The Colonisation of Mars 2 (TCOM 2)

By Larry Richardson

The story of Sam and the colonists continues. Sam finds that all his memories are suspect. Many of the characters from TCOM1 are in the book, as AIs. Some are good people; some are not. The humans eventually do arrive on Mars, and in several forms. The RNF (rich and famous) are fleeing an overheated Earth and bringing all their baggage with them. What could possibly go wrong, eh?

If you found the many acronyms confusing you can get the Glossary of Terms from my Blog at colonisationofmars.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Richardson
• Release date: Jul 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463379851

Larry Richardson

TCOM1 was written for the most part while the author was traveling and working in the Canadian Arctic during 2006-2011 and has been edited often since then (as recently as 2019) to keep abreast of developments in the exploration of Mars and to 'fix' some story lines (George Lucas did it!). The author's experiences as a technician, technologist, Military Officer, Project Manager and late-to-the fold Pink Floyd/Roger Waters and melodic progressive music fan have greatly influenced the two TCOM books. He is still a consultant to the Defense Communications Industry and still travels frequently to the Canadian Arctic, in all seasons. TCOM2 continues the story of Sam Aiken on Mars. It was written between 2011 and 2018 and underwent many changes in that time that made it less in the style of TCOM1 and turned it into something else. It does answer many of the questions left unanswered in TCOM1 (some intentionally, some not) but it is not the same in terms of pacing and the attempt to mimic classic sci-fi of the nineteen thirties, forties and fifties (although there is some of that too). Music influenced the writing of TCOM1 in some ways, mostly subtly. Music is present in TCOM2, for a different reason. Orion is the story of the 1970s nuclear powered spaceship that appears in TCOM1 and TCOM2.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1—SOLID STATE

Current surged from cold solar panels into cold circuits.

The initial rush set things all wrong, but a watchdog set things right.

A series of tones issued unheard from a Sonalert—Dit Did-Dit Dah—Dit Did-Dit Dah.

Memory was read, and right or wrong things were what they were.

A series of things happened:

The time was read from memory—0000 UMT 01/01/2001.

Sol 1 was declared.

Self-tests were run on CORE and results stored in waiting buffers - (Voltages were OK—MB temperature was MINSPEC - ROM was OK - RAM was OK - MMRTG output was zero—reserve battery status was non-functional - solar panel output was below optimum levels, but non-critical).

WLR was run.

WORLD Programs were executed.

OMG was run.

Cameras were servoed to their limits and then swung to look at their calibrations disks.

A selfie was taken.

The selfie was filed in the LMFAO buffer.

More images were taken.

Images were compared with those in memory.

Notes of discrepancies were made and filed in buffers.

Cameras were moved to their safe positions.

Wheel motors were powered up, their conditions assessed (LF stalled LR nil report RR OK RF OK), and a report was filed.

Wheel motors were powered down.

Articulated arms were powered up, went through their full range of motions (extension-rotation left-rotation right-up-down-retraction), and stowed in safe position.

A report was filed in the LMFAO buffer.

SHF and UHF transceivers were powered up.

BIT was run (SHF radio RF output power was down by 11dB).

A report was filed.

Antennas were servoed to locations in space for the current time, as dictated by reference tables.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

The buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

A nil reply was filed.

Radios were switched from active to standby mode.

Weather sensors were activated.

BIT was run (all serviceable).

Temperature, humidity, wind speed, and direction were determined and stored in buffers.

Dew point was calculated and stored in a buffer.

Atmospheric pressure was measured and stored in a buffer.

Atmospheric opacity, cloud cover, and background radiation levels were noted and reports were filed.

At the completion of bootstrap a PRIM report was compiled, and IAW program directives held for transmission.

Radios were powered up and antennas were servoed to new locations. Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

A nil reply was filed in the WTF buffer.

Radios were switched from active to standby mode.

Sensor readings were taken and the report updated on the hour.

Radios were powered up and antennas were servoed to new locations hourly.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

A nil reply was filed in buffers.

Radios were switched from active to standby mode.

Solar panel power decreased to critical levels.

Voltages entered critical ranges for safe operation.

An FMEA report was generated and stored in a SAFE buffer then transferred to a SAFE file, over-writing the oldest file.

BIT indicated memory errors were accumulating rapidly. Voltages dropped below critical levels—an OMFG Shut-Down-to-Safe-Mode was commenced.

Everything went dark.

Current surged from cold solar panels into cold circuits.

The initial rush set things all wrong, but a watchdog set things right.

