by Ann Christy
The jagged bit in the distance that Henry is aiming for doesn’t look any closer to Marina, but added to that jagged bit is a darker shadow on the ground at such a great distance that it is more a suggestion than anything definable. Marina waves at one of the artists to come over. He does, craning his neck to keep watching the screens as he approaches.
“Do you see anything there, to the right of his marker?” she asks him, nodding toward the screen. “Can you tell me what it is?”
He turns away to examine the screen and Marina watches him. He sees it too, his eyes squinting a little and his head tilted to the side. “I’m not sure. It seems large and on the ground. Flat. Perhaps a land feature?”
Marina nods, her mouth tight. This is more than they had expected. She and the rest of the Historians had assumed that the blotch on the map marked ‘Catchment Lake’ was far away. Further than this anyway. But the land is sloping downward a little in front of Henry. Even she can see that. She plucks his sleeve to regain his attention and he tears his gaze from the screen reluctantly.
“Young man, I want you to focus on that feature. It may be very important. The distance is what I want most of all. If you can get anything about it on paper then you must.”
Marina tries to put the import of what she wants in her words and it appears to have worked because the young man’s expression turns grave. “I will. I will get everything that can be gotten. You can count on me, ma’am.”
She gives his arm a little pat and shoos him back with a wave. “Good, good. See me directly after so that I can take down your impressions before they fade.”
He nods and goes back to his seat, almost immediately setting his writing stick to a fresh sheet of paper. Marina looks back at the view and thinks that the shadow is clearer now, darker. Time passes and she finds that she is getting used to the bouncing scene, her own body straining and relaxing as if she were the one running.
The sound feed from Henry’s helmet is limited to his breathing and short acknowledgements of the times as they are called out. Ten minutes, fifteen and then twenty minutes pass and then Henry is directed to stop and look at his suit. He holds out his arms and looks at his legs and the murmurs in the room increase in volume as the suit engineers discuss what they are seeing.
Henry is covered with a fine layer of dust that has glued itself to him via the slippery film. It is only the finest of the grains that have stuck and his suit looks almost as tan as the Sheriff’s in places. What is worrisome is the ragged look of the suit along the front of his thighs, on his forearms and on the back sides of his hands. To Marina, it almost looks fuzzy.
Marina sees Henry’s reflection better now that he is standing still and sees that he is sweating. A small computer fan inside the helmet is keeping it from fogging up, but it doesn’t do much to ease the heat that builds up inside quickly.
Marina is sure that this is the cool part of the year because the days are at their shortest. The single volume of the Legacy they have describes the solar system and they have been able to learn and confirm this much in thirty years. Even so, he is wearing a lot of layers and keeping most of his heat inside.
The operator asks for a close up of his arm again and then the suit engineers give their verdict. The operator pauses, as if he doesn’t like what he’s being told to say. He shakes his head, but leans toward the microphone anyway. “Henry, that suit looks good enough to keep going. But keep an eye on your arms and hands. At the first sight of red you turn around. Got it?”
Henry nods inside the helmet and then says, “Got it!” He is running at full speed almost immediately and the sound his feet make on the rough ground sounds a bit like someone chewing a mouth full of seeds.
The council medic is clearly upset with the suit engineers and pushes one of them aside to speak to the operations crew. He raises his voice enough for the council members to hear, which means that everyone can hear him. “His suit is one thing, his endurance is another. He isn’t going to be able to run back as fast as he ran out there. It’s a pretty simple equation. He shouldn’t stay out until he sees red. He should turn back before that.” He pauses and jerks his hand toward the screen where Henry’s breathing sounds out loudly like a second opinion. “Anyone disagree?”
Marina watches them make up their minds and she can see the battles going on inside each of them. A movement out of the corner of her eye draws her attention. It is the artist she assigned to monitor the feature in the distance. He is standing, jaws agape while he stares at the screen and then he starts to make a choking noise.
As she whips her head back toward the screen, Henry’s voice sounds out as do a few others in the room. Henry’s is amplified and dominates the weaker voices inside. “Do you see that? Does anyone see that?” He sounds almost afraid and his fuzzy looking arm rises and points toward a spot in the distance, far to the left of the jagged shape he’s been aiming for.
She does see it. Everyone sees it. A chair falls backward and clangs on the floor. The operator shakes out of what is gripping them all first and slams the talk button on his microphone. “We see it, Henry! Describe it for us so we know we’re seeing what you’re seeing!”
Henry is still breathing heavy and his words come out tight in between his gulps of air. “It’s blue. It’s a patch of blue. There’s brown around it, like maybe the blue is past a hole of some kind in the dirt. I can’t describe it. It’s moving though.”
His pointing finger draws a line in the air, up and down. He says, “It’s changing shape. Getting longer and skinnier.”
One of the artists calls out, “Oh no! I think it’s going!”
Marina stumbles from her chair, hips grinding with pain, and yells toward the operator. “Get the direction! Don’t let him turn until we have a direction!” She can see that the patch is disappearing and knows they will never be able to precisely identify where it was once it is gone if he moves even the slightest amount.
The operations crew and two of the artists spring into action. Marina just stares at the shrinking patch of blue. It is already less blue than before, smudged with the brown of the dusty wind and not nearly as brilliant a shade. She can hear Henry’s sound of distress as the last streamers of blue abruptly disappear. It sounds like a sob and she can see in his reflection the grief there, even on only the upper half of his face.
The operator turns to the room and shouts, “We’ve got it! The direction! We’ve got it!”
The room erupts in yells and shouts and laughter and tears. It is a frantic scene and that is bad. They still have a runner out there.
Marina lifts her metal chair and bangs it on the ground several times to get the attention of the room. When the operator, who has jumped up and started hugging the other console operators, finally turns to her she says, “Bring our runner home.”