Earth 2.0

EARTH 2.0

Doctor Robert Bryant was over six feet tall and had a background in engineering. Initially, he worked in Toronto but later moved to Rio de Janeiro to continue his research in the laboratory adjoining the physics building. He dressed in grey from head to foot which he had taken to wearing in his college days. His weathered features creased into shadowy lines, and he was a scientist who believed that the key to research was dedication and focus. Bryant put a lot of stock in sensorimotor skills, and could fly planes well enough to enrol in the Canadian Air Force. The rich, spoiled product of a rocket scientist who had married an electric car company shareholder, Bryant had an unshakable confidence in himself that bordered on pride. The features of his face were framed by a short beard. As he made widely known his interest in propulsion, his new design was soon fleshed out in the form of a revolutionary spaceship which would use the void of space itself, turning inside out the theories that matter, even exotic matter, was needed to search for a habitable planet. He volunteered to test the spaceship, his imposing presence being acceptable a long as his height was compensated for by his waistband, as a deciding factor. Soon the Canadian project to send a mothership equipped with a hundred small scouts was realized, and an expedition headed to the new planet, known officially as K2-307-14-22B.

The astronauts held steadfast to the course laid out for them by Earth's command, then put themselves to sleep.

Upon waking, they re-acquainted around the coffee table. "It's an admirable job you've done, Mares," Bryant remarked, his words carrying a weight of both acknowledgment and uncertainty. His choice to address Mares by surname instead of his given name was a subtle reminder of their professional distance over the twenty-seven years they had been together, albeit in deep sleep. Yet Mares couldn't discern whether this formality stemmed from Bryant’s upbringing or served as a shield against the intimacy of a shared endeavor.

Despite his reserved demeanor, Bryant possessed an undeniable brilliance. Psychology coaches had cautioned against probing too deeply into transiting astronauts’ mannerisms, but naming mattered to Mares. Yet, beneath the façade of professionalism, a sense of unease simmered, hinting at the complexities that lay hidden within the depths of the past.

"It's time to prepare the spacesuits," Mares declared, the weight of their impending mission settling heavily on his shoulders. They retrieved the black skinsuits from the lockers. These suits, meticulously tailored to their measurements, were identical in appearance. However, the preference for smaller stature astronauts for the payload added a layer of complexity to their preparations.

Then, the death of Ralley during an extravehicular activity forced the pair to reassess the resources of a three-person shuttle crew. Her absence meant that they needed to recalibrate the masses in their favor, a somber reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the safety of their spacecraft.

Bryant’s sudden deviation from his strict rations caught Mares off guard. "I can't keep to rations with O'Malley on my mind," he confessed as he indulged in O'Malley's luxury pack of dark chocolate and nuts. The superfluous items in their provisions highlighted the reality of the situation, where every resource was carefully accounted for. There was no turning back to pick up the body with their velocity of hundreds of kilometres per second and falling.

O'Malley's untimely demise weighed heavily on both Mares and Bryant. Her attractiveness, particularly for an engineer, was undeniable, if chauvinistic of them, but as was to be granted to unseat such modern suppositions, it was her skills as a hands-on computer interface operator that had been of value to them. The memory of her final moments, bidding farewell over her computer as she drifted into the void, stirred a mixture of sorrow and regret with the pair.

As the astronauts shared a farewell drink in her honor, the realization of her fate hit them with a sobering force. Despite her best efforts to prepare her suit in time for a pipe leak on the outside, a hitch left her stranded without enough oxygen to return, and leaving the scout without a computer specialist. The grief of her loss lingered in the air, casting a shadow over their preparations for landing on K2.

In the midst of mourning, Bryant’s practicality shone through as he reflected that she had died after fixing the problem. Her determination to address the issue served as a reminder of her resilience.

Bryant retrieved his skinsuit from the locker. As he meticulously examined every seam and fastening, Mares observed a flicker of apprehension in his demeanor, a departure from the usual routine as expressed in his body system.

Without breaking his intense scrutiny of the spacesuit, he held it at arm's length, as if keeping it at bay from some unseen threat. His grip tightened, betraying a hint of unease beneath his stoic façade. It was as though he was grappling with something beyond the physical confines of the suit, a silent struggle playing out in the silence of the spacecraft.

When he finally tore his gaze away from the suit to address Mares, his voice carried a weight of determination tinged with a touch of desperation. "This is mine!" he declared, the words ringing with an intensity that sent a shiver down Mares’s spine.

"My suit, my spacesuit," Bryant repeated with fervor. Which suit had Ralley taken? thought Mares. With trembling hands, Bryant traced the markings on the suit's surface, his fingertips brushing over the letter 'R' with a mixture of reverence and trepidation. "R... R means reconnoitre," he muttered, the words laden with significance. It was more than just a designation; it was a symbol of his assigned role, a reminder of oncoming role change. "It means my designated role is to reconnoitre the planet," he explained, his voice cracking with emotion.

