ETA January 27, 2020: 63 days

I was checking the received messages on videophone. I felt better after a week of nourishment and so on. I went to sit at the station. I put on my headphone. I turned on classical music on the left ear part. A call toned “ch”. This familiar sound again. Apparently, there has been several call attempts for many days.

“Nathan?”

It can’t be. It cannot be. Impossible. Unless she has been granted a permission… I asked in a clarity voice.

“Who is this?”

“Don’t you recognize me? John, don’t run away, please,” she whimpered. “Why didn’t you answer? Say something, damn it!”

“Sonya, what are you doing on this channel?”

I checked the date. It is 63 days. Can’t be right. Mechanical-like voice screeched on for a brief moment, as if a chalk was scratched on blackboard with a hint of awful pulse of clicks in a constant loop yet very brief. It sounded like something out of twilight zone in a combination of ugly eardrum noise that vibrates eerily in a such short period of time that you’d think it was not a human at all. It sounds alien.

I figured that there’d be something wrong with the system. Or so I thought. The voice tone was slight different; it was a mix of calm and tipsy hint of frustration. All the same.

“I have a permission to speak. From higher command.”

It is something of irony. Our father in heaven. Sonya and the kid will pray “our father who art in heaven…”

“Nathan?”

I was interrupted in the lost wandering world beyond world of thoughts.

“Sonya, who gave you the permission?”

“A senior staff from the military who presides over ISA.”

General McCafferty. Has to be him. “Why you? I gotta send up the upload link on mission’s progress. Ship data for diagnostics.”

“Nathan, you haven’t answer their calls for over a month. Eventually, they decided to leave messages. They bypassed and figured out what was happening in that conversation between us. They thought it best for a moment,” Sonya said. “You have really worried us. Digital signal beams were fine and everything. We’ve been trying to reach you for over half month.”

I sighed. It is 63-earth days on Argos measured in term of how fast it went. Not that it is accurate: after all, computerization has been updated 64-bit. I must have been out of 12 days or so, then several days of slow nourishment and health. 

“They thought it best for me to consult with you- it was a distress call.”

I nodded off weakly. “Can you turn on television? I want to see you.”

So I turned on without saying anything out of a warn. I haven’t looked myself on mirror. I was not reactionary in a lest – my body language is blank. I turned on the equipment machine that connects to the digital television, though it only transfer in special antennae-code transmission.

“Nathan!”

I paused. “What happened to you?! You look thin.”

“Not as thin as a week ago,” I said. 

“What happened? They wanted to do a psychiatry report and evaluation. That was an initial question. They decided to get me instead, and talk to you instead,” Sonya said.

“That’s a good thing,” I said. “How’s the belly?”

“Wonderful,” she said in gloomy voice.

“Have you found someone to raise the baby?”

“Nathan, why would you even say that? I’m going to tell the baby about father up in the heaven. I’d never leave you. How could you say that?”

I was speechless. I can’t imagine a fatherless kid.

“Nathan, when the kid grows up, I want you to meet him or her on TV.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I lost many pounds the last time I talked to you. I was spaced out. I didn’t sleep well for so long that I lost some thirty pounds.” 

“Nathan…”

I was quiet, motionless, and wearied out.

“I need to do daily meal a day.”

“Okay. Please don’t lost in touch,” Sonya said. “Contact,” she corrected.

“I’ll be OK,” I assured her. “See you later, motherland.“

© Dono Van Brun

℠ Bad Robot

™ Elkridge Moose