Chapter 1 – Mission's End
On the day everything went kaput, Tinselina and I were having one of our bickering sessions.
"The results from the labeled release came back positive," I said, as I had many times before and would no doubt repeat, "but the other three biological experiments returned negative results. I haven't seen any conclusive evidence of organic life on this dirtball."
"What made that radioactive gas, then?" Tinselina retorted from her place beneath my dish.
"False positive, inorganic chemical reaction, I don't know! It's NASA's job to sort all of that out. I just sniff the soil. Besides, you can't make a sweeping statement about life on other planets based on the results of one experiment. Human scientists don't jump to conclusions like that."
"Human scientists also don't talk to Christmas ornaments."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
I felt her sit down, her skirts settling beside my right eye. "It means," she said sweetly, "that you don't have to do things exactly the way they do. You can see and understand things they can't. Why not embrace that? Send the scientists a piece of your mind along with the next batch of data."
"I'm not programmed to do that. Besides, it would scare the hell out of them. 'Hey guys, I'm alive up here, and I'm not the only one.' They'd lose it!"
"Whatever. I still think you have the right to say something." She tapped her foot twice, our agreed-upon signal for "Please let me down from here." I reached up, wrapped my arm around her, and set her on the ground. She stayed in the crook of my arm longer than was strictly necessary, regarding me with loving exasperation. "They've learned so much because of you. You give and give, and you don't care that you've never received the rewards of your hard work."
"I guess that's all of your Christmas spirit rubbing off on me."
Tinselina laughed as she went to sit by my foot. "At least I taught you something," she said. "I suppose the spirit is the important part. It somewhat makes up for your lousy singing."
"Dearest, I'm a space probe, not a Christmas caroler. And 'Jingle Bells' isn't even a real Christmas song."
"It is, too! They played it all the time in the store where I was on sale."
"The lyrics never mention the holiday by name!"
"It's been played during the Christmas season for over a hundred years!"
We continued in this fashion, back and forth, until we wore ourselves out. There was never any malice in our little squabbles. They were a way to pass the time more than anything. I couldn't go running off on adventures without giving Mission Control a heart attack, so I had to occupy myself while I stayed put and waited for my equipment to work its magic.
Finally, having had enough, Tinselina stood up. She looked westward, to the sunset spilling blue light over Chryse Planitia. Rocks and boulders cast their long shadows, and Tinselina's golden hair caught the fading light, reflecting it in streaks of silver. She must've sensed me gazing at her, smiling like a fool, for she turned around and said in a gentle-teasing voice, "I know the view is lovely, but it's almost time for your update."
"Damn it, you're right," I grumbled. I'd almost forgotten. For the last few months I'd been a little slow, a bit groggy. My battery was starting to degrade, and I was feeling every minute of it. I'd received the signal the other day: be ready for a software upgrade. It would improve my battery capacity, and then I would perk back up. I'll admit I have a tendency toward grumpiness when I'm not feeling my best. I have never been one to suffer in silence, as Tinselina knew well by then. The update would make her day-to-day a little more tolerable, too.
Looking back, I can't be sure what she saw in me. She wasn't the type of gal to be swayed by a famous name. I couldn't give her a luxurious lifestyle, and I won't presume she loved me for my looks. But love me she did. She was always by my side with her talk of Christmas and Earth. I rolled my eyes whenever she started chatting, but deep down I was grateful. Without her, I might have lost it sooner.
She didn't deserve what was about to happen. It wasn't my fault, but I'll never stop regretting it.
Tinselina, my dear, I am so sorry.
The blue dusk was beginning to fade. "Tinselina, would you step aside for a moment?"
She nodded and walked off to the left, out of my camera's field of vision. I hated asking her to do that, but Mission Control wouldn't take kindly to any surprises. I focused my vision, blinked, and snapped a photo of that sunset. "You can come back over," I called.
As Tinselina sat beside me again, I sent the photograph back to Earth. Reaching for that connection always reassured me that I wasn't as far from home as I sometimes felt. My sunset, sliced into strips, shot upward into the void between our two worlds, to be reassembled, piece by piece, on a computer screen at the Jet Propulsion Lab, where my team worked. There, it said. I've still got it. All I need is a little boost, so get a move on!
