Brilliant starlight flickers like candle flames against the turbid sky. Polarization disrupted by the containment layer still evokes the vast indifference of nature, dwarfing the insignificant individual below.
In such moments, the Senior Operator and I traverse the alien expanses of Terra's wastes.
"Searching for a site to seed Originium, perhaps?"
The Senior Operator speaks from a pace behind, eyes fixed not on the surroundings but on me. I offer a muted acknowledgment without turning, continuing my measured strides.
The crunch of gravel underfoot. Boots grind against the barren soil, wind-scoured and raw. Gale-force drafts scour the wasteland's skin, shifting sands into drifts that cascade pebbles down escarpments. In the inexorable march of eons, even this desolation will erode and yield to entropy.
"No urge to etch this vista into memory? Moments like these are scarce. Back in the city, you're left gazing at horizons clipped by bulkheads, or in the lab, fed looping holographic serenity loops for mental calibration. Out here, unburdened by thought—it's pure respite. That's my indulgence, in its way."
"That's not our remit. My duty is to orchestrate what lies ahead, to compel reckoning with past failings. Not to memorialize scenery and squander chronometers on idle reverie."
She delivers the retort sharply as I crouch to examine a pale flower blooming defiantly from the cracked earth.
"Your priorities may differ. For me, such records hold no weight. Nature's grandeur, time's inexorable currents, history's ledgers—they signify nothing. Our approaches diverge irreconcilably; we adhere to our respective vectors, nothing more."
She falls silent, gaze drifting to some indeterminate horizon. I rise, parting my lips to speak. Her eyes snap back, locking with mine.
"Yet ahead, no oracle will proclaim the future, no brief will delineate our nebulous mandate. Perhaps scribbling a doodle or a phrase at each log's terminus—something to glance back upon—holds merit."
Merit, perhaps.
The words elicit a hollow chuckle from me. Vague platitudes, distilled to their essence.
I scan the periphery with measured calm while screening her vanguard. In that interval, she studies the white bloom I'd inspected, then resumes her pace. We press onward toward the objective, bootsfall echoing across the desolation. En route, memory resurfaces: the prelude to this interminable trek.
It began three days after parting from Mille. That morning dawned overcast.
??? Year, August 12.
0748 hours. Overcast. Research Annex office interior.
The office in the research annex typically stands vacant more often than staffed, yet when occupied, admits no idle interstices. Today marked one such rarity.
"Everyone's occupied."
Through the translucent glazing, silhouettes cluster and disperse in the corridor—shadows merging, fractaling with haste. The Doctor's observation mirrors their cadence, elongating then contracting.
"Busy is efficacious, in its way. Expect it to persist. Acclimate preemptively. Regardless—your assignment, as briefed, is straightforward: catalog and archive Terra's indigenous biota. Subsequently, chronicle their evolution. For now, execute per the protocol: endorse and comply."
The Doctor gestures toward the sheaf atop the desk. Amid the proliferation of reports and dossiers, the uppermost document gleams with meticulous prose, unmarred by the convolutions of lab outputs or after-action reviews.
I skim the abstract, flipping sections: necessity of the initiative—passed; identified hazards—passed; assessment metrics—passed; authoring entity—passed; ah, execution parameters located.
"Condensed: I venture forth to survey vectors."
"Affirmative. In essence. As you're aware, post-containment membrane completion, satellite coord alignment fails, stargates and ancillary arrays cease function. Hence, precompute and validate itineraries. The overcast firmament concurs."
That was the calculation he'd fixated upon moments prior. The Doctor, vitality sapped for further elucidation, bows to his paperwork, stylus etching approvals. Seated opposite, I conclude perusing the addendum.
"…Footnote: To minimize navigational drift for the landship—Rhodes Island inclusive—we recognize the imperative of archaic piloting disciplines. Paramount: circumventing ecosystem disruptions from indigenous taxa denominated 'demons,' and forestalling catastrophic fallout from imminent Originium activation…"
"…Confirmed activations in the following sectors risk exponential proliferation at their nexus, breaching subsurface and airspace vectors…"
"…Accordingly, vehicular assets, periodic comms relay, and terrain assay necessitate a dyad of personnel, hazard-assessed as follows…"
'Hold.'
Further pagination reveals the terminal addenda: inventory manifest and roster, tabulated.
One vehicle. One comms module. One geochart. Four raw Originium nodules.
Not two-thirds blank, but five-sixths—near nine-tenths—an expanse of sterile vellum.
No medicae? Comprehensible. My counterpart might balk, but I can rationalize.
Minimal self-defense ordinance? Personally procured; extraneous. Securing a bodyguard rivaling her aide strains logistics. Thus, acceptance is feasible. Yet.
"Prophet—why no sustenance allocation?"
"I approve protocols. I do not author them."
The Doctor replies without lifting his gaze. I absorb it, eyes regressing to the document. Singularity of purpose.
"Research Annex 2. Preynote."
Commitment logged. I roll the unendorsed protocol, pocket it, and pivot to the Doctor.
"This aligns with the scheme you mentioned prior?"
No overt inflection from the Doctor, but his thermal profile articulates: viscous reluctance, a repugnance to discourse. I signal comprehension via fingertip percussion on the plasteel desk—tap, tap.
"The query from before—answer unaltered?"
The Doctor harbors cogitations unspoken, thermal signature invariant.
I egress the office with lightened tread. Corridor yields to vector: Research Annex 2.
***
"The instrument… talks back?"
"Superfluous."
"Approval stamped."
"Negative. Abort. Negative."
In the communal atrium of Research Annex first deck, I slump into a chair. Correction: I have collapsed.
Leaning inert, defeat incarnate. Idling via cranial tabulation of ceiling luminaires, a familiar silhouette interposes.
"Here. What."
The verdant-skinned woman—my accustomed Senior Operator—approaches,双手 laden not with dossiers but materiel. Antecedent to my reply, she summons her adjunct, unfurling the protruding sheaf from my pocket.
"Ah, received yours already? Awaiting kit, evidently."
She leafs through—flip, flip—eyes narrowing faintly. Visage akin to witnessing the Doctor ingest instant rations via inhalation, she procures a stylus, lobs it with the dossier.
"Spare me the indolence. Inscribe now. I'll assist materiel selection."
She departs to relocate her burdens, reconvening post-endorsement. Protocol signed, holographic ratification complete, I devolve fully: wings drooping slack, primaries trailing dust across deckplate.
Returning, she exhales protractedly at the spectacle.
"Your wings—no. Cease."
Resignation etched on her features, she shepherds me toward procurement.
"First time here."
"Your sidearm wasn't sourced here?"
"Administrative sanction. Byzantine procession. Senior Operator."
She twitches an ear at the designation, pivoting.
"Do I possess currency? No recollection of stipend disbursal."
Her expression: consummate incredulity, surpassing Mille's at that interminable feast.
Procurement ingress yields two revelations.
One: remuneration accrued from experimental protocols and sundry labors.
Two: emoluments from Lexicon assays and biota registration.
Thus.
"I possess greater reserves than anticipated!"
"Fortunate realization. More critically—is this your full acquisitions manifest?"
Nutraceuticals. Psychostimulants. High-protein cubes. Condensed caloric bricks. Desiccated spice jerkies.
Visually evocative, satiety incarnate.
Gazing at the sun's collapse beyond the wasteland's talus slopes, I masticate a privately procured high-protein cube.
Minutes prior, the Senior Operator, taxed from vehicular piloting, halts the convoy, conceals it with haste, and succumbs to repose.
How many nights remain?
As gloom precipitates, I glance at the demons stirring from diurnal torpor, then shutter my eyes.
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