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Planet: Orthon V
System: Gliese-Tiradell
Entry No. 049 – 8th Rotation, Sub-Cycle 3.4
Commander Elias Vann, Xenographic Surveyor

The descent was rough—thrusters coughed against heavy crosswinds, buffeted by microbursts of static-charged sand. A dull haze greeted us at surface level, bleeding yellow through the canopy like time-worn parchment. Sensors registered breathable air, but laced with decaying organic compounds. No signs of current habitation. But clearly… there once was.

Orthon V was listed in our nav-archives as unremarkable: Category III, long abandoned. No confirmed intelligent life in over nine thousand Earth years. But no one mentioned the structures.

I’ve never seen anything quite like them—massive habitation towers constructed from modular shipping units, stacked to impossible heights with no visible support. Many lean outward at unnatural angles, as if resisting collapse through sheer stubbornness. Rust patterns trail like veins, wind-scarred and layered with mineral dust. Lights flicker deep inside some levels, but every time I scan, nothing pings back.

The ground between these monoliths is littered with broken panels, half-buried conduits, and skeletal flora pushing through cracks. Even here, life endures. The soil tested rich in nickel, calcium sulfate, and trace thorium—radioactive, but not dangerously so. I collected a sample of the moss—thick, waxy, ochre green. It hums slightly when pressed between glove layers. Not sure if that’s chemical or something… more.

Gravity here is 0.91 standard. Just enough to feel lighter when you walk these corridors, yet heavy enough to make the silence weigh. My boots barely crunch over the sediment—somehow even sound feels reluctant to disturb this place.

One of the towers has what appears to be etched symbology along its base. Too eroded to decipher, but the patterns feel… ritualistic. Repeating spirals. Glyphs converging on a central sunburst. A religion? Or warning?

I camped briefly beneath an overhang, watching the fog roll through the empty lanes between buildings like water through ancient canyons. For a moment, I thought I saw movement—something tall, limping—but it vanished too quickly. Perhaps memory playing tricks again. Or this planet watching back.

There’s a quote from the ancient Terran philosopher Havelock: "We are ghosts in other species’ ruins, marveling at reflections they never meant us to see." Orthon V feels like that. Every corner whispers of a time when life pulsed through these cities—laughter, sorrow, routine. Now, only wind. And us.

I’ll return with the full team at sunrise cycle. For now, I remain still, listening.

End Log.

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