I hoped, as I always did, that this update would be the last. That tomorrow, or the next sol, or even the next week, we'd be on our way back to Earth. Earth, with its museum galleries and Christmas parties. The place I'd never seen beyond the sterilized laboratory where I had been built. Home.
My antenna twitched, drawing me away from my fantasizing. The update was coming. Tinselina looked up, and I smiled back at her. Everything was fine.
Slowly, the new software arrived. It seeped into my systems, stitching my fraying edges together like fine silk thread. I stretched my arm and said, "That's better!" Tinselina sighed in relief.
The update continued its work. It shifted into my antenna-positioning guidelines. I felt the two sets of data bump against one another, jostling for space.
Then, a sharp sensation. Not quite pain, more like a keen awareness of something moving within me. Something rising up and coming down, hard, on something else. The thing on the bottom dissolving, its component atoms scattering in all directions. I heard a whistle like the soft breeze in the Martian dust.
And then I couldn't feel my antenna.
I remained calm. That was the first thing they taught human astronauts, and the first thing they programmed into me. Stay cool under pressure. Panicking didn't help anything.
Now my dish was out of focus. I tried to point it back at Earth, at JPL, at somewhere that would listen, but it wouldn't budge.
It was disconnected.
By then, Tinselina had realized that something was wrong. "Viking, what's happening?" she asked, her voice catching.
"I—I don't kn—now," I sputtered. My sight grew fuzzy, and a pop sounded, as if a lightbulb had died between my eyes. I tried to take another picture, gesturing Tinselina to give me some space. It didn't work. The image faded as soon as it was captured. I gathered some basic data—surface temperature, wind speed—and reached out for that link.
Nothing.
A cold, sinking feeling came over me, and I abandoned protocol. "Viking 1 to JPL. My battery is low, and my antenna is experiencing disruption. What are your orders?"
No response.
"Viking 1 to JPL. This is an SOS call! I think I'm losing contact. Please advise."
Not a word.
"Hey, down there! Dr. Sagan? Dr. Straat? Dr. Levin? Dr. Brackett?" I sobbed out my creators' names. "I'm running out of juice. Now would be a great time to send that recovery crew!"
Silence.
"Hello, is anyone there? Help me, damn you all, help!"
It was no use. The line was dead.
Machines cannot cry. We lack the equipment that produces tears and, as far as our makers know, the emotions that trigger them. But in that moment, I let out a wail that no living soul, organic or otherwise, would mistake for anything other than the pure pain of betrayal. Thank goodness they built me with three sturdy legs, so I didn't crumple to the ground in sorrow when my head started spinning.
Tinselina drummed her fingers on my side, the signal for "Please pick me up." I obliged her, lifting her up to perch beside my eyes.
"Whatever just happened, we can handle it." She gave her brightest smile, and I believed her because I wanted to. Space is hard, like Dr. Brackett always said. Things went screwy all the time. The key to success was preparedness.
I took a moment to compose myself before I spoke. "You are a voice of reason, as always. We'll keep at it with our work. Collect our data. Wait for the recovery ship. It'll be here any day now."
"Yes. Any day now." She tried to sound confident, and I loved her for it.
This had to be my mission's end. I'd lasted over six Earth years on Mars, showing the scientists more wonders than they ever expected. I was tired, I was worn out, and I was fed up. It was time for Tinselina and I to go home. Wasn't it November on Earth? Wasn't Christmas only a month away? If our escort got here tomorrow, we'd spend this holiday in transit. Oh, well. Next year was all ours. We'd make it back with plenty of time to spare.
Any day now. Tinselina was right. I may as well get some rest.
It was getting dark. Far above us, Phobos and Deimos danced among the stars. The distant Earth shone among them, steady and true. Tinselina reclined below my useless dish. "I'm here," she whispered. "You're not alone, Viking. It's going to be okay."
"I know," I replied, but the words rang hollow. "Goodnight, Tinselina. I love you."
Those three words held my whole being.
"I love you, too."
And so, we waited.