11:00 am - Dream: Blood from Sky
We should have watched the planet for a whole year before colonizing. We could have stayed on the ship that much longer. But everyone wanted to live on dirt again. We needed it under our feet. And the axial tilt was so minor, we didn't think there'd be any seasonal differences through the year to worry about. We did the basic tests. Everything was plenty Earth-like, no new toxins, no unmanageable virii, no dangerous ground fauna. Most of the animal biosphere was in the high atmosphere, actually; a wealth of high-altitude animal life. We would have to hunt with ultralight aircraft if we wanted meat, but that would be fine, and we mostly intended to grow crops for sustenance.
So we de-orbited the ship. What goes up must come down, but the reverse is not true: the ship, once landed, would never rise again. Colony underway.
And it was great for a while - a nice, mild winter. And then spring came, and we learned about the balloon flowers. They were everywhere, big bulbous things that slowly inflated over the course of several weeks, whole fields of rubbery round colorful balls everywhere. Millions of them. And then, "spring" turned into "summer" - entirely imperceptible to us, but apparently not to the balloons. Because suddenly, one morning, they all began to lift. Their roots let go and they rose and rose and rose by their teeming millions, all on the same day, up and up and up in such great numbers that they blocked out the sun. What were they doing?
We caught a few to look at before they got away. Curious, and a bit unnerving: the roots had changed. Now they were writhing, razor-sharp things... with a maw in the middle. Almost took a few fingers off before we figured out how to handle them safely. Strange. What sort of life cycle was this?
We found out the next morning, when the rain began: shortly after sunrise, dark red and surprisingly cold from its plummet from so high up. Blood, enormous quantities, a mist at first and then sprinkling drops and then at last a true deluge. Blood, uncountable gallons, tons of it. The balloons, hyperactivated by the unfiltered sunlight at the top of the atmosphere, were attacking and killing all the billions of animals that lived up there. Little gasbags with tentacles and teeth feeding, massacring, showering us with the offal of their feeding frenzy.
By afternoon, it had tapered off, and the night was sticky-dry. But the next morning, a new shower. And the third morning as well. Each morning, reinvigorated, another hunt above the clouds.
Then, on the fourth morning, the balloons came back. What goes up must come down.
Only now, they were no flowery little balls. Swollen to many times their original size, their balloons torn asunder and reformed as chutes, they settled onto the ground... and found us. Their little grasping roots were meters long. Mouth full of teeth. They scuttled, they ran, they jumped. It was morning, and they were very very active. Millions of them.
I fled into the nosecone of the ship, trying not to hear the screaming behind me. More blood. Ours this time. Perhaps elsewhere on the planet, where we were not, the balloons were feasting on each other, a final frenzy prior to mating or some other winner-take-all evolutionary function. But we were new, easy prey. I was lucky, I was already by the ship when they landed. I ran into the nosecone and climbed up the ladder, hearing scrabbling tendrils right behind me. I slammed the hatch shut: the observation lounge, the library. On the trip out, you could sit in the nose of the ship looking at the rainbow color-shift of the stars ahead of us and read real books printed on paper - the one weight luxury that we had insisted on. Now, I could look out and see... No. I would not look.
Pounding on the hatch, human hands and a human voice, but only for a moment: before I am forced to make a terrible choice between opening the hatch or remaining safe, there is a sudden shriek and thumping sound and they have been dragged away.
I sit on one of the soft chairs, unconcerned by how much blood is soaking into its fabric, ill to my core. I will sit here and read. I will read and read and read books until the sun goes down. They'll be calmer at night, right? Maybe I can get out and find some food at night. Maybe they will be slow enough to outrun, at night. Maybe they'll be done with this part of their lifecycle before I die of thirst or hunger. Maybe I can just sit here safely forever. Maybe I will never move from this chair again.
Maybe I'll just read this book for a bit.
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For consideration: eight hours of sleep and yet somehow not at all rested
It sucked really hard, actually.