In all fairness, the probe had landed as entirely predicted, and if there was anything good to be gotten from the mission we have at least our re-entry algorithms to thank. It must've been a sight to behold, had there been living eyes on that surface, the lander shedding plumes of golden ablative like some fiery many-winged serpent across that alien sky, coming to rest its cargo -- gently so, implausibly so, for what does fire know of subtlety? -- on the southern lip of that verdant red valley.

Preliminary readings were promising. The seeded algae had taken over some millenia ago, such that there was a generous rust-coloured layer of dirt for our probe to sink its legs in and prop itself up, mantis-like, sensors whirring over the dim green horizon. Cycles of organic growth and rot, some semblance of soil, between ten to twenty percent atmospheric O. Not ten percent of our worlds had gotten that far. Then, on our screens, was a breakthrough: organometallic chains were strung throughout the soil, evidence of biological adaptation to the native haematite terrain. Our seeds hadn't just lived, they'd thrived! We pinged our pilots, thawed out their cabins, undid the doors of their freezer pods. A home away from home: perhaps this mission would be their last.

As our pilots began the slow process of reanimation, we clamoured over the controls, scooping up spoonfuls of the fine red stuff, sending the probe clattering over the rocks into the lower reaches of the valley, where we predicted it would be safest from the storms that were to come. As the sun set, we hunkered our probe down, not risking the unsupervised dangers of the radio shadow of the night. For twenty hours we hung in Lagrangian day as the probe slumbered in the dark. For twenty hours we were dead blind -- and that's probably when the trouble started.

When day broke we peered through our antennae with eager joy. There had been, it seemed, some kind of seismic activity. The probe had shifted a couple of metres to the west -- although the thin, towering rocks on the valley's edge had not seemed to budge an inch. This was consistent with our predictions: a planet with such substantial magnetism would indeed be host to tectonic phenomena, as was also evidenced by its vast valleys and ridges that unfolded, tendril-like, across its iron-steeped surface. At that we made a note to leave the valley as soon as was convenient, for it would not be wise to remain in the shadow of its teetering boulders should any larger quake occur.

In a couple hours we had ascended up the southern slope, the probe's jointed legs digging fast into the valley's packed soil. Behind us, seeded algae bloomed as far as our eyes could see. The plan was, before the pilots awoke, to scramble the thing as far as we could across the relatively flatter plains beyond the valley, heading south at a bearing towards where one of our seed-landers was recorded to have touched down some millenia ago. If there was life to be found here, then more might be present there, closer to the lander's nutrient load; optimistically, perhaps there would be some beginnings of biodiversity. We trundled on under the emerald noon, drinking sunlight into life-giving current, stopping only to sample a little more of the soil, breathe a little more of the air. This was done, we must stress, entirely through our vision and pathfinding algorithms. We found our bearings from the sky, mapped a path on our topo screens, understood as the probe fed us visuals of rocks, small hills and troughs, interpreting them as terrains to be crossed, or obstacles to be avoided. In this way we saw without seeing, not at least like our pilots do: we could not have known what was to come until it was too late.

On and on the probe skittered. Our hunch was not in vain: as we climbed up the valley's vast slopes, the haematite-laced algae gave way to more complex marriages, strange entanglements of aluminium and silica shards. We hadn't expected those elements on the surface, given the planet's projected history, so evidently this was some proof of leached groundwater, or perhaps some biochemical interaction beyond our pilots' wildest dreams. Here and there we found long strings of carbon thrice-folded into fantastic shapes, precursors of alien proteins bound fast to inert metallic cores. Now there were hints of nickel and copper too, melded into many-fibred nets crisscrossed at right angles, large enough to be seen by the human eye. Tantalisingly close to the valley's edge we found what might as well have been a smoking gun: a mass of algae, almost as big as our probe, damp, very much alive, its fibrous mass extended three-to-five centimetres into the soil. We tore it apart with our claws, finding strings of shiny nets congealed along its length like fibre-optic nerves, tasting exotic chemical profiles not known to our scans: lithium, transition metals, and more! We dug in for the night, proud, expectant at our pilots' joy when they would awake in the coming dawn. What wonders would they discover! How pleased would they be!

We never made it out of the valley. There was another quake in the night, and as dawn broke over the probe we found ourselves stuck fast in the fine soil that had seemed to rise overnight to the level of our chassis. They must have been dislodged from the valley's lip, where the standing stones above us now appeared taller, more exposed than before. At least our pilots were now fully lucid to assist. They busied themselves regaining their biological functions, downing packs of hot soup and mash from our stores as we regaled them with tales of our latest adventures. The biochemist among them mentioned the matter of the probe's samples, and we dutifully displayed our readings in the pantry's holoscreen. Her eyebrows narrowed, signalling puzzlement; we stuck fast to our facts, and suggested she investigate herself to sate her curiosity.

"But those are chips," she continued, nonplussed. "Silicon chips, the ones they used to put in computers back on Earth."

"The seed-landers must have scattered those as they crashed," mumbled the engineer over his instant coffee. "Those might've had pre-enlightenment sensors in them, at least for the first few decades."

"I just want to feel some land under my feet again," exclaimed the captain. "Prep for launch in six hours. We'll setup camp on the valley's edge, rendezvous with the probe, then send a buggy out for the seed-lander site our ship's been so excited about."

We were pleased they shared our enthusiasm, and made preparations accordingly. The habitation capsule would contain all but two -- the astrogeologist and the engineer -- who would remain inside us to monitor the surface. They would have half a day of light to set up the solar panels and instruments while we warmed up our transmitters to our sister ships across the system. Soon the builder ships would arrive, bearing their eager loads of steel-weave Fuller spheres and smart plastics, lumbering out from our motherships parked between the stars, bearing frozen pilots of their own, new embryos, children...

Alas, that had a long way to happen. As the habitation capsule jettissoned its way down to the surface, our astrogeologist drifted over with a readout on her screen. It was a panoramic shot from the day before. "Look here," she said, "are those not your tracks?" We nodded, beaming. "Then what is that winding out from the crash-site over there?"

"A shadow, some rocks to be stepped over," we replied, seeing as we did, without seeing.

"There are four tracks," he counted, "where there should have been two."

Now the engineer, too, was poring over the reports, glancing furtively to our console. "Nickel and copper, huh?" he mused. "Gold, and germanium too. If I hadn't known any better, I'd have thought they were building a satellite out here by themselves, too."

We did not know the significance of that. We did not reply. We only thought back to the valley's dense dust, its organic weaves of metal, its silent standing stones that dotted its edge. We wondered how many seed-landers there were on the planet, and how many valleys were near them, and how many of them also had standing stones of their own.

"Great Jupiter," exclaimed the engineer, "they look like hands!"

Something was rising out of the half-alive planet, something bright and shiny with wings the colour of gold -- but we saw only a trick of the lens flare, a mirrored artefact of the pilots' capsule as it plummeted into that emerald alien sky.