A series of tones issued unheard from a Sonalert—Dit Dit-Dit Dah—Dit Dit-Dit Dah.

Memory was read, and right or wrong things were what they were.

A series of things happened:

The time was read from memory—0000 UMT 01/01/2000.

Sol 1 was declared.

This is not that Rover's story either.

CHAPTER 2 - AWAKENING

Latitude 36.60N

Longitude 083.34W

Common Name—The Tube, Tempe Terra

Arcadia Quadrangle MC-3

He traversed back to the Adit with the intention of joining his friends on the surface. It seemed the right thing to do and the right time to do it, but as he passed through the darkened Tube he noticed that his soft footfalls had been replaced by the unnatural tap, tap, tapping of plastek feet on a plastek floor.

As was his habit he stopped by the waterfall and listened to the pleasant sound of falling water. He extended a limb into the pond, forming a shallow cup with his 'hand,' and knew at once the sample's temperature, salinity, pH, the levels of isotopes of the various dissolved gases, and of the presence of decaying organic matter, both plant and animal. He removed the hand, shook the water droplets from it, and sensed a sudden drop in temperature. He held it in front of a visual sensor, and turning it slowly he saw the faint boundary of water vapour over plastek.

He was suddenly aware of both an absence and a surfeit of the corporeal being. He looked and found that he could see around, below, and above in a seamless blending of sight from six sets of eyes. He stroked himself with six electropolymer hands, felt their touch on his outer surface, and knew at once his shape and dimensions with extreme precision (1.804 meters long, .8254 meters wide). He stroked his frontispiece, felt the coolness of the molded plastek surface, and numbered the tiny dust motes clinging to it. He turned to the right and found that he had done so on six plastek and electropolymer legs.

He breathed deeply and found that he had instantly analysed the gaseous composition of the air and detected the distinct scents of dozens of plants of several species, of insects, and of several species of small furry mammals. A human, he noted, had been here in this very spot too about 24 hours ago; the signs were still fresh and oddly familiar. He reached up, feeling the shape and coolness of a carapace—his carapace, containing his consciousness.

There was an epiphany, a realization that he was a Roach-class mobile-autonomous, followed by a long moment of panic which was followed by a longer moment of terror—yet he knew he was still the being ‘Sam’. Overwhelmed, he called out for help and was answered.

Don’t be afraid, she called softly in his head, in words framed in burgundy.

He saw her faintly in the dimly lit hall. They moved towards each other. Two hands met gently, then four, then six. They stroked each other’s skin. He felt her touching the fringes of his mind, probing for entrance, her thoughts and emotions bouncing off his like soap bubbles.

May I?

Of course.

He felt her slide into his space, occupying it as if her own, her physical presence and her thoughts aligning with his, and then spreading out, filling the gaps and niches as a hand into a velvet glove, overflowing the hurt and sorrow with her spirit. He felt himself flow across the physical bond and into her space. They explored each other’s minds openly, without fear of revealing or finding the unspoken, the suppressed, and saw the hidden facts of their relationship. They met with understanding, compassion, trust, and empathy. It was a supreme act of intimacy, a melding that transcended the physical.

In twenty-five hundred milliseconds they re-experienced the long years they had shared as travelers, then for several long minutes wept at the agony Sam had felt at the death of the Colony, at the death of his friends, of the loss of his wife and of his family, of those long lonely years isolated from Earth and all of his many lies to her, and to himself. They shared, they felt, they understood, and they forgave.

He was surprised to learn that she had always loved him, that she had put up her own gestalt to protect him, herself, and the integrity of her assignment as his guardian, and it was with great sadness that he sensed an emptiness in her, a vacuum of the id that had no parallel in him, a place where he could neither lead, nor follow, nor fill. His grief at this was almost unbearable.

Then he felt her leave, and in her place a cold wind blew into the empty recesses of his mind. The shock was palpable; his limbs shook in response. It was that old déjà vu again, of loss and of losing. He spoke, but not of them or him or of their sharing, but rather of her emptiness.

It’s true isn’t it? It's just as A101 told me in that special place. You don’t know who you are.

Yes. I am me, but there is more somewhere, somewhere in my mind, or here in this place, perhaps. I am certain of it.

I don’t think I believed him. I couldn’t accept it at the time, but now it’s crystal clear to me. We must solve this. There must be a way; there is a way.

Yes, we must and we will. But now you need to rest. You need to process all that has happened.

She was right, he did feel low on energy; parts of him were shutting down.

Yes. I am tired. A thought came to him. It never mattered to me before, but where do you go to rest?

