Culpepper stared out the window of the vehicle as they cruised a thousand feet above the crests of the canyons. The view was spectacular. Steep canyon walls striped in varied earth tones with a mostly dry streambed in the bottom. Small patches of several different types of cactus sparsely dotted the landscape. Beautiful, but useless. Nothing in sight that would help them survive. No good reason to land the four-wheeler here.
Their conveyance was somewhat paradoxical. They had begun referring to it as a four-wheeler not because it had four wheels but because it could go anywhere. Almost literally. It looked like someone had taken an extended-cab short-bed pickup truck from the assembly line before the powertrain was added. It had wheel-wells, but no wheels; an engine compartment, but no engine—at least not in the traditional sense. These had been replaced by a power source and propulsion system invented by the same man who had created the transit portal that brought them to this planet. No one here knew how either technology worked. Nor did they understand why the transit portal had stopped working, leaving them stranded fifty-seven light-years from Earth.
This was a bad idea. I told them this was a bad idea. Did they listen to me? Noooo. “You’ll make a good team.” Good team. Right. The botanist and the meathead.
A metallic click broke her reverie. “Are you cleaning that gun again! You just cleaned it yesterday. And the day before that.”
“And the day before that, and the day before that,” Guerrero said. “A craftsman treats his tools with respect. On the subject of which, that tablet will serve you longer if you’ll stop smacking it against the dashboard.”
“I can’t concentrate when you’re doing …” She waved her tablet at his disassembled rifle “ … that.”
“You can always find a distraction when you’re looking for one.”
She shifted in the seat to glare at him. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean.”
He snapped the barrel of his rifle back into place. “It means you’ve been cooped up in the cab of a pickup truck for three days with nothing to do but stare at snow-covered mountains and desert plains as we sail over them at a thousand feet.”
“I’m trying to review these nutritional analyses.”
Guerrero put his reassembled rifle to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel as he pointed it at the floor between his feet. “Dr. Tornquist has already reviewed that data and didn’t find anything useful. Granted, you’re the expert. But you know she knows what she’s doing. If there were any prospect of anything good, she would’ve flagged it. You’re looking for a distraction. So am I. That’s why I’m cleaning my rifle. Again. It relaxes me—helps me think.”
“Hmph. Don’t strain yourself.” Culpepper shifted back around in her seat, looking again at her tablet. “Stick to your strengths.”
He cycled the action on his rifle. “That’s why I’m here.”
Is there a way for you to not be here?
She was just beginning to get back in the zone when Decker’s voice came over the radio.
“Forager, this is Beachhead. How do you hear?”
Her focus lost yet again, she rapped her tablet against her forehead. Can you not at least talk in complete sentences?
Guerrero responded, “Beachhead, Forager. Loud and clear.”
“How’s your progress?”
He consulted the autopilot display. “We’re a few miles ahead of schedule. Probably had a tailwind last night. Power consumption is right on target. We should arrive at the first objective early tomorrow morning.”
“Roger. The drone should be on location by now. Our communication window with it will open in a few minutes. We won’t have time to do much analysis before our window with you closes in the next hour, but we should have good data for you by this evening. Swenson is recommending you slow your approach to conserve power. There’s no point in rushing to get there before sunrise.”
“Wilco. Over.”
“Beachhead out.”
Culpepper looked out the window again as the terrain zipped by below them.
Another day yet. At least I’ll have something to do once we get there. And then the trip back. Ugh.
Rolling savanna gradually replaced the canyons.
Maybe I can walk back. I wonder how long it would take to walk six thousand miles? Might be worth it.
“Find a place to set down,” she said.
He looked at the terrain map. “Here? Let’s keep going. We’re making good time. We can stop in another hour or so.”
“Now! I need to stretch my legs. Decker said we needed to slow down anyway. It’s not going to make us late to stop here for a few minutes.”
( Story copyright by Steve Swaringen. Photo by Quinn Nietfeld on Unsplash )
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