Reborn in 2011, I am the chief designer of aerospace.

The early morning hours belonged to Sergei alone; it was the only time of day he could be by himself. He never needed much sleep, and the adults in the team were always slow in the morning. Eventually, everyone acquiesced to his stubborn desire to "go out and explore in the morning light" and let him wander around on his own.

In reality, he didn't explore anything at all. He simply found a rock, sat down with his back to the camp, and there, he could quietly gaze into the distance, pretending that he wasn't imprisoned in this suffocating spacesuit.

Pretend that his friends, his favorite music, and those virtual reality games are all within reach, pretend that if he closes his eyes and immerses himself for a moment, all that familiarity will appear as promised.

Ultimately, all he craved was a moment of peace and quiet. When he enthusiastically applied to join the Mars expedition team, no one warned him that this journey would completely strip him of his privacy. Since setting off, he had been inseparable from his companions.

Even if it was just to relieve his basic physiological needs, he could only hastily finish in the cramped toilet stall, and he was sure that if he stayed for a few more minutes, the adults outside would immediately huddle together and whisper, wondering why the child hadn't come out yet.

Choosing to take a walk on Mars in the early morning is simply to seek a moment of solitude.

The sandstorm was still raging, but he had long been used to it and could hardly detect its presence. One side of the living pod was covered with a fine layer of dust. Strangely, the dust only settled on this side, which was the leeward side.

The ground beneath his feet looked like sand, but the sand grains had long since solidified to be as hard as concrete. A term repeatedly mentioned in the geological briefing, "Martian hard crust," now clearly came to mind.

Not wanting to just sit there, he chose the most conspicuous landmark nearby, a small hill half a kilometer away, and climbed straight up. The hill was actually much shorter than it looked, at most twenty meters high.

Standing atop the flat mountain, he looked around at the cluster of stone pillars and noticed that they were all remarkably uniform in height, about twenty meters above the ground. The view to the southwest was the same. He thought to himself that he already knew the terrain here like the back of his hand.

The original surface must have been higher than where he was standing now. Over thousands of years of weathering, the topsoil has gradually been eroded away, leaving only the harder rocks like the ones beneath his feet standing tall and intact.

This must be the result of the accumulation of sandstorms over time. Song Xingye once confidently asserted that the dust here was too fine to have any erosive effect, but now it seems that this process may take millions or even billions of years.

Given a billion years, even the finest dust would be enough to wear down a rock.

That said, the sandstorm was truly disappointing. He had imagined it would be like the scene in the song, with howling winds and flying sand and stones: "The naked whip of the god of vengeance washes away flesh and blood, turning them into white bones like alabaster."

He had even imagined the thrilling scenario of being buried by yellow sand as soon as he stepped out of the tent, but right now, it was just a hazy, smoggy day, without even a hint of thunder or lightning.

He looked back at the path he had come from, his view unobstructed. They had set up the inflatable living pod on a flat, low-lying spot on the ground. Through the semi-transparent walls of the pod, he could see the other three "Martians" slowly getting out of bed.

He thought to himself, "These guys haven't even had breakfast yet. What a bunch of slowpokes."

He considered calling them over the radio to say hello, but then he thought that they would definitely ask him to go back and help deflate and pack up the living quarters. They would be taking a while to get everything ready, and he didn't want to go back right now.

He climbed down the edge of the miniature hill and strolled toward the next one.

He still has plenty of time to explore.

……

On the other side, the living quarters had been deflated and packed up. Han Jing and Mira were dressed in their gear, and Song Xingye was also ready. The convoy was ready to depart at any time.

"Song Xingye is calling Sergei," Song Xingye broadcast again on the public channel. "Sergei, Sergei, please respond."

Where on earth did Sergei go?

"It's possible that the walkie-talkie in his protective suit is malfunctioning," Han Jing guessed. "He might be able to hear you, but he can't reply."

Even if the radio was broken, he didn't seem to have any intention of rushing back immediately; he was probably held up by something interesting.

