Writer's Cramp 9/20 - 996 Words

A malfunction causes life support termination, leaving few choices for the crew.

          I woke up to alarms. My pod hissed, cycling stale, chilled air into my lungs. Beside me, Harley coughed, his eyes blinking rapidly in the flickering emergency lights. Harper was already sitting up, looking around with a calm that always belied his internal processing.

          "Status report," Harper asked, but his gaze was already on me. He's the mission commander, technically, but he's always trusted Harley's pragmatism and my strategic mind more than his own rank.

          My chronometer flashed: Stardate 3500.24.11. Three-and-a-half millennia since we left Earth. "Life support is failing," I stated. The ship's main computer, 'Genesis,' was cycling through a litany of "non-essential function shutdowns." The irony curdled my stomach. Three-quarters of our environmental controls were now deemed 'non-essential.'

          Then, a new message overlayed the alarms, a soothing, artificially calm voice that grated on my nerves: "Suitable habitation found. Awaiting orders to terraform. Investigation required."

          Harper nodded towards me. "Marguax. Harley. You heard it. We're awake for a reason. What's the plan?"

          Harley, ever the pragmatist, "Terraforming. That means it's Earth-like. Our only shot."

          My mind raced. Staying here meant certain death as Genesis devoured our remaining power. Going meant unknown dangers but a sliver of hope. "Coordinates?" I asked the ship. A holographic star chart bloomed before us, a single, verdant dot highlighted. "Set a course, Genesis," I commanded, my voice firm despite the tremor in my chest. "Terraforming investigation protocol, immediate deployment."

Stardate 3500.24.13 Location: Atmospheric Entry Vehicle, descending towards Xylos-7

          Two exhausting, frantic days of repurposing what little power Genesis allowed us for the atmospheric entry vehicle. The Fermi 2 felt like a dying beast behind us, its once-grand corridors now silent, frigid tombs--a ghost in the void.

          Now, we're descending. The view from the viewport is breathtaking, terrifying. A swirl of sapphire oceans and emerald continents, wisps of cloud like cotton candy. It is Earth-like. The telemetry confirms breathable atmosphere, moderate temperatures, stable gravity.

          Harley, pressed against the viewport, muttered, "Xylos-7. I... I've read about this."

          I turned, surprised. "Read about it? How?"

          "Pre-voyage deep dive," he clarified, his eyes wide. "There was a theory. A planetary system once home to an unbelievably advanced, peaceful civilization. They supposedly vanished, leaving behind only echoes, a kind of biological fossil record." He shivered, then forced a grin. "Or maybe I'm just sleep-deprived and hallucinating."

          We touched down in a vast, grassy plain, surrounded by towering, bioluminescent flora that pulsed with a soft, inviting light. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, like honeysuckle and ozone. It was beautiful. The kind of beauty that hides a knife.

          We deployed our basic survey equipment. The message from Fermi 2 still played on a loop in the comms: "Suitable habitation found. Awaiting orders to terraform. Investigation required." The word "investigation" now carried a heavier weight.

Stardate 3500.24.15 Location : Xylos-7, Base Camp Alpha

          We've been here three days. The planet is a marvel. The flora is unlike anything cataloged, yet it sustains an intricate ecosystem, but no signs of sentient life from Harley's "readings," which he now swears are memories, not just readings. He claims this ancient civilization vanished not due to war or plague, but... transcended.

          Yesterday, we found something else. Not ancient ruins, but something new. A small, pulsating mass, no larger than my fist, nestled amongst the roots of a giant, glowing tree. It was a translucent, gelatinous organism, almost invisible until it moved. Harley, ever the curious one, reached for it.

          "Hold!" but it was too late. He'd already touched it. It shimmered, contracting slightly, then pulsed a soft, internal light. He pulled his hand back quickly, frowning. "No discernible threat," he mumbled, examining his glove. "Feels like... cool jelly."

          We spent hours observing it. It didn't react to sound, light, or heat. It seemed inert until Harper, conducting a micro-scan, noticed something alarming. "It's... consuming airborne microorganisms," he reported, his voice tinged with unease. "Not just absorbing, it's disassembling them at a cellular level, then somehow incorporating their neural structure."

          Neural structure. My blood ran cold.

          We established a perimeter, determined to study it from a distance. Today, Harper spent the morning at the edge of the perimeter, watching the organism, sketching in his data pad. He always did that when he was wrestling with a complex problem. Harley, meanwhile, was cataloging new plant species, humming a tune to ward off the growing sense of unease.

          Late this afternoon, I called them for a briefing. Harley arrived promptly, energetic, full of discoveries. Harper was late. Uncharacteristically so.

          When he finally arrived, he seemed different. Subtly. His eyes held an unfathomable depth. He smiled, but it was a little too wide, a little too fixed. "Forgive my tardiness," he said, his voice level, ... melodic. "I've been communing."

          My gut clenched. Harley stopped humming. "Communing with what, Harper?"

          He gestured vaguely towards the forest where the organism lay. "With them. The architects of this world. The ones Harley remembered. They... didn't transcend. They evolved." A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face. "And they're eager to share their knowledge. All of it."

          Harley froze beside me, his cataloging tablet slipping from his grasp with a muffled thud. He'd dropped it on our initial discovery of the gelatinous organism, too, but I'd dismissed it then. Now, it was a heavy sound. Harper's smile widened, entirely too knowing. The way he looked at Harley, then at me... it wasn't Harper. The eyes were his, but the light behind them was alien.

          I looked down at Harley's dropped data pad. The last entry was a hastily sketched diagram of the gelatinous organism, with an arrow pointing to a central, glowing node. And next to it, scrawled in urgent, messy script: Brain parasite? Neural absorption?

          The rhythmic hum of our comms, still broadcasting the Fermi 2's message: "Suitable habitation found. Awaiting orders to terraform. Investigation required."

          We had investigated. And now, there were only two of us. And one of them wasn't Harper.

Words:          996
Prompt: The day we discover another planet that seems to look very much like Earth. How far away is it? What do we do? Who makes the decision? Do we attempt to make contact?