[Hi,
Weirder and weirder shit. Can’t talk much. They have bots watching us at work now. Don’t know if it’s because of the terrorists or because they suspect us of something. Please—watch your back.]
VIDEO LOG #23—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079
Day 5: 06:54 UTO
[The HARE reactivates in a dark room; the camera surges suddenly into the air as it unfolds its mechanical limbs and looks around. It’s in the ship’s bunk room, which has been divided by a makeshift partition (made of scrap?). Fin Taban lies on a cot nearby.]
Taban: (sigh)
HARE: Good morning. USER Daley has already begun his morning activities.
Taban (speaking quietly): Of course he has.
HARE: Shall I notify him that you’re awake?
Taban: No. I think I’ll just lie here for a while.
HARE (processors whirring): Are you feeling tired?
Taban: In a manner of speaking. I’m tired of going out there, that’s for sure.
HARE: You haven’t informed USER Daley.
Taban: What good would it do? He’s obsessed. All it would do is cause a fight, which is the last thing I want when the guy’s the only one who can fly us home.
HARE: USER Daley believes that the work will be finished soon.
Taban: It’s just bullshit he says when he can tell I’m getting antsy. You should learn to recognize that, you know. Bullshit. It’s a valuable skill.
HARE: Understood. I will attempt to acquire.
Taban: You do that.
[A few minutes pass in silence. Taban closes his eyes and folds his hands together on top of his chest, whispering something indistinct.]
HARE: I’m sorry. Please repeat.
Taban: I’m not talking to you.
HARE: I am the only one present.
Taban: I’m praying.
HARE: I’m sorry. I don’t understand.
[Taban ignores the HARE as he continues to pray silently. Finally he opens his eyes again and sits up.]
Taban: You really don’t know what praying is?
HARE: I have downloaded the definition. But I have not acquired an understanding of the subject matter.
Taban: Lots of humans do it, across all cultures. You know about cultures? Religions?
HARE: I have downloaded some data. But I have not acquired—
Taban: Well, we won’t get into that today. But praying’s like—it’s like—talking to someone greater than you. For comfort, or guidance, or whatever. A higher authority.
HARE: An authority that is not present?
Taban: Well, they’re present. They’re with you at all times.
HARE (processors whirring): . . .
Taban: You get it?
HARE: Yes.
Taban: Good. Now turn around.
[The HARE faces the wall while Taban rises and begins to change into his decksuit. As he’s changing, the HARE addresses him again.]
HARE: What do you pray about?
Taban: Now that part’s none of your damn business. Let’s go get breakfast.
[He leaves the bunk room with the HARE. Daley is sitting in the pilot’s seat of the cockpit, eating a breakfast ration.]
Daley: Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey. (tosses ration packet to Taban)
Taban: Gee, thanks, Ma. You shouldn’t have.
Daley: Weren’t no trouble, sweetie pie. But seriously, hurry up. We’re burning daylight here.
Taban: I just woke up. At least give me a few minutes.
Daley: Not my fault you can’t get your lazy ass up on time.
Taban: “On time” according to you means getting four hours of sleep a night. How are you still alive? Sure you’re not going to burn yourself out?
Daley (boxing in the air): No way. I got enough energy to whip six of you into shape.
Taban: Lucky us. (shaking foil packet to activate heating process) Ugh. Smells like maple sausage again.
Daley: Hey, don’t bitch. I know it’s all the same to you richies on Mars, but any real meat back on Earth was a luxury. Comeback wiped out all the livestock. Hell, we were lucky to even get SPAM on Solstice Morning.
Taban: You know, Daley, I’ve been meaning to say—
Daley: What? You don’t eat meat on Mars, either? Think it’s inhumane to make animals suffer? Even the brain-free ones? I’ll take your sausage, if that’s the case.
Taban: No, I—
Daley (checking wrist console): You know what, tell me outside. I’m going to suit up and check the drill real quick. Hurry up.
[Daley exits the room. The cockpit’s door seals shut behind him. About three minutes later, there’s the sound of the ship’s airlock opening.]
Taban (speaking quietly as he looks into his foil packet): Does he seem . . . manic, to you?
HARE: USER Daley’s behavior seems to be more animated than usual.
Taban: You keep track of our biometrics, don’t you? Is he sleeping?
HARE: USER Daley’s delta waves indicate that he sleeps fitfully, for an average of three hours a night.
Taban: So . . . no. That’s not good.
HARE: Affirmative.
Taban: Hey.
HARE: I’m sorry. I mean ‘yes.’
Taban (chewing): Okay. So he’s staying up most of the night. But where’s he getting all that energy from? And why is he staying up?
