Chapter 3
"The man who loses his dreams is the loneliest man of all." Dei Ara saying, 9th century SGD.
"Only he who is willing to bury himself should pursue a battle while peace may yet be had." Pierre De Arsenault-Couamley "The Art of Peace."
The valley was a north south cut, running some thirty-five klicks from one end to the other, and some twelve klicks across; mostly wide, flat country
covered in the omnipresent ice and deep drifts of compacted snow.
Small eddies of heated wind caused tiny tornadoes of white snow to form in the lower part of the valley, where the atmosphere was almost perceptible; here, above the valley floor and to the east, the air was bled of any strength
by the iron grip of numbing cold; and it was well and truly cold, brutally cold, right now. A full one-hundred five degrees below zero, with the feeble, watery heat of Buran IV's sun a precious memory.
Still, she made do, her heavy gun propped against her shoulder, its ceramic
surface dull and cool to the touch, where a metal gun would shatter like struck glass on recoil.
She had been in the valley, holding position and still, for several days; watching the plains to the north with unwavering intensity, shutting down all
non vital body systems and slowing others to a crawl; her biosuit couls sustain her for weeks in the deep Freeze, and, with her metabolism turned down, could theoretically keep her going for months.
Soon. She could feel the enemy. She had no other word for it; the distant treads and clamor of mighty engines crawling along the bitterly-cold surface
could be felt for miles, if you were attuned.
And if it were one thing she was, it was attuned. She adjusted the gun, slowly, mimicking the speed of falling ice. The scope animated the inside of
her bio-suits visor.
There. A dozen transports, roughly the size of an old Terran football-field.
She checked the status of her weapon quickly, adjusting azimuth and quickly measuring air pressure (negligible) and wind speed (5kpm, N'/ne)
Then that rarest of things
She smiled.
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"Only he who is willing to bury himself should pursue a battle while peace may yet be had." Pierre De Arsenault-Couamley "The Art of Peace."
The valley was a north south cut, running some thirty-five klicks from one end to the other, and some twelve klicks across; mostly wide, flat country
covered in the omnipresent ice and deep drifts of compacted snow.
Small eddies of heated wind caused tiny tornadoes of white snow to form in the lower part of the valley, where the atmosphere was almost perceptible; here, above the valley floor and to the east, the air was bled of any strength
by the iron grip of numbing cold; and it was well and truly cold, brutally cold, right now. A full one-hundred five degrees below zero, with the feeble, watery heat of Buran IV's sun a precious memory.
Still, she made do, her heavy gun propped against her shoulder, its ceramic
surface dull and cool to the touch, where a metal gun would shatter like struck glass on recoil.
She had been in the valley, holding position and still, for several days; watching the plains to the north with unwavering intensity, shutting down all
non vital body systems and slowing others to a crawl; her biosuit couls sustain her for weeks in the deep Freeze, and, with her metabolism turned down, could theoretically keep her going for months.
Soon. She could feel the enemy. She had no other word for it; the distant treads and clamor of mighty engines crawling along the bitterly-cold surface
could be felt for miles, if you were attuned.
And if it were one thing she was, it was attuned. She adjusted the gun, slowly, mimicking the speed of falling ice. The scope animated the inside of
her bio-suits visor.
There. A dozen transports, roughly the size of an old Terran football-field.
She checked the status of her weapon quickly, adjusting azimuth and quickly measuring air pressure (negligible) and wind speed (5kpm, N'/ne)
Then that rarest of things
She smiled.
To view this post on G+, click here
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