I scarcely know how to hold a pen, so long has it been
since I pressed one to parchment. My desk and all its contents were
claimed by the waves, repurposed as a piscine mansion. Ink is dear,
gleaned from a painstaking process involving the crushed seeds of a
peculiar mango-shaped fruit we discovered. And I wonder if the
letters will last. Work on the ship continues apace. The command
center and galley receive most of our attention and it is generally
agreed that the day these rooms become a place of respite rather
than labor will be sweet indeed. My constitution continues its
decline, constantly embattled from all sides by the heavy vapors
enclosing us. The breathing apparatus and the seltzers have proven
ineffective. I spend most days on the other side of the thick
acrylic bubbles, overseeing the work, sparing an occasional glance
out at the oppressive topography. But I have begun to feel it even
in my cabin, lying on my bunk. Some spectre leeches my strength, so
that I waken not refreshed, but burdened. The daily job manifests
from the investors blur together. Each site survey has become an
iteration of the previous one, permutations of some ur-site
unfolding through time and space, like hundreds of incrementally
flawed daisies. I send the drones their orders, instruction sets I
know by heart. I fear for the day when I see a colleague insert the
control cards and my own legs lurch forward, watching helpless as
my hands reach for the drill.