HARE: I’m sorry. I am unable to answer your query at this point in time.
Taban: I know. I’m just talking out loud.
HARE: I see.
Taban: He thinks I’m from Mars. I guess I don’t blame him—the tattoo and all.
HARE (processors whirring): You are not from Mars?
Taban: No. I’m Earth-born, actually—just like him. I only moved to Mars about ten years ago.
HARE: Why did you leave?
Taban: Earth or Mars?
HARE (processors whirring): . . .
Taban: Actually, same answer for both. It’s a long story. (rising, crumpling packet up) Let’s go outside.
[The HARE scuttles after Taban, who heads to the airlock and enters his exo-armor suit. They find Daley outside, examining the ship’s drill and the hole it’s bored into the ice. The air is now utterly still and clear; there is no wind.]
Taban (looking into the hole): Ice, ice, and more ice. Nice.
Daley (kicking the edge of the hole): I really thought there would be something else down there. The drill went down almost one thousand feet. The surface of this damn place is frozen solid.
Taban: Or it’s all just ice, down to the core.
Daley (grunt): Maybe. But maybe not. In any case, maybe we can take some of this stuff back. Get some brains to test it.
Taban: What, the ice? How are we going to keep it cold in the cargo bay? It’ll melt. Plus, we don’t have room.
Daley: We’ll figure something out. Gotta have samples for the scientists, right? (pointing sunward) Ready to head out?
Taban: I guess.
[After a few more minutes of preparation, they begin to trudge together across the tundra, with the HARE trailing after. Daley is in front, his shoulders set very far forward, while Taban follows behind reluctantly. Their boots do not appear to leave prints in the strange dense ice.]
Taban: Do you see them today?
Daley: No. But I know I spotted them when we landed. The thing did too, right?
HARE: Yes. This unit captured footage of the structures that USER Daley observed.
Daley: So we know I’m not crazy.
Taban: No one said you were. I saw them, too.
Daley: I know. I’m just saying.
Taban: Yeah. Me too.
Daley: . . .
Taban: . . . So where are they?
Daley: Dunno. We must be behind some kind of ridge, or maybe in a valley. Something that’s blocking them from sight. We just gotta keep on pressing north, and we’ll spot ’em eventually.
Taban: But if you and the HARE are right about direction, we should have been on them at some point. How far’s the third marker, again? Like five klicks?
Daley: About three miles.
Taban: Okay, so almost six kilometers, or in other words, a picobuttload. Which is about how far the HARE estimated they’d be. You’re not concerned that we haven’t even seen these gigantic mirror tower crystal things?
Daley: No. Not really.
Taban: And . . . why is that?
Daley: Because I know we’ll find them eventually. And when we do, hoo boy! Imagine how much something like that would sell for, even just to see! A cluster of giant space shards!
Taban: Right.
Daley: Let’s just not bitch today, huh? It’s a beautiful day, and all we’ve got to do is walk in a straight line north. Easy, right?
Taban: Yeah. Sure. Easiest thing in the world.
[The men fall silent. The HARE turns away from them to regard the flat, unchanging horizon.]
VIDEO LOG #23—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079
Day 5: 08:15 UTO
[The strange crystal formations come into sight as the HARE rotates its head and scans the horizon (timestamp 023-2:17), appearing about a kilometer away from the group. However, the formations seem to vanish again when the HARE turns to look directly at them, the shapes flickering from view like a mirage. Neither man seems to notice. As the group hikes on, the formations do not appear again.]
VIDEO LOG #23—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079
Day 5: 09:22 UTO
[After 2.5 hours of marching north, Taban and Daley have stopped talking. The two suns are now high in their arcs, casting the ice in a hard, blinding light that makes it difficult to distinguish the ground from the sky. The third and farthest marker from the ship is behind the group by about forty minutes. Daley has been breathing heavily for about half an hour.]
Taban: We should head back.
Daley: Not yet. We need to make it a little farther before we can put down another marker.
Taban: I feel like we’re cutting it close on oxygen. My readout’s at 40%—that’s just enough to make it back. What about you?
Daley: Just a little longer.
Taban: . . .
Daley: You know. Maybe we can start sending the HARE out at night.
Taban: What do you mean?
Daley: I mean. We’re not having the greatest luck ourselves, here. Not that I don’t enjoy being on this Mickey Fuckin’ Mouse parade with you. But the bot can cover way greater distances without us, right? And it doesn’t need oxygen.
Taban: . . .
Daley: So, say we’re wrong on the direction, or even the distance of these structures. The HARE doesn’t do anything except sit around at night. Why not send it out and let it do the finding for us? Like how we sent it out that first night.
