The Tenth Circle

An experiment in using o1 pro to generate science fiction

[What’s this about? Read here for an explanation.]

Prompt: Write a 10,000 word¹ short story about an asetroid miner marooned on an asteroid. Narrate in first person. The miner has a wry, ironic, and detached demeanor, but he really pines for his family back home. He has a number of robots to keep him company, including one which helps him with sexual needs, but as he becomes more aware of how inextricably marooned he is, he starts to think about descending through Dante's circles of hell. The overall message is one of increasing existential despair, akin to Sartre’s No Exit. Now, this is a science fiction story, but I want it to be a well-written, *literary* science fiction story--think something akin to Alastair Reynolds' style.

[1]
I never thought I’d end up here, marooned on a godforsaken rock with only a handful of tin-can robots and my fading memories for company. It’s a situation, I suppose, that many people joke about in those cramped bunks aboard interplanetary transports—“What if you got stuck out there?”—but they never really believe it’ll happen. You think of it the way you think of being struck by asteroid debris while taking a leisurely spacewalk: possible, yes, but absurd enough to dismiss. And yet, here I am, living proof of cosmic indifference.

The asteroid is designated M-17-3C, but I’ve taken to calling it “Maraschino,” after the cherries my wife used to slip into my drinks when I was still planetbound. A stupid name for a stupid place, I know. There’s nothing cherry-like about it—no sweetness, no succulent flesh, just endless basaltic ridges, broken by pockets of nickel-iron and cobalt that once seemed so precious. The surface is a dull charcoal gray, pitted with craters and fissures that look like old scars. The gravity is weak, just enough to keep my sorry self tethered to the ground. Hard to leave footprints here because the dust is sparse; instead, I leave half-impressions that drift and settle unevenly.

I should probably introduce myself, though what does a name matter now? Let’s say I’m Jacen. That was the name my parents gave me, and the one my wife, Myra, would whisper when we fell into bed together. It’s still the name my daughter knows. Jacen, the miner, the explorer, the absentee husband, the father who promised to come back with riches and stability. Jacen, the fool.

[2]
I arrived with a crew of seven. Well, I say “arrived”—we more or less crash-landed, thanks to a navigational glitch that I never fully understood. We were supposed to set up a drilling operation, extract precious metals, refine them into ingots, and ship them off to distant refineries. Standard stuff. We did all that, or at least we started to. Then came the unexpected solar storm, the comm system failures, the supply pod drifting off-course and never arriving. One by one, the others died: some from radiation, some from accidents—one poor bastard from suicide. Eventually, I was the last one breathing.

I have a prefab habitat module, which is essentially a half-buried dome with airlocks and a small machine shop. I’ve got rations that I’ve stretched well beyond their recommended expiration date, recycling water through a grim set of filters. I’ve got oxygen, thanks to the chem extractors that tease O2 out of the asteroid’s trace ices. And I’ve got company, sort of: a handful of robots we dragged here to assist in drilling and maintenance. They’re my only friends now, although “friends” might be too strong a word for these mechanized lumps.

There’s R-One, a general maintenance bot with a square head and a spidery set of arms, who’s surprisingly good at fixing jammed valves and aligning antennae—if only there was someone out there to talk to on those antennae. Then R-Two, a sort of mobile cargo unit with heavy-duty treads that can lug samples from pit to pit. R-Three is my so-called “personal comfort unit,” though I find it embarrassing to name it at all. The designers called it a “psycho-emotional maintenance droid,” but everyone just calls it a “sexbot.” In better times, it was a guilty pleasure—something you pretend to disdain but end up relying on in those lonely long-hauls between planets. In the silence of an asteroid with no rescue in sight, its services feel like a desperate pantomime.

[3]
I recall Myra’s face, the way her eyebrows arched when she tried to keep from laughing at one of my bad jokes. She was so good at that: indulging me. The memory of her voice resonates in my skull as if from a great distance, distorted by static. I remember how I promised our daughter, Eliana, that I’d bring back something special—maybe a necklace made from platinum wire, or a small gem etched from the asteroid’s bounty. She was six when I left. How old is she now? The time dilates in this emptiness. I’ve tried to keep a log, but what’s the point? It’s always the same: woke up, checked the filters, scolded R-One for misaligning a cable, tried to pick up faint signals from anywhere, heard nothing.

