Fourth Entry

April 22nd, 2027

The past five weeks have been busy, so much so that only now I find myself with time to inscribe words into my journal. More as a way to vent the jaw clenching emotions the boil within my being. And what better way for a linguist to expose his truest thoughts than by way of the written language?

In truth, I feel tired. No fancy way of saying it, I suppose. Things have been far from the conjurations that came into my mind for most of my life. I thought coming here would finally have everything making sense, where I might find my purpose.

Yet, it didn’t.

The mood at the station among my peers has been eroding as a slow pace, with Nakamura and Zhang at constant odds with one another. It’s getting to the point where the rest of us try our best to keep them separated. I cannot recall them behaving like misbehaving fifth graders before, this is not how working academics should act. This had a massive impact on Dr Nawaz, who gained heavy bags under her once bright eyes, now duller by the day.

Then, there’s the city. None have spoken of it so far, but we all avoid spending time there, for as long as we can. Yes, it seems like a true waste of years of preparation and who knows how many billions to get us here, yet it is an undeniable truth that we all share a distaste for the place. But more than that, it’s the lack of proper scientific reasoning for whatever happens there.

Take the strange black substance oozing from cracks all over the ruins, for instance. A month later and we can’t even glimpse at its composition. When the testing performed by Dr. Carmello came back, we all thought he had played a joke in very poor taste. How could he find himself incapable of placing any of its components on the periodic table. How it keeps growing at a steady pace with each passing second. Or how it can just disappear without vestige from its containers when no one had been looking. This last incident had caused another shouting match by Carmello and Sullivan, on accusations of sabotage.

In frustration, they tried to vent some of that aggression on tests to destroy the liquid. Be it heat, electric shocks, bunt force, freezing or any other horrific violence they could conjure, nothing seemed either cease its growth nor reduce its mass. In fact, these actions only served to accelerate its expansion, at times in violent ways. Thanks God Doctor Ngwenya is such an accomplished surgeon, or things could have gone terribly ugly. [14]

The pulse we first felt, ever present and rhythmic, never ceased. Whenever I go there, for any reason, it keeps going from within my bones, echoing through my flesh and blood in its incessant soundless cacophony. Sullivan tried every single tool at our disposal to find the possible source of it. He looked for radiation, sounds, any sort of frequency that could cause such an effect, yet nothing could be detected.

Worse still, it’s spreading. At first, only when you were inside the city proper one could have its insidious reminder inside of you. Throbbing in silence, the unholy metronome kept going against our wills, a residue of its dreadful compass ingrained in us. Now, whenever I look in the general direction of the city, I have whispers of it spreading across myself.

Were these the only things happening, I could endure. At least I pray I could.

How wrong was I!

But no, the greatest source of my constant shifting on the dark hours that should be reserved for resting had taken the shape of the strange stone at the center of the entire city. It’s unwavering vigil mocking me and the inability at which I go at deciphering its contents. I went through the entire city, must have looked inside every blasted wall, floor and ceiling for samples to help me unlock its secrets.

Nothing.

My blood boils at such lack of logic, my heart screeching into the abyssal wastes I find myself surrounded with, while the mind tries to come up with explanations. Every ancient civilization uncovered before had examples of their writing preserved in some way, if they had developed enough to do so. Be it books, slates or even at public buildings, SOMETHING had remained.

But not here.

In my exasperation, I sought Nakamura, a hypothesis in mind. After a thorough investigation, we detected signs of ancient scorching and intense sanding all across the place. Someone had sabotaged the city, taking away every single scrap of the written word.

Placing my face upon my palms now, I can recall the looks we got when presenting the evidence. They asked why anyone could do it, and why. Were the previous inhabitants responsible? Is the lack of anything at the Moon ruins indication of the same deliberate act? Or somehow a completely different alien species had come over and done so without leaving a single trace of their arrival? [15]

The monument could provide something of value, but I have reason to not be in its presence. A trick of the mind, enhanced by tiredness for sure, but one of the most unpleasant quality. Being close to the blasted thing seems to worsen the ill effects the city places on us all. The pulse becomes thunderous, the fouls stench ignoring our suits ever so acrid, the myriad of silent ghosts watching from ever more noticeable.

Reading what I have just put to paper shames me. I’m a scientist from the first century, not an alchemist from the Middle Ages dabbling on ways to turn shit into gold! Yet, I can feel them. Gazes, piercing my skin, going through me, judging every action and move of interlopers. For, to them, that’s who we are.

Nothing is ever there, of course. We scanned the entire place for signs, as I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. Nothing is ever found, just like the strange visitors some of the others claim to have seen. Yes, after the initial episode with the good nurse, three more times the specters have been seen, no tracks or evidence of their passing.

If I’m allowed a moment of vulnerability, to no one but myself, obviously, I feel like this has been a mistake. I know it is too soon to come up with such ideas and thoughts, but I can’t close the door on this notion. We are all losing our minds here, at a snail’s pace, but a pace all the same.

I wish I could speak to my family. But ever since the 13th we have been getting too much interference for communications with Earth to work. Our technicians have been overworking themselves to fix it, but no signs of improvement. [16]

My father would know what to say. My mother would offer guidance and a relevant verse from the bible.

And Maria would tell a terrible joke to cheer me up.

I say them alud, to be beter. I don’t wan the sadn sad anymore…

I considered erasing this part from existence. There’s no need for it to remain. Yet, I can’t bear to do so. Now, more than ever, I feel her absence, wishing to hear the candid laugh, look upon the tiny curve of her smile, the warmth of her back against my chest.

I could try to reach out, once whatever plagues our equipment passes. But as struck with doubt that I am, I know I hold no rights to that. Not after everything that happened.

I miss you [17]

Now, I go to bed to roll around for a few hours until the sun comes up over the eastern coast or I pass out. It’s a shame no sleep medication had made into this trip. But then again, we would have used it all up by now if it had.

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[14] I shall recommend another sweep on the remains of the station for any records of these experiments. Even coming from such primitive creatures, they could provide at least a starting point on the Tar.

[15] At every other juncture, we theorized the Wardens had left behind written material that had been destroyed by the Ixlyth. Now, we must consider the possibility they had done it themselves. Due consideration must be given to the implications of such acts.

[16] This could be circumstantial evidence on the reason why every occurrence had the civilizations who found the sites be wiped so quickly. Strip away the communication from a group and even the mightiest predator become mere prey. I shall suggest we work on countermeasures as soon as possible, just in case.

[17] A chemical analysis of this part revealed the “paper” had been drenched in a substance containing water, sodium, potassium and a few proteins and fats. This repeats itself at many points, but here it had made the translation process much harder. Its organic nature leads me to believe the humans somehow produce it, for some unknown reason. Now, I wish I had a living specimen for further studies more than ever.

Everything in this document has been fully translated from their original language into High Zatoreny.