Singing

A revamp of a previous story

Singing          

          I didn't think I'd win.

          Not really.

          How could I? Bill Burke from a one-stoplight town in the middle of Iowa cornfields, population 977--win the Mars Initiative Lottery? Over seven billion people entered. Math said no. Hope, though... Hope said maybe.

          I was napping on the couch, the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above me, when the call came. The kind of slow summer afternoon where time feels thick, like honey poured over a warm pancake. Outside, cicadas screamed in the oak trees. Inside, the TV droned some rerun about deep-sea fish with glowing jaws.

          Then the call.

          A voice, smooth and synthetic, too clean to be real: "Congratulations, Mr. Burke. You have been selected to join humanity's first permanent settlement on Mars."

          I sat up. Sweat on my palms. My heart is knocking like a screen door in a storm.

          I laughed. "Yeah, right. And I'm the King of Neptune."

          But the voice didn't hang up. It repeated my full name, birth date, and Social Security number. Then it said, "Your biometric confirmation is complete. Welcome to Project Helios."

          A real call.

          A real win.

          I stared at my calloused hands--hands that stacked canned beans and wiped down counters at Burketown Grocery. Hands that never held anything heavier than a bag of dog food. Now they were going to touch Mars.

          I remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror, squinting at myself. Same dull brown eyes. Same crooked tooth from when I fell off my bike at nine. Same Bill Burke. But the world didn't see that.

          The world saw a pioneer.

          Overnight, I wasn't Bill from the grocery store anymore. I was Bill Burke, Mars Pioneer, the underdog kid from the middle of nowhere who beat impossible odds. CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera--they camped outside my trailer. My phone buzzed nonstop. Strangers sent gifts, death threats, and marriage proposals. A woman mailed me a hand-knitted spacesuit scarf. A man sent a letter that just said, "You don't deserve it." In all caps.

          I was floating.

          Not grounded. Not real.

          Just... light.

          Then I met Jessica Davies.

          They introduced her at the pre-launch orientation in Houston. Director Cho stood at the podium, laser pointer in hand, her face lit by the glow of a holographic Mars topography map.

          "Jessica is your final crewmate," Cho said. "Brilliant astrophysicist. Fluent in four dead languages. Top of her class at Cambridge."

          She stepped forward.

          Tall. Pale. Sharp cheekbones are like cut glass. Dark hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. She hadn't blinked during the introduction.

          She smiled. Polite. Perfect.

          Shook my hand. Her fingers were cold--unnaturally so, even in the dry, over-air-conditioned room.

          "Lucky break for you, Bill," she said, voice smooth as oil. "Just a lucky draw."

          Something about her made my skin prickle. Not fear. Not attraction. Something older. Like the instinct that tells you not to step on a snake disguised as a root.

          I told myself I was being dramatic. She was just smarter than me. That I was an Iowa farm boy--of course she looked down on me.

          But then the dreams started.

          Her dreams.

          Not mine.

          I don't know how it began. Maybe during that neural sync test, when they wired our brains to the ship's AI to pre-load cognitive patterns. Or the biometric scan that linked our vitals, our heartbeats, our breaths. Some glitches in the system. Some flaw in her. Or in me.

          But one night, I woke up screaming.

          I'd seen red dust. Towering cliffs like cathedral ruins rising from the rust-colored plains. A city--no, a civilization--buried under sand and time. I saw a ship falling from the sky, flames licking its hull, breaking apart like a shattered mirror.

          And screams. Not human. Not an animal. Something... other.

          Then silence.

          And a girl. A woman. Alive. Crawling from the wreckage, dragging a broken leg. She stood on a flat stone, looked up at Earth, a pale blue marble hanging in the dusty sky, beautiful and so far away--and wept.

          I saw her face.

          It wasn't Jessica's.

          But it was.

          In the way a photograph is of you, even when you don't remember the moment.

          I spent the next few days unglued. Jumping at shadows. Skipping meals. I'd catch myself staring at the training simulators, seeing her city instead of the digital projections. I started writing down my dreams. Details. Symbols. A spiral glyph carved into stone. A sound like wind chimes made of bone.

