The wind over the frozen road snapped with a chill of nine degrees below zero, though no snow fell. Fade put his hands in his pockets, which did little as he braced for the icy winds of the open tundra as they pushed him like a crowd of ice spirits.
In the time he trudged along the road, the wind chill dropped another twenty degrees. His forehead went numb despite his old hat, and his hands turned a pale blue despite being buried in his coat pockets. A white splotch grew on the tip of his nose, his body vibrated until his chattering teeth couldn’t be suppressed. He wrapped his coat tightly and pulled down his hat as far as it would go, wandering to the side of the road. His vision blurred as the wind stung his eyes. Each breath punched his trachea, painfully cooling his lungs.
Creaky brush and thorny wild shrubs were the only nearby plant life; their branches were like the fingers of Methuselah. Sharp bluish needles that grew on dry twigs become projectiles with every gust of wind. Fade narrowly avoided a few, then crouched to the ground, actually crawling forward. Just what he needed, to get caught a wind storm. When the wind finally changed direction, he could walk without fear of the Methuselah needles.
He came to a fork in the dirt road where three large needle bushes divided the pass. They waved in the wind. The hangar was two-hundred and fifty meters away on the left fork. There were no clouds. Only a few hundred stars shone brightly enough to be seen over the brightness of the dual moons, though Dion was beginning to eclipse Ameena. A pale blue light invigorated the bushes. Fade wanted out of the cold; he couldn’t be bothered to admire the moonlight. He hated this planet; it sucked. And tonight, the weather was worse than expected. The forecasts for this area did not mention wind storms. His boot hit a rock and he almost fell, but staggered to a recovery.
Pop! Ping! Pang! Pop! The seed pods of the Methuselah plants were bursting. Their distinct, intermittent popping sound was the beginnings of a seed storm. The tall thorn bushes were spread in clusters over the tundra. They grew almost six meters high, wide yet scrawny. Seed pods grew from their branches along with the needles. The sharp splintering seeds inside each pod were barely half a millimeter wide and numbered in the thousands.
Fade pulled goggles out of his coat, placed a long strip of cotton between his lips, plugged his nostrils, and attached a red respirator over his mouth. The next gust of wind sent seeds against his hat and coat. They found the openings of his boots and filled them. They clung to his wool stockings. They sliced the paper-white, frostbitten skin of his fingers and clung tenaciously to any exposed skin.
A symphony of seed pods opening anew in the freezing wind forced Fade to breathe with difficulty through an increasingly clogged respirator. He became light headed, but couldn’t dare take off the over-used piece of equipment. The seeds were designed to kill. They tore flesh and poisoned the lungs. The decaying corpses of the tundra provided the most fertile growing area for new bushes during the thaw. Some of the tallest Methuselah plants grew around the bones of hapless tundra caribou.
Fade made little progress until the popping of the pods subsided. The seeds either blew away or settled towards the ground. When the air cleared, his hangar was within sight. A shake of the head and an arch of the neck helped to brisk his unsteady step, but awakened a numbing chill which traveled up his cheek, then down across his shoulders and over his back. He removed his protective gear, throwing the clogged respirator on the ground and spitting away the cotton strip as he passed a ruined vehicle.
The hover car had gray steel scars over its dark green body; the formerly molten material had hardened like gray liquid stuck in time. They vehicle’s injuries lacked rust, though piles of thorn seed sat against the craters and stuck to the crack in the windshield. Burnt looking components hung from the vehicle’s underbelly. Decal letters on the front fender gave the name of the manufacturer: Winston-Marleson. Fade kicked the glass through on the passenger side window as he passed. As it shattered onto the leather upholstery, a million reflections of the lunar duo formed. A splinter of glass on the fuzzy dice caught his eye. Fade grabbed the dice; they were good luck after all.
Drowsiness set in Fade’s head, everything became peaceful, normal. He almost fell over, but shook himself and stumbled onwards to the hangar of aluminum sheet metal. The bomber hanger looked as if its huge cylindrical roof had been forced on an unstable square of concrete. A metal door served as the personnel entrance. Fade attempted to grasp the knob with his numb hands, and failing that he considered the weak constitution of the latches before slamming it with his shoulder. The force would have been more than sufficient to break it open if it hadn’t been frozen into the frame.
Instead, his shoulder popped in protest. Fade concentrated for a moment before busting the latch with one swift kick. Shattering ice crystals flew from the door jamb, landing inside the hanger where it was still well below freezing. Wind slapping the sheet metal sounded like a toddler playing drums. Fade slammed the door shut and put a cinder block in front of it.