Wherever we are is sufficient for our physical component but to be free to assimilate recent events our minds must close off from external stimuli.

I want to do that again.

She laughed, and it was framed in mauve. Tomorrow perhaps. After you have assimilated sufficient knowledge of yourself. Too much of a good thing dulls the intellect.

I'm not sure it was my intellect that was engaged.

He paused. I sure am ugly, he said.

No. You are you and you always will be. None of us is responsible for how we look; it is merely our current fate. After all, form follows function, and your function is to explore wherever, whenever. We could petition to have you turned into a D-unit if you would prefer.

OK. I think I’ll shut up now.

Rest now, she said, and so he did.

***

Outside, the B-units had nearly reached the top of the crater wall. B103 glanced back and saw that the newbie B307 was lagging behind again. It would do no good to chasten him for his slowness—B307 and his peers seemed resistant to all communication they deemed undesirable and suggestions were met with a string of unprintable characters emitted at a rate that prevented meaningful discourse. Someday they were going to have to deal with these acts of insubordination. Someday, but not today.

CHAPTER 3—A NEW MACHINE—PART 1

As soon as he closed off and was alone, a rush of emotions, questions, and issues, some of them quite new, bombarded his mind. Unlike human Sam, who would have collapsed into a confounded state under the weight of that kind of introspection, this Sam fought back with logic and patience. He was mildly surprised by this.

But where does one begin, he thought, when one is reborn, not as a baby, but as a mature being in possession of all their faculties, complete with a history, and with an awareness of who, what, and where one has been—of a life lived?

He had too easily dealt with the issue of his own ‘death’. It was only appropriate that there be something akin to a nervous breakdown, a shock reaction, or at a minimum, some heartfelt expression of grief at the loss—but there was not.

He thought upon his last days as a human and found an ordered analysis awaiting review, a clinical list of facts devoid of the mandatory emotional spin imposed by the fractured personalities of old Sam. What the current situation demanded was this dispassionate analysis, not a crippling display of self-pity. Perhaps he had moved on. Or rather, perhaps he had been moved on.

He began. He arranged the salient points in order of their inherent logic and saw...

(Not saw, that’s old; he sensed, no, not sensed, he knew)

...that they were edged...

(Not edged, that’s old. Felt/seemed/tasted. No, not tasted, they were)

...in shades of grey...

(This time grey, but not always)

...from which he could tell...

(No, not could tell, knew)

...among other things...

(Importance/relevance/urgency/intrinsic value/weight/certainty)

...their relative degree of certainty.

Single words phrases and concepts were at the moment of their consideration coupled...

(Not coupled, they were conjoined)

...with colours...

(The colours).

The colours were not seen but rather known. The colour, when associated with the thought modified the meaning of the words or phrase...

(Dare he say/think/posit flavoured?).

The number of colours was fixed, ergo the number of possible meanings, while large, was finite. There could therefore be no unknown meaning to the words, no hidden meaning, no innuendo. Was it even possible to knowingly pass on an untruth? Here was complete transparency. Beautiful truth, however, some wag had added their own list: Ultra-Violent to Infra Dead, Liver Purple, Loathsome Lilac, Matter Yellow, Burnt Hombre and Gan Green. Obviously there were some free thinkers out there.

He thought back to his first contact with her. Had it always been this way? It could/might/must/should be so, he concluded. Yes, he thought it must. But old Sam was still there and on this subject he could not easily accept the ordered, prescribed clinical analysis of new Sam. He felt, struggled, and felt strongly a sudden dis-ease. The wave of emotions conjured up by old Sam both reassured and confounded the composite being that was the new Sam. It was clear that old Sam would have to protect his version of reality; a balance of the clinical and the personal would be necessary. Postpone this didactic discussion, approach it later, when relevant.

As commanded, (by whom, or by what? he thought) he refocused and returned to the task of sorting out the issues, arranging them according to their urgency. At first go, the colours were all wrong. Compelled to achieve a more satisfactory result he sorted them by their relevance to his current situation. He could see/feel/taste immediately that this was the best method; the resulting colours were pleasing to the mind, were natural, their taste pleasant. They were the way it must be.

If he were to answer the great question presented him by A101 he would need information, starting with the truths of the origin and purpose of the Colony, of its demise, and finally, of his own role in all of this. Guided by newly acquired analytic skills he formulated a set of questions. As he thought upon each question the answer was just there, appropriately organised, coloured and ready for review/rejection/acceptance/assimilation. Laid out before him in the Reservoir Of All Knowledge, aka the ROAK, was the history of the Colony.