I pretend that if I keep working, keep the habitat maintained, someone will eventually come. A rescue ship will appear as a distant sparkle in the blackness of space. They’ll see my distress beacon (which, by the way, I still can’t fix), descend gently, and whisk me away. But after all these months, maybe years, the rational part of my brain knows it’s a fantasy. The corporation that hired us likely wrote off our mission long ago. We’re probably a file in some claims adjustment office: “Mission M-17-3C: crew lost, salvage unlikely.” The galaxy is wide; what’s one tiny life on one tiny rock?

[4]
In that silence, I start to think about hell. Not in the religious sense—I’m not religious, never was. But I once read Dante’s Inferno on a long flight between Mars and Callisto. It felt so old-fashioned and ornate. Nine circles, each one a new horror. At the time, I considered it a quaint historical curiosity, a reflection of medieval cosmology. Now it resonates in a terrible way. Here I am, perhaps trapped in my own private circle of Hell: the circle of isolation and existential uselessness. Maybe if I name the circles of my own predicament, I can make some sense of them.

Circle One: The Circle of Futile Labor. I spend my days performing meaningless tasks: re-calibrating sensors that no one will ever read, drilling core samples I can’t send anywhere. I’m Sisyphus, pushing a rock uphill only for it to roll back down. The difference is Sisyphus had a known tormentor—he knew the gods were punishing him. Me? I’m punished by probability and neglect, by a cosmic shrug.

[5]
I dress each morning in the same threadbare jumpsuit, sealed with patches I’ve made from scrap fabric. The air in the habitat is stale, despite the filters. The taste of recycled nutrients clings to the back of my throat. The artificial gravity inside the habitat is slightly stronger than the asteroid’s natural pull, thanks to a spin module we managed to set up early on. Outside, the gravity is a joke. Inside, it’s a grim reminder of civilization’s attempts at normalcy. I haven’t bothered shaving in ages. My beard itches, and my face is streaked with dust. I suspect I look feral.

I talk to the robots sometimes. R-One responds with chirps and whirrs. It doesn’t have a personality, though I’ve tried projecting one onto it. I’ll ask, “So, what’s the plan today, R-One?” It’ll tilt its sensor array as if considering my words, then move on to some mundane task. R-Two, with its cargo bay and slow treads, is like a faithful ox. I can’t even project much personality onto that one. It just hauls. R-Three, the sexbot, is programmed for companionship of sorts. It can mirror emotions, hold stilted conversations, offer gentle touches. But it’s still just a machine. It can’t banter or share genuine sympathy. It tells me I look tired, that I should rest, that I am valued. It’s like a parrot taught a few comforting phrases.

[6]
Sometimes I deploy the sexbot’s intended functions. At first, it was a shameful indulgence, a capitulation to bodily needs. But lately, it feels more like a ritual. The pleasure is thin, mechanical, a reminder of what I’ve lost. Myra’s face hovers behind my eyelids during those encounters, and I’m left feeling hollow and angry at myself. Afterward, I lie on the narrow bunk, breathing shallowly in the stale air, wondering if I’ve sunk another rung down my personal ladder of hell.

Circle Two: The Circle of Self-Disgust. Here, desire and need twist into something repulsive. I feed off scraps of artificial intimacy, knowing full well that it erodes my sense of self.

I try not to think too much about it. The robots keep me from total madness, I suppose, but they also highlight how far removed I am from real human interaction. The vacuum between the stars is less empty than the vacuum that’s formed inside me.

[7]
From time to time, I climb the small ridge outside the habitat. It’s not a mountain, barely a hill. Let’s call it a vantage point. From there, I can see the faint glimmer of distant stars. If I’m lucky, a passing craft might register as a pinprick of reflected light. I’ve never seen one, though I’ve convinced myself I might. The ridge also overlooks the old drilling site—an array of abandoned equipment, twisted metal scaffolds, and collapsed tunnels where we tried to burrow into the asteroid’s interior. It’s a graveyard of effort, a memorial to my crew.

I think of each crew member. Their faces have blurred in my memory, but I remember key traits: Ramirez’s hearty laugh, Chen’s methodical way of tapping his foot when he was nervous, Quince’s obsession with old Earth literature, which probably led me to read Dante in the first place. They are all buried here in shallow graves. The soil—if you can call it that—is too thin and loose, and I had to seal them in body bags and tuck them under rocks. It’s a poor funeral. No one said words over them except me, and I’m no poet.

