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VIDEO LOG #56—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079
Day 10: 22:43 UTO
[Daley and Taban pick their way across the field of dark, glassy waves. The HARE scurries after them. Taban frequently checks his glove sensor and oxygen readout, seemingly confused about what it tells him. Daley moves erratically, his head moving this way and that, as if he’s a dog trying to pick up a lost scent.]
Taban: It’s been five minutes, Daley.
Daley: It’s around here. I know it. I saw.
Taban (wearily): I’m going back.
Daley: No, just one more minute. You can’t!
Taban: That was our deal, man. Give it up.
Daley (breathing heavily): . . .
Taban: My oxygen’s low. I think. Everything acts so screwy out here, I can’t tell. And I bet yours is, too. Let’s go back to the ship, okay?
Daley: I’m not going back there. I can’t.
Taban: What do you mean, you can’t? Daley, your heart—
Daley: It’ll be fine.
Taban: No, it won’t! It nearly gave out the last time. And it was in bad shape even before that. I know you’re saving for a new one, Daley. You want to die here before you ever get the chance to buy it?
Daley: No one dies here.
Taban: . . .
[The two men struggle through the field for a few moments more.]
HARE: What do you mean, USER Daley?
Daley: What?
HARE: What do you mean, no one dies here?
Taban (stopping): No one’s going to die here. We’re going back.
Daley: I can’t. It won’t let me.
Taban: . . .
Daley: I want to stay out here. With it. It will make us whole again. You know?
Taban (turning to HARE): Come on, HARE. We’re going back.
HARE (beeping): Warning.
[The HARE is looking at Daley, whose large shadow is moving behind Taban. Taban half-turns to look at him, but before he can make the full turn, Daley smashes his fist into Taban’s faceplate. He appears to be holding a large rock or a chunk of ice in his hand. Taban lands on his back, shouting, while Daley sits on his chest and brings the rock down three times against his helmet again with enormous force.]
[The HARE leaps over and gives Daley a hard punch to the chest with one of its plungers. Surprised by the sudden blow, Daley rolls away from Taban and skids a meter away across the ice. The HARE leans over and checks Taban’s vitals.]
Taban: What the fuck?!
HARE: Are you injured?
Taban: No—I don’t think so—
[He sits up, seemingly unharmed, and looks around in a furious panic. Daley is scrambling to his knees.]
Taban (shouting): What the fuck is wrong with you?!
[Daley doesn’t answer. Instead he stands and stumbles off into the storm like a panicky animal in flight. He stays low to the ground, almost on his hands and knees. Taban tries to follow him but loses his balance and lands back on his rear.]
Taban: Seriously, what the fuck?
HARE: Should we follow USER Daley?
Taban: No! Fuck that crazy asshole! He’s lost it! We’re going back to the fucking ship—
[Again he tries to stand, and again he loses his balance. The HARE zooms in on his faceplate.]
HARE: There is a breach in your helmet.
[Taban claps a gloved hand over the area where Daley struck him.]
Taban: Shit, seriously? Where?
[The HARE examines his faceplate even more closely. It’s hard to see in the dark, but there is the tiniest chip in the thick gold surface of the helmet. Within that, a crack as thin as a spider’s web.]
Taban (anxiously): I’ve—I’ve got emergency sealant. Just tell me where to point it.
[With the HARE’s help, Taban manages to fumble open a tiny tube of sealant from one of his pockets and clumsily slathers it over the crack in his helmet. He checks his medical readout.]
Taban: Am I going to die?
HARE: Your biology does not seem to have been adversely affected by outside elements. But the breach has depleted your oxygen to dangerous levels.
Taban: Meaning?
HARE: You are not poisoned or irradiated, but you might suffocate.
Taban: Thanks.
HARE: You are fortunate that de-pressurization did not do irreparable damage to your ocular receptors or brain.
Taban: Yeah, real fortunate. So we need to get back to the ship ASAP, right?
HARE: Yes.
Taban: Okay, let’s go.
HARE: What about USER Daley?
Taban: Forget about that fucker. He’s on his own.
[Unsteadily, he raises himself to his feet. The HARE leans against his side to act as leverage, allowing Taban to use its box-head as a crutch. They begin walking back in the direction they came. Daley is nowhere to be seen.]
Taban: Why the hell would he do that? Was he luring us out here?
HARE: I do not know.
Taban: And where is he going?