          When I asked the AI about it--casually, as if I were researching Martian geology--it flagged my query. Restricted access. "Classification Level: Omega."

          I should've run. Told someone.

          But I wanted to understand.

          So, I confronted her.

          Two weeks before launch, in the quarantine chamber, sterile white walls, air filters humming, cameras deactivated for privacy check-ins. I cornered her while she sipped tea from a ceramic cup. Steam curled like a ghost.

          "Those weren't my memories," I said. My voice cracked. "But I saw them. I felt them."

          She didn't flinch. Just sipped her tea. Her eyes--dark, depthless--locked onto mine.

          "You think this was random, Bill?" she asked. "You think seven billion names went into a hopper and yours just... popped out?"

          My throat tightened. "What are you?"

          She smiled. Not cruel. Not kind. Just... ancient.

          "I was born under twin suns," she said. "My people traveled between stars before your ancestors learned to farm. We came to Earth on the 15th cycle. Curiosity. Exploration." She paused. "Then... disaster."

          "The crash," I whispered.

          She nodded. "Our ship broke in the atmosphere. I was thrown clear. The rest... died on impact. But I survived." Her fingers curled around the cup. "And Earth... Earth changed me."

          "How long?"

          "Five hundred and seventy-three years." Her voice softened. "I've worn many faces. Eaten many souls to keep my form. I needed their strength. Their biology. Each time I took someone, I became them. But I never stopped looking for a way home."

          My blood ran cold. "You... ate them?"

          "Not like you think," she said. "It's a merging. A necessity. I don't enjoy it."

          "Then the lottery... You rigged it."

          "A simple manipulation," she admitted. "A whisper in the right ear. A flaw in the algorithm. I only needed one ticket. One body to replace. And you--Bill Burke--were perfect. Unknown. Unremarkable. No one would question your sudden fame."

          I backed away. The wall pressed cold against my spine.

          "You were going to take me. Before launch."

          "I will," she said. "But not yet. I need you until we land. The ship's AI only accepts DNA from two crewmates to unlock the final descent sequence. Once we're on Mars... I won't need you."

          "And then?"
          "Then I return to my people. Or what's left of them." Her eyes lifted, as if seeing through the ceiling, through the atmosphere, to something buried beneath the ice caps. "Buried beneath the red dust."

          I should've run. Called security. Told Director Cho.

          But something held me; curiosity, maybe. Or pity.

          She wasn't a monster.

          She was alone.

          For centuries.

          I thought of my life, simple, quiet, filled with grocery lists and Sunday barbecues. And then I thought of living for hundreds of years, watching everyone you know die, wearing their faces like masks just to survive.

          Would I do worse to make it home?

          I didn't know.

          But I knew one thing: I wasn't going to let her erase me.

          So, I did what Bill Burke from Iowa does best: work quietly. Watch. Listen.

          I spent every night in the neural simulator, not just training for Mars protocols, but diving into the dream memories. I studied the glyphs. Learned the rhythm of the wind chimes. Listened to the whispers beneath the sand.

          And slowly, the city started talking back.

          Not to her.

          To me.

          The AI synchronized with my neural patterns during the tests. It was designed to learn. Adapt. But it didn't just store Jessica's database stored ours. Ours together.

          And in the quiet corners of its code, it remembered what she'd forgotten: that her people weren't the only ones who left a mark.

          Something older lived on Mars.

          And it was still awake.

          Launch day came.

          We suited up in silence.

          The other crewmate, Dr. Elias Kim--a quiet, brilliant engineer from Seoul--gave me a thumb-up. He didn't know. Neither did Cho. No one did.

          Only Jessica and I carried the truth into orbit with us.

          As the rocket ignited, I pressed my forehead to the capsule glass. Earth shrank below--blue, green, fragile. I saw my face on every screen, broadcast to billions.

          Bill Burke, the lucky one.

          But no one was lucky. Not really.

          We reached orbit. The stars burned cold and close.

          Jessica leaned toward me, her breath fogging the helmet glass.