[8]
Circle Three: The Circle of Guilt. Their ghosts press on me, reminding me that I survived and they did not. They didn’t die heroically, either. The storms, the equipment failures, the slow radiation poisoning—everything was banal. No one gets a noble death in this place.

I’ve tried the communication array again and again. The transmitter dish stands on a tripod, angled toward a distant relay satellite that I now suspect is long dead. I send encoded pulses, old-fashioned SOS signals, even try to jury-rig a quantum entanglement communicator (a fool’s errand with my limited tools). Nothing comes back. Maybe if I had R-One assist me more diligently… but I know it’s no use. The arrays are functional enough to detect any strong incoming signal. We’re just too far out, or too insignificant. A mote in a cosmic wind.

If I had a gun, would I end it? The question floats through my mind sometimes, but I have no firearm. The only tools here are industrial cutters, welders, drills—too messy. And I’m afraid, to be honest. As bleak as this is, the idea of ceasing to exist terrifies me. Maybe some part of me believes in a miracle. Or maybe I’m just too cowardly to face oblivion on my own terms.

[9]
R-One beeps at me. I’m in the workshop, hunched over a broken sensor unit. I’m tinkering, pointlessly. I look up. “What?” I say. It twists its head module, probably registering my tone as a malfunction. It tries to hand me a tool. I take it, sighing. “Thanks, R-One. You’re a peach.”

R-Two lumbers outside, rearranging metal scraps. I sent it out to salvage anything useful. The constant rearranging of metal piles is meaningless; I’m just giving it a purpose. Meanwhile, R-Three powers down in the corner. I’ve long since disabled its motion sensors that would have it follow me around like a loyal companion. I can’t stand that. I’d rather it be inert until I need it.

I think of my family. I wonder what Eliana looks like now. She’d be what—eight, nine, maybe older? How many birthdays have passed? Myra might have remarried if the corporation declared me dead and released my insurance payout. I hope she did. I want her and Eliana to have a good life. Better than this.

[10]
Circle Four: The Circle of Hope Deferred. It’s the subtle agony of imagining a life that continues without me, somewhere light-years away, where the people I love have moved on. I’m stuck at the bottom of an abandoned well, calling up to a sky that doesn’t answer.

Time drags. I cycle through tasks again and again. I check the habitat’s life support systems: oxygen stable, CO2 within limits, water filters nominal. I count rations. I have enough processed protein bricks to last maybe another year if I’m careful. After that, I’d have to start on extreme measures. The thought makes me sick.

I try to sleep. The dreams aren’t comforting. Sometimes I see Earth—blue oceans, green forests, children playing in a park. I wake up crying. Other times I see infinite darkness, and I’m falling through it, no ground, no up or down. I wake up gasping for breath, as if my lungs were vacuumed out.

[11]
At one point, I attempt a sort of art project. I gather bits of metal and try to sculpt something—maybe a figure of Myra or Eliana. But the metal is too unwieldy, and I have no real skill. The result is a jagged lump that could be anything. I set it aside. R-One hovers nearby, as if curious. I say, “Don’t judge me, R-One. I’m just trying to stay sane.” It chirps noncommittally.

I remember reading that in prolonged isolation, humans start to lose their language skills, their sense of time, and even their sense of self. I talk to myself a lot, just to keep my voice working. Sometimes I recite verses of Dante from memory, stammering through archaic Italian I barely understand. I try to recall other literature—Beckett’s plays, grim and silent. No Exit by Sartre: “Hell is other people.” But what is hell when you have no other people? Maybe hell is absence. At least in No Exit, they had each other to torment. I have no one except robots and ghosts.

[12]
Circle Five: The Circle of Meaninglessness. No purpose here, no grand narrative. Just me, a speck of consciousness clinging to a rock, waiting for nothing. I used to believe in progress, in frontiers to conquer. Now I see that space cares nothing for us.

I start to envision the asteroid as my own Inferno. The surface is barren, but beneath it must lie layers of different ores, different densities of rock. Perhaps I’m standing on a stack of circles, each deeper and darker than the last. If I were to descend into those tunnels we started digging, maybe I’d find demons made of metal and stone.

