Chen Hao's fingers were still resting on the control panel, his fingertips trembling slightly, as if he had just recovered from a miniature earthquake. He stared at the line of green numbers, 12%, like a piece of cured meat nailed to the wall—visible, but unattainable.
"How long can it last?" he asked, his voice a little dry.
Nana's blue light swept across the data stream without pausing: "Based on the current energy consumption mode, the remaining energy can last for seventy-two hours."
"Seventy-two hours?" Chen Hao grinned. "You mean, the system started counting down the moment I plugged in the wires?"
"To be precise, after the repair was completed, the system entered a stable power consumption phase." She said calmly, "Previously, it was in a power outage hibernation state and was not included in the power consumption cycle."
Chen Hao slowly sat back in the folding chair, which groaned as if it too was weary of the news. He raised his hand to rub his face; his wet clothes clung to his back, feeling as cold as if someone had stuffed an ice pop down his spine.
"So now... all the repairs have been for nothing?"
“It wasn’t a waste of time to repair it.” Nana brought up the 3D energy model, which was projected onto the main screen. “If it hadn’t been repaired, the power would have been completely cut off four hours ago. You now have a 72-hour window to take action.”
On the screen, the red countdown slowly ticked: 71:58:33.
Chen Hao stared at the string of numbers and suddenly laughed: "Do you know what the worst thing is? It's not that you're about to die, it's that you have to walk fifty kilometers before you die."
Nana didn't respond to the joke, but instead unfolded the star map. A flashing yellow dot in the southeast was connected by a blue line, marked "Geological Heat Source Anomaly Zone".
“There is continuous geothermal activity 50 kilometers to the southeast, and the mineral spectral lines indicate a 69% probability of containing high-density energy veins,” she said. “If we can collect the energy and connect it to a backup energy storage module, it could potentially extend the lifespan.”
"Sixty-nine? You don't even trust yourself, do you?"
“The data is based on the current detection accuracy.” She paused. “Conclusions with an accuracy of less than 70% are generally advised to be adopted with caution.”
"Then why did you say 'advice should be adopted with caution' when you mentioned 72 hours?"
"Because that's the result of precise calculations."
"Oh, so my fate is estimated, but the system's fate is accurately predicted."
A moment of silence fell over the cabin. The instruments ticked, the rain continued to pound on the roof—the rhythm remained the same, but the atmosphere had changed. The small sense of pride in fixing the circuit earlier vanished like a cookie soaked in water, too soft to hold.
Chen Hao looked down at his hands; the sweat had dried, and his gloves were still lying on the edge of the control panel, with a ring of light white wrinkles imprinted on his palms.
"My right leg in my suit is still leaking," he said. "I fell into a mud pit yesterday, and the seam still hasn't healed. You want me to walk 50 kilometers? 10 kilometers every day? Am I going to a mine or a weight loss summer camp?"
“Walking speed is related to body fat percentage,” Nana said calmly. “Based on your current basal metabolic rate and weight-bearing capacity, walking ten kilometers a day is feasible.”
"Can you stop using data to intimidate me? I'm not a model, I'm a person!"
“You are currently the only individual capable of autonomous movement,” she said. “I do not have remote data collection capabilities, and the life pod cannot move.”
Chen Hao opened his mouth, then closed it again. He knew she was right, but he just didn't want to admit it.
"Can't we wait? Maybe we can send out a distress signal when the weather gets better?"
“The atmospheric ionosphere in this region remains turbulent, making it impossible for the communication module to establish a stable uplink,” Nana said. “The most recent satellite scan shows that there are no travel records in this galaxy for three light-years.”
"So nobody knows we're here."
"correct."
"What if I die on the road? Are you just going to stand here and wait until the battery runs out, then the blue light goes out, and you turn into a piece of high-grade scrap metal?"
"I will try to upload the core logs to the low-Earth orbit beacon," she said. "If a probe passes by in the future, it may be able to read some of the data."
"Ha." Chen Hao sneered, "So I can be a 'last words' player? What an honor."
He jumped to his feet, his chair slamming against the cabin wall with a thud. He pointed at the blue line on the screen: "Fifty kilometers! All mountains! And mud! I almost died yesterday at the entrance of a cave 300 meters away! And now you want me to walk fifty times that distance?"
“Distance is directly proportional to risk,” Nana said. “But the probability of survival is directly related to the action taken. If we don’t go, the system will shut down completely after 72 hours, life support will be interrupted, and the probability of death will rise to 100%.”