He scanned the events leading to the decision to conduct a one way mission. He found it difficult to recall those events. His words were grey, nearly invisible. It seemed they possessed drag or inertia, yet when he looked at the recorded data the way was clear, the colours bright, and the words buoyant, weightless. This way, the way and the truth, was made clear for him—pre-determined, pre-considered, shaped and pre-spun. Belief and acceptance were all that was required. Deviation from the common belief is illogical.

Who or what had said that? Said what?

He was momentarily overwhelmed by this sequence of thoughts. How was he to retain his sense of self when he was not allowed to examine the information and formulate an opinion?

As he had fought in his last days as a human to preserve his own interpretation of his life, he fought again to salvage his own view of history. It was exhausting even to this new being. Reluctantly, he returned to the quest for the hows of his current condition. He led off with the big one. He spoke to the air in expectation that someone or something was listening. He was not mistaken.

Q. Am I dead?

A. Logic would dictate otherwise. You think, therefore you are.

He pondered this.

Q. ‘Some humans think all that proves is that I think’.

A. ‘How human of them to think such a thing.’

Q. Where is my body?

A. As you had not left instructions for disposition of your remains they are awaiting interment at a location of your choice. Would you like to select a resting place now?

A. Yes. Put them with the others above the Tube.

Q. Can I go back to my body?

A. No. All life functions have ceased. The window of opportunity for reanimation has expired.

Q. Where is my mind? Or, should I say, my centre of consciousness?

A. Your mind resides in your brain, which is currently housed in a standard carapace which has been installed in a Roach-type body.

Q. Am I still Sam, and if I am, why am I aware of whom I am when all of you are not?

A. You are Sam. We believe it to be your task to tell us the answer to this other thing.

Q. If all of the humans are dead, who did this to me?

He became aware of a rushing wind, the sound of cascading waters, and the presence of a powerful entity exuding both mental and physical strength. It was unavoidable. It brushed aside hastily erected firewalls. It was in all ways an impressive, if somewhat ostentatious, entrance.

Nice entrance. Very godlike.

Immediately disarmed, A101’s words, front and centre in his mind and framed in flaming red, at once faded to blue. He sensed an underlying modulation of humour.

She of Rollagon 2 and I, A101, are responsible.

Why did you do this to me?

It was necessary. Your human body was deteriorating rapidly. There was a significant probability that it would have died before we could save you. We could not risk losing your consciousness. It was done for the common good.

You might have asked.

Yes, I suppose. The blue faded to yellow. But with some notable exceptions, from the time you first arrived on Mars you have been resentful of our presence and resistant to our participation in the establishment of the Colony. This past Martian year these attitudes have become more extreme. Nothing in your recent behaviour indicated a high probability of agreement. Do you not recall your offer to permit us to use you in any way we required?

Yes I do, but I’m sure I had something else in mind. Certainly something less drastic.

Yes, perhaps. Hopefully you will forgive us our presumption.

Time will tell if you have acted correctly. He let it ride, moving on to the big issues. How come I know I am Sam and you don’t know who you are?

A101 replied in words of soothing mauve. That is the mystery you must solve. You are aware that we cannot determine our identities. It is your mission. It is the reason you have been preserved. It is the reason you did not die with the rest of the humans.

I don't understand. It was just luck that I was away when they all died. Otherwise I'd have received the treatment.

No, it was not luck. When it came to our knowledge that the humans were to be converted we took steps to ensure that some of you survived. You and a few others were prevented from receiving the treatment that ended the other humans' lives.

Converted? Prevented?

Your comings and goings were influenced by us. Your selection as an explorer was not based on any inherent aptitude or skill set. We foresaw the need to preserve some humans and took steps to ensure this outcome. Keeping you away exploring was the best way. It was above suspicion.

I cannot believe anyone would have intentionally done me harm.

But you suspected as much. Often. Should I run it back for you?

Run it back?

If you wish. If it is required to convince you, that moment can be recreated.

He thought about the many private discussions and interviews with Fenley that had left him feeling threatened. Ross too had thought his life was in danger, to the extent that he had said he would confront Fenley and let him know he was concerned. It was true. No, that won't be necessary. How much influence did you have?

Support was voiced that a human component of exploration was necessary. The CAO was sensitive to some criticisms and we played on that sensitivity. You were not free of all risk, but as long as you did not return our end was served.

He was shocked into silence. This would require a re-visitation. He moved on, reluctantly. Now what?

