The Vesper-IV drops past the cloud ceiling at eleven bells, and our instruments start singing in a language we have not heard before. The upper haze is heavier than the charts predicted — a rusted veil of iron oxide and frozen aldehyde — and somewhere beneath it, a living world is exhaling.
We are xenobotanists, not soldiers. There are no guns on this ship, only herbarium presses and spectral cameras. And yet the atmosphere meets us with the unfriendly hiss of a kettle set down too hard. I write this entry with my gloves still on, the cuff of my jacket burned at the seam where the hatch seal caught fire during entry.
Whatever is growing down there does not care who it is met by. It is simply, defiantly, there.