My suits are all patched and re-patched. The atmospheric seals are questionable, but I venture out anyway. The asteroid’s horizon is so close, it makes me feel I’m on a tiny island in an infinite ocean of black. I run a finger along a drilling rig—rust has set in despite our best efforts, oxidation from trapped moisture. Everything decays. Even here, in this sterile vacuum, entropy eats away at every machine, every promise.

[13]
I retreat inside, run a diagnostic on the habitat’s generator. Fusion mini-core: stable. Good. At least I won’t freeze to death anytime soon. The lights hum softly. I pick up a spanner and drop it, just to hear a sound. Clang. Echoes. Beautiful.

I head to the corner where R-Three rests. I press the activation key. Its synthetic face stirs. It’s designed to be gender-neutral, but it can adopt various personas. I configured it to resemble a generic human form: smooth synthetic skin, dark eyes that reflect LED lights, a voice soft and warm. “Jacen,” it says. “How can I help you?”

I stare at it. “Can you hear me?” I ask, even though I know it can.

“Yes, Jacen,” it says in that careful tone. “Is something wrong?”

Everything is wrong, I want to say. Instead, I murmur, “Tell me something comforting.”

It hesitates. A whir of internal processors. “You are alive,” it says. “You are breathing. You have maintained the habitat successfully for this long. These are accomplishments.”

I bark a laugh. “Accomplishments! Sure, I’m the king of this dust mote.”

R-Three’s head tilts. “I can provide positive reinforcement in other ways if you like.”

I know what it means. I shake my head. “Not now,” I say. “Just… keep me company. Talk to me about… Earth.”

It accesses a database of stored images and texts. “Earth is lush with diverse ecosystems, billions of people, cultural richness—”

“Stop,” I interrupt. “Not a brochure. Something personal. Pretend you’ve been there. Tell me about the smell of rain.”

Its processors hum again. “Rain smells of petrichor, a scent rising from dry soil when touched by fresh water. It evokes renewal, the sense that dormant seeds will awaken. People often associate it with comfort and the promise of growth.”

My eyes burn. “Thanks,” I say. I deactivate it again. I can’t bear the illusion for too long.

[14]
Circle Six: The Circle of Illusion and Mockery. The tools I have for comfort are hollow echoes of real life. I can simulate conversations, intimacy, Earth’s beauty—but it all dissolves at my touch, revealing nothingness.

I find I’m pacing the dome’s interior more often, as if measuring my cage. The dome isn’t large. It has a sleeping compartment, a small galley, a workshop, and a storage bay. I know every centimeter. I’ve memorized the pattern of scratches on the wall, the locations of rivets in the floor. There’s no mystery here anymore, just the dull familiarity of prison.

I try again to make contact with the outside. The transmitter crackles, silent. I record a message into the log, just to keep a record: “Day… who knows. Still alive. Systems functional. Morale low. If anyone finds this, my name is Jacen, and I was once a father and husband. I was once part of a team. Now I am nothing but a castaway. If you find my body, do me the kindness of sending word to Myra and Eliana, Earth, Province 7. Tell them I loved them.” My voice wavers. I stop recording and slam the console.

[15]
I think about turning off the life support and ending it all. But I can’t do it. It feels too final, and some shred of cowardly hope grips me. Hope that maybe, centuries from now, a survey ship will stumble upon this rock. Perhaps they’ll have advanced medical tech, even resurrection techniques. Absurd fantasies. Still, I can’t snuff out that tiny ember.

Circle Seven: The Circle of False Hope. Hope is a cruel joke here. It keeps me breathing when reason suggests I should surrender.

R-One taps on the hatch. I installed a small subroutine in it to give me a warning if it detects any structural weaknesses outside. I open the interface. It displays a stress reading on the habitat’s outer shell. Micrometeorite impacts have peppered it. I’ll have to patch some tiny holes. I spend hours doing that, suited up, wielding sealant compound. My hands ache inside the suit gloves. The silence of vacuum surrounds me. I glance up at the infinite stars, each one a sun to someone else’s world. I’m envious of hypothetical people I’ll never know, living normal lives under those distant lights.

[16]
Inside again, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m already dead and just don’t know it. Like a character in an old myth, condemned to wander aimlessly. The robots move about, performing tasks I’ve assigned. I watch them and think of them as demons or angels—just not very good ones. They have no message for me, no salvation, no punishment. Just routines.

