Here’s a bit of common sense, good advice, a no-brainer, whatever you want to call it: Dead civilizations are dead for a reason. I try sharing that little parable of wisdom with Suzette as plainly as possible, explaining that I’m not interested in sharing the same fate as the natives. A few blinks and nods later, Suzette says she’s not leaving until she gets a better look at the temple we found during our flyover of the planet’s surface. Her inner cat is just dying to get into some trouble. Whenever I need backup for talking sense, I rely on Isaac6, our ship’s artificial intelligence.
“Say, Isaac, what can you tell us about that structure? I’d bet a strong sneeze could knock it down.”
“STATEMENT: The temple is structurally sound, composed of extremely dense materials. Carbon readings date the temple at over 3,000 years old.”
“See, Dan, nothing to worry about. Land this bird already and let’s get to it.”
“Thanks for nothing, Isaac.”
After an audible grumble or two, I put the Vanguard down a few meters from what appears to be the front door. It’s unlikely that we’ll find anything useful down here. We’ve landed on 23 planets in the last seven months, all of them uninhabitable or extremely dangerous. I can’t imagine this one will be any different. Suzette dons her helmet, then reaches for the heavy blaster, admiring it in her hands.
“You know, the 50/50 packs a helluva punch – you sure you can handle the kick?” I goad her a bit.
“Your concern is touching, but I can handle myself just fine. Besides, I want to be ready in case I was wrong about this place.”
“Fair enough. After you, Suzie-Q.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that. Now let’s get on with the space exploration, shall we?”
I end my protests and fall in line behind Suzette, but not before grabbing my 2028 blaster. We haven’t had to shoot our way out of a tight spot in a couple of months, so we’re probably due for a disaster. As the hatch opens, I feel sharp chills in my bones, despite my suit’s integrated heating system. Suzette grabs her arms, compacting in on herself.
“Christ!” Suzette shouts over the com. “Isaac, just how cold is it out there?”
“STATEMENT: My instruments are unable to gauge the temperature accurately.”
“OPINION: Judging by your dropping body temperatures, I would estimate 80 degrees below zero.”
“How long can we play outside before Suzette and I turn into popsicles?”
“QUERY: Are you asking for an approximation of how long your bodies can withstand the extreme cold?”
“Yes, Isaac, that’s what Dan meant,” Suzette reiterates for the benefit of our dimwitted computer.
“STATEMENT: Approximately 26 minutes for Suzette, 32 minutes for Dan. Your suits will not function beyond 40 minutes.”
“We’ll be brief. Let’s go, Dan.”
Suzette jumps from the hatch, launching into a sprint on impact. That’s one way to stay warm. Another would’ve been to close the hatch and find a nice tropical spot closer to the sun. When I finally catch up to swift-footed Suzette, she’s arrived at the temple entrance. I can only hope it’s a bit warmer inside. She’s paused, quizzically searching for a way to open the door. I spot a lever to the right and give it a pull, only to have it shatter in my hand. Suzette registers this and begins to kick at the door with all the might her tiny frame can muster. Three kicks later and the door is a mess of shards.
“Nicely done.”
“I’ve always wanted to be the bull in the china shop,” she says with a wink.
We activate our helmet lamps and step over the shattered remnants, entering a long, cluttered hallway. Whatever once adorned the walls is now hidden by layers upon layers of ice. At the opposite end of the room, I spot a few odd shapes, motioning for Suzette to follow me. The shapes resemble large chairs, but the ice obscures what’s beneath. Growing frustrated, Suzette begins chipping away at the ice with her field knife. Before I can pull my knife, the ice cracks and separates, sliding away to reveal a sad scene.
Two aliens sit on thrones of some sort, holding hands in what were clearly their final moments. They look peaceful, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking. The aliens have been dead a long, long time, just like everything else on this frozen planet. I can’t help but picture myself and Suzette sitting in those chairs, sharing a similar fate.
I’m dumbstruck for a moment, unaware that Suzette has recoiled into my arms. Her sobs snap me out of the moment and I feel the chill in my bones again.
“C’mon, there’s nothing to see here.”
“Alright,” she strains, her voice heavy with defeat.
An hour or so later, our body temperatures have finally leveled out. I’m on my second cup of hot cocoa when Suzette finally stops shaking. I can tell the gears are turning furiously in her head, but I have no idea how to comfort her. She’s grown used to my silence by now.
“This galaxy is such a cruel, empty place, Dan. What were they hoping to accomplish, sending us out here?”
“That’s a good question,” I say, while recalling the briefing we both received seven months ago.
The mission statement was both simple and direct: “Go forth. See what’s out there. Report back often.” At the time, I didn’t think very deeply about it. I just wanted to get into space. We both did.
Thankfully, a blip on the radar interrupts my train of thought. Even Suzette perks up a bit.
“Is that what I think it is?” Suzette asks, somewhat jittery.
“Isaac, can you confirm what we’re seeing here?”
“STATEMENT: Ship transponder reads Vanguard Mark II, designation: Dagger.”
“Dagger? Who piloted that one, Roger or Bill?”
“Roger,” Suzette answers. “Bill flew the Victoria.”
“How in the hell did the Dagger end up in our quadrant? Our missions were in totally different sections of the galaxy.” I open the com, asking, “Dagger, do you read us? Over.”
There’s a long pause before the com lights back up.
“Dan? Is that you? Get ready to punch it. We have to get the hell out of here.”
To be continued…
-Fiction by Shawn Coots
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