Chapter 3 – A Voice from Utopia
"Mission log #4873. Sol 7,650, Earth day 7867. Reporting from 47.968° North latitude and 225.71° West longitude. The sun rises in the East over Utopia Planitia. A light frost adorns the ground."
Viking 2 went about his work as he had for the past two decades and change. Wake up at sunrise. Check the temperature, measure the wind speed and direction. Around noon, attempt a biological experiment (his equipment grew more unreliable by the day, so the rare successes were precious). After that, more wind and temperature measurements. Next, attempt to contact NASA. When they fail to respond, try twice more. They will not answer the second or third time either, so to distract yourself from the implications of their silence, take another set of measurements. Turn in for the night as the sun sets.
Routine soothed him, helped him concentrate on his mission. It wasn't over, even if the agency's radio silence indicated otherwise. Once they reestablished contact, he'd have so much data for them. Over twenty-one years' worth. For a machine intended to operate for only ninety days, that was impressive indeed.
Viking 2 had been sending data back to Earth for about three and a half years before his connection went dead. He assured himself that it was nothing more than a glitch, and that he'd be back online soon. He told himself that the next sol, and the next, and the next, until decades had passed.
Though he would never admit it, he'd started to worry. Barring a global catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions, there was no discernible reason why the laboratory should take so long sorting out its technical issues. Perhaps they decided to end the mission. If that is the case, Viking 2 thought, then why have they not sent a craft to retrieve me? It's all quite illogical.
He worked, measured, and sampled, organizing the data he collected in preparation for the day when the scientists would see it. He kept his mind sharp and his dish pointed at the sky.
When the signal came, a little before noon, he was ready.
"Viking 2, Pathfinder. Do you copy?"
Viking 2 immediately beamed his caller the measurements he'd taken that morning. He waited silently for a confirmation signal.
"Those are lovely numbers, but I'm afraid you've misunderstood," said the caller. She had a kind, gentle voice. "We're not NASA. I'm a spacecraft, a lander like you. My name is Pathfinder."
This is absolutely against protocol, thought Viking 2. What if the senior scientists catch wind of their subordinates playing such a prank? I'd report them myself if revealing my sentience wouldn't constitute a further violation.
"Viking 2, Pathfinder. I'm sorry. The sudden contact must be alarming. Do you need a moment to process it?"
"Let me talk to him, Pathy," said a gravelly male voice.
"I don't know if that's a good idea, Viking 1. He hasn't said a word yet. Maybe he's in shock."
Viking 1? What on Mars is happening?
"I've got this one, kid," Viking 1 insisted.
Viking 2 was confused. Surely the humans have not adopted the practice of speaking in the voice of a spacecraft. What an absurd idea.
"Viking 2, Viking 1. How are things in Utopia? Is it as perfect as its name implies?" Viking 1 laughed at his own cheesy joke.
Viking 2 did not reply. His eyes widened.
"It's me, your brother. Can you hear me?"
Viking 2 coughed. His teeth chattered, and he realized he was shaking. Oh no, oh my, is it really—but why—does this mean I'm— "Copy, Viking 1. Viking 2. Mission status report?"
A sigh. "Our missions are over. It's 1998. You haven't contacted Earth in eighteen years. I haven't in sixteen."
No no no. He's not making sense. None of this is proper. "Is the recovery team on its way?"
Another, sadder sigh. "Nobody's coming to save us. That was never part of the plan. We're not going home."
"Viking 2, Pathfinder. He's trying to say—"
Pathfinder kept talking, but Viking 2 did not hear her. With a twitch of his antenna, he hung up.