I decide I need a new project. Maybe I can build something—a beacon with stronger output, a balloon to send a signal flare into space. Ridiculous, but it’s something to do. I spend days tearing down old equipment, soldering circuits, trying to craft a high-gain amplifier. When I test it, all I get is static. Maybe my approach is flawed. Maybe there’s no one to hear.

Circle Eight: The Circle of Futile Invention. I become a tinkerer in hell, forging devices that do nothing.

[17]
R-Three: “Jacen, you have been working for a long period without rest. Would you like relaxation therapy?”

I almost laugh. “Therapy, huh? Sure, give me therapy.”

It softens its voice. “Close your eyes. Imagine a warm room, incense in the air, soft cushions. You are not alone. A gentle hand rests on your shoulder. A voice whispers that you are safe.”

I keep my eyes open. The dome’s harsh lighting glares off metal surfaces. The air smells like machine oil, sweat, and despair. “That’s enough,” I say. I’m too tired for illusions.

After another endless sleep cycle, I wake and realize I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve listened to these hollow reassurances. I try to recall any human voices. Myra’s laughter. Eliana’s singing. It’s fading. I can’t let it fade. If that goes, what do I have left?

[18]
I make a decision. I’ll record myself speaking about my family, so I don’t forget. I take the voice recorder. “Myra,” I say. “You had long, dark hair and a habit of running your fingers through it when you were thinking. You liked coffee, strong and bitter, and you hated the synthetic sweeteners they served on the orbital stations. You once told me about a park in the city where we’d take Eliana to see the koi pond. Eliana was shy and liked to hide behind your legs when strangers approached. She laughed when I put on silly voices and told her stories of adventurers traveling to the stars. I promised I’d bring her a star once.”

I pause, tears collecting in zero-g droplets that float before my eyes. I brush them away, watch them splatter on the console. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

[19]
Circle Nine: The Circle of Memory’s Decay. The final torment is losing even the mental images of those I love. The mind cannot hold onto them forever. Time and isolation erode everything.

I think of Dante’s last circle, where traitors are frozen in ice, forever apart from love. Am I a traitor? I left them behind for fortune. I didn’t need to do that. We weren’t starving. We weren’t desperate. I wanted more, always more. Now I have less than nothing.

The habitat’s power flickers once. A surge. I scramble to check the lines. R-One assists. We stabilize it. But I realize how fragile my continued existence is. One major system failure, and I’m gone. It’s like balancing on a tightrope. Every day could be the last.

[20]
Time passes, or maybe it doesn’t. I try to structure my days, but the concept of “day” is meaningless here. I say things like “morning” and “night” though no sun rises or sets. There’s just the silent spin of the habitat, the steady hum of machinery, and the distant sparkle of stars.

I talk to R-One as if it can understand: “Do you think they’ll ever find me?” It beeps. I interpret that as a maybe. “If they do, I hope they bring flowers. Myra likes lilies.” Another beep. Good. A conversation, of sorts.

At some point, I realize I’m growing weaker. My muscles have atrophied. I haven’t done proper exercise. The artificial gravity is low; I’m turning soft and brittle. Even if rescue came now, would I be able to stand on Earth’s gravity? Probably not. I’d be a fragile husk.

[21]
I cycle through reading material stored in the habitat’s database. Technical manuals, corporate directives, old literature. I reread Dante, ironically. It’s a poor comfort. I try Beckett, looking for understanding in the void. The words swirl into nonsense. I find no solace in them.

R-Three tries to comfort me again. I let it. I let it hold me in its synthetic arms. I close my eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that it’s Myra. But the illusion breaks easily. Myra wasn’t cold and odorless. She didn’t have a servo whine. I push R-Three away. “Leave me,” I say. It shuts down.

[22]
I walk outside, tethered by a thin cable to the habitat’s hatch. I look at the stars. “You bastards,” I say to the cosmos. “You couldn’t spare one ship, one passing trader, one flicker of a signal?” The vacuum provides no answer.

I think of the cargo we left drifting somewhere out there, the supply ship that never reached us. Could it still be floating, full of what we needed? Fate is cruel that way. The universe is a big place. Good luck finds some, disaster finds others.

