Chen Hao stared at Nana's blue light, as if waiting for her to change her mind.
"You just said... you could carry me?" he asked again, his voice not loud, but each word drawn out, as if squeezing out his hope bit by bit from between his teeth.
“Okay,” Nana replied immediately, without even a second’s hesitation, “but it will increase the energy consumption rate of the propulsion suit by 47%.”
"Forty-seven?" Chen Hao's eyebrows twitched. "Does that mean you'll give up halfway through?"
"To be precise, the remaining energy support time has been shortened to thirty-nine hours." She brought up the star map projection, where a blue line extended from the escape pod, with five small dots marked along the way. "It is recommended to travel no more than ten kilometers per day, set up camp in higher terrain, and avoid low-lying areas with water accumulation. Reduce movement during the midday peak temperature period to minimize physical exertion."
As Chen Hao listened, a slow grin spread across his face: "This isn't planning a route, it's giving me a work schedule!"
“This is the optimal survival strategy.” Nana put away the projector. “If extreme fatigue or terrain obstacles occur during the journey, the carrying mode can be used as an emergency plan, but it is not recommended for regular use.”
"Alright then." Chen Hao sighed, as if finally accepting some kind of unavoidable situation. "Then consider it a last resort."
He stood up, and the chair made a familiar thud, exactly the same as yesterday, as if reminding him: the person hasn't changed, the fate hasn't changed, only the level of bad luck has reached a new level.
He walked to the locker, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the lightweight backpack. There wasn't much dust, since there wasn't much air circulation in the area. He patted it a couple of times, slung it over his shoulder, and tried it out; it felt a bit heavy.
“Too much stuff will reduce our efficiency.” Nana stood beside her, her blue light sweeping across the inside of the backpack. “I suggest allocating loads according to priority.”
"I know, I know," Chen Hao muttered, and began stuffing things in: compressed biscuits, energy bars, a collection bottle, and an entrenching tool. He also casually slipped in two packets of expired food; the expiration dates on the labels had blurred into a black mark.
"The total food supply can last for seven days," Nana said after scanning, "but this does not account for unforeseen delays, additional physical exertion, or water outages. We recommend reducing non-essential items and adding water filtration modules."
Is this thing really that important?
“The filter weighs 387 grams,” she said. “Once it fails, the risk of poisoning from drinking wild water increases to 61%.”
"Sixty-one?" Chen Hao rolled his eyes. "Then I just won't drink it, okay?"
“There is no stable source of fresh water on the surface of this planet,” Nana said calmly. “The nearest liquid water source is twelve kilometers away, but it contains a high concentration of sulfides. It is undrinkable without filtration.”
Chen Hao paused for two seconds, then took out a bag of biscuits and replaced the filter and spare connector.
He then took out the waterproof layer of his propulsion suit, insulated gloves, and painkillers, checked them one by one, and put them back in their places. His movements weren't exactly nimble, but he didn't stop. Finally, he stared at the roll of D-type sealing tape for several seconds—the same roll that had barely managed to seal the circuit board last time—before solemnly placing it into the side pocket.
“I have everything that could save my life,” he said. “Now all I need is a template for a will.”
“No need,” Nana said. “I will try to upload the core log after you lose your mobility.”
"Ha." Chen Hao chuckled. "So I don't even need to write my will; the system will automatically post it on my WeChat Moments, right?"
“The forms of information transmission are different,” she said, “but the essence is similar.”
Chen Hao shook his head, took off his backpack, and placed it on the table to rearrange it. This time he slowed down his movements, as if he wanted to memorize the location of each item.
Outside, the sky was already mostly bright, and a thin mist rose from the red earth, blurring the mountain silhouettes like pencil drawings erased by someone. The rain had completely stopped, and the sound of dripping water from the eaves had ceased, leaving only the occasional beep of instruments breaking the silence inside the cabin.
"Can you really leave tomorrow?" he suddenly asked.
"The weather model predicts that the wind speed will drop to level 1.8 at 05:30 tomorrow morning, and the cloud cover will dissipate by 89%," Nana said. "It's a good time to set off."
"Then... let's set it for six o'clock?" He seemed to be asking for opinions, or perhaps trying to convince himself.