Taban: I don’t think that’s a great idea.
Daley: What? Why not?
Taban: I mean—what if it gets damaged? Or what if it doesn’t come back? And it has a limited power source—
Daley: So what? We don’t need it for anything else. And it’s insured.
Taban: I just feel like it’s not going to find anything.
Daley: We won’t know until we try. Isn’t exploring and recon what it’s for?
Taban: If there was anything for it to find, it would have found it by now.
Daley: Well, we know that there is something for it to find, because it caught it on camera. So I’m not really getting your point.
Taban: I don’t know.
Daley: What’s wrong? Scared to lose your little friend?
Taban: Come on, you know it’s not that. It’s just—
Daley: Wait. Stop.
[Daley stops in his tracks, looking straight ahead. Behind him, Taban tries to peer over his shoulder. The HARE moves to the side to see what they’re looking at. There’s a small, dark object in the distance, oblong-shaped, metallic, nestled on the ice about 1.5 kilometers away.]
Daley: . . . What the fuck is that?
Taban: Is that—that’s—
Daley: Is that another fucking ship? There are people here!
Taban: . . .
Daley: Goddamn it!
Taban: Daley, wait—
[Daley begins to run toward the object. The springy ice and lesser gravity cause him to leap through the air in large arcs. After a moment’s hesitation, Taban begins to follow, more clumsily, with the HARE keeping pace.]
Taban: Your oxygen!
Daley: What is that? Is that ISF?
Taban: I don’t know. It looks like . . .
Daley (breathing heavily): Can’t be settlers. Ship’s too small. When did they get here?
Taban: Daley, what’s your oxygen at?
Daley: Never mind. Got to talk to these fuckers. See what they know.
[A few kilometers to the right of the dark object, the HARE observes a geyser forming a ghostly mushroom against the gray sky. Neither Taban nor Daley seems to notice or look at it.]
Taban: Slow down. Hang on.
Daley (slowing slightly): (panting) What?
Taban: Take a look at it. Doesn’t that look like . . .
Daley: What?
Taban: Doesn’t that look like . . . our ship?
Daley: No.
[He stops. Taban, unable to stop his momentum completely, tries to tumble to a halt and knocks into the back of Daley’s knees, bringing them both down onto the ice. The rotors in their cybernetic joints whine. The HARE stops beside them as the men try to untangle themselves. They are about one kilometer away from the ship.]
Daley: That’s not our ship.
Taban (climbing to his knees): . . . I think it is. Look. The drill . . .
Daley: That’s some other miner’s ship. It can’t be ours. We’ve been going north this whole time. Straight line. Even if our compasses were off, we haven’t turned.
Taban: . . . I know . . .
Daley (beginning to wheeze): So that can’t be ours. That’d be impossible.
Taban: I know.
Daley: So whose ship is that?
HARE (processors whirring): . . .
Taban: HARE . . . what’s the name of that ship?
HARE: The ship’s designation is CS Wyvern 7079.
Taban: Our CS Wyvern 7079?
HARE: Yes.
Daley (wheezing harder): That’s not possible. That’s not possible.
Taban: Okay, Daley, calm down. Breathe. We’ll figure this out.
Daley: Figure what out? This is fucking laws of physics shit! The most basic shit in existence! There’s nothing to figure out!
Taban: Calm the fuck down, Daley!
Daley (pointing): There’s a man there, see? It’s his ship. The bot’s wrong. That’s not our ship, it’s his ship.
Taban: I don’t see a man.
Daley: He’s right there. Don’t—you—see—him?
Taban: No. What man?
Daley: The—man—right—there!
[Daley suddenly doubles over on the ice. Taban grabs his shoulder. The recording is filled with the sounds of Daley’s wet breathing and his wrist console’s alarms going off.]
Taban: Daley? Daley, are you having a panic attack or something? What the fuck is going on?!
HARE: USER Daley’s oxygen has reached a critical level of 5%.
Taban: WHAT?
HARE: In addition, his suit sensors indicate severe tachycardia. Ischemia detected. Myocardial infarction imminent.
Taban: A heart attack?! Now?
HARE: Not yet. Soon.
Taban: FUCK! Okay—uh—okay—Daley, what do I do?
Daley: (choking) (incoherent)
Taban: What?!
HARE (processors whirring): I will procure an auxiliary oxygen tank and medical supplies from the ship: designation Wyvern.
Taban: Yes! Do that! I shouldn’t take his helmet off for him, should I? He’s trying to take it off!
HARE (scuttling rapidly toward the ship): That would be inadvisable.
Taban (in the distance): Oh my God, Daley, please don’t die.