The red sun of this wretched planet, Amoluz, burned the soil around Pytor with brutal efficiency.
From his partial shade in the ragged mangrove-like growth, he tried to forget about the Raakei’s advance. It was done. He now yearned only to reach out to Ruth.
The Raakei had disrupted all dimensional communications. A simplex digital radio was Pytor’s only backup. He’d have to cope with the time required for a text conversation: six minutes for the signal to reach Ruth at the outpost, and six more for her reply. It was all he had, but it worked.
“The enemy’s latest attack caught me by surprise. I’m trying to shield myself until it’s cool enough to return to the shuttle. How do you like the new facility there? I can’t believe we were together a week ago. I miss you.”
Pytor hit “send” and peered up through the branches at the antenna, which he’d set up in the highest mangrove he could reach. The indicator on the antenna’s base glowed green, signifying a successful uplink.
While waiting for a reply, he looked to his left at the yellow-tinged waves of acidic ocean, breaking on the shore about 200 meters away. The constant roar brought him back to summers past, when his father took him and his brother Adam fishing in Captree Park. Memories of plump flounder, pale sand, and golden sun filled his tired mind. His father and brother were gone now, victims of the enemy’s chemical poisoning that devastated New York. Pytor had no inclination to return after that.
The buzz of the transceiver broke his reminiscing. His heart jumped as he saw Ruth’s reply.
“I miss you so much, Pytor. This is a huge campus. In one of the halls here there is a keyboard, the heavy mechanical kind. It says Steinway, does this mean anything? I put my hands on the keys and imagine your hands on top of mine, teaching me.”
He imagined her loving embrace. His fingers typed quickly. “Yes, Steinway pianos were highly prized. The factory was near our home in Astoria. Feel my hand on yours, guiding your fingers into place. Then we push down together, sounding a full major chord.”
Their exchange was the only thing keeping Pytor from going mad in this brutal furnace. He tried to cover any exposed flesh, but it was impossible to block every inch. Whenever he felt the blisters start, he’d shift any way he could to move that area into the shade, but that would of course expose another area of skin.
He heard another buzz. Was this another message from Ruth? No, page after page of garbled characters were filling the display.
It was then Pytor noticed the approaching cloud bank. The red sun abruptly disappeared behind the thick cumulus-like layer racing across the sky, and twilight replaced the red sunlight. Cursing the unstable weather of this planet, he left his mangrove refuge and started running toward the shuttle, leaving his gear behind. He could see his breath as he tried to stay warm by running faster. A few gray acidic snowflakes swirled around him. His lungs burned.
The leading edge of the pulse caught up with him from behind. He left his feet as the shock wave hurled him forward ten meters. The rocky soil scraped open his forehead and cheek as he landed.
Dazed, Pytor got up again, feeling the residual thrust at his back. It pushed him onward, as if he were running downhill. He felt blood trickle out and freeze on his cheeks and chin. Gratefully, the shape of his spacecraft was now discernible a few hundred meters ahead.
Inside the transition room, Pytor looked at his body. Bright red blisters on his legs, arms, and neck contrasted with bluish frost nip on his toes and fingertips. His scraped-up face would take a while to heal. But, for now, he was okay.
Using an onboard transceiver in simplex mode he sent another message to Ruth. “Made it back to the shuttle. Are your hands on the Steinway?”
Twelve long minutes later came her reply. “Yes, they are, waiting for yours.”
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