The sun rises for the ninth time, meaning that the lander is in the dead of night. Probably so is Control. He flicks his solar visor down to reduce the glare.
A small blue number ticks the seconds away as he waited on a response from Earth.
A magnetic plate was haphazardly stuck onto the hull near an open panel. Tools on synthafiber tethers dance weightless around his suit.
On his shoulder he sports a proud blue and white logo representing his company, Dynacore, an offworld mining venture, just now getting its hooks into Mars soil.
He is a technician, so he has the pleasure of staying aboard the craft and maintaining it while his other three crewmates have adventures down below.
Not that he really minded. He is the loneliest human who ever existed up there. When he goes behind Mars and the lander and his crewmates, he is the farthest from any other person he could be.
Something about that appealed to him. Michael Collins eat your heart out.
Seven minutes. A response should be coming any time soon.
He looks "down," as it were, at the dusty red surface below him. Somewhere down there Dynacore believed there was platinum, gold, plutonium.
The initial geological surveys done by NASA indicate otherwise, but the higher ups in the company remain adamant that they would find something. That's not his job though.
"Pascal, thread the ribbon through, but we are reading a no-go on initialization yet, repeat, no-go on initialization. Over." His radio crackled in his ear.
"Roger Control, standing by. Over."
Of course initialization was a no-go, he still hadn't fixed the source of the surge on the panel. If he turned it on right now theres no telling the damage it would cause to the rest of the ship.
Next they'll tell him to keep breathing.
He stares at the Martian north pole.
He receives orders from Control.
He finishes his job.
He is asleep before the tenth sun rises.