He stood on a cliff overlooking supremely monotonous terrain. As far as he could see, red rock and more red rock met his view, striated into minor variations of red that did nothing to soothe the eye. It was as if the region had been painted by a cosmic artist with no imagination. Plus, the place was hot—unrelentingly, mind-numbing hot. Despite his ocular implants, the sun was daunting. It beat down as if in endless rage, determined to right some ancient wrong, or perhaps the recent indignity of his crew’s arrival.
Damn it, what had happened to the Venture’s crew? And why had Steele chosen to set down here in this godforsaken wasteland rather than in the greener, far more temperate region at the equator? The first crew’s mission had been to explore and access the planet for industrial and commercial development, not fry themselves in the desert. The only water available was spit or what he carried in his flask or onboard his hovercraft. But then, they weren’t using hovercraft anymore, were they? After his crew’s aerial search had turned up nothing, he had ordered them to scour the area on foot, root through caves and underground crevices. So far, their efforts had produced only bruises and contusions.
He pulled out his com-link and contacted the others, knowing it was a waste of time but determined to follow SOP. Gouyen Wingfield, the biologist, had discovered a small, hardy plant. No sign of the Venture’s crew, of course.
Latimore ordered each to keep searching then pocketed the link. Squinting up at the molten sun, he moved grimly on. Five hours at least till nightfall. Plenty of work time left.
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