The Babd’s computers had held precious little about the solar system the battleship dropped into when they’d spotted the Kek formation trailing them through intraspace. Murphy had no details at all on any of its gas giants’ moons, though there had been a single line entry about the system’s only two rocky, uninhabitable planets in third and fourth positions from the star. The scramble had come too soon for more than that after the UNS Massachusetts dropped into the normal space of the solar system diagonally from above the star, letting the star do the work of slowing their velocity to sublight. By the time they’d hit twenty light minutes out from the primary and perilously close to the fourth planet’s gravity well, the battleship’s full complement of Badbs had been loaded and awaiting scramble. Astrogation didn’t usually get around to dumping anything more than the immediate astrography into the simple attack craft’s onboard computers until after CIC’s charts had been fully updated. She’d been hit barely four minutes into action, so she hadn’t gotten any updates.
Murphy glanced at her watch. Five hours had passed by, but without knowing how long the local day was it didn’t mean all that much to her. The footing was easier now that she’d moved into a region more windswept than the dune sea she’d landed, but it was also rockier so she had to pay more attention to where she was putting her feet than to her surroundings. A tap at the wrist unit brought up the pedometer and she grunted in satisfaction. She’d walked twenty-six and a half kilometers, though only nineteen straight-line. Not bad, but the escape pod was another sixty-odd clicks away straight-line. She’d better get more ground covered before stopping for a meal, or she’d be in some trouble. It was possible the fighting was still going on upstairs, but she hoped not. She hoped it was done and the Captain had ordered search and rescue operations.
Every muscle in her legs and feet was burning, letting her know that her gym time was not adequate preparation for a hike across a desert. On the plus side, she was getting accustomed to the gravity; at least she didn’t feel like she was going to tip over with every step. Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. Give thanks for small favors. While her suit was doing a great job of regulating her body temperature and wicking the sweat of her exertions away, her boots weren’t doing a narding thing to keep her feet dry. She was pretty sure some of the wetness she felt along the back of her heel was from burst blisters. It had hurt like mad for a while, but the muscle aches overshadowed that problem. When she stopped to eat, she’d pull off her boots and inspect the damage. Blister packs weren’t a part of the standard first aid kit, so she’d have to make do with the analgesic cream and adhesive gauze.
Time became something she was divorced from. Just step after endless step, through the monotonous, depressing terrain. The sun didn’t move in the sky, and she fell into a fugue. Left, right, left, right, left, right, was all she had. Gradually, Murphy became aware of sound. It was faint, but that didn’t mean it was far away in this thin atmosphere. She glanced at her watch, and stumbled in surprise. She’d walked for another ten hours, with no memory of where she’d been, what she’d seen, or when the terrain had started to change.
She was in a wide, shallow gorge. Multicoloured sedimentary rock rose almost three meters on either side of her and its floor was decorated with low growing, brown shrubs. The sound reminded her of insects she’d heard on a dozen other worlds. It seemed to be coming from all around her, but faint enough for her echoing footsteps to not quite mask the sound. After the silence of the dune sea, it made her nervous.
Murphy brought up the map on her wrist panel, and felt her shoulders relax slightly when she saw that she was forty-five kilometers further down the path the miniprobe had worked out for her. She must’ve been checking it during the trek but she had no memory of it. Next, she brought up the local area sensor sweep app, and puffed a sigh of relief that while there was indeed the local variant of insects, there were no swarms anywhere that could pose a danger to her. Rather than stopping to set the standard sensor alarm package, she flicked her eyes between the path and her wrist, stumbling only once. She knew she was slowing down, and she promised herself a rest stop when she hit the seventy-five kilometer mark. She just hoped she’d be able to get up and get going again, and that the weather continued to hold clear. She didn’t relish the thought of getting caught in a flash flood while in the gorge.
A light wind was swirling dust and sand around Murphy’s feet when a steady pinging drew her eyes up from the uneven ground. Her miniprobe was returning to her. Thoughts of its video footage gave her something to look forward to while eating the dull emergency ration pack. She quickened her step and reached down to snag it from where it hovered low to the ground. She blew the accumulated dust from the port in her wrist unit with more gusto that it probably needed and slipped the lit end of the miniprobe into it. The unit chirped its acceptance of the docking, and the loading symbol flashed in its sweeping circle. While the video data downloaded, she cast about for a protected spot along the gorge wall to make camp. A depression a meter and a half wide and tall by about a half meter deep in the gorge wall to her left that looked like it had been gouged out by rushing water seemed a promising spot. It would keep her somewhat hidden from overhead sightings and give some protection from the elements.
A moment’s fumbling released her helmet from its loop on her suit belt, and she set it beside her as she gingerly lowered herself to the ground. Thankful for small mercies, she wriggled her buttocks into the thin layer of sand atop the narrow ledge at the bottom of the depression. It wasn’t quite the same as a cushioned seat, but it was better than bare rock. The scant shade given by the overhang was a welcome relief, and she let herself pull the fitted hood off her head. That’s when she realized that strips of her face had been in the sun – unprotected – for fifteen hours. Pulling the hood away felt like she was pulling the skin at the edge of her hairline away. Sheltered from the overhead glare of the sun, she could see that she’d also burnt her right hand. Her glove was still where she’d left it; tucked into her pocket. That was going to make the next few days miserable. As if they weren’t already going to be miserable without her help.
