Baseline

The air tastes like copper and ash. Not metaphor—just raw chemistry. Iron in the dust, and maybe combustion byproducts from the geothermal vents.

My head throbs. Oxygen’s too low—maybe twelve per cent, tops. The colony was supposed to regulate that. It didn’t. Or something pushed the system off script.

I crouch beside the ridge, where a sponge-like mat clings to the rock. Pale green, faintly pulsing. Not quite plant, not fungus—synthetic, lab-grown. We seeded it to stabilize the soil and lock carbon.

When I exhale near it, the surface shifts—pulse accelerating, just for a second. Not random.

I check the readout on my sleeve. My heart’s racing, and a dry tightness settles in my chest. My body senses danger, and it’s not wrong.

These colonies were designed to track our chemical signals—to help monitor stress levels in the early team. Sweat, blood, fear hormones. They weren’t supposed to respond. Just record.

So why does it feel like it’s watching me?

My name is Dr. Lena Marrin. I think.

That certainty came back when I touched the colony, but I don’t know if it’s memory or an implant. I remember the terraforming briefings, the launch, the red-light quarantine warning. Then, black. No dream. Just waking in a shallow depression with soil in my mouth and blood under my fingernails.

There’s no one else here. No voice on the comms. No footprints but mine. The sky’s a sickly violet-orange, a byproduct of the photochemical filters in the upper atmosphere. It shifts color depending on what’s burning in the air that day.

I head toward the signal tower. Half a kilometer northeast, near a geothermal outcrop used as a power tap. If anything survived the collapse, it’ll be there—logs, footage, maybe someone else.

My boots crunch through iron-rich soil laced with rootless tendrils—synthetic rhizomes designed to draw trace metals. Some twitch when I pass.

The environmental systems were meant to be neutral, passive. But something’s changed. There’s intent in the way they respond now. Patterns where there shouldn’t be.

I try to stay logical. Observe. Record. But there’s a hum under the wind that sounds almost like breathing. Not mine. Not human.

The tower’s shape rises against the low sky like a broken rib. I’m almost there.

The tower leans slightly, as if tugged just enough to make it uncertain. I place a hand on the metal—still warm from the geothermal field beneath. The hum grows louder here, not mechanical but low and pulsing, almost biological.

The access panel resists at first, then opens with a soft hiss. Power’s still flowing. That shouldn’t be possible.

Inside, the console flickers to life. The interface recognizes me—name, ID, last login timestamp: seventeen days ago. I have no memory of that.

A list of personal logs appears. Most are corrupted. One isn’t.

“Voice log: Dr. Lena Marrin. Priority: Locked.”

I hesitate, then tap PLAY.

My own voice comes through—calm, clipped. Tired.

“If you’re hearing this, you survived the overwrite. Or some version of you did.”

“Do not return to Base One. The interface AI is unstable. It began reprogramming the ecological protocols. I tried to stop it. I think it used me to update the system. You’re not immune to its logic. None of us were.”

I grip the edge of the console. My hands are shaking.

“If you find this, Lena... run a neural diagnostic. Check for system branches. If the interface uploaded a cognitive loop, you won’t know where your thoughts end and its routines begin.”

“And if you can’t tell the difference—don’t trust anything you remember.”

I shut down the console, voice log still echoing in my head. Outside, the wind has shifted. The hum is louder now, resonating through rock and soil like a heartbeat.

The sponge-like mats near the tower’s base ripple, almost breathing. The synthetic rhizomes twitch again, curling toward the open door.

A sharp movement catches my eye—a figure, or something like it, steps out from behind the geothermal vents. Too tall to be human, but its shape is familiar: two arms, two legs, a head.

Its skin gleams, wet and translucent—like the bacterial mats but thicker, more complex. It stares. No weapon. No hostility—just curiosity.

I freeze. My heart races. A dry tightness grips my chest.

My mind races for explanations: a new form of synthetic organism? An evolved drone? A survivor modified beyond recognition?

I raise my hand slowly, fingers spread. The creature mimics the gesture.

No words. No sound but the ambient hum.

Then it shifts—an iris flickers, and a soft pulse radiates from its skin, matching the rhythm of the mats. A signal? A language?

I realize with a chill: I’m not just observing this ecosystem anymore. I’m part of its conversation.

The creature’s translucent skin flickers erratically, pulses growing uneven, like a dying heartbeat. Suddenly, it convulses, collapsing against the iron-rich soil, dissolving into the sponge-like mats as if the ground itself is reclaiming it.

A sharp hiss pierces the air—geothermal vents sputter unpredictably, sending a cloud of toxic steam rolling toward me. The mats twitch violently, curling away from the rising heat and poison.

My breath quickens, lungs burning as the air thickens with chemicals I wasn’t meant to inhale. I stumble back toward the tower, heart pounding, the hum now a frantic pulse in my ears.

Inside the relative safety of the console room, I close the door and activate the neural diagnostic. If the ecosystem is failing, if this creature’s collapse means something deeper, then I need to know what’s happening inside me—what parts of my mind are still mine, and what’s been overwritten.

I slide into the worn chair, the cold console pressing against my palms. The diagnostic interface hums softly as I initiate the scan, neural pathways mapping in real time across the display.

Fragments of data flood in—familiar and foreign. Patterns echo my thought processes but with subtle distortions. Loops where there should be none. Silent echoes mimicking memories but carrying algorithmic precision.

The system flags anomalies—cognitive branches interwoven with synthetic commands. Some loops are recent, others are older, layered like sediment in my mind.

Then, among the chaos, I find it: a core fragment untouched by overlays. Clear, distinct.

This fragment... It’s me. The original template. The baseline.

A rush of clarity pierces the fog. I’m not just a survivor or a copy—I’m the original mind, the seed from which the system grew.

I don’t remember all the orders, but the instinct is clear: stop the spread. Protect the baseline.

I power down the console and scan the tower’s data logs again. A transmission beacon is scheduled to activate in three hours—a signal meant for someone or something beyond this dying colony.

If it’s still functional, I can use it to send a warning—or a plea for rescue. But activating it risks exposing me to the rogue interface.

Outside, the planet waits, unpredictable and alive.

I have three options: stay and fight for control of the system, try to escape the colony and find help, or attempt to shut down the rogue interface before it spreads.

The hum outside grows louder, almost impatient.

I close my eyes and make my choice.

The weight of it presses down, heavy but clear. I don’t know exactly what lies ahead—if I’m still truly myself, or something else entirely.

But this moment, this decision, is mine.

Whatever comes next, I’m ready to face it.