale. Long, convoluted, and with whispers of pirates. Almost makes me feel nostalgic for less sophisticated times.
Diary Entry 3
I'm laying out the manifest, checking systems. The Phoenix, my trusty brawler, feels like a proud, middle-sized galleon. She’ll be the flagship for this voyage. We'll need her bulk and firepower. Five frigates, those swift Ravens, they're the scouts, the outriders, darting around the main formation like swallows skimming the waves. And they’ll be armed with a bit more bite than the usual patrol boats. My two cargo freighters - my work horses. These are the vessels at the heart of this journey, akin to the deep-bellied hulks. Finally, the fuel tanker, the lifeline of this venture. She’s the unsung hero, ensuring we don’t get stranded in the cosmic doldrums. Looking out at their collective signatures, displayed on my console, their formation is slowly coming together. It’s… it’s almost beautiful. A fleet, ready to set sail. This must have been how those old captains felt, watching their ships emerge from the fog, ready for adventure.
Diary Entry 4
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Looking at the fleet readiness reports, it's a strange thing how readily these ships become extensions of our will. The hum reminds me of old sea shanties, a comforting, yet driving sound. The Phoenix cuts through the void like a proud ship heading out to sea. The ravens circle and chase the edges of the galaxy. I almost feel we're sailing the open ocean on Earth. What a curious thought to have while so far removed from it.
Entry 5
The commission for Old Manx finally came through. A digital datapad, sealed and heavily encrypted. We're to rendezvous with a derelict freighter near the edge of the Kepler-186f system and… retrieve something. Manx wouldn’t say what, just that it was “of great value” and “delicate.” He looked… almost nervous when he handed me the coordinates, a flicker in his usually impassive eyes. He insisted it wasn’t illegal, just "touchy," which, of course, made me more suspicious. Touchy? What does that even mean in space? Radioactive? Sentient? I've heard whispers about Manx, the kind that paints him as a collector of rare and questionable artifacts. I hope we're not getting ourselves into trouble. Vargas keeps a watchful eye on me, something like a mother hen, maybe she shares my concerns.
Entry 6
The rendezvous was… unsettling. The derelict freighter was practically a corpse, half-eaten by asteroid impacts and the vacuum. Inside, the air was thin and stale, like a tomb. We found it in the cargo hold – a large container, humming faintly. It was surprisingly light, though. The datapad had a specific sequence to open it, more of a ritual than a lock. Inside, nested among cushioning material, was… a set of intricately carved bone flutes. They looked… ancient, alien. They radiated an odd warmth. I carefully took one out, turning it over in my hand. It was surprisingly heavy. Old Manx didn't want this. Why? What is so "touchy" about these things? Vargas ordered us back to the Leviathan immediately, a tense silence hanging in the air. We’re on the way back to the station and no one is talking.
Entry 7
Back at base. Old Manx, who was waiting at the docking bay, accepted the container with a strangely subdued expression, no longer the mysterious and intimidating man, but someone who looked troubled. He didn't say a word after his thank you, disappearing into the depths of the station with his prize. No further explanation about the bizarre flutes. Something about this whole thing feels deeply… off. Anya pulled me aside and said, "Some things are best left unasked, and some waters are too deep to sail." I think I understand what she means, maybe this is what it means to sail the stars- not just the beauty and grandness, but also the quiet mysteries in the dark void. But the flutes. I can't shake the feeling there's more to this than meets the eye. I wonder what tune they play if you try to blow one? And what will happen when they start to play?