Murphy pulled out her first aid kit; thankfully, still resting on the top of her pack after she’d made her makeshift nose and mouth filter. Her movements awkward with the effort to not touch any of the burned areas of her face with an absent brush of an arm or shoulder, she battled to get the knot in the sling bandage undone. She started to twist the whole affair around to get to the knot, but tears sprang to her eyes when the rough fabric rubbed against the tender skin along her cheekbones. Painspots danced in her vision and she dropped her hands to clutch her knees, panting until the worst of the pain faded away. Several gulping breaths later, she made another go of undoing the knot. She kept at it for several minutes until finally it loosened. The front of the bandage was coated in red-brown dust, and she felt a little better. At least she’d done something right. And her left hand was still unburned, though pulling off the glove revealed some chafing in the webbings between fingers and thumb.
Applying the burn ointment was a lesson in agony, but by the time she’d finished the back of her hand and had started on her face, her hand was going numb. She paused then to dig for the little mirror in one of the pack’s side pockets. She did not want to miss any spots! Trying hard not to make eye contact with her reflection, she lathered the cream across her forehead and cheeks. Lamenting her stupidity, she couldn’t help notice how red the exposed skin was compared to her shipboard pallor still visible in the creases made from squinting. She looked like a face-painted animation character. Oh how they’d laugh at her when they picked her up. Damned rook mistake.
Next, the boots were going to have to go. Where they’d always been just that little bit too big for her, they were now uncomfortably tight. The Velcro tabs pulled away easily enough, releasing the pressure against her ankles, but if she’d thought that putting on the ointment had hurt it was nothing compared to the pain of trying to get her fo
ot out from the boot. Her sock was stained dark brown all around the ankle and she’d likely bled a fair bit further below as well, but that was still hidden by the boot. Murphy leaned back against the rock and took a careful drink of water. She craved more, but she overrode the temptation. Getting these boots off was going to hurt, and she didn’t want to risk vomiting up any of her precious water.
She only had two options available to her: ease the boot over her heel slowly, or yank it off in a hurry. Indecision clawed at her and she gulped back a whimper. There was no one to hear her, but if she didn’t admit to being afraid, she could pretend she wasn’t. Finally, she squeezed her eyes shut, bit her lip, took a solid grip of the toe and the heel of her boot, and yanked as hard as she could, crying out as the scabs ripped away from her heel and front of her ankle. A crimson stain spread to more of her sock as she watched, her breath ragged and pulse pounding in her ears. She was going to have to do it again. Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she tore the other boot off. The second boot seemed to hurt less, but that was probably just because she was becoming inured to the pain.
Murphy leaned back against the warm, crumbling stone, gasping the thin air and waited for her pulse to slow and the nausea to fade. The wind was picking up, and it was moving more sand and dust. She rubbed at her close clipped scalp, now griming up with sweat and dust, with the heel of her hand, and allowed herself another little drink. She couldn’t afford to use the water to wash out the mess on her feet so she’d either have to wait until she made the life pod or found decent water. Careful not to rub against the burn on her face, she pulled the hood back up. The air and wind were still hot, and she didn’t want to lose anymore body fluid to the greedy atmosphere than was strictly necessary.
How long she sat, she couldn’t have said, but after a time she became aware of her stomach grinding. She sat up and pulled the pack to her to rummage for rations. She’d packed enough for fifteen days. That was standard, but now she wished she’d packed more. If the search and rescue ops team hadn’t coming looking for her yet, she may be here a while. That thought brought her attention back to checking the probe’s data, and watching the video of what the rest of her trek would look like. A couple of swiped screens later and the topo map app was loading the video data over the simple minded radar returns the probe had broadcast on its outbound journey.
She shook the contents of the silver ration packet and broke the hot bar. A few seconds later the packet changed from silver to red and she tore it open, though it wasn’t hot enough to steam in the desert heat. It would be nice to have a spoon to eat the thick stew with, but drinking out of the packet would have to do. She reminded herself that no one had ever accused the manufacturers of making emergency rations taste good, but why did they all have to use celery? Every narding flavor had narding celery in it. She almost complained out loud but stopped, reminding herself that talking to oneself was the first sign of isolation madness. She really should be happy to have some privacy that wasn’t in a toilet stall.
Chewing a mouthful of the tiny, mushy bits that passed for meat and vegetables, Murphy tapped the play button on the video. The recording went on for some time, the jump cuts jarring when the feed play reversed at elapsed time whenever the probe had backtracked. The increasing flora coverage on the ground in the footage gave her some hope that the air would get more humid before she got to the other pod. Also comforting was that the occupant had survived judging by the campfire a couple of meters away from the pod, and the occupant would know she was coming so remain in place.
