After the accident, they still let me fly. They being the Head of Exploration.
But with a warning, don’t even do that again or I’ll be cleaning out the scuppers for the rest of the voyage. Let me tell you the scuppers in a star ship is no place to be. Worse even than the inside of my helmet after the, ah, motion sickness event.
I’m off-limits from the ocean, from undulating land, they say they want to look somewhere else, but I think it’s a risk mitigation strategy.
The mountains, I suggest. They shake their head.
Lowland hills. Ditto.
The plains then. A reluctant nod.
So off I go, or rather we go. Someone else is flying. I look through the scan-o-scope thingy for signs of life.
Soon enough, but away from our planned course, I see something I’ve seen countless times before, on the plains back home. A green strip meandering through otherwise dry country.
Moisture at a minimum, flowing hydraulics more likely, the fancy term we use for life giving water.
I’m more cautious with my announcement, thoughts of the scuppers uppermost in my mind.
I capture an image, low resolution at great distance, a finger of green against the blacks and browns of inhospitable rocks.
In case I am wrong, the record will show what I saw, why I directed the pilot to steer towards it, proof I wasn’t hallucinating again.
As our survey craft banked to the direction I specified I wondered why we had not seen this from orbit. The contrast is strong, it should have been visible.
I call the ship, gave them the reference, ask them to check.
“I see it.” Says the pilot. “Looks more like an oasis, not a river.”
That may explain it, I thought.
The ship calls back. “Clouds.” They say. “We’re just checking non-visible wave lengths.“
My tiny mind is racing. Green. Moisture. Clouds? Directly over the target? Not right.
“Slow down.” I tell the pilot. “Bad feeling.”
I wonder about a ground mist.
The ship again. “Infra red shows hot spots, hundreds of them.”
Hot spots? Fire? Smoke? Temperature inversion?
“We’re there!” Calls the pilot. “I see movement on the ground.”
“Get away!” I reply, knowing the rules. Do Not Engage.
The pilot pauses, registers, banks away, exposing the bottom of the craft. We hear dull thuds peppering the hull.
I suspect we have made the discovery of the century, and I may still end up in the scuppers
#Medium June 2026
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