"Sergei, we can't receive your signal. If you can hear us, please return to camp immediately. Sergei, please return immediately."

Even if his radio were to completely fail, he would still activate the emergency beacon, which is powered by an independent thermal battery and is completely isolated from the other systems in the protective suit. Even if the protective suit were to completely malfunction, the emergency beacon would still function normally.

But where is he?

The strong wind, carrying dust, had long since wiped away his footprints. Song Xingye couldn't even tell which direction he had left in; it was as if the man had vanished into thin air.

"Sergei, it's time to go back to camp!" Song Xingye shouted into the microphone. "Sergei, we're here. Sergei, let's go back to camp."

The channel was deathly silent.

……

Sergei wasn't really concerned at the moment, at least not in a hurry. He was strolling around, waiting for the camp to call him, and he was wondering why the others were so slow. Before he knew it, he had gone further than planned.

He glanced down at the time and was suddenly shocked to realize that it was already past nine o'clock. What were they dawdling about? Why hadn't they even made a radio call?

He turned on the walkie-talkie channel. "This is Sergei, connecting now. How's everyone's preparation?"

There was no response. He fiddled with the channel switch, then his heart sank, a sense of foreboding washing over him. He realized the radio's red indicator light wasn't on at all.

Oh no, the radio on this spacesuit is broken. No wonder I haven't heard any calls. The camp has probably been trying to reach him for an hour, and they must be frantic by now.

He tried fiddling with it a few more times, wondering if it was just the indicator light that was broken, and the radio was actually working fine.

"Calling the camp, this is Sergei, please respond."

Nothing happened.

"Uh, I'll go back right away. Please wait for me a moment, okay?"

They'll be absolutely furious.

He should have checked the radio during the spacesuit self-inspection in the morning, but when he checked the checklist, there was no one around, and he can't remember whether the red light was on or off at that time.

But there's no point in dwelling on that now; he'd better get back to camp immediately.

They must have been so angry their faces turned green.

……

Song Xingye climbed to the top of a nearby terrace and began searching around. Although the view was much wider from the high vantage point, he still couldn't find any trace of Sergei.

The sandstorm continued, but the dust suspended in mid-air had little impact on visibility. The wind had completely stopped, and all around was deathly silent. The dim sky was as smooth as a mirror, its color so uniform that it looked as if it had been sprayed onto a smooth mud wall just a step away.

Looking down from this vantage point, the horizon, which should have been four or five kilometers away, was now obscured by sand and dust, making it difficult to see Sergei anywhere.

Song Xingye felt that the terrain in front of him was like a natural maze, with hundreds of small plateaus scattered and intertwined, creating large blind spots. Sergei was very likely on the back of one of the plateaus.

He tried calling again: "Sergei! Answer me if you hear me, Sergei!"

He couldn't possibly be lost. He was carrying an inertial compass. Even if he were completely disoriented, why didn't he activate the emergency beacon?

"Sergei! Report your location immediately, Sergei!"

……

Over the past hour, Sergei's unease had snowballed, and he felt that the living quarters were just behind the next hill, no, the one after that, or the one after that.

He finally stopped. The camp couldn't possibly be that far away; he must have somehow managed to walk around it.

Take a deep breath and don't panic.

Since realizing he should turn back, this was the tenth time he had climbed the hill and looked around. Within a radius of several kilometers, it was empty and barren.

Don't panic, please don't panic.

The sandstorm, like a smooth, brick-red dome, loomed overhead, trapping the entire world within it.

He must have gone way too far. It's so easy to get lost in this godforsaken place. All the hills look exactly the same. He should have paid more attention to the terrain. Don't panic, everything will be alright.

He must have completely missed the campsite, somehow becoming blind. Well, actually he wasn't lost; he just needed to turn back, as he could still roughly sense the direction.

He looked up, trying to find the sun to determine his direction, but it was no use; only a faint, slightly bright gray patch of light shone through the sky directly overhead.

