“Come on, Jorge,” I mutter, sharply aware that he can’t hear me.
I spot a defined shape in the dust. I lean forward, expecting Jorge’s suited form…but it’s smaller and nearer than I thought. The clogged air shifts, and my heart freezes.
You’re standing there. Your chocolate fur, with its ruffles and tufts, is clear against the red dust. Your back is to me and you’re looking over your shoulder, ears pricked, giving me your ‘what are you waiting for?’ expression. The storm seems to hold its breath—or maybe that’s just me—but only for a moment before the vision is obscured. You walk on just as the dense cloud swallows you up.
I’m rooted to the spot, knowing I’m seeing things but desperate to follow. My heart is thumping and there’s a lump in my throat the size of a walnut. Even as I stand up and step away from the buggy my rational mind is demanding that I sit back down and get a grip. But your face…your eyes, dark and pleading, focusing their will on mine with an expression so familiar it’s like I saw it yesterday. Come with me.
It’s been over a year since I looked into that face. Your eyes were fogged with age, but they still regarded me with their depth of knowing, like you could see into my soul. You always could. It’s why I’m walking away from the buggy now, back into the blanket of dust, in a direction I haven’t walked today, over ground I have no reason to trust.
But I trust you.
I walk forward with a surety I didn’t have earlier, even though my blinking sensor is telling me I’m getting farther from the buggy and its promise of safe return home. The ground is rocky, the dust is all-consuming, and I can barely see my gloved hands before my visor. But every few moments I catch a glimpse of something more: dust re-forming behind a gently waving tail, a ghostly canine shape just a touch darker than the raging motes all around me, poised to make certain I’m close behind.
We hike for a quarter of an hour, and my anxiety at the claustrophobic storm becomes a fading memory. I lull myself into the bittersweet familiarity of walking with you, just the two of us, on a jaunt of exploration and companionship, like all the old times. I can’t see a damned thing apart from your occasional reminders that I’m not alone out here. You were always our scout on unfamiliar terrain; you could find a path if ever there was one.
The ground is sloping now, becoming slowly steeper, and I realise we’re at the foothills of Aeolis Mons. This is craggy country, with dips and drops and gullies, and it’s foolhardy to continue. I slow down, but there’s a nudge of encouragement against my leg and I know you’re guiding me. A rational thought intrudes, and it’ll bring panic along for the ride if I acknowledge it.
Maybe this is crazy, but right now it’s the only thing that makes sense. Later on I can marvel at my stupidity, but not now. Not yet.
I don’t know if I’m following my loneliness and loss. I don’t know if I’m hallucinating as my oxygen supply dips. I don’t know if I’m lost on a distant planet, being led to my demise by a desperate dream that I know can never be. But I do know it’s not just me out here. I do know there’s still no sign of Jorge. I do know I’ve trusted you from the moment you chose me, the one puppy that was more interested in me than his littermates.
I haven’t completely lost it; I know you’re dead. I held you to the last. I buried you in the garden. I’d never known tears could pour out like that, in a broken-dam cascade of exhausting grief. I was helpless to bottle them up until that initial flood had passed. Your remains are hundreds of millions of kilometres away on the planet we once shared. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can feel you here now, guiding me somewhere important.
And then, all at once, I’m there.
The bulk of a Mars suit is sprawled on the ground before me, just visible through the choking haze. I’m kneeling in a flash, reaching for Jorge’s helmet, trying to see whether he’s conscious. He grabs my hand.
“Huw…”
“Jorge, what happened?” Our radios seem to be working at ultra-close range.
“The ledge…I fell.” He jerks his head upward and I realise he’s lodged at the base of a steep drop. “I think my leg’s broken.”
His left leg is crumpled under him, twisted at a nasty angle. He cries out when I help him stand, and he leans heavily against me, favouring his right side.
“Come on. Let’s get you back to the buggy.” We wrap our arms around each other’s shoulders and begin to limp back.
“How did you find me?” he rasps through the pain.
“Doesn’t matter how. Let’s just be glad I did.” He could have lain there for days before the storm cleared enough to discover his body. You knew he was there. You led me to him, recognising an injured packmate in dire need.
You’re here again now, a gentle blur of movement in the stinging dust. My sensor will take me back to the buggy, but I feel safer following your lead. Even with the low Mars gravity, our return is slower with Jorge’s dependence on me and it’s nearly half an hour before the buggy looms through the storm. It’s the most welcome sight I’ve ever seen.
I ease Jorge onto the passenger seat and climb in beside him. He can barely sit and I know every jolt of the vehicle will be agony for him, but there’s nothing for it.
“What do we do now?” he asks. I can just about make out his face through the visor. He’s gritting his teeth.
“We head back.” I start the motor.
“What? You can’t possibly drive in this, man…You can’t see your hand in front of your face out here!”
“We don’t have a choice, boyo. We’ve got to get you back, and our air reserves are dropping fast.” Besides, I’ve got a feeling. “Just sit tight and trust me.”
“Trust you? Don’t give me that Kenobi shit, amigo. You. Can’t. See.”
“Then you’d better lean forward and help me look.”
The buggy’s inertial guidance system will take us back to Bradbury no problem, but there are still an awful lot of boulders out here. Jorge’s right—I can’t see a bloody thing. But you’re waiting, right there in the shifting brown fog. You’ve led us this far, my old friend. Jorge’s given no indication that he can see you, and I’m not about to explain and shatter my illusion of sanity.
I begin driving, easing the buggy forward, squinting ahead as if looking for unseen dangers. In reality, I’m looking for your beckoning shape. I follow your tail through clear passage across the plain, trusting your sure feet and keen nose to guide us past all obstacles. And you do. But it’s slow going. It’s a 40-minute ride back to the settlement at reasonable speed, with clear atmosphere. Under these conditions, we’re looking at over an hour. It’s time we don’t have.
50 minutes oxygen remaining
My display is giving me regular updates now. I’m trying to stay calm, breathing as shallowly as possible, but I know I’m pushing my luck.
“How’s your O2?” I ask, not daring to take my eyes off you.
“Getting low.” Jorge’s reply is tense.
“How low?”
“25, 30 minutes.”
My stomach knots. Our air compressors would have switched off at roughly the same time. Jorge’s lower reserves must be due to his fall and the corresponding pain. He’ll have been breathing harder than me.
“Hang on, mate. Short breaths. We’ll get back.” But I don’t know if we will.
I speed up as much as I dare, watching your nimble form all the while. It’s almost as if you recognise our new urgency. Your pace picks up along with the buggy’s. You shift one way and I follow, realising moments later that we’ve bypassed a boulder hulking in the brown fog. We skirt obstacles I can’t see, time and again, and I can almost feel Jorge squeezing his eyes shut as we rumble along in the blinding haze.