SLATE

My first contact with water is not what I expect.

I might forget in the barren basin, that I stand on vast quantities of live-giving water. But here, up to my arms in sloshing liquid ice, it is impossible to forget — and it doesn’t feel live-giving. No mods can record the feeling of wet feet, squelching in clammy leather bindings that serve as footwear, or the numb feeling that creeps over my limbs.

I flinch from the burning ship. Its heat is still untamed by the sub-zero conditions. Yet it is not the heat of the ship that stings. Rather it is the blackened tips of frostbitten fingers against the hot surface.

The entrance to the ship is not obvious from a distance or even from up close. The ship is alien in design, even to me. The thought would be staggering were I not floating, the numb ache of cold penetrating deeper into me with each second.

What is the probability of another alien ship appearing precisely where I have parked my own?

The vessel is curved edges and loops without angle or seam or any indication of divisions or parts that the eye can perceive or frostbitten fingers can feel. I see no obvious weapons or thrusters, though these may be under the surface. My gauntleted hand is protected from the cold and somehow retains sensitivity, through the surface of the artifact. Its touch is all I have to go by.

The build is unlike anything I have seen and brings to mind the body plan of the flesh-scorpion — but only for its alien symmetry. It resembles more the head of a bull, with horns, or wings, that curve over the head or body of the ship. Nose-to-nose, the horns of the bull rear up, as though to smash any who would attempt entry.

It should be broken open and strewn across the landscape like the raining debris of a space battle. Here and there, torn metal, like an animal’s claws — but intact. Instead, it stands proud and intact and, for the moment, impenetrable and I swim its periphery, in search of some handhold or pressure release.

I almost swallow a mouthful of the icy liquid as I hear and feel a shift underwater. You can drink water I know. I’m just not sure about this water. After all, nothing grows in the ice desert of the basin.

Pulsing light thrums in the water — turning ice blue into a deep azure. I deep vibration penetrates my bones, alleviating some of the cold and a tunnel opens in the ship's side, partially submerged by water. Layers of field tech protect the ship from environs, leaving the pond suspended state that confuses even the delimited mind of a solarin.

I grab the bundle from the artificial shore. The body of the cub flops from the pouch, its tangled black hair matted with sweat — probably my own and blood — from the carnivorous Lagomorphs — the killer pack-rabbits, whose piled body heat provided brief insulation from the cold.

Entry into the portal, which is not fully in or out of the water, is simple — simple, apart from the millions of water molecules and foreign particulates that are expelled by the environmental fields. Simple except for the perfunctory scans that have neutralized any bacteria that I have metabolized.

I lie on in the access tunnel as the tunnel seals behind me. A fact I note by the breath of ice — not wind exactly — that is not filtered by the ship.

The black flooring is has a pleasant warmth. I press my face irrationally into the soft black layer, wincing at the pain in my nose and ears.

Frag. It has not even been a full day in this world. A full night, half a day running. 30 hours on the overlay, out of an estimated thirty-six-hour day.

To be out of the wind and ice. To be out of the wild world with its sharp teeth ever-present death. To have made it, through stinking flesh scorpions, and murderous apes, and packs of razor rabbits. To be finally out of all that — to be finally safe, to have a chance.

Safe. I laugh — or cough. One of the two.

I put one arm over another — it is permitted to dream, after all — and haul my ass down the tunnel and find myself in the place where I started. I am dizzy as I stand, not just from the sensation of coming full circle.

The cabin is clay and smart tech. The frozen ripples where the walls have absorbed competing stressors will take time to renew their form. Here and there, a hanging access panel and naked wires, spoil the veneer of technology, like the crude viscera of a sleek animal.

But though the ability to self-repair is one criterion for life, the clay is not alive.

The room is dead and empty. The absence of the rendering sphere, usually full of light and motion, leaves the cabin hollow and vast. The stasis chamber, another missing person, leaves a streak across the ground and I trace its trajectory to the tunnel I just crawled from, which answers one question.

The chamber must have been ejected as a safety measure, except for the fact that the ship was unharmed, while I faced nothing but danger after danger, which makes it as likely that the ship, or something on it, though I was the danger.

“Computer,” I speak tentatively into the silence, my voice bending against the soft walls. I do not expect an answer.

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The ship's systems seem to be one notable casualty of reentry and likely will need manual input to restart.

I lay the small black animal on the cushioned omnichair and stare at it, my mind giving way. The black bundle manages a slow turn onto its back and a twitch of one empty eye. A tired paw folds inwards. Its abdomen moves slowly like a deflating balloon. Its heartbeat, faint and irregular.

What good am I to a living creature?

I am doing everything wrong. Every effort to keep it alive, and it only creeps closer to death.

Perhaps, while I fear this world infecting me, instead I carry some disease that is incompatible with its fragile biology.

It has fed on milk and blood from its world.

It receives warmth from my body.

What does it still need?

I suspect that the answer would be obvious to any earth human throughout the history of our abandoned planet.

Water. Food. Warmth. Rest. Perhaps that is it. Yet it does not sleep.

I do a medical examination. There is some discharge in the eye sockets but nothing that indicates infection.

With the obvious answers, I resort to the more questionable claims of the mods.