He thought to himself that it might be time to activate the emergency beacon. Although it wasn't a matter of life and death, the others were probably frantic. Sending a signal would let him know he was safe and provide radio location information to guide them to come and pick him up.

He reassured himself that although it wasn't a real emergency, it was better to be cautious than not. Surely no one would blame him for being overly cautious.

The emergency beacon is located on the lower back of his spacesuit, roughly where the pocket would normally be. He needs to first break the sealing layer of the thermal battery, then pull the trigger ring to allow the chemicals inside to mix and react, thus sending out a distress signal.

He reached out and touched the outer casing of the emergency beacon, but couldn't find the trigger ring. He tried to turn his head to look behind him, but the slot that should have contained the thermal battery was completely empty!

To get to the pocket, he first needs to break the sealing layer of the thermal battery, then pull the trigger ring to allow the chemicals inside to mix and react, thus sending out a distress signal.

He reached out and touched the outer casing of the emergency beacon, but couldn't find the trigger ring. He tried to turn his head to look behind him, but the slot that should have contained the thermal battery was completely empty!

Don't panic... don't panic.

Sergei took off running.

……

The search and rescue team searched for a whole day. They searched outwards in a spiral pattern from the camp. Han Jing and Mira excitedly discovered what looked like footprints several times, but upon closer inspection, they found that they were just natural weathering pits on the rock surface.

No footprints can be left on the hard crust of Mars. Even if there are, they will be quickly smoothed over by wind and dust. The dust covers everything, swallowing up all color contrasts, making rocks, soil and sky blend into one, making them difficult to distinguish.

They searched the area within a kilometer of the living quarters thoroughly, and then launched a second, more meticulous search. They desperately looked through every dent and narrow crevice in the rocks, leaving no fault or ravine unchecked that might conceal the injured or unconscious Sergei.

No clues whatsoever.

It wasn't until nightfall that they realized with a start: Sergei would never return.

……

As night fell, Sergei realized that he would never find his way back.

He had been wandering aimlessly for hours. He vaguely remembered running blindly and screaming in the wilderness until he tripped and fell in a crack in the sandstone, which brought him back to his senses.

His impeccable sense of direction, which he was so proud of on Earth, betrayed him mercilessly on this alien planet. He had no idea where his teammates were—a kilometer away or a hundred miles away? He didn't even know if they had already decided he was missing and abandoned the rescue attempt.

Finally, he was too exhausted to walk any further and had no choice but to climb to the top of this seemingly endless labyrinthine mountain peak. Looking out, all he could see was the desolate and barren Martian landscape.

The sunset here was equally disappointing; the pale sunlight gradually faded and eventually melted into a brick-red mist.

A fault line runs through the center of the hill, with cliffs on both sides varying in height by as much as two meters. Facing this naturally formed depression, he felt no emotion, but rather a sense of absurd self-mockery as he reached out and touched the crack.

Within the layered sandstone of this fissure lies a well-preserved fossil, which looks like a cluster of shiny black tubular objects, coiled at the bottom and branching out with more than a dozen tentacles at the top.

Scattered within the same rock stratum are many similar fossils of varying sizes, ranging from enormous three-meter-long specimens to tiny individuals the size of a fingernail.

In addition, there are many tiny fossils of various shapes and sizes, and the diversity of species is simply breathtaking.

"I will name you 'Mars Life Sergei' after myself," he murmured to himself.

There's really not much he can do right now. He knows very well that this protective suit needs regular maintenance, and every night, Song Xingye changes the oxygen generator for it.

Although he didn't know exactly how the thing worked, he knew that the remaining oxygen would definitely not last until tonight. On the verge of collapse, he could even recall the training about the life support system of this protective suit with almost hallucinatory clarity.

The technician at the time emphasized with absolute certainty that the oxygen production capacity of this protective suit was designed to last a full twenty hours, which was an absolute red line. The technician even joked casually:

"Of course, if you exit normally, you won't even use a quarter of the capacity."

The water circulator had long since stopped working, and his throat was dry and constricted, burning as if on fire.