As both men approached the door, Mares felt Bryant’s inner turmoil, a struggle to find meaning and direction at this new frontier, perhaps he could use it to enhance his performance.

Mares felt pleased at this assumption. It was clear to him that the marking held no such significance as he suggested. After all, their sponsors were none other than Real, the renowned perfume giant corporation, whose generous donations had funded extrasolar expeditions. There was also their back-up fuel, a thousand tonnes of perfume to ignite in the event of space vacuum propulsion failing.

"Where was that one headed?" Bryant inquired casually upon seeing a distant shape as the pair waited for the shuttle's engine to warm up. The faint hum of the mechanical workings began filling the silence.

"Marres," Bryant prodded, his insistence grating on the other’s nerves, "I have given you the information, and it should be accessible in the suit's database." His words stung with a tone bordering on mania, a challenge to Mares’ authority and knowledge that reconnoitering was a robot’s job.

"Here," Mares uttered, the weight of the words bearing down on Bryant more heavily than he'd anticipated. "They said there was something wrong with the atmosphere," he continued. Fear, uncertainty, and a profound sense of responsibility surged within him, seeking to guard both men’s actions.

"Intelligent aliens?" Bryant interjected, his voice carrying a tone of certainty. In that moment, Mares glimpsed the depth of Bryant’s convictions and how they warped his loyalty. It became apparent that his fascination with conspiracy theories exposed him to scientific unorthodoxy. "She was trying to have a baby who'd eventually like me," he explained, his voice faltering slightly. "I was selected at a time in the month when the 289 days of her pregnancy made the baby compatible," he added, explaining his own birth - all nonsense.

Mares gently countered his beliefs, dismissing aliens as mere fictional constructs and timed pregnancies as pseudoscience. Yet, despite this, Bryant remained committed. It was his deep-seated conviction, shaped by his personal experiences and familial influences, which were at the heart of his fervency.

"Anyway," Bryant said with a hint of determination, his gaze fixed on the skinsuit laid out before him, "this suit of mine will make it possible for me to reconnoitre the planet."

“Look here,” he said, giving the suit a rap on the lid, “I would’ve suggested a more breathable and temperature-resilient version if I’d been consulted. They tell me there are daunting odds against landing on K2 alive.”

 Though spoken with a measured tone, his words carried the weight of his own conviction.

Sensing an opportunity, Mares turned to Bryant with a meaningful look, his words laden with curiosity. " Bryant, you know what regular means?"

"What?" he asked, his tone betraying a hint of frustration and disbelief.

The single word hung in the air, laden with uncertainty and a touch of apprehension.

                                         ------------

Althea Weezer, the flight commander, her uniform adorned with numerous decorations earned from navigating treacherous missions in the solar system, directed a penetrating glance through the computer screen on their wrists.

Since listening to shuttle pilots, she had always used curiosity to her advantage. “Say what you want to say,” she said.

" Bryant says the ‘R’ on his suit means ‘reconnoitre’," Mares whispered, vainly trying not to be overheard.

As he spoke, his gaze swept over the array of small vessels, each one with a separate mission to help the new colonization drive find welcoming planetary bodies.

"She won't know what it means," said Bryant, his frustration evident in the forcefulness of his movements as he stomped about.

As the craft tilted slightly, Mares’ eyes were drawn to Bryant, and he noticed the subtle physical changes in him since the tragic incident weeks ago. The added kilograms were a somber reminder of the toll the recent events had taken on him.

"Let's go round the mothership," Mares suggested. Bryant nodded, and he took hold of the controls, finding solace in the familiarity of the task as the shuttle relied on the mothership's artificial intelligence. As the men observed the distant blue planet, a sense of discomfort came over Mares, as he caught sight of the pale blotch on the opposite side—the ominous Pugh Crescent extrusion.

"Bryant," Mares yelled over the hum of the shuttle's systems. "Look at that extrusion; that thing is a killer."

"What are you gibbering about?" Bryant said.

"You were sick before you joined the program," Bryant went on the attack, his words laced with accusation and frustration, as though he possessed an uncanny intuition.

With a sudden surge of determination, he seized the controls in both hands. As he pulled on the controls, an unseen force from outside the shuttle intervened, causing it to spin uncontrollably. The alarming development was self-righting and the two men could talk after catching their breath.

"I did have an episode," Mares admitted. "More than one, as a matter of fact."

"What was it?" Bryant probed. Mares sensed he was retreating to familiar territory, then he realized that he had never encountered a man at the frontier of exploration before.

Mares had always projected an outward image of stoicism and strength, concealing any inner turmoil behind a façade of determination. Despite grappling with a troubled past and the challenges it brought, his unwavering love for his family served as a source of strength and purpose, balancing out his deviousness.

"Hector, you need to stay true to your principles," his wife had said, her voice tinged with concern as she glanced up from her coffee, her eyes searching his.

"I know, darling. Seeing things through, tackling difficult problems, makes it hard for me to be a good husband," he confessed, his tone reflecting a sense of introspection.