A stupid idea but I admit I am…desperate.

It needs to hear my voice. But what do I say? What does one say to a dog? I do not know what to say and pause a long moment in choosing the words like a magic spell that will revive the pup.

What if…what if it is sad?

One thing at a time.

It’s not the words stupid, It’s the tone, the concern, the feeling behind them. The reverberation of your chest, the vibrations through its tiny body.

You’ll be surprised by the things that don’t make it into training manuals. The things we’ve forgotten, disregarded by the minds that scraped our collected knowledge from a great web of information that once blanketed the globe. The things that people think are obvious are the very things that fall through the cracks of our imperfect memories.

What could an animal need more than food and warmth? What would its mother do?

I briefly consider grooming as a solution but even the mods do not recommend licking, though it is a commonly described behavior.

I will not let it die. That would be a failure.

I have a mission, yes, and can this small life form not be a part of it? It could be a small mission, one that I give myself.

What does one say to a wolf pup?

In the end, I consult the limited repertoire of words that have been spoken to me, since my arrival.

“Stand. Fight. Live.”

A small black ear flicks, which I take as encouragement.

It’s stupid -- talking out loud like it understands, and my words are filled with the stumbling cadence of felt stupidity and borderline hypothermia. “Come on you fur-thing. Stand, fight, live. don’t give up on me.”

I carry him around the ship, keeping a small but steady stream, which stumbles on a few rocky patches. Yet, boldly trickles on as I poke my head into doorways.

Jackpot.

A storage room. I grab an MRE in a shaking hand and rip it with my teeth.

Cranberry Mealworm. The prolonged choking reaction is the most vigorous reaction I have seen from the pup, yet I decide that it is ultimately a failure. Some consultation, however, causes me to exchange the item for a sachet labeled Gel of Turkey.

I offer it to the cub, who sniffs distrustfully, before attempting a weak lick.

“Eat.” I compose this word of encouragement as I root around the storeroom, tearing out compartments, and turning over...

Frag me.

Fresh, white T-shirts — and fur-lined jackets, perfect for the cold.

And…the breath reverses in my throat — I’ve never been so pleased to see pristine glowing white underwear.

I reach to the clean white undergarments...and stop.

I am filthy. I have not cleaned once, not even partially. I could not afford to wash away the nano-slurry which probably saved my life more than once. I don’t even touch the precious white garments, afraid to foul them.

I have just had the most insubordinate idea. High-end ship like this — there’s got to be.

So I am out of the storeroom jostling a handful of fur. “I know. I know what will cheer you up.”

I start to incorporate the vocal patterns that were once universal to humans. The short high tone and sloping low that was once called baby-talk. A baby is like a pup but human. “Good wolf. G-Good wolf?”

I try to repeat a variation that does not make the wolf shrink back or show other visible signs of displeasure.

It is tricky to get the hang of.

The other door off the cockpit leads to living quarters and that’s where I find what I’m looking for.

A cubicle of glass. I don’t know how to use it but I’m pretty sure, I need to get inside.

I look at the puppy whose say face still manages a doubtful cast. “I won’t lie, wolf. This is going to be a shock.”

The cub has taken some licks of food but not much. I will try anything

The door closes.

There is a visual cue, light flashing three times, and jets of hot water, fall from above, and from the sides. I take mouthfuls of it involuntarily. This lasts until I take a mouthful of soapy water, the cleaning cycle. The shower senses dirt and sprays jets of water where it is needed. In my case, they are needed everywhere, and the shower is thorough.

Frag me. It is the most wonderful thing I have ever felt. Maybe not better than fire, but also, maybe.

The smell of wet wolf and the feel of wet fur are somewhat less enjoyable.

Until the water stops and the jets of warm air fill the cubicle from all directions, drying every part of me at once.

Dead gods. Could it be better than fire? It would be a close call and a subject that would need a lot of research.

The jets of air would stop sooner if not for the pup. It directs jets of air at it sensing the moisture in its fur.

A shower is in unimaginable extravagance in space, at least, to a soldier used to scouring chemical baths off the barracks.

I narrate to the wolf cub. “Thirty seconds of falling water — You don’t know how fortunate you are.”

True enough.

“But I’m not in space. I’m on land and there’s water here, in this land of the wolf. Lots of it.” And that’s another thing I can’t wrap my head around, like giant trees, or giant wolves. I scratch his soft belly. I think I’m starting to get the hang of…talking. I no longer feel awkward, in part due to the wolf’s small reactions.

Hard to believe that the pup will one day be a great big wolf as big as a horse. “How big is a horse, here, do you think?”

Playing with its paws makes me feel ridiculous again.

But as long as we’re enjoying it I run through the shower another three or seven more times.

That. That is what does the trick. I laugh. Talking. Talking was never the answer. It never worked. I might as well have said that other word, for which the mods gave no intelligible definition, love.

And here I thought a problem could be solved by words. How foolish.

A wolf is a wild thing.

It is born to run and feel the wind in its now more voloumous hair. It can feel the water and wind on its skin, and that must be something like seeing.

I laugh long and loud and cold, to cover the ache that is not of the cold, because a blind wolf will never run.