Taban: Your oxygen!

Daley: What is that? Is that ISF?

Taban: I don’t know. It looks like . . .

Daley (breathing heavily): Can’t be settlers. Ship’s too small. When did they get here?

Taban: Daley, what’s your oxygen at?

Daley: Never mind. Got to talk to these fuckers. See what they know.

[A few kilometers to the right of the dark object, the HARE observes a geyser forming a ghostly mushroom against the gray sky. Neither Taban nor Daley seems to notice or look at it.]

Taban: Slow down. Hang on.

Daley (slowing slightly): (panting) What?

Taban: Take a look at it. Doesn’t that look like . . .

Daley: What?

Taban: Doesn’t that look like . . . our ship?

Daley: No.

[He stops. Taban, unable to stop his momentum completely, tries to tumble to a halt and knocks into the back of Daley’s knees, bringing them both down onto the ice. The rotors in their cybernetic joints whine. The HARE stops beside them as the men try to untangle themselves. They are about one kilometer away from the ship.]

Daley: That’s not our ship.

Taban (climbing to his knees): . . . I think it is. Look. The drill . . .

Daley: That’s some other miner’s ship. It can’t be ours. We’ve been going north this whole time. Straight line. Even if our compasses were off, we haven’t turned.

Taban: . . . I know . . .

Daley (beginning to wheeze): So that can’t be ours. That’d be impossible.

Taban: I know.

Daley: So whose ship is that?

HARE (processors whirring): . . .

Taban: HARE . . . what’s the name of that ship?

HARE: The ship’s designation is CS Wyvern 7079.

Taban: Our CS Wyvern 7079?

HARE: Yes.

Daley (wheezing harder): That’s not possible. That’s not possible.

Taban: Okay, Daley, calm down. Breathe. We’ll figure this out.

Daley: Figure what out? This is fucking laws of physics shit! The most basic shit in existence! There’s nothing to figure out!

Taban: Calm the fuck down, Daley!

Daley (pointing): There’s a man there, see? It’s his ship. The bot’s wrong. That’s not our ship, it’s his ship.

Taban: I don’t see a man.

Daley: He’s right there. Don’t—you—see—him?

Taban: No. What man?

Daley: The—man—right—there!

[Daley suddenly doubles over on the ice. Taban grabs his shoulder. The recording is filled with the sounds of Daley’s wet breathing and his wrist console’s alarms going off.]

Taban: Daley? Daley, are you having a panic attack or something? What the fuck is going on?!

HARE: USER Daley’s oxygen has reached a critical level of 5%.

Taban: WHAT?

HARE: In addition, his suit sensors indicate severe tachycardia. Ischemia detected. Myocardial infarction imminent.

Taban: A heart attack?! Now?

HARE: Not yet. Soon.

Taban: FUCK! Okay—uh—okay—Daley, what do I do?

Daley: (choking) (incoherent)

Taban: What?!