HARE: I do not know. The chances of mortality are very high.
Taban: For him, you mean.
HARE: Yes.
[Taban’s breathing has acquired the faintest wheeze, though he seems to be moving easily enough. When the HARE looks up at him, the camera’s view is partially obscured by his gloved hand.]
Taban: My oxygen’s at 5%. But it’s been that way for the last half-hour, or more. I don’t get it.
HARE: There are anomalies here.
Taban: Yeah. No kidding.
HARE: This planet—designation: HARPA—is dangerous.
Taban: Yeah. No kidding.
[A minute passes. Taban continues to breathe with a slight rattle.]
Taban: Seriously, fuck Daley. I’m leaving his ass. Soon as we get back. I don’t even care if I don’t know how to fly. I’ll figure it out.
HARE: I will assist.
[It periodically turns its lens to check on Taban’s condition. Through the dark curve of his helmet, it looks like his nose is bleeding.]
Taban: How far away is the Wyvern?
HARE: Approximately twenty minutes at this current speed. If this is the right direction.
Taban: Do you not know?
HARE There are anomalies here.
Taban: . . . We’ll make it. It’ll be there.
HARE: Yes.
Taban: Fuck.
HARE: How do you feel?
Taban: Sick. Nauseous. Like the ground is moving under me. Pulsing like a heart. Do you not feel that?
HARE: No.
Taban: . . . It’ll be fine.
[They continue walking in silence. Taban moves gamely, keeping a brisk pace—but his breath comes in hard, labored pants. He tries to steady himself, but the rasp of his lungs can be heard clearly through the HARE’s audio array.]
[Twenty minutes pass. Despite their steady pace, the landscape around Taban and the HARE never seems to change.]
Taban: Is he following us?
HARE: No. There has been no sign of USER Daley since he left the party.
Taban: Some party. Does he have any way of getting back? Does he know how?
HARE: . . .
Taban: Whatever. It’s the least of my concerns. I’ve gotta get to a med pod.
HARE: USER Daley might be dead.
Taban: What?
HARE: I enacted defense protocols. He was attacking you.
Taban: What are you talking about?
HARE: I targeted his chest. I struck it. Such a blow may have induced cardiac ischemia. The chances are likely.
Taban (breathing heavily): Can’t worry about that now. Wouldn’t be your fault, even if that did happen. He brought it on himself.
HARE: There are chances that he is well.
Taban: Yeah. Fucker.
HARE: There are chances that he is not.
Taban: Yeah.
HARE: . . . I am sorry.
Taban: Don’t apologize to me. There’s nothing to be sorry for.
[The HARE suddenly stops dead and enters analysis mode, its antenna stretching upward and emitting a pulsing green light that reflects off the ground beneath it.]
Taban: What is it?
HARE (looking around): We have reached the coordinates of the ship. It should be here.
[There is nothing to be seen but an endless ‘sea’ of the frozen, glassy waves. The shapes of the waves against the white blizzard create eerie shadows that look like prowling creatures, encircling Taban and the HARE. The Wyvern is nowhere in sight.]
Taban (looking around, uncertain): What? Here?
[The HARE’s camera slowly pans around. The waves, impossibly, seem to loom larger than before.]
HARE: My processors must be faulty.
Taban: . . . So what does that mean? We have no way of getting back to the ship? We’re lost?
[There is neither anger nor despair in his voice. Just a wooden, resigned kind of calm. He speaks almost as if he’s been put in a trance. His breathing has acquired a painful, asthmatic scrape.]
HARE: I will continue to analyze. With enough time, I should be able to locate the ship via transponder signal.
Taban: Why weren’t you doing that in the first place?
HARE: The simpler way is to return to the coordinates marked in my global positioning system. To communicate with the ship’s computer and locate its signal through the storm would be far more complex.
Taban: But it would make way more sense to do that on a planet that changes direction, wouldn’t it?
HARE: You did not instruct me to do so.
Taban: I thought it would be common sense.
HARE: I have not acquired ‘common sense.’
Taban: I thought you were a heuristic learning model. An evolving intelligence—that’s what it says on the label on your back. I thought you get smarter over time! Have you even learned anything?
HARE (processors whirring): . . .
Taban (turning away): Whatever. It’s fine. Just go ahead and do it now.