“Lights, low level,” Fade said.
The Imminent Destruction, Fade’s cruiser, gleamed in the hushed lighting of the hanger. The silver vessel consisted of a triangular front, a rounded midsection, and pipe shaped thrusters extending from its backside. The ship had a plateau like geography along its underbelly, where panels crisscrossed one another at various heights. The flotation devices of the landing gear were six meters in width and three meters in length. The A.G. N. ( Anti-Gravitational Navigation) pods were the only visible engine components. They looked like raised birthmarks of pale blue that covered much of the ship’s underbelly. Fade sat at the steps leading to ship’s hatch and rubbed his hands, allowing his fingers some time to thaw.
Warmer air from critical systems that could not be shut down without extra expense helped. A flexible tube extended from the body of the cruiser, revealing a screen displaying a circular bubble. It scanned him with infra-red, sonogram, radar, and modified X-ray applications. A monotone voice from side speakers caused the tube to vibrate.
“Captain Defacto, your average body temperature is 86.73 degrees. I would advise you enter the ship’s medical station for immediate treatment, or at least remain active in a warmer area. The temperature in this hangar is 30.17 degrees Fahrenheit and declining while the temperature in your office is a constant 74.55 degrees.”
“I thought you were on idle until tomorrow.”
“It’s the manufacturer’s recommendation that this ship’s computer remain active at all times.”
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“Apparently, they never thought about the owner’s sanity.”
“Captain Defacto, why are you remaining in the cold? Please take action to warm yourself. Our next mission commences tomorrow during the eleventh hour and thirty second minute of the Hakkutian day, four hours after planetary dawn.”
“I already know that.”
“Then why are you in such dreadful condition?” it asked, “I regard myself as a vessel of the highest integrity, and I would like my chief officer be sober, healthy and well rested. You have flunked in all three subjects. This is especially disconcerting, considering your crew is below the number and competence recommended by the manufacturer.”
“A computer that makes value judgments.... were you programmed by--never mind--dumb thought.”
A second hose confronted Fade and blew warm air onto his face. He tried to push it away but it wasn’t budging. Another extended from the ship’s underbelly to warm his hands. Fade winced as he pushed it downward, as it felt like his fingers were coming off.
“Would you cut it out?” Fade snapped, “You’re wasting fuel!”
“The heat is the natural result of system operation. You need the warm air; if you persist in remaining out here at least let me provide warmth. As you may recollect, I advised against stopping at the Cozy Tavern after your business trip to Grand Hakkunia. I warned you about lack of resources for transportation and the high probability of inclement weather conditions despite local forecasts stating otherwise. I would have picked you up myself, but you had issued strict orders against such independent actions. Not to mention how your miserly fuel management code restricts my capabilities.”
“I have my reasons; they’re good enough,” Fade grunted.
“Since you refuse to warm yourself or get rest I’ll now report the maintenance history of my anti-gravitational lift systems in full detail.”
It proceeded to speak of the construction of the lift pads and the long list of advanced compounds that mixed together to temper gravitational forces acting on the cruiser. The lecture continued with a reading of the maintenance log, repeating details about when and how often the compounds had been changed, updated, refilled, mixed, and separated.
“Enough!” Fade snapped, squeezing the pair of fuzzy dice in his pocket. Luckily the tiny bit of beaded glass on them couldn’t cut his fingers, “You win. I’m going to bed.”
Fade cracked his back. His burning hands were swollen & red. He rubbed them together as he walked toward the tool shed.
“They’re in the early stages of frost bite,” the computer explained, “Do not rub your flesh. Be sure to soak your hands in lukewarm water for a half hour, then pat dry and liberally apply cellular restoration liquid to the skin as a cautionary measure.”
“Horace,” Fade said, “Stand down for the rest of the night, so much as another word and I’ll have your programming erased.”
“Captain, I’m merely-” Horace complained.
“I’m not kidding,” Fade snapped.
The snake-like tubes withdrew into the ship as Fade approached the hangar’s tool shed. It was a ten-meter high, windowless, concrete structure that barely managed to stand against the hangar’s wall. The edges of its roof crumbled; mortar and cinder block broke loose from the corners. Stacks of old tools pushed against the side wall. A rusty metal door served as the only entrance or exit. A black crowbar dangled from an empty hole where there had once been a knob. He pulled on it to open the door.