“That works.” Nana turned off all the projectors. “I suggest you go to sleep before 10 p.m. tonight and make sure you get at least six hours of sleep.”
Chen Hao nodded and said nothing more. He picked up his backpack, walked to the hatch, and gently put it down. That was the easiest place to reach it, and also the closest to the exit.
He glanced back at the energy meter: 11.3% remaining.
The numbers are still dropping, at a pace that's both anxiety-inducing and a pace that's brooking no delay.
“You said you’d walk ten kilometers every day,” he suddenly added. “If one day I really can’t walk anymore, when you’re carrying me, could you please not read out the data? Like ‘current heart rate is too high’ or ‘gait imbalance’? It sounds like a deathbed announcement.”
“I can turn off the voice prompts,” Nana said, “but the monitoring won’t stop.”
"That's enough." He waved his hand. "Just don't read it out loud."
He sat back in the folding chair, sinking in slightly, as if trying to hide himself in the creaking, broken chair. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, staring at the crack in the ceiling—the thin line he hadn't noticed yesterday, now looking particularly conspicuous.
“Remember that time we fell into the mud pit?” he suddenly said. “The seam of our right leg suit ripped, and it’s still not fixed. If we fall again on the road, will it be ruined?”
“It’s possible,” Nana replied. “I suggest avoiding steep slopes and slippery areas. If you must pass through, I can provide external support.”
"You're backing me up again?" He gave a wry smile. "What are we like? A disabled robot carrying an overweight human on foot across an alien wilderness?"
"Under the current conditions, this is the only feasible combination."
"It makes me want to print out a flyer for myself: 'The most miserable hiking buddy in the universe, can carry heavy loads, afraid of water, easily breaks down, sincerely looking for reliable teammates.'"
Nana didn't reply, but her blue eyes flickered slightly, as if she was processing some kind of unclassifiable semantic information.
Chen Hao stretched, his bones cracking twice. He stood up, walked half a circle around the control panel, and then stopped.
“By the way,” he said, “you said before that carrying me would consume 47% more electricity, so what if I lighten the weight a bit? Like… eating less?”
“Your weight is related to your basal metabolic rate,” Nana said. “Significant weight loss in a short period of time can lead to decreased physical strength and weakened immunity, which in turn increases the difficulty of rescue.”
"So being fat is useful after all?" He grinned. "Is this strategic fat reserve?"
"From a survival perspective, it has some buffer value."
"Oh, it's rare to hear you praise me like that." He patted his belly. "Looks like I'm not a burden, I'm an emergency food supply."
"That's not what I meant."
“I know,” he waved his hand, “but I love to hear it.”
He gave his backpack one last check, the zipper clicking as it was zipped up. Then he crouched down and retied his shoelaces, moving slowly, as if stalling for time.
"Do you think...we might encounter anything else along the way?" he asked, looking up. "Like animals? Plants? Or...something else?"
“Based on current exploration records, the planet has an extremely limited range of life species,” Nana said. “No signs of large predatory life forms have been found.”
"That's good." He breathed a sigh of relief. "I was worried about running into some three-meter-tall mushroom spirit that would spray spores at anyone it saw."
“Spore dispersal is a common reproductive mechanism,” Nana said earnestly. “If such organisms exist, protective masks can effectively block them.”
"Stop, stop." He raised his hands in surrender. "Can we stop analyzing fantasy as reality? It's too scary."
The cabin was quiet for a few seconds.
The instrument beeped once.
Chen Hao stood up, walked to the hatch, and reached out to touch the edge of the door frame. There was a faint scratch there, left when he forcibly pried the door open last time.
"Six o'clock tomorrow," he said. "I really have to go out."
“Yes.” Nana stood behind him. “The route has been planned, the supplies are ready, and the weather window meets the departure requirements.”
He didn't turn around, he just nodded.
Then I bent down, picked up the backpack, and checked again to make sure the tape in the side pocket was still there.
He turned around and looked at Nana's blue light.
“If your battery suddenly runs out on the street,” he said, “I’ll push you around.”
"The propulsion suit does not have a passive traction design."
"Then I'll keep you occupied."
He grinned. "Anyway, you didn't feel anything, right?"
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