With a grimace, she finished the last mouthful of the stew and tossed the empty foil back in her pack. A sip of water washed the worst of the celery taste from her mouth. Groans punctuated her efforts to get herself comfortable with her heels propped against the other side of the rock hollow above her head. The lumpy pack didn’t make the best pillow, but it was better than nothing and at least her face was in full shade. The heat and quiet lulled her, the wind’s faint whistle over the rocky ground soothing in its own way. As sleep pressed the edges of her consciousness, she remembered to set a timer to six hours. It would be a short sleep, but she had to get the minimum recommended or risk exhaustion errors. Tomorrow would be another long, long day of walking.
Through her helmet’s dampeners, she could still hear the roar of the Babd’s engines going to full thrust in the launch tube. Her finger hovered over the locking clamp’s toggle, waiting for the tachometer to reach seventeen thousand, and flipped it over. The sudden acceleration shoved her back into her seat, its familiar contours a lover’s embrace. This is where she belonged, the thrill of this moment worth every drop of sweat she’d put into getting through the grueling training. The edges of her vision greyed, and she bared her teeth in savage joy. Then she was out of the tube, the bright light of the tube replace by the inky blackness of space, dotted with fiery pinpricks of bright light. Another second and she was free of the battleship’s gravity field. Her vision returned to normal, but the howling noise of launch persisted. Something was wrong. She scanned her engine readouts, all was as it should be, but the howl was getting louder. There was something inside her helmet, pressing against her face, stinging, scouring.
Murphy jerked awake, her eyes snapping open. She had to squeeze them shut immediately against the driving, airborne sand. This was perfect, just perfect. She crossed mental fingers that her helmet was still upright and that very little sand had gotten into it. She fumbled over the area where it should have been, anxiety sending her pulse soaring when she couldn’t lay a hand on it. She cracked her right eye open, her hand up to shield it from the sand, and peered into the orange gloom. She swallowed a cry of frustration when she saw that both her helmet and boots were nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t much comfort that her visibility was limited to only a couple of meters. There was no way she’d be able to find them in this, if she was ever able to find them at all.
There was a worrying moment while scrambling to sit up when it felt like the wind was going to tear her away from her scanty shelter, but she pressed herself back into the depression, pack in her lap and hands over her face. All she could do was wait it out and hope there wouldn’t be enough sand dumped at the tail end of the storm to bury her in this gully.
After what felt like hours, she could feel the atmosphere change. The speed of the sand buffeting her back slowed, but each strike felt heavier, thicker. She risked a glance over her shoulder and she gulped against the changes. Visibility had increased enough that she could see sand drifted up against the far side of the gully, but while she watched, the sand darkened with the mud that was now raining down. In three breath’s time, it went from blowing sand and drops of mud to a deluge of red-brown mud dumping from the sky. The howl of the wind died away only to be replaced by the drumming of the rain on the gorge floor, increasing in tempo to a steady thundering rumble. The gloom deepened from an orange haze to near blackness.
The heat that had been oppressive earlier was in abeyance, and with it went the soul sucking aridity of the air she had to breathe. Now, the air was thick with moisture, and her nose clogged with mud. Every few minutes she had to blow the accumulating grime from her nose or risk opening her mouth to swallow the grit falling from the sky. Inches from her tiny ledge mud was rising to cover the gorge floor, oozing its way in the direction she wanted to go, and very likely burying her helmet and boots somewhere downstream.
Weary, Murphy closed her eyes, too exhausted to even curse against this cruel universe. Waiting out the storm with her helmet, while unpleasant, would’ve been simple enough. Now she had to keep herself awake until the storm passed or risk suffocating. From time to time, she opened her eyes to check what height the mud had reached. By the time there was barely a single centimeter between the floor of her ledge and the mud, the storm began to taper off. Relieved, she could see the river of mud a handspan from her buttocks slowing, and gradually the water drained away faster than muddy rain could accumulate.
The soft chiming o
f her wrist unit wake-up alarm brought her awake, groggy and disoriented. She didn’t even remember falling asleep. Her joints stiff from huddling in the scant shelter of the depression, Murphy turned to get a look at what the situation was now. The sky overhead was clear and bright, as if the last few hours hadn’t happened. She drew in a deep breath, thankful for the moisture rising up from the still damp sand. The floor of the gorge was a good six centimeters higher than when she’d first set herself up in the meager campsite.
Resigned, Murphy clambered to her feet, the sand not yet too hot against the thin protection of her socks. Her first priority was setting up instructions for the miniprobe to find her boots. Finding her helmet would be a bonus, but she wouldn’t get far without her boots. Once the temperature got back up to what it was before the storm, the sand would be too hot for her to walk on. Programming that function took a bit of time, but once that was done the miniprobe buzzed off downstream, tacking diagonally back and forth across the gorge floor. It should be an easy task for the sensors – there couldn’t be anything on this dustball moon to give a false positive ID.
Rather than waste any more precious minutes, she pulled a ration foil from her pack, shouldered the pack, and struck off after the miniprobe. The damp sand did feel good against the soles of her feet, so there was something positive to be appreciated. Small favour perhaps, but a favour was a favour. She checked the label of the ration she’d pulled out. Narding celery again, this time in mutton stew. She hated mutton almost as much as she hated celery.
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