Hermes 3 Mission Log, Day 14.

I rather like that they named these missions Hermes. It's rather fitting. Hermes was considered the
emissary to the gods. Gods like Ares, in Greek, or the Roman Mars.
And as are we, emissaries of the Human race. Well, more like delivery boys then emissaries, coupled to
our hull are materials for establishing the proverbial Solid upper hand, both in technology and
resources, to any foreign body. as Nixon put it, on the surface of Mars.
A Mine in space. Who would have thought. Apparently the Viking spacecraft had found massive
concentrations of Olivine, which in itself is not particularly useful nor rare. However, this martian
olivine was incredibly dense, and massive. It could be potentially cut into sheets to make cheap,
incredibly strong glass for jets back home, or more spacecraft. The possibilities were limitless.
So that's where we're at.
We are currently one-hundred-eighty-seven thousand miles from Earth.
The Mission time is 14 days out of 182 days.
My health is nominal, as is my partners.
Commander McKalevian Out.
Hermes 3 Mission Log, Day 32.
As I stare out the view port, I watch stars go by. Isn't that strange? Stars!?
On a more serious note, we appear to be the target for a sabotage attempt. Here's the conversation as I
recall it...
Hello Houston, this is Hermes three, copy.
McKalevian, thank God! What happened? over
Um... nothing, Houston. We're on trajectory, over
There was some shuffling, then a new voice came on the radio.
There has been a catastrophic system failure in your oxygen systems, Commander. You would do best
to abort the mission and turn around now, over.
I checked, there is no system failure anywhere, all systems are nominal, I repeat, all systems are
nominal, over.
We believe it is a design flaw in the ship we didn't account for. Please, for your sake, turn the orbiter
around, over.
I know what this is, what you're trying to do.
empty static hissed angrily at me.
I said, coldly and clearly,
This is an attempt at sabotage. Tell your Soviet comrades it won't work. You won't stop us, Dogs.
We've taken taken the planet, and your red flag will never fly over it's red soil. Over and Out.
I flipped off the radio.
Upon attempting to communicate with the real Houston, the same voice greeted me. All support was
gone, I must fly this mission myself.
We are currently thirty-nine million, five-hundred-sixty thousand miles from Earth.
The Mission time is 32 days out of 182 days.
My health is nominal, as is my partners.
Commander McKalevian Out.
Hermes 3 Mission Log, Day 44.
I'm having strange waking dreams.
For instance, today I was moving about the interior for exercise, when my vision blurred and then

focused again. The inside was different looking. In the front view port were different stars then the ones
I should be seeing. My partner was stiff and lifeless, propped in his seat like he'd never left from
launch. Then it all rushed back, my eyes blurred and teared, and it was all back to normal. He turned to
me and asked,
What's wrong, commander?
Nothing, I just... nothing.
I looked at him, and for some reason, felt a pang of remorse. He was a good kid.
Nothing else to report, other than another conversation with the Soviet miscreants. They're always
willing to talk. I make no attempt to hide the details of our mission, they know the entire ship and its
capabilities.
So... Commander, what is your mission?
You know that, to take these supplies to mars. How's the wife?
Seriously, Commander. Why are you transporting supplies to Mars?
How do your spies know our Houston radio frequencies but not about the damn base?
Just explain the base, Sir.
It's a base, to mine for olivine.
they also had some very strange things to say.
Commander, I'm going to ask you to reach into the drawer marked g-12, and take out the bottle
marked Clozapine. This will relax you, make the journey not so long in your eyes.
Why should I trust you? For all I know it'll kill me.
the voice on the other end stifled a chuckle.
Then who would we have to talk to? Seriously, if we wanted to kill you, we could have remotely
overloaded any number of systems long ago.
I think you're bluffing I said, and switched off the radio. But I pocketed the Clozapine.
We are currently fifty-four million miles from Earth.
The Mission time is 44 days out of 182 days.
My health is nominal, as is my partners.
Commander McKalevian Out.
Hermes 3 Mission Log, Day 51.
The strange waking dreams re-occur occasionally. It's always the same circumstances, unknown stars,
lifeless body. It's incredibly unnerving, and sets me on edge for hours afterward.
I do feel like the drive is fading. We're about a third done with the six-month voyage, but already, the
excitement has faded. I'll liken it to classic American road trip. We're in the hot, sticky middle of it.
I have been sorely tempted to try the Clozapine, but my caution gets the better of me.
I had another conversation with Houston.
Hey comrade. How's the weather down there on Earth?
Very nice, it's the middle of summer. The trees are green and healthy.
Ah, I know what you're doing... You're making me want to come back.
You got me. Is it working?
Not at all, comrade. The weather up here is nice too, very sunny for the solar cells.
I wasn't aware your ship had solar capabilities.
Well, there they are, shining through the window. Your spies aren't very good, you know.
Ah, they do their best. Would you like to know something, Commander?
I suppose you owe me something after all I've told you
Commander. Though you may not know it, we mean the best for you. We are trying to help. Let us
help. You cannot understand, but remember this: We would not harm you.
The radio went dead. For the first time, they had ended the conversation. Their words stuck with me.

