A Rover's Story: Parts Four–Five

I only have a limited amount of room in my laboratory chamber, so I have to be judicious about what samples I collect.

The scenery has been steadily the same. Sand to all sides, occasionally a scattering of boulders or the briefest silhouette of jagged mountains in the far-off distance.

The only thing unusual about this stretch of ground is a rough consistency.

“Do you see any dust devils?” I ask Guardian at the same time I scan the peripheral area with my camera.

Even with the sharp incline, it should be possible for my wheels to move. I was built to be able to scale hills.

Xander had then become concerned about something with my camera angle capabilities. Rania had acknowledged that it could potentially be a problem, but she hadn’t wanted one problem to distract from the ability to solve the landing calculation problem.

If there is nothing drastically wrong with your system, then this is a routine problem. Rovers are expected to solve routine problems.

Bracing for the grinding sound again, I ask my wheels to move to the side.

I am still consumed with the worry I felt when I was stuck.

The boulders make a winding path to one giant mesa, a large hill with a flat top.

To reach that opening, I would have to scale the rocky slope.

I can sense that I am close to something worthwhile. I don’t know how I know that, but I just do. This is another strange but persistent feeling.

Mom keeps talking about how everyone at NASA isn’t sure why you are roving down some alternative path, but how excited she is that you’re thinking for yourself.

I note the various rock formations jutting out from the ground.

“I do not know if this area is the best for a flight. It seems unsafe,” I finally say.
“I can do it, Res,” Fly says.
“I concur with Fly,” Guardian says.

“They are confirming your calculations, Guardian. They say the conditions are not optimal for flight.”

The dust devil twists on the ground, careening toward Fly.

I expect Guardian to say “Gruzunks!” and to reprimand Fly for his use of human emotion words, but Guardian does not.

It is asking me not to retrieve the drone. That can’t be right.
I read the code one more time, and then I override the command.

His camera is still not working—his feed is a series of glitchy static.

As I maneuver away from the rock formation, I use my cameras to study the ground so I don’t get stuck.

When the results come back, I let out a cheer. Or really, it is my same monotone code language voice, but in my imagination, it sounds like a cheer.

I am under the assumption that I am a more advanced model, but I do not want to engage in what the hazmats call bragging.

“That is all right. The command center wants me to enter Courage’s system. I am a bit reluctant to do that. It feels invasive.”
“Invasive is not a word for robots. Courage will not mind. Proceed ahead with the mission, Resilience.”

When I connect to Courage’s system, I expect to be overwhelmed with information.

So I do what I know how to do best, which is pore over and sort through the data I have.

Mom says that NASA doesn’t understand why you’re headed in the direction that you are, but they are letting you have full autonomy to explore on your own.

Sitti gets hot tea—which she always complains about, but also drinks every last drop—and Dad and I share a plate of very mediocre cafeteria fries.

The sky is a dense and impenetrable black, and the stars are out tonight in full brightness.

Maybe none of us really know what we’re looking for until we find it.
Sorry. I’m sleepy. It’s 3 a.m. I always get weirdly philosophical when I’m sleepy.

I tilt my forward-facing camera up to study the tunnel-like opening that exists in the middle of the mesa. It is a giant aperture.

The dark interior calls to me, practically asking me to explore.

There is no easy way to go up the mesa. All of its sides are steep. But I do not need to scale the entire side. I only need to climb high enough to gain access to the entryway of the tunnel.

I am at an incline, slowly inching closer and closer to the jagged cavernous opening.

The climb is becoming harder the farther up I move—my whole body is tilting, getting more and more inverted. I feel like I’m almost upside down.

“Guardian, can you tell if my orientation looks perilous?”

“Yes. It does. But that should not be new information to you. This task is a perilous one,” Guardian responds quickly.

But there is happy news, too. Mom is officially in remission.

I don’t know how you prepare to lose your mom.
So I’m refusing to prepare. Because Mom defies the odds, right?
Everything she’s done has defied the odds.

I had almost forgotten that humans can modulate their voices to express the emotion they are feeling.