She extended a cup towards Mares, her gesture tender and inviting. "But you’re shielding yourself from others. People think you’re just as plain underneath as you are on the surface," she observed, her words carrying a hint of understanding and concern.

Mares declined the offer with a subtle shake of his head.

With a tone of both familiarity and concern, she uttered, "Oh, come on, Hector, you're not moody like Robert Bryant. I won't hear of it!"

"That fat oaf. Troubled past, and a desire to out-do everybody." That was a perfect summation. Yet now, Mares realized admitting to such a condition jeopardized his position in the agency, and it could also lead to dismissal from the space force itself.

In that moment, a deafening explosion shattered the tranquility, rending the air with violence as the colossal mothership vanished in an instant. Its disappearance left behind a searing hot flash, taking their minds off the distant edge of the planet Annapurna. The abrupt loss of the mothership plunged them into a maelstrom of terror and profound isolation, a harrowing sensation of being adrift in the vast expanse of space, immeasurable distances separating them from the comfort of home.

"Is anybody there? This is 1212 Tango Braveheart," Bryant called out, his voice trembling. "What is your position relative to K2?"

"They can't hear you because they're all dead," said Mares, his tone surprisingly calm given the gravity of the situation. Despite the fear threatening to overwhelm him, his survival instinct kicked in, compelling him to focus on the tasks at hand.

"It looks like we're both dead," Bryant proffered, his hands grappling the wall on his side for support. "Oh, but me, I’ve got that suit, though," he said. Before he could say more, Mares turned around and had a look at the spacesuit housed behind the chairs. Drawing it out and examining it was not just about assessing its condition; it was also a way to assert control and maintain composure in a dire situation. Probably Ralley had taken Bryant’s skinsuit in error.

"It says size 34. Are you size 34?’ Mares asked, inspecting the spacesuit closely. The words came out with the expectation that the other would bluster.

"No," he said, his crestfallen tone revealing his disappointment. He didn't hesitate to acknowledge his mistake. This reaction surprised Mares.

"So what size are you really?" Mares persisted, trying to steer the conversation back.

"Size 37," he retorted, his tone carrying a hint of frustration, as if he were tired of the game, akin to someone fluffing the exam at the extrasolar admissions department by admitting to a poor math score.

They gazed at the fading image of the mothership's debris. With the computer now in their hands, they showed up the final image of the wreck. Someday, perhaps centuries from now, Mares thought that someone might stumble upon the scout ship, a relic of their existence amidst the vastness of space. And if technological civilizations endured, they might unravel the mysteries of their final moments, offering a glimmer of connection across the expanse of time.

"Well, I'm a size 34 and have been most of my adult life, and so is this," Mares stated firmly. As he held the black skinsuit up to the dim light filtering into the shuttle from the day/night cycling illumination, he added, "I made sure to get the correct size for comfort."

At this, Bryant laughed a ghastly laugh. All along, their psychological training on cooperation and peer pressure, structured task-sharing, acceptance theory, the knots and alterity courses in existential psychiatry and game play, was brought into sharp focus. The tension was percentagewise thoroughly palpable. Until that moment, aging and longevity seemed like distant concerns, favorably distant. But this disaster in a moment had shattered that illusion. Yet, amidst the unease, Mares could feel only a fleeting sense of triumph as he donned the spacesuit.

As he waited for the shuttle to circle the planet and the flashing screen indicated their impending touchdown, a surge of conflicting emotions washed over him. Despite their differences, there was a part of him that wanted to reach out to Bryant, to bridge the gap between them, much like how they rallied around Ralley in her final moments. With hesitant steps, he moved toward the door, half-expecting Bryant to protest. But he remained silent, his inscrutable demeanor betraying little of his inner thoughts.

Dealing with conspiracy theorists was becoming tiresome; they always seemed to cling to their beliefs regardless of evidence..

As he landed on the planet, Mares was aware of the chain of events that had brought his first step about.

Subject: Urgent: New Information Regarding K2

Dear Forward Team,

I hope this message finds you ready for the monumental task ahead. As we prepare to explore the new planet, I must bring to your attention some recent developments that have come to light.

In the aftermath of asymmetric conflict, much of our historical records were lost or destroyed. However, thanks to the diligent efforts of archaeological teams scouring the libraries, we have uncovered crucial information pertaining to our mission.

There were once records detailing the appearance of a massive extrusion, known as the Pugh extrusion, on Annapurna, K2. What makes this discovery even more intriguing is the reference to an alien source.

We are on the brink of reaching K2, the very source mentioned in these records. Our mission takes on new significance as we realize that this planet may have been the origin of beings who made contact with Earth. However, it appears that they are nowhere to be seen.

I urge you to remain vigilant as you prepare to land on the new planet. We must approach this endeavor with caution and an open mind. Your courage and dedication to this mission are commendable, and I have every confidence in our mission.

Stay focused, stay united, and above all, stay safe.

Best regards,

Althea Weezer

Commander of the Exploration Fleet