          "Don't worry, Bill," she whispered. "It'll be quick."

          But I wasn't afraid anymore.

          Because I'd spent the last week in her memories.

          I knew where her people's city lay--beneath the Valles Marineris, in a cavern shielded by magnetic fields.

          I knew the password to their archives: "Nehar-Vala," the old tongue for "homecoming."

          And I knew the ship's AI had synchronized to my neural patterns, too.

          When we entered Mars orbit, she moved.

          Slipped a neural injector from her sleeve; a clear liquid in a silver tube. It was meant to override my cortex, merge my identity with hers in seconds.

          But I was ready.

          I slammed my palm on the emergency console.

          Cabin Lock Engaged.

          Protocol Sigma Activated.

          "The AI only accepts a unanimous command," I said. "And I just uploaded a virus. It won't land unless both surviving crew vote."

          Her face twisted. Not with rage. With worse desperation.

          "You don't understand," she said. "I have to go home."

          "I do understand," I said. "I've been dreaming of that city, too. They're my memories now. And I won't let you erase me."

          Silence.

          The stars watched.

          Then, slowly, she smiled. Not cruel. Not triumphant.

          Proud.

          "Maybe you are more than you seem, Bill."

          I looked at her. At the woman who had worn a thousand faces. Who had survived centuries of loneliness?

          And I said, "Maybe I am."

          Now, we're on the final descent.

          Mars looms below, a world of rust and ancient secrets. Dust storms swirl like slow-breathing beasts. The canyons gape like open wounds.

          She sits across from me. No injector. No threats. Just watching. Waiting.

          And I realize, she's not sure what I'll do.

          I could let her land. Let her find her people. Let her bury herself in the past.

          Or I could override the vote. Force a return to Earth.

          Or...

          There's a third option.

          One of the AI whispered to me in a dream.

          "They are not dead," it said. "They sleep. And they remember you."

          Not her.
          Me.

          Because in those dreams, when the woman wept beneath the twin stars...

          I didn't just see her.

          I was her.

          Not Jessica.

          Not Bill.

          But something is getting older. Something that came to Earth not as a refugee, but as a guardian.

          A watcher.

          A sleeper.

          And now, after centuries, I'm waking up.

          I reach out. Touch the console.

          "Final descent sequence," I say. "Authorization: Nehar-Vala. Voiceprint: Bill Burke. DNA match confirmed."

          A pause.

          Then the AI responded in her voice.

          "And Jessica Davies?"

          I look at her. At the woman who has been running home for 573 years.

          "I'll stay with her," I say. "She doesn't have to be alone."

          The AI hums. Processing.

          Then: "Voting complete. Descent initiated."

          Jessica doesn't smile. But her eyes glisten. Not with tears. With something like recognition.

          As if she sees me--really sees me--for the first time.

          The ship cuts through the thin air. Heat shields glow. Alarms blare.

          Below us, the red soil waits.

          The city stirs.

          And Earth hangs in the sky--small, blue, forgotten.

          When we land, who will walk on the rusted ground?

          Human?

          Alien?

          Or something older than both, born of dust and memory, forged in loss and longing?

          It doesn't matter.

          Because home isn't a place.

          It's the echo of who you were.

          The promise of who you can be.

          And the courage to walk forward, together, into the red dawn.

          I reach across the cabin. Take Jessica's cold hand in mine.
          It's no longer icy.

          It's warming.

          Like something long frozen, starting to breathe again.
          "Welcome home," I say.

          And for the first time in centuries, she hasn't corrected me.
          She just whispers back:

          "Us."

          And the planet sighs beneath us, alive, awake, waiting.

          Not just for one.

          But for all of us.

          For every lost soul searching for a place to belong.

For every dreamer who thought they weren't enough.

          Home is not behind us.

          It's ahead.

          And it's hungrier than either of us realized.

          But not for flesh. Not for conquest.

          For connection.

          For memory.

          For family.

          So, we step out.

          Into the red dust.

          Into the wind.

          Into the silence that isn't silent at all.

          Because if you listen closely...

          You can hear the planet singing.

          And we finally know the words.