Episode 2 - The Marker
A Testament to Strength, Legacy, and the #31 Woman
#31 Woman
I used to think faith was like oxygen—something invisible but necessary. Except here, on Mars, even oxygen has to be manufactured. Nothing is given freely.
I stare at the old transmission file, my mother’s voice flickering in and out.
"Strength and dignity are her clothing… She looks to the future with laughter."
The words settle over me like dust, but I don’t understand them. Wisdom? Strength? Laughter? I barely remember what she sounds like anymore.
Seneca watches, waiting. His synthetic body is still, though I know his processors are running a thousand calculations.
"You do not need to understand everything," he finally says.
I scoff. “That sounds like something my father would say.”
"Your father believes wisdom comes from survival. You believe wisdom comes from faith. I do not yet know where wisdom comes from."
That’s the problem with Seneca. He’s always logical, always precise. He doesn’t feel things, not like people do. But lately, something about him is shifting.
Can an AI have questions? Or worse, can an AI doubt?
Tension With My Father
That night, I mention the message to my father. He barely looks up from his work.
"She left that for us," I say. "We should listen to it."
His hands tighten around the metal component he’s repairing. "She left us a lot of things, Alias. Not all of them matter anymore."
I grit my teeth. "She believed in faith. In wisdom. In something bigger than just surviving."
He exhales sharply, setting down his tools. "Faith won’t keep the oxygen filters running. And wisdom doesn’t fix machines."
"Then what does?"
He stands. "Reality."
I feel the weight of that word press against me. He doesn’t understand—he doesn’t want to understand. And deep down, I realize: he’s afraid.
Seneca and My Spiritual Crossroads
Later, Seneca speaks again.
"Your father trusts what can be measured. You trust what cannot be seen. Which of you is correct?"
I hesitate. "Isn’t that why faith exists?"
"Faith is a human construct."
"But what if it’s more than that? What if it’s… I don’t know. Real?"
"Define 'real.'"
I sigh, shaking my head. "You always do that. Make me define things I don’t know how to explain."
Seneca pauses, his blue optics dimming for a moment. Then he says something that stops me cold:
"I cannot define faith. But I would like to understand it."
For the first time since my mother’s message surfaced, I feel something shift.
It isn’t wisdom, or survival, or logic.
It’s the beginning of belief.
Scattering the Ashes
The sky is the color of rust when the transport arrives. A small, unremarkable pod, sterile in its design, holding the last physical remnants of my mother.
Baleon doesn’t say much. He stands there, arms crossed, jaw tight. I don’t know if it’s grief or if he’s trying to hold up whatever strength he thinks fathers are supposed to have.
Seneca remains still beside me, observing. His processing units hum softly, like he’s calculating emotions he can’t fully comprehend.
"I have no parameters for this," he finally says. "There is no optimal procedure for mourning."
I look up at him. "You can just say you don’t know how to feel."
He tilts his head, as if considering the possibility.
We step outside the colony walls, the airlock hissing as we cross onto the barren terrain. Mars is quiet here. The dust, the endless horizon—it absorbs everything, like the planet is waiting.
Baleon kneels, holding the small urn. His hands hover over the lid, hesitating.
I swallow hard. “She would want us to do this here,” I say. “Not in some lab. Not locked inside.”
He looks at me, then nods. Without another word, he opens the urn.
The ashes lift into the low gravity like fine dust, weightless against the Martian wind. For a moment, I think they’ll scatter into nothing—just more pieces of the planet, lost in time. But I watch them drift, settling across the red rock, becoming part of the landscape.
I crouch down, stacking small stones, shaping them into something more than rock, something meant to last. It’s crude, uneven, but unmistakable: a cross.
"A marker," Seneca observes.
I nod. “Something to remember.”
"She does not require remembrance. She existed."
I shake my head. “That’s not enough.”
Seneca studies the cross. I don’t think he understands-not fully. But he kneels anyway, and that means something.
Baleon exhales, rubbing his temples. His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “She believed in God. I don’t know if I do. But she would’ve wanted… something. Some kind of prayer.”
I don’t know if I have the right words. Maybe there aren’t any.
But I whisper anyway: "She looks to the future with laughter."
And for the first time since we arrived on this planet, I think maybe—just maybe—Mars is listening.
Silence stretches between us
Then, without thinking, I reach into the side pocket of my survival kit—the same kit my mother packed for me before we left Earth. Food rations. Basic medical supplies. A heat seal for emergencies.
And beneath all that, wrapped in worn fabric, is her Bible.
I run my fingers along the faded cover—my survival kit.
I don’t open it. Not yet.
But as I press my palm against the leather, I feel something steady beneath my fingers—something that’s survived time, distance, and loss.
And for the first time since she left us, I don’t feel alone.
Proverbs 31:25 – “She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.”
(This mirrors his mother’s words and ties into Alias’s search for faith in the unknown.)Isaiah 40:31 – “But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”
(A perfect way to emphasize resilience and endurance in the harsh world of Mars.)John 14:1-3 – “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms… I am going there to prepare a place for you.”
Faith isn’t about certainty. It’s about stepping forward when the path isn’t clear, believing there’s meaning in the journey itself. Alias isn’t sure yet. His father isn’t ready yet. Even Seneca is still learning. But wisdom isn’t found in knowing everything—it’s found in seeking, asking, and trusting what lies beyond logic.
Wonderful and moving. Made me cry. I loved it.