Statued in No Legacy

I watch from afar to avoid startling the cavorting hares. Squeaking echoes through the dusty planes as they passionately hop. They form a circle around the figure. The setting star stretches their shadow into gargantuan beasts. Their truth, far smaller. Far more fragile.

The statue’s stance is modest. One arm rests while the other, torn from the shoulder, is raised. A faint smile lazes. Piercing eyes look ahead below a furrowed brow that persistently aims at an impossible destiny. Discoloured by time and damaged by something far more sinister, the statue firmly stands.

I don’t know what I expected from this planet, EX-P1L00. Certainly, not this.

My father purchased it a while ago, apparently. When I inherited it, I prompted a mission to start a colony. There was more to it than that. I had something impossible in mind. Many impossible things, actually.

Details escape me. Most of what I know comes from ship logs. What I feel inside was not recorded. In my heart, resolve. A firm belief that words I once uttered at rallies were not empty promises, but, in fact, prophecies bound by fate that even probability favoured.

How did my ego become so large? I still wonder, as the hares pause their dance to bow.

What kind of man was I? Perhaps a liar so silver tongued, my own ears believed my words. Trapped in myself, I could either feel strife and suffocate, or accept maybe I am telling the truth. A man who lied like he breathed.

That was my first thought. Pessimism crawls, like a survival instinct to keep me prepared.

Next settled the more optimistic view. One extrapolated from documentation. Nothing instinctive or warped by present uncertain circumstances.

Documents read a population count. A statistic, sure, but more than that; a list of names, birthdays, hobbies, dreams and aspirations. Not just numbers, but pictures. Portraits of the many who volunteered their lives to aid the mission. Portraits that I drew with my name, Pater Romas, signed on each paper.

Fingerprints of groups congregating.

Faith in the collective. An unshakeable one bore not on an individual, rather carried shoulder to shoulder by those who shared the will. I once believed in the impossible because I believed in the people. Should this be the case, it was then not ego, but confidence backed by the collective.

I hope that’s who I was. I still have my doubts.

The hares now shudder holding their bowing position. Even with furry coats, their strained muscles are visible. The star’s light is nearly all sunken beneath the horizon.

Surfacing on this planet brought with it doubts to my optimistic self-view. I believed in myself – I still do – not for any speculation, but instead truth. Such as, I am here now alive. That is enough to give me hope, however it is not enough to stifle doubt. Together, they sit side by side like twins in a pram.

The planet was marketed as oxygen rich. Earth-like with foliage, water oceans, and only primitive beings; relatively harmless mammal-like creatures, and a few potential edge cases. Non-intelligent was a keyword.

A proximal wormhole was laid perfectly, right in a path for regular old hyper travel for those craving some relativistic time. It was the perfect planet for wealthy trillionaires looking for investments.

So why, after all that, was my introduction to this planet a blaring alarm from my ship's oxygen levels indicator? Unbreathable, it said. The skies are torched purple, the ground is grainy and dusty black sand, there is no green in sight. Nothing indicated a life bearing planet.

And more worrisome, where are the people I came here with? Where are the unwavering collective who erected my confidence? That is why I still doubt myself.

The planet’s star has set. The hares raise and break formation, scattering as if disturbed by thunder. The clear, starry night sky lights the world. Torches on my helm activate, pointing a path to the statue.

There is another reason I still believe in my past self, beyond being alive. A human statue and a troupe of ritualistic hares. Nothing indicated life, until those. Nothing indicated hope, until those.

I make my pilgrimage, stepping with balance. My immediate goal is to simply make my way to it. Anything beyond that is a gift.

I reach the statue. Pellets of faeces dot across the circumference. The face is familiar. His lips are thin and shapely. His nose is large; you could tell he could see it bulging in his peripheral sight. His ears are covered by his shaggy hair.

At the base of the statue read a signage:

For the man who missed the gate.

He once dreamed of greatness. This statue should suffice for now.

Arrival date: XX.XX.XXXX

Sur Patar Romas

I fall to the ground.

“Oxygen levels safe,” announces my suit.

Good timing. I need air.

Hurriedly, I take off my helm, and breathe heavy breaths. I try my damndest to calm my nerves, but nothing works. My breathing stutters. I want to cry, but the air tastes sharp and cold, like needles on my tongue.

Futile, I rest my head on the black sand and faeces.

Suddenly, with no announcement, the hares reappear. More of them than before. I remain still, not startled, uncaring. They surround me like they did the statue. They bow as the only life left to a harmonious society I could never build.