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Authors: Michael J Lawrence
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to the plant, whose leaves were as frail as
burnt paper. He pulled a thin plastic vial of water from the pocket of his
field shirt. Holding it up against the orange glow of the sun, he counted the
tick marks on the vial. He leaned down and carefully poured a thin stream along
the roots. The water washed over the roots in a feeble rivulet and then
disappeared as the parched ground sucked it away.
"You're a miracle worker,
Emmet." He looked over his shoulder and saw Colonel Dekker standing at the
edge of his field. Emmet stood up, pushing against the ache that never left his
bones, and stretched. He ambled towards Dekker with a slight limp while blood
worked its way back into his muscles. By the time he reached Dekker, he was
almost walking normally. When he shook the Colonel's hand, he felt his own skin
scraping against Dekker's like sand paper.
"It's a living," Emmet said.
The two men walked together to a small rise overlooking the MEF compound and
the flats beyond its perimeter. The fertile ground of the Highlands, now
covered by the neat formations of the Terran Guard, weren't more than a few
miles away, but it might as well have been a thousand. Smoke still seeped from
the ground and curled away from burning vehicles. The men who could be
recovered to the medical bays were already gone. The rest had been dragged off
the field and tossed as ceremoniously as possible onto a burning pyre. As the
two men surveyed the scene, Emmet said, "I guess it didn't go too well."
"Sorry," Dekker said.
Emmet put a hand on the Colonel's
shoulder and said, "Come on inside. I have some root tea left." He
led Colonel Dekker back to a boxy structure made from the same resin that
prevailed in most everything the Exodus Fleet and the MEF had brought with
them. The sides were streaked with deep grooves from years of wind grinding the
grit of Shoan'Tu's dry ground into it. Faded black markings composed of partial
letters and numbers that were barely readable denoted its family group and function
as a temporary shelter for three persons. A small array of photovoltaic cells
attached to the structure by a bare coil of wire - its protective sheath long
stripped away by the wind and grit - fed enough electricity into the module to
power a single light and a small coil stove. On cold nights, the batteries it
charged provided just enough power for a vent blower to distribute a meager
flush of heat throughout the structure.
The two men ducked in through a ragged
cloth covering the door way. The plastic hut wasn't quite tall enough for a man
to stand up and they both had to stoop once inside. Emmet took a thin aluminum
pot from the plastic shelves molded into the side of the structure and placed
it on the coil burner stove. A clear plastic bottle half-filled with a
rose-colored liquid sat on the shelf next to it. Emmet unscrewed the cap and
poured a small portion into the pot. The coil was efficient and the liquid was
almost boiling within a minute. Emmet rubbed his chin, eyeing a small box made
from the bark of a cord tree sitting on one of the shelves. He took a quick
breath and snatched the box from the shelf. He set it on a cube of plastic
molded to the floor that served as a table and took off the lid.
"Please, sit down Colonel," he
said, gesturing at the small bench molded to the wall next to the table. He sat
down on the opposite bench, eased the lid off the box and pulled out two
crudely crafted clay cups. Keeping his eyes on the cups as he set them on the
table, he said, "Jommy made these from the clay field when it rained last
year." He turned his gaze to Colonel Dekker, waiting to see what he would
say.
"It's alright, Emmet. How much
water did you folks manage to extract from the field anyway?"
"Enough for a season. Barely."
He stood up and leaned over to fetch the pot by its insulated wire handle.
"He did the best he could, but it dried so fast. He didn't have time to
really finish them properly."
"It's a nice gesture, Emmet. Be
sure to
burnt paper. He pulled a thin plastic vial of water from the pocket of his
field shirt. Holding it up against the orange glow of the sun, he counted the
tick marks on the vial. He leaned down and carefully poured a thin stream along
the roots. The water washed over the roots in a feeble rivulet and then
disappeared as the parched ground sucked it away.
"You're a miracle worker,
Emmet." He looked over his shoulder and saw Colonel Dekker standing at the
edge of his field. Emmet stood up, pushing against the ache that never left his
bones, and stretched. He ambled towards Dekker with a slight limp while blood
worked its way back into his muscles. By the time he reached Dekker, he was
almost walking normally. When he shook the Colonel's hand, he felt his own skin
scraping against Dekker's like sand paper.
"It's a living," Emmet said.
The two men walked together to a small rise overlooking the MEF compound and
the flats beyond its perimeter. The fertile ground of the Highlands, now
covered by the neat formations of the Terran Guard, weren't more than a few
miles away, but it might as well have been a thousand. Smoke still seeped from
the ground and curled away from burning vehicles. The men who could be
recovered to the medical bays were already gone. The rest had been dragged off
the field and tossed as ceremoniously as possible onto a burning pyre. As the
two men surveyed the scene, Emmet said, "I guess it didn't go too well."
"Sorry," Dekker said.
Emmet put a hand on the Colonel's
shoulder and said, "Come on inside. I have some root tea left." He
led Colonel Dekker back to a boxy structure made from the same resin that
prevailed in most everything the Exodus Fleet and the MEF had brought with
them. The sides were streaked with deep grooves from years of wind grinding the
grit of Shoan'Tu's dry ground into it. Faded black markings composed of partial
letters and numbers that were barely readable denoted its family group and function
as a temporary shelter for three persons. A small array of photovoltaic cells
attached to the structure by a bare coil of wire - its protective sheath long
stripped away by the wind and grit - fed enough electricity into the module to
power a single light and a small coil stove. On cold nights, the batteries it
charged provided just enough power for a vent blower to distribute a meager
flush of heat throughout the structure.
The two men ducked in through a ragged
cloth covering the door way. The plastic hut wasn't quite tall enough for a man
to stand up and they both had to stoop once inside. Emmet took a thin aluminum
pot from the plastic shelves molded into the side of the structure and placed
it on the coil burner stove. A clear plastic bottle half-filled with a
rose-colored liquid sat on the shelf next to it. Emmet unscrewed the cap and
poured a small portion into the pot. The coil was efficient and the liquid was
almost boiling within a minute. Emmet rubbed his chin, eyeing a small box made
from the bark of a cord tree sitting on one of the shelves. He took a quick
breath and snatched the box from the shelf. He set it on a cube of plastic
molded to the floor that served as a table and took off the lid.
"Please, sit down Colonel," he
said, gesturing at the small bench molded to the wall next to the table. He sat
down on the opposite bench, eased the lid off the box and pulled out two
crudely crafted clay cups. Keeping his eyes on the cups as he set them on the
table, he said, "Jommy made these from the clay field when it rained last
year." He turned his gaze to Colonel Dekker, waiting to see what he would
say.
"It's alright, Emmet. How much
water did you folks manage to extract from the field anyway?"
"Enough for a season. Barely."
He stood up and leaned over to fetch the pot by its insulated wire handle.
"He did the best he could, but it dried so fast. He didn't have time to
really finish them properly."
"It's a nice gesture, Emmet. Be
sure to
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