Martian Program Persistent Access

The terminal didn’t answer. But the ground did. A second thump, closer. The blue-white pillar on the horizon pulsed, then began to move—not drifting with the wind, but tracking. Directly toward her.

She was alone. The last Martian. And she was not going to die.

“Classify what?” she whispered.

She thought of the war. Of the silence from Earth. Of the possibility that she was not the last human, but the first one these things had found.

She reached for her helmet.

> HELLO, PERSISTENT ONE. WE HAVE TRAVELED FAR. YOUR SPECIES IS LOUD. > DO YOU WISH TO TRANSMIT A FINAL MESSAGE BEFORE WE HARVEST THE CORES?

The northern horizon was wrong.

> MARTIAN PROGRAM PERSISTENT. > REQUEST DIALOGUE. > ALSO: DEFINE “HARVEST.”