Survey Mission

Survey Mission By Jessica Payseur “And you couldn’t’ve told me this before we hauled our asses four miles from the shuttle?” Troy Iverson looked away as Irene turned her ire on Teresa, politely contemplating a vine growing up a yellow-brown tree. Overhead the sky churned, the charged scent of metal slipping past the landing party with the breeze. “We knew ahead of time readings wouldn’t be accurate,” said Teresa, glaring. She was the best meteorologist aboard the Heavenhawk IV and had spent a good three decades with OriginCo, combing planets for resources. “I did the best with what we have.” The storm was definitely building, Troy could feel it. Irene and Teresa stared each other down for a few more moments, the remainder of the party tense. He breathed a sigh of relief when Irene backed off. Troy liked the short, pale woman, but this was her first time leading a preliminary expedition and she’d been visibly stiff throughout. Teresa Peters was more a mentor to Troy than a friend, a Mexican-American woman in her fifties and the only other Terran on the entire ship. She set a neutral expression on her light brown face and followed. “Right, then, change of plans,” said Irene, smacking her scanner. Troy ran his scanner over the vine to see what it would pick up, but everything was jamming in the atmosphere. Too many metallic particles, too much magnetic interference. He wondered what it was doing to his body. “Back to the shuttle?” asked Heather. “We don’t want to be out in this storm when it hits.” Troy believed her. She had only boarded at the last stop, a young black woman with deep brown skin and more credentials than Troy had signed on with. When the metallurgist tells you to hide from an alien cloud, you hide. “There’s a series of natural caves about three-quarters of a mile away,” said Irene. “Peters, how long do we have?” “The storm will hit in less than half an hour,” said Teresa. “We should still be able to test soil and metal deposits there,” said Irene. “Correct?” Patti nodded her flushed white face. She was a decent edaphologist but incredibly boring to talk to, and Troy avoided her as much as possible. Next to her stood Desmond Price, staring at the scanner in his hand. He was a Korean-British Saturner, tawny face flushing whenever he was onto something agronomy-related, but for now he appeared disinterested. “Yes,” he said. Irene turned to Troy next, wanting to know what he could do. He shrugged. “Depends on what sort of plant life’s in there.” “Caves, it is,” said the last member of their party. Troy cringed. Kipp Vaughn, the entomologist and man Troy least wanted to be around. Kipp bugged him. He held eye contact for too long, like he knew the way his eyes seemed to be both blue and green was mesmerizing. Where everyone else was polished and professional, Kipp seemed to be daring OriginCo to fire him, the way he kept his dirty blond hair long, his facial hair always at that should-have-shaved-three-days-ago length. Troy knew he cared, though; he’d seen Kipp at the gym on occasion, sweat beading over pale white skin stretched taut over muscle. “Vaughn,” said Irene. Kipp shrugged, wriggled his fingers. “Should be