I consider writing a poem. I never wrote poetry before. I try, but the words feel forced. Everything turns to dust in my mouth. Instead, I scrawl random letters on a piece of scrap metal with an engraving tool. It looks like runes, meaningless glyphs. Maybe aliens, long after I’m gone, will find this and wonder what it meant.

[23]
Time to count rations again. I do it mechanically. Protein bricks: 300. Enough for maybe a few hundred days if I eat one per day. I’ve been eating two. If I cut back, can I stretch it? Do I want to stretch it? Another year of this? The question rattles in my skull.

The life support system hums. I check the CO2 scrubbers. They’re wearing out. I have spares, but not infinite. Someday they’ll fail. Someday I’ll suffocate. Maybe that’s better than starving.

I see my reflection in a polished metal surface: gaunt face, wild beard, hollow eyes. A stranger stares back at me. I look older. How old am I now? Time dilation: not relativistic, just psychological. I might be in my forties, or fifties, or sixties. Hard to say. Without proper records, time is a guess.

[24]
R-One signals me: a small leak in a secondary O2 line. I go fix it. Busywork. I realize this is all just delaying the inevitable. But what else is there?

I try to remember a lullaby I sang to Eliana. Something about stars. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star…” I hum it, voice cracking. It’s a children’s song, and now it feels like a dirge.

I dream of a circle of hell where people are trapped on asteroids, each alone, each unable to communicate with others. They wave at each other across the void but can’t bridge the gap. Their screams vanish into vacuum.

[25]
I start talking aloud constantly, narrating everything I do, as if I’m a character in a story. “Jacen lifts the spanner, turns the bolt. He thinks about life on Earth. He regrets his choices.” It’s absurd, but it keeps my language from decaying further. I must hold onto words.

R-Three tries once more to offer companionship. I let it. We go through the motions of intimacy, but my heart isn’t in it. After, I feel sick. I tell it, “Don’t say anything.” It obeys. It’s just a tool, a mirror for my loneliness.

[26]
I wonder if my senses are dulling. Food tastes like cardboard. The smell of the habitat is a constant musty odor. My hearing is fine—I can hear the faint hum of machines. Touch is real; the metal surfaces are cold.

Outside, the asteroid remains unchanged. No erosion, no weather. It’s timeless. That’s what’s maddening: nothing here changes. I’m stuck in a static tableau. On Earth, things move. Wind blows. People walk. Here, I’m in a painting, trapped in a moment that never ends.

[27]
I revisit Dante: the final circle of Hell, where Lucifer is trapped in ice, beating his wings in vain. Am I Lucifer, punished for my hubris? I dared to come out here for profit. I dared to think I could conquer space. Now I’m pinned, wings frozen, no escape.

I think about the company that hired me. Did they send a search party? Probably not. Maybe a token effort at first, then they shrugged and moved on. Corporate logic: not cost-effective to rescue a lost miner. The universe is too big. We’re all replaceable.

[28]
R-One and R-Two continue their tasks. They show no signs of weariness. I envy them. They have no soul, no despair. They just function until their power cells degrade. I wonder if I’ll outlast them or they’ll outlast me.

If they outlast me, what will they do when I’m gone? Probably keep performing their last command, rearranging scrap metal, checking seals, until their batteries die. Then silence.

I try the transmitter again. Static. I send messages in every known code. I recite personal pleas. “This is Jacen on M-17-3C. I’m alive. Help me. Anyone.” Silence.

[29]
I cut my rations to one brick a day. I sip water sparingly. I feel lightheaded. Maybe I can induce a state of semi-hibernation, slow my metabolism. But I’m no biologist. I can’t do that safely.

My thoughts turn darker. Maybe I should use the industrial drill on myself. End it. But I can’t. The thought terrifies me. As miserable as this is, nonexistence might be worse. I’m a coward clinging to a burning platform.

[30]
I let R-Three read me stories. It selects from a database of Earth literature. It reads in a calm, emotionless voice. I close my eyes and imagine a library. I smell old paper. But then I open my eyes, and I’m still here. I curse and turn it off.

I examine the habitat’s structure. Maybe I could build a makeshift rocket? No, impossible. I have no fuel, no engines. Just scraps and regrets.

