The Last Ship OverMars

They called it The Exodus.

After centuries of pollution, war, and failed climate recovery, Earth had finally given up on its tenants. The oceans rose, crops died, and cities were swallowed whole by sandstorms and silence. But in the chaos, a miracle appeared — OverMars Station, a floating colony tethered to Mars’ orbit, humanity’s last breath of salvation.

Only one ship remained. Only 2,000 could board.

Dr. Elias Renner was number 1,998.

Or so he thought.

He woke up to silence.

No hum of engines. No radio chatter. No rhythmic thud of boots on the corridor floor. Just silence, and the hiss of his own breath inside the suit.

The clock in his helmet blinked red: +03:12:07

Three hours. The ship had launched three hours ago.

He stumbled forward, out of the airlock, out of the docking bay, across the cracked and dim corridors of what was once a temporary launch base near Olympus Mons. Empty chairs. Abandoned tools. Spilled coffee still floating in zero-g near the mess station.

“Hello?” he called out, voice echoing uselessly. “This is Dr. Elias Renner. Please respond. I— I was supposed to be on the last ship.”

Only static replied.

The last transmission he remembered was scrambled.

"Renner, are you in position?"

"Cabin 14. I’m strapped in."

"Good. Countdown at T-minus two minutes. Final check—"

Then, darkness. A sudden jolt. A gas leak from the coolant pipe, maybe. His helmet readout had gone black for a full five minutes. When it rebooted, they were gone.

He hadn't even been a priority rescue.

The base had supplies. Oxygen for 60 days. Rations for 90. One rover. One functional drone. One man, left behind by humanity’s final hope.

Renner sat in the command center, staring at the screen showing a rapidly fading dot — The Exodus. The ship carrying what remained of Earth’s brightest, strongest, youngest.

A whisper of laughter escaped his throat. “Guess I wasn't strong or bright enough.”

He recorded a message anyway.

To whoever finds this: I am the last human on Mars. I was left behind. I don’t blame them. Maybe someone thought I was dead. Maybe someone just forgot. But I am alive. And I will try to survive. For as long as it matters.

Days passed. Then weeks.

He named the rover Daisy, after his sister. He reprogrammed the base drone to play piano recordings — not actual songs, just randomized keys that made him feel less alone.

He wrote letters he knew no one would read.

He yelled at the stars.

He cried. He built a small greenhouse, though he knew the plants wouldn’t survive the solar radiation for long.

He sang to them anyway.

He wasn’t sure if he was going mad or simply becoming more human.

On Day 47, he found something.

A pulse — faint and erratic — on the long-range scanner. It wasn't The Exodus. Too small, too close. A pod? A drone?

He scrambled to boost the signal. Days of radio silence cracked open like a blister.

Unidentified distress beacon. Encrypted.

Origin: Earth surface, Sector 71-B. Atlantic Subdome.

Date: 3 days ago.

Three days ago. Earth was supposed to be lost. Dead. Collapsed.

Renner’s hands shook as he patched a reply.

This is Dr. Elias Renner, OverMars Station. I’m alive. Who are you?

No response.

He sent the message every hour for the next three days.

Nothing. But the pulse kept repeating. Like a heartbeat. Day 59.

Renner stood at the edge of the launch bay, staring at the emergency escape pod. It wasn’t built for long-distance travel. Maybe a lunar hop, maybe a descent to Mars surface. Not spaceflight.

But the beacon was real. Something — someone — was still alive. Down there.

And maybe that was all that mattered.

He loaded three days of oxygen, emergency rations, and a photo of his family. He scribbled a note on the whiteboard:

“Gone looking. Maybe for others. Maybe just for purpose. Either way, better than waiting.”

He didn’t expect anyone to read it.

The pod ignited, shaking as it broke from its locks. As it drifted away from the station, Renner looked out the small window.

Mars rotated slowly beneath him — red, angry, forgotten.

Above him, the stars stretched wider than ever. Somewhere beyond them, The Exodus soared on. Humanity’s hope, sailing toward a better world.

But in that moment, Elias Renner was not sad.

He was not bitter.

He was alive.

And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the last.