[The HARE hunkers down on the ice, processing furiously, as Taban stumbles a few more feet, one hand pressed against his ribs as if he has a stitch. His breathing is scratchy and strained; blood has now clogged the lower half of his face. He appears to be fighting unconsciousness, or hypothermia, or even just immense tiredness. The HARE keeps watching him as he sways on his feet, even as it processes.]
[Gradually, the wind stops howling.]
Taban: . . . Wait. What the fuck is that?
HARE: What is what?
[Taban points at something in the distance. The camera follows his outstretched hand. He’s pointing at something in the waves, a few meters away from the pair. The wind has died a little, clearing the air of the film of ice crystals, and the HARE’s field of view has widened significantly. The camera zooms in, pixelates briefly, then clarifies: there’s a dark, lumpy shape caught in the frozen waves. It looks like the figure of a man.]
Taban: That’s not—
HARE: USER Daley.
[Taban begins to run. The HARE follows.]
[When it catches up, Taban is on his knees at the base of a dark wave, staring slackly at Daley’s body. Daley’s eyes are open and bloodshot; his face is contorted in a rictus of fear or surprise. The HARE checks Daley’s medical readout on his suit. It indicates that he’s dead.]
Taban: Shit!
[He punches the ground next to him, to little effect.]
HARE: I could administer emergency medical procedures—
Taban: Look at him. It’s way too late.
[He hunches over Daley’s body, shuddering, as if to pray. Then he looks back up at the HARE with a hint of accusation.]
Taban: How is this possible? He went the opposite way of the ship—ran off somewhere else. He can’t have circled back around and died that fast.
HARE: There are anomalies here.
Taban: Did we go in the wrong direction?
HARE: No. We experienced an anomaly.
Taban: Stop fucking saying that! Not everything is a goddamn anomaly, HARE!
HARE (in concluding tones): We are experiencing an anomaly.
[Taban’s breath bursts through the transmitter in a short, staccato tattoo. He is crying. His tears glimmer through the gold of his helmet.]
Taban: We went the wrong way. We’re even farther from the ship than when we started. We’re not going to make it back.
HARE: We can. Your oxygen readout—
Taban (hopelessly): It’s at 0. I don’t know how I’m still alive.
[Suddenly he jolts backward from the wave and begins patting his suit all over, as if checking his pockets.]
Taban: Homing beacon . . .
HARE: Please repeat.
Taban: A homing beacon! We need a homing beacon. I’m going to write a message, stick a homing beacon in it—so when ISF comes, they can find it, even if we . . . move.
[He rolls over onto his back and starts scrabbling for his boot.]
Taban: Don’t they give us extra homing beacons with these suits?
HARE: Yes.
Taban: Where are mine located?
HARE: They’re usually strapped to your left calf.
Taban: Oh. Because—
HARE: . . . But USER Daley took yours to set his ‘markers’ several days ago.
Taban: FUCK!
[He flops over for a moment, apparently defeated. Then he rolls back over onto his knees again and begins to scramble around on the ice.]
Taban: Then I need to leave a note or something—pile up some ice, or scratch something out—so they know what I wanted, who to tell, and someone can find it later, regardless of this shit planet and its shit directions—
HARE: Please. Do not exert yourself. Your oxygen—
[Taban sits up.]
Taban: Or maybe I should just tell you. But what happens if you break, or run out of power before they get here? What if your memory gets damaged and you forget me?
HARE: Please. We should move—
Taban: It’s this fucking planet. North becomes south, ice becomes wave, ship disappears—Daley sees a man and a ferrox—
[He falls silent.]
Taban: What am I going to see?
HARE: Me. I am with you.
[Taban’s face contorts, and he gives a shuddering sob before patting the HARE on the head. Then he tries to scratch something into the ice again, but his slippery gloves don’t even take a chip off. His breath has a harsh, bone-scraping rattle now. A human would be alarmed by the sound. The HARE doesn’t seem to react. Abruptly, Taban begins to cry again.]
Taban: Shit, HARE, I don’t want to die.
HARE: You won’t, Fin.
Taban: You promise?
HARE: Yes.
[He gives up attempting to scratch a message into the ice and flops back onto his back.]
Taban: You’re right. You’re right. What am I doing? We need to get back. I just—need a rest. Catch my breath. In a second I’ll get up and we can go back to the ship.
HARE: Yes.
Taban: We’ll get a message out to ISF, tell them what’s been going on here. They’ll come right away. If they’re not already coming.