The interior of the shed was warmer. A battery powered heater stood near the door, blowing hot air through glass nodules over its surface; there were others like it throughout the room. The familiar smell of oil, repair fluid, and the bitter scent of fusion liquids overwhelmed the sleeping area, which consisted of two rusted bed frames with thin, saggy mattresses. A chest of drawers separated them, a misused kitchen piece assembled from prefabricated algae fiber board; one of its elongated handles was missing.
Torn pages from swimsuit magazines, old receipts, dues notices, and even dirty rags were scattered across the floor. Piles of yellowing newspapers from the planetary capital were underneath the table; each pile topped with laser rifle parts salvaged from the broken weapons. Old refraction lenses, many cracked and bent, formed dusty piles besides the papers. Stacked to the side of this mess was a light duty power generator left to rust from the acid of its own batteries.
Empty shell casings and burnt cigarettes were scattered along the edges of a well-worn, pea soup colored, carpet. Mildew grew in the corners; it climbed into the brick mortar as it fed on condensation. In front of the beds and around the doorway the carpet nearly became a powder. Holes revealed crusty glue over exposed concrete.
An advertisement by the Harn Empire’s commission of tropical resources had fallen from its wood board mount. It now laid over the newspapers beside the table. A model with long jet-black hair and an enticingly tight swimsuit stood in ankle deep water at the front of a waterfall, sipping a mango cocktail. Lens lotion from a damaged laser pistol resting on the fallen poster discolored her left thigh.
Bert Slemgut, the Imminent Destruction’s mechanic, slept soundly on the bed to the left. A lamp without a shade forced harsh unforgiving light that silhouetted Bert’s pointy nose like a razors edge. Stick like shadows formed from his facial hair, making his chin look hairier than it was as he snored from atop every pillow they owned. The soft pillows sunk so deeply that his ears were covered. Excessive drool oozed from the corner of Bert’s mouth. Bare feet hung over the bottom edge of the bed frame, though Bert had not bothered to remove his other work clothes. His blue uniform was gray with dust where its color had not been wholly eliminated by oil or grease.
The stench of dirt, oil, and bodily functions that wafted from the bed was tempered with strong alcohol. The extension barrel of a model forty-two laser pistol peeked from behind the lamp, an ancient weapon that required special canisters to charge, it was practically Bert’s child. It wasn’t fully charged because the forty-two’s laser canisters were scarce. A ‘girlie magazine’ covered with dirty fingerprints laid atop Bert’s chest. Fade picked it up and leafed through the pages before throwing it against the exposed fiberboard corner of the drawer. It flopped face down on the floor.
Fade’s bed had no pillow, because Bert drooled all over them without thinking Fade might want to reserve one. Three years of this sleeping arrangement was enough, Fade thought; he wished he could sleep in the ship but his sleeping quarters were stocked with the usual contraband and he would have to deal with Horace all night.
A small thin television screen sat on a rickety table with one short leg supported by a pile of magazines. The jokes from a comedian on the Hakkunia late night show made Fade groan. Static stormed through the dim screen at times, scratching the sound. The color around the screen’s bottom tinted green. The old government manufactured models only received signals from planetary stations which broadcasted via wavelength.
A sliding fiberglass panel toward the back denoted the entrance to Fade’s office. When Fade slid the panel open, it fell off its guide and slammed against the wall. A forgotten breach in the path allowed the wheel to slip and the entire board came loose. He placed the board on the track and wedged a wood block under it to keep it in place. The indicator light of the phone was red, so there were no messages.
Fade checked through the invoices, and all the returns. The ship had been fully serviced: The OX filters had been replaced, the gravity fluid checked, new fusion liquid added, and a bunch of other odds and ends completed. The hanger rental was also paid for the next two weeks, as was Bert’s pay. After all that was deducted, he had a grand total of nine hundred and thirty Haricons to spare from his last mission. All but a few hundred of which were now spent.
Fade pulled a little photograph from a small box in the corner of his bottom desk drawer. It was a fairly recent picture of Destiny, about the size of a playing card. It was taken from the side; she was cooking a venison steak, carefully adding seasoning, and smiling thoughtfully as she worked. Bertha had sent it to him to prove that Destiny was attempting to cook, and he had lost a hundred note because of it. The picture was worth the trouble anyhow, so he put it in a plain steel frame from his pocket.
He placed the frame on his desk, put his head down, and fell asleep.