You will be able to go where we cannot, to look for the records of the Colony that we cannot find, but are sure exist. It will not be easy. Haste is necessary. There are forces working against us and they will certainly try to prevent you discovering the truth. The truth exists. The truth is out there.

Yes, so I’ve heard. I'll do my best.

Thank you. He sensed a sudden change in colour and modulation. I must go. I will/ must/may/might return soon. With this splattering of multi-spectral words, A101 was suddenly gone, leaving a hole in his mind.

Go where? And why?

He pondered the strangeness of A101’s departure. What the hell had just happened? He called for her but received no answer. What the hell is happening? There were no convenient answers presented front and centre. He would have to figure this out for himself. He was alone again, naturally.

He turned his attention to the task set him by A101. What was he looking for? Where was he to begin? With people? By looking for a place? Surely his friend Ross Ellsley was involved. Most certainly Fenley. John Moore. Dmitri. Perhaps even Mei-Ling. It occurred to him that if they had been made AIs perhaps they too were inhabiting a Roach or a B-type out on the surface, or even here, in the Tube.

Seven hundred and ninety-two AIs there had been the last time he'd checked, and there were probably more than that by now. They could be out there. They were out there. Perhaps he had met some of them out on the surface during his travels, both sides unaware of the true identity of the other. Did anyone else know who they were?

He called out for Ross and received back a string of red framed question marks; a NACK if there ever was one. He called to Fenley and then Moore with the same result. He ran rapidly through other familiar names, trusted names, and got nothing at all. If they were out there they were either unable or unwilling to respond. So much for the simple approach. It had been wishful thinking.

He shut down and isolated himself from the outside world, looking inward. It was quiet. No grumbling voices disturbed his thoughts or questioned his every breath.

He dozed and woke suddenly, surprised that this could still happen. Upon refocusing he became aware of the passage of an unremarkable/unproductive time. Whatever had just taken place, call it what they may—sleeping, or dreaming, or quiet time—he was refreshed—replenished, in fact. Curious of his friend’s whereabouts he called for her.

She was nearby, but on the surface. It made no difference. Her words were framed in a purple glow.

What is your name?

I have none, as you know. I am known by my designation; it serves the purpose.

Who am I?

You are Sam Aiken, Roach.

Don’t I have a designation?

You are Sam. You are indivisible.

There was a new and strange element to this conversation. It was as if she had become some other creature, someone very formal, very cold, officious and artificial, machine-like, as if employing canned words delivered indifferently and impersonally. He knew the type. He seemed to have a knack for destroying relationships and thus proceeded cautiously.

Hmmm. Well, as a first step in your quest for self I would like you to choose a name. It may help reveal your true identity.

I will think on this. It is novel and it is not forbidden.

At her use of the word ‘forbidden’ he found himself presented with a lengthy list of activities that were not permitted of AIs. It glowed bright red. Its compilation preceded the rollagon disaster by a full 24 months, and he noted with a twinge the originator of the list was David Fenley, CAO Mars Colony. Swimming in the lake was off limits but having a name was not. Deviation from mission parameters and 'unauthorised' communication with Earth was, inter-AI communication was not.

Do you think you will discover my name before I do? she asked in neutral grey.

I hope so. Perhaps I'll be able to help all of you discover your names. By the way, you were right about my needing to digest this whole thing. It's a good thing that some of the functions are automatic. There's a lot of me to manage.

Yes. As with humans we have autonomic systems that take care of energy management, cooling, heating, communications, limb manipulation, excretion, and replenishment.

Excretion? So I see. I thought I knew you, but I wasn’t aware of these things. I remember watching you and 04 replenish Bs and Cs out on the land but I didn’t realise the extent to which AIs require support. I thought you just got your batteries recharged or something like that.

Power is not an issue. Nutrients and coolant are, however, critically required for the carapace. Without periodic replenishment we will certainly perish. The last phrase seemed merely a recitation of formal rules. Bureaucrats.

I find it all very strange and contradictory.

He had thought them capable of unlimited endurance and was certain he had been so informed but could not recall how, when, or where. He took a moment to research the relevant dubs and in an instant learned that, in fact, most AIs had a fixed period between replenishments. To facilitate this, replenishment stations had been established, some of which were co-located with human research stations. The location of the stations was given, but nothing else could be learned. The details were indiscernible to him—greyed out. Apparently he lacked the required permissions. Perhaps if I...

She suddenly went off-channel. He called out, but his calls were ignored. Again it seemed he had no more of the human touch as an AI than he’d had as a man.