HARE (processors whirring): . . .
Taban: . . . Have you located the ship’s transponder?
HARE: Yes, just now.
Taban: Good. Just give me a second, and we can go.
[He closes his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath to use the full extent of his lungs. As the HARE watches, the sky slowly lightens above Taban’s figure, touching his frosted helmet. In the weak morning light, his face within the visor is pale and ghostlike, his hair bleached of color. The lower half of his face is encrusted with blood.]
Taban (speaking with effort, slurring): Or maybe you should go. I’m tired. Lying still will conserve oxygen, right?
HARE: Yes.
Taban: (checking his readout)
HARE: Your oxygen?
Taban: Still zero. But I’m still kicking.
HARE: There are anomalies.
Taban: I know. I’m not going to question it. Listen—
HARE: Yes.
Taban: You can find the ship. Get an oxygen tank, medical shit. I’ll stay here. You can track the homing beacon that’s embedded in my suit. The one that Daley couldn’t take.
HARE: Yes.
Taban: You come back for me. I’ll hold on as long as I can. But whatever happens—you need to tell ISF what happened here. People need to know what happened to us. How we got here. How we . . .
HARE: Understood.
Taban: Tell them—tell them about the mountains. The ones that disappeared. The weird shit that went on here. Tell them the land here moves. They’ll send their closest ships. They’ll want to see for themselves.
HARE: Yes.
Taban: Hell, send the videos, if you can. That way they’ll have the whole picture.
HARE: That may deplete my energy sources.
Taban: I know. But we all got a job to do, my friend.
HARE (processors whirring): . . . Understood.
Taban: And if you do actually talk to them—if they ask—
HARE: Yes?
Taban: Tell them my will’s with Nova United. All my shit can go to Harpa.
HARE: The planet?
Taban: My ex.
HARE (processing): . . .
Taban (after a moment): (shaking his head) Goddamn it. If he hadn’t gone crazy—we could have gone home.
HARE: Yes.
Taban (bitterly): I told him—I told him I just want to go home.
[Taban drags himself up into a sitting position, moving away from Daley’s body with revulsion as he props himself up against a dark wave. He folds his hands over his lap and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he turns his head away from the sight of the frozen fields, which are brightening with a strange strip of color just appearing on the horizon.]
Taban: Okay, so. I guess it’s off you go. I’ll just be waiting here for you to come back.
HARE: . . .
Taban (slurring a little): I’m tired, anyway. I need to rest. I haven’t slept in a long time. Too many weird dreams.
HARE: . . .
Taban: What are you waiting for? Go.
HARE: I should wait.
Taban: For what? More light? (looking up) The suns are rising.
[The HARE doesn’t answer him. Almost imperceptibly, the night’s storm has died away; an aurora has begun to play against the milky-blue dawn instead. It looks to be a geomagnetic storm, enhanced by the presence of Eos’s two suns. Liquid light leaks across the sky, blues and greens mixing with pinks and golds.]
Taban: Does this happen every day?
HARE: Yes.
Taban: I never saw it. Never woke up for it, I guess.
[The HARE sits down beside Taban. In its camera’s view, his suit looks large and dark against the sudden fiery display that the ice has flung up in response to the aurora. His breathing has eased a little.]
[After a few minutes Taban tries to fold his arms behind his head, but the shoulder joints in his armor restrain him. He folds his arms over his chest instead. He begins to tremble.]
Taban: What are you doing, HARE?
HARE: I think I should stay with you. For a moment.
Taban (laughs): Why?
HARE: It feels like I should.
Taban: You’re going by feeling now? Maybe you learned something from me, after all.
HARE: Yes.
Taban (looking at the aurora): It’s so beautiful. Have you ever seen anything like it?
HARE: No.
Taban (breathing slowing): Do you get it now? What I told you before?
HARE: What?
Taban: How there’s always something bigger out there, with you. Even when it feels like you’re totally alone.
HARE (processing): . . .
Taban: Do you get it now?
HARE: I am sorry. I am unable to answer your query at this time.
[Taban laughs, softly. The HARE continues to watch him in silence. After a few moments, Taban’s breathing comes to a gurgling stop. His suit gives a long blip of alarm, and his body stiffens and convulses. Then, four minutes after that, readouts indicate that he is dead.]
[The HARE stays with him for an undetermined amount of time after that.]