"So not going means certain death, going means courting death."
"The logic holds true."
Chen Hao froze, then slowly sat back down. This time, he made no sound, as if his bones had been removed.
He stared at the yellow dot on the star map, and that dot of light slowly transformed in his eyes into some kind of absurd symbol—like a trap that the universe had casually thrown down, and he had no choice but to jump into it.
"You said there's an energy vein there," he asked in a low voice, "What are the chances I'll be alive to dig it out?"
“It’s impossible to calculate precisely,” Nana said. “Variables include terrain complexity, the degree of mineral vein exposure, your stamina decay curve, the impact of sudden weather events… Based on a comprehensive assessment, the probability of success is about 34 percent.”
"Thirty-four?" He smirked. "It's not even as good as winning a pure suit hand in mahjong."
“The winning rate in mahjong is influenced by subjective skill,” she said. “This task depends entirely on objective conditions and execution efficiency.”
"You really know how to comfort people."
He fell silent again, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the arm of the chair. The sound of rain outside gradually subsided, while the dripping of water from the eaves became clearer, drop by drop, as if keeping time for a countdown.
After a long while, he suddenly asked, "If I turn off all the non-essential systems now, leaving only you and the breathing apparatus, how many more days can we last?"
“It can be extended to 108 hours,” she said. “But you will lose heating, lighting, and water circulation. Your body temperature will continue to drop, and you may experience symptoms of hypothermia after 48 hours.”
"Then I'll just lie still and not move, to save electricity."
“Muscle atrophy and circulatory problems will appear within 72 hours,” she said. “Even if energy is subsequently provided, the ability to walk may still be lost.”
Chen Hao sighed and picked up the glove. The creases on his palm hadn't completely disappeared. He slowly folded it and tucked it into a compartment in his tool bag.
“So… it’s not a question of whether or not I can go,” he murmured, “it’s a question of whether or not I can go, or I will die.”
"The logic holds true."
He didn't speak again, just stared at the energy meter. The number slid from 12% to 11.9%, then jumped to 11.8%, like a slowly crawling worm gnawing at his last bit of luck.
The cabin was dimly lit, and the corners of the control panel gleamed coldly. He recalled crawling through the mud yesterday, with only one thought in his mind: get into the cave. Now? Getting into the cave wasn't an option anymore; he had to get out.
The farther you go, the longer you live.
The farther you go, the faster you die.
He looked up at Nana, who stood still, her blue light steady, like a tireless lighthouse.
"Did you ever... even for a moment, think that this was absurd?" he asked.
“Absurdity is not in my emotional model,” she said. “But I can confirm that the current situation does not conform to conventional survival plans.”
I knew you'd say that.
He slowly stood up, walked to the locker, and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside were a few spare parts, a roll of bandages, half a bottle of painkillers, and a pack of long-expired compressed biscuits.
He pulled out a lightweight backpack, dusted it off, and slung it over his shoulder to try it out.
It's a bit heavy.
But it wasn't enough to break him.
"Will the weather be better tomorrow?" he asked.
"The weather model predicts a six-hour window of stability tomorrow morning," she said. "Wind speeds will be below level three, and the probability of no precipitation is 76 percent."
"Seventy-six." He smiled. "A bit higher success rate than mining."
"I recommend completing the organization of supplies before the window opens," she said, "and checking the airtightness of the propulsion suits."
Chen Hao nodded, took off his backpack, and placed it on the table. He opened his toolbox and began to check each item: insulating pliers, power connectors, spare battery packs, waterproof tape…
His movements were slow, but he didn't stop.
Until the last item—he took out the heat-resistant gloves, examined them carefully, turned them over to check for any damage, then neatly folded them and put them into the side pocket of his backpack.
He looked up at the countdown.
71:12:04.
“You said I’m walking fifty kilometers,” he suddenly said, “If I get hungry along the way, can I eat the stones by the roadside?”
“Rocks have no nutritional value,” Nana said. “I recommend carrying enough emergency food.”
"I just asked casually."
He zipped up his backpack with a click.
The cabin quieted down.
The green light from the energy meter reflected on the wall, like a lingering shadow that refused to go out.
Chen Hao sat in a chair, his hands on his knees, staring at the floor.
The next second, he suddenly looked up.
"Nana".
"exist."
"If I really can't walk anymore... can you carry me?"
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