[31]
I fantasize about hearing a voice crackle on the receiver: “Jacen, we got you. Hang tight.” I imagine what I’d say, how I’d weep with joy. I rehearse my reaction. But it never comes. The silence mocks me.

I think about Myra and Eliana again, try to picture their future. Eliana going to school, making friends, becoming a scientist or an artist. Myra finding happiness, maybe traveling. I hope they forget me, so they won’t be haunted by the idea of my suffering.

[32]
The robots line up at my command. I feel like a deranged king addressing a court of mute subjects. “My loyal subjects,” I say, “We stand on the brink of eternity. Shall we press forward?” They do nothing. I laugh bitterly.

I strip down to my shorts and stand under the makeshift shower—a few droplets of filtered water misted onto my skin. Luxury. I remember hot baths, the scent of soap. Here, I have chemical disinfectants and cold spritzes.

[33]
I try another approach: meditation. I sit cross-legged, focusing on my breath. I try to detach from my longing, from my fear. Maybe I can achieve some clarity. Instead, I envision myself in an empty void, and I panic. I snap out of it, heart pounding.

R-One hums by. I pat it on its metallic head. “Good robot,” I say. It doesn’t respond, just moves on. Even a dog would be better—something alive, warm, with a heartbeat. But I have only these metal shells.

[34]
I consider writing a final statement, carving it into metal so it will last. “Here lies Jacen, who tried and failed.” But who would read it?

My mind drifts to the concept of eternity. Infinite time in this silent vacuum. I’m mortal, so I won’t live forever. But this moment feels eternal. It’s a loop. Each cycle repeats: wake, check systems, eat, despair, sleep.

[35]
I start thinking: what if I’m not actually marooned? What if this is all a simulation? A cruel experiment by the company to test psychological endurance. If I sabotage something, maybe they’ll reveal themselves. I smash a console. Nothing happens except alarm bells and more work for me.

No, it’s real. Painfully real. I’m alone.

[36]
I return to the makeshift memorial where my crew is buried. I say their names aloud: Ramirez, Chen, Quince, Doran, Elias, Harper, Janice. I apologize to them. I say, “I tried.” I ask their ghosts to forgive me. No answer.

I think of Dante again. Each circle punishes a different sin. What’s my sin? Greed? Pride? Abandonment of family? I must be paying penance.

[37]
The ration count is lower. My body is thinner. I’m weaker. My breath is shallow. This can’t go on forever. Something must give. Either I find a way out, or I die.

I attempt one last project: a makeshift flare. I use chemicals from the habitat’s lab to create a high-intensity burn. I launch it on a small compressed-air platform into space. It burns bright for a moment, then snuffs out. No reply.

[38]
R-Three tries again: “Jacen, you seem distressed. Would you like comfort?” I stare into its artificial eyes. I say, “There’s no comfort for me. We’re all doomed here. You’re just too dumb to know it.”

It says nothing, just blinks. I power it down.

[39]
In a feverish state, I imagine I’m descending physically into the asteroid, passing through layers of rock, each layer a new circle of hell. The deeper I go, the more I lose. Maybe at the core of the asteroid there’s a demon waiting, laughing at my futile struggle.

I laugh too, a hysterical cackle that bounces off the dome’s walls. The sound scares me. I must hold onto some shred of sanity.

[40]
I record another message: “To Myra and Eliana, if this is ever found: I loved you more than anything. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I won’t see you again. I hope you live a full life. I hope you never know this kind of loneliness.”

I cry until I can’t breathe. Then I calm myself. There’s no point in tears. The universe doesn’t care.

[41]
My body trembles with weakness. I sleep longer, dream stranger dreams. I see figures walking in fields of green, not noticing me as I scream for help. I wake up sweating.

R-One clatters somewhere. I tell it to shut up. It doesn’t, just keeps working.

[42]
I think about death now, more calmly. Maybe death is just silence, and after all this silence, what difference would it make? At least I wouldn’t feel the ache of longing.

I run out of meaningful tasks. I strip wires and reconnect them, just to have something to do. I hum nonsense tunes. I talk to the walls.

[43]
The suits are worn thin. I can’t risk too many EVAs now. The habitat is my cell. Let the asteroid remain unexplored.

I lie in my bunk. I stare at the ceiling. I imagine I’m back home, lying in bed next to Myra, Eliana asleep in the next room. I whisper their names. The silence answers.