How did I know it though? There was no way to verify their intent, good or bad. All I can do is watch
the stars slide past.
We are currently sixty-three million miles from Earth.
The Mission time is 51 days out of 182 days.
My health is nominal, as is my partners.
Commander McKalevian Out.
Hermes 3 Mission Log, Day 63.
This is the last mission log.
This is Commander Jeremy W. McKalevian, in his right mind, leaving a message for posterity.
I understand it all now.
I was feeling especially bored and tired, the interior of the craft heating up uncomfortably. I just wanted
to lay back and relax.
I remembered the Clozapine.
I eagerly popped two capsules into my mouth before my caution got the better of me.
I sat back, ready for the journey to quicken around me.
The world melted. What truly was shone through the golden exterior I had crafted for myself. The stars
outside the view port were strange stars, twinkling ominously at the tiny intruder I floated in. They
were not the stars you see on the trip to the moon.
Why did I think that?
My heart rate pounded, blood rushed to my head. My breath came in short gasps, the walls of the
orbiter were closing around me. I needed to talk to someone.
There he sat, still strapped in just like the day we launched. His emaciated face grimaced at me. I
couldn't look, but there was no way I could turn away.
Finally, I tore myself from his empty glare. The radio!
Hello? Houston? Russians? Anyone? Over.
Hello, Commander. What is going on today?
My world... it's changed. Things aren't, they, they... they aren't the same!
Um, Yessir.
another, deeper, more authoritative voice came on.
Commander. I can answer any question you have.
Why the fuck is my partner dead?!?
He died on takeoff. You sustained head injuries.
I felt a pang of remorse. He was a good kid.
Where the hell are we?
We don't know.
Tell me what the hell happened! Why am I up here, like this!?!
Commander. Listen. You are a member of the Apollo 18, destined for the Moon. You awoke after
launch and babbled garbage. Your partner failed to respond. We believe you developed schizophrenia
due to head trauma, and as a survival response; a very good friend of yours sat in the seat beside you.
You failed to rendezvous with the lander, which aborted and splashed down six weeks ago,
catastrophically. You took off in the orbiter and kept ranting about a Mars base. You rationalized we
were Soviets bent on sabotaging your mission. You are going the wrong direction. There is no Mars
base, son. You've got to turn your boat around. Come home. You won't make it, but at least you can be
buried back home on earth, and the two of you will get a proper funeral. We'll have your flight data. I'm
sorry, but there's not enough life support. But at least your cadaver won't roam the stars for eternity.
Please, set these coordinates.

I can already feel the oxygen waning, it tightens my throat.

I'm sorry...
I killed four good men, stranding them in orbit around Earth.
I killed my son's father.
I love you, Brian.
I wish I could see you grow to be a man.
I'm sorry.
I am currently seventy-six million miles from Earth.
The Mission time is 63 days.
My health is failing, and my partner is deceased.
Commander McKalevian Out.