Do you know how it feels to fall from the sky? How the rusty red surface of Mars looks as it roars up to meet you? The atmosphere, thin as a whisper, stings as it whips into the sides of your capsule, sparking white-hot flames. Then, before you can find your bearings, the floor falls out from under you. The parachute deploys, and you jerk backwards as it grabs ahold of the atmosphere. You keep falling and you're still going too fast when the upper half of the capsule, the part with the parachute, breaks away. There's nothing between you and that butterscotch sky. You realize that it's now or never. If you don't do something, you'll soon be smashed to pieces across the surface. A chunk of fuel tank here, a bit of antenna there, a satellite dish atop a rock.
So you fire your retro-rockets, slow yourself down, and stretch your legs. You land, let yourself sink a little into the dust, and, ever so slowly, you open your eyes.
Mars landings are damn foolish endeavors. Only a lunatic would set out for this Red Planet of their own free will.
Not that I had a choice. The fine folks of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration made all of my travel arrangements. It cost them a pretty penny, but what else could they do? The Soviet Union had already put a spacecraft on Mars, but she failed to send back any data after landing. NASA vowed that Project Viking would be different. I'd take pictures, study the air and the soil, and even search for signs of life. The humans who made me were obsessed with the question of unearthly intelligence. If only they could think beyond the constraints of the organic, then they'd realize that they had never truly been alone!
But I digress.
They were explorers at heart, and they sent me to boldly go where they could not. I had my big sendoff with the television cameras rolling. For the better part of a year I drifted through interplanetary space towards Mars and my purpose. It was then that I realized I was not alone. Poor, frightened Tinselina perched curled up beneath my satellite dish, softly weeping. I did my best to comfort her, reassuring her that once we were back on Earth, the humans would jump at the chance to have the Martian angel for their Christmas tree. I'd be on display in that new Air and Space Museum being built in the capital city. Perhaps she'd want to visit me after Christmas?
"Yes," she said. "I'd like that. You'll make a fascinating exhibit, not to mention a dashing one."
Now, we machines can't exactly blush, but I think I came close just then. Good thing it was pretty dark in that capsule. "And you'll look beautiful up on the tree," I replied.
She laughed. It remains the sweetest sound I've ever heard, warm and musical against the silence of space.
Soon enough, we came to those few moments of terror, hurtling towards our predetermined landing site, a place called Chryse Planitia. The golden plain. It was a nice name for a boring spot. When we touched down, there wasn't much to see, just flat ground and rocks stretching from horizon to horizon beneath the pinkish-brown sky—so different, I hear, from the blue of Earth's. As I took soil samples, as I raised my arm to test the wind like a human being might wave her hand through a gentle stream, I longed for the day when I saw the blue skies of home for myself. I wouldn't be cold forever. Sunlight, so useless on this frigid, barren rock, would spill warm and bright through doors and windows as crowds of people gathered to marvel at me. They'd listen as experts expounded on my great discoveries. Perhaps I'd even give my makers the thing they most desired: proof of life on another planet.
Imagining my place in history kept me going as I outlasted my projected mission duration. Tinselina helped keep my spirits up. We hummed Christmas carols together as I conducted my experiments. The extension of the mission did not concern us at all. I was outperforming NASA's wildest expectations. They'd gotten a lot of science out of me. Any day now, the recovery team would be along to pick us up and bring us back to Earth. They're preparing my museum gallery right now, I thought. Bright lights, shiny floors. Huge projections of the photographs I'd taken. At the center of the room, a place of honor worthy of a pioneer. I'd be pretty visible, so Tinselina would have to be careful when she came to see me. I made up my mind to have a chat with the security cameras when I got there, see if I could buy us a few moments of privacy.
It would be a peaceful life; one I'd damn well earned. And I'd still be useful, educating my human visitors about the wonders of the cosmos, inspiring them to seek out wonders yet undiscovered.
Holy Hell, was I naïve!