Full set; half path and then back.
That grinding in the back left of the cabin wasn’t getting any better. On a few different ones I’ve driven, I had heard it louder or it was more obviously concerning, and in others it was quiet enough to clearly not be a problem. This time it was somewhere between the two. Every time it’s been louder than this it’s been a problem, but I’ve never heard one that’s quieter end up being serious. Today visibility was zero, and radar combined with local positioning systems were the only way I could see the ground I was scarring.

The air on this planet used to be much thinner, and the vast majority of its surface was large grain volcanic rock with little erosion. Our job is to drive the tractors over the swathes of land, pushing the pulverizers across the solid ground. In our wake, we leave a layer of gravel and dust, and it’ll continue until it covers the majority of the surface of the planet. Once enough air from Sythria is deposited here, the air will do this job as a course of nature.

But nature’s timeline isn’t in quarters or decades, so the Habitation and Ecological Management Board set up contracts for erosion acceleration. Hundreds, maybe thousands of firms operate erosion tractors, and they compete amongst each other for areas. Once they win a contract, they divide the routes among their dozens of contracted employees, who then operate within the allotted time. I think there’s a similar scheme for the soil cultivation, but I’ve never talked to anyone who works in on that side about it. If all goes well, the planet will be more suitable for Man than his first.

I heard a voice on the proximity channel that said “Course correction, guided course correction. Brake and turnout.”
I’m not meeting coverage for today, I already know this correction will set me back at least two hours. I stopped the engine, then went down the dusty stairs. The first time you turn out it takes about ten minutes, but once you’ve done it about a hundred times you can practically jump into the suit. I climbed into the hole on the floor, carefully shuffling left and right while fitting my legs and arms at the same time. Fully within the suit, I reach up and set the seal, then open the flimsy door and step out into the grey dust storm.

I walked blindly to where I knew the rear panel is, and I hear the same voice as before; “There’s two stuck. I’ll drop you off for MZ-33; 34 already has enough help. Once you’re done, you’ll pull back straight four-hundred and offset by ten.” Four-hundred, offset ten.

People who use the same turnout kits every day typically have patches or tags of some kind to differentiate each other while outside. This isn’t the case for people whose job descriptions and training only specify “emergency” outings. In practice, everyone uses turnouts. The effect is that most people use turnouts that are only generically labeled, and any time you’re around more than one person in an unmarked turnout, you need to be careful to not lose track of who’s who.

I had a dream last night where the ocean was complete, but the space where I stood was dry, solid rock. Mid-day, overcast. In a circle around me highlighting the horizon, the water was holding as a perfect wall, waiting for the sky’s permission to release and carry out my sentence with the mountains as their witness. The unfathomable energies would crush my body instantly upon impact. But at that moment, it was suspended, and the air was cold and still. I waited to no avail. Am I doing something wrong? Does the ocean need me to consent to the drowning, to its warrant for my death?

No, it’s something else. Maybe they don’t care. Maybe the ocean is incapable of contesting a stay of my execution. But I never plead for such a stay; I know this will only end one way. I’m not fighting the inevitable or its inevitability. By naming the inevitability of my execution, do I deny it? Will the mountains bear witness to me poking and prodding at the sky’s sovereignty? Can I ask if my silent questions cause them terror? I can’t stop thinking it. I’m drawn to naming them and comprehending their limits. I start walking towards the wall of water on the horizon. It isn’t an act of defiance, impatience is a better description. But whatever the motivation, the feeling is anger.

I woke up to my quiet room.