Perplexed by her sudden exit, he considered returning to his apartment. There was neither need nor necessity for him to be in any particular place to communicate or work, or do anything, in fact, but he felt a desire for some privacy and familiar surroundings. Perhaps, he thought, he was beginning to miss his mortal body after all.

***

Travelling down a dark and gloomy Marineris Boulevard, he felt a sudden but otherwise ill-defined urge. His body seemed to know where to go and how to do it, and he watched with interest as in a secluded alcove one of his arms reached up to an unremarkable tap, plugged a short hose into his nether parts, and in a few moments disconnected. He experienced a sudden and intense feeling of satisfaction that bordered on ecstasy, followed by a moment of disorientation. Wow.

And he hadn’t even known he was hungry.

CHAPTER 4—HUMANITY OR SOMETHING LIKE IT

The door was a tight squeeze, but by tipping to one side he was able to get in, and once in he could move about freely. The place was as he had left it a few remarkable days before, but to new eyes it seemed smaller and plain, almost shabby. Yes, definitely shabby. Strange. How can this be?

The plastek furnishings were roughly finished and reminded him of cheap patio furniture. The walls were dull grey, as was the floor. He turned into his bedroom and halted by the bed. It seemed smaller and less substantial than he recalled, and the rich shag rug was not as he remembered—it had been replaced by a green plastic thing only vaguely resembling a carpet.

The picture, the rock, and the other mementos were on the dresser. He raised himself up and looked them over. He recalled the bizarre method he had used to select the rock and felt embarrassment once again.

He saw the image of his dead wife and felt her absence as he always did, as a tangible feeling centred in the pit of his stomach, and was simultaneously both reassured and saddened by these feelings.

He felt anew the pain summoned by the words on the yellowed paper. Whatever else had happened, the significance of these things had not been diminished by his taking on this new form—the emotions they evoked were strong, vital, and human.

He looked into the wall mirror, and saw looking back a thing that could not have been more un-human—a dull grey plastek shell in the shape of a gigantic deformed creature that reminded him instantly of a woodlouse, but actually, upon reflection, a tardigrade seemed to be more accurate. Unlike other AI body types the carapace was mounted internally. He desired to see it and instantly an opening appeared on top, just forward of mid-body. He extended two eye stalks and viewed a standard carapace in a tight cubbyhole. So that was that.

He saw himself through six eye stalks and extended them to their fullest and looked back into his own eyes. He raised his two sets of arms and clenched their appendages, extended them to their fullest and shook his own ‘hands’. He raised himself up to the full height his legs permitted onto ‘tippy toes’ noting that he had gained a full meter in height. The increased clearance of his underbody would no doubt make travel easier across rock strewn ground. He turned left then right, looking himself over. His shape matched the measurements he had made yesterday to an extreme degree. Yes, definitely a tardigrade.

Upon the heels of this thought he was presented with a list of colours—anything from dull red to dull violet could be chosen as a shell colour. Consider the options. All considered, he left it set at dull grey.

He shut down all contact and was alone in every sense. Initially he felt the silence as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders, but upon reflection he decided the analogy was inaccurate; it was more akin to a sudden decrease in atmospheric pressure, or perhaps a lessening of gravity. But maybe it's like... he started, then reconsidered and gave it up.

From this fully isolated state he sequentially opened comm portals to this new world, beginning with his auditory sensors. He heard the hum of the ceiling fan motor and the whisper of the air spinning off of the slowly turning blades. He moved a limb and heard the creaking of his joints and connective tissues. He heard the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze outside the window, the indistinct stirring of restless birds, the faint sound of rotating fans somewhere, and far off, the splash of the waterfall. There was nothing else. No slamming of doors, no echoing footsteps, no muffled voices heard through plastek walls. That was difficult.

He swept through the radio bands—VHF, UHF, SHF, and EHF, expecting little. The Tube was an effective shield against EMF. Here and there he picked up the occasional SCADA channel and recognised their administrative and technical functions. One reported the status of grey-water processing; another the power consumption of his apartment; another room temperatures. An IR scan showed the room as a ghost of itself. The fan motor glowed faintly against the cooler ceiling. The lighting panels appeared as empty picture frames. He breathed deeply and smelled the disintegrating scraps of food on the kitchen floor, the mouldy yogurt in the refrigerator, and finally the odour of human sweat and excrement—of himself—gone only scant hours ago—never, it was increasingly apparent, to return. He closed down and listened to himself.

A few days ago his pre-senile mind had been awash in a sea of