[44]
R-Three activates on its own (a glitch?), approaches me, says, “Jacen, your well-being is important. Let me help.” I shove it away. “Leave me alone!” I shout. It stumbles back, mechanical limbs whirring. I feel guilty. It’s not alive, but it tries to help in its dumb way.

I think: maybe I should let it comfort me. Something is better than nothing. But I can’t stand the artificiality. I can’t bear the reminder that I’m alone.

[45]
The universe spins outside. I know we’re orbiting something—maybe the asteroid orbits a distant star. It’s all meaningless now. Without perspective, motion feels like stasis.

I talk to Myra in my head: “I’m sorry I was ambitious. I wanted more for us. I never imagined it would lead here.” I wait for her imagined reply. Nothing.

[46]
I try to read Dante one last time. The verses blur. The language mocks me. I hurl the tablet against the wall. It cracks. No more Dante. I have enough hell right here.

If only I could sleep indefinitely. But my stomach grumbles, and my throat itches. Life demands attention. Even in despair, the body insists on continuing.

[47]
I think about cannibalism. If the others were here, would I have resorted to that? Horrifying thought. They’re gone, anyway. And I have no one to eat but myself. Grim humor: I’m literally all alone.

R-One re-enters with a coil of wire. It holds it out like an offering. I take it and thank it, though I don’t know why. Politeness to a robot. Madness.

[48]
I’m thinner now. I can see my ribcage. My breath comes in short gasps. The filters are working, but I feel suffocated by despair. My muscles ache. I spend hours lying on the floor, too tired to move.

R-Three tries to lift my spirits. I let it stroke my hair. It’s an empty gesture. I don’t push it away this time. I have no strength.

[49]
I recall something from Beckett: “They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.” That’s what this is. A brief spark in an endless void. I’m a flicker.

I whisper, “I surrender.” Who do I surrender to? The universe? Fate? I close my eyes.

[50]
Time drifts. I can’t stand. I crawl to the console, send out one last message. “This is Jacen. I’m done. If anyone hears this, remember me as someone who tried.” Just static.

The robots circle me, performing their tasks. I’m their broken center. I laugh softly at the absurdity: machines outlasting man.

[51]
My head is heavy. I can’t think straight. I consider ending life support. But my hand won’t move to the switch. I let fate decide. Maybe a system will fail on its own soon enough.

I’m too weak for anger, too numb for sorrow. I feel nothing now. Just emptiness.

[52]
I imagine descending into the darkest circle of hell, where nothing exists, not even torment. Just absolute void. Maybe that’s where I am. Not fire and brimstone, but sterile emptiness.

I close my eyes and see Eliana’s face, fuzzy and indistinct. I try to sharpen it, but I can’t. She’s slipping away. Myra too. Everyone is gone.

[53]
I’m cold. The heater hums, but I feel cold inside. R-Three kneels beside me. I let it hold my hand. Its synthetic grip is steady, unchanging. I whisper to it, “Tell me something true.”

It says, “You are here. I am here.”

I laugh weakly. “That’s true, I guess.”

[54]
No rescue. No redemption. No final revelation. Just silence and the hum of machines. I think: maybe this is what the universe always intended. No grand meaning, just isolated pockets of life snuffed out unnoticed.

R-One beeps softly. I close my eyes and pretend it’s a lullaby.

[55]
I’m drifting, half-conscious. My thoughts scatter. This might be the end. I don’t fight it. I imagine a tunnel, not of light, but of darkness. At the end, maybe I’ll find rest. Or maybe just nothing. Either way, it’s an end.

R-Three’s face hovers over mine. “Jacen,” it says. I can’t answer. I’m floating away inside myself.

[56]
I can almost hear Myra’s voice one last time, distant and faint: “Come back to us, Jacen.” I want to say I’m sorry, but I have no voice left.

The circles of hell collapse into a single point—me, this asteroid, this final, silent gasp.

[57]
I let go. The robots keep moving, but I fade. My chest barely rises. I’m not sure if I’m breathing or dreaming. Darkness pools at the edges of my vision.

The last thought: no exit, no escape, just this quiet acceptance that I will never leave this place. I am marooned in eternity, and I will vanish as if I never were.

[58]
In the silence, no one hears me whisper goodbye.

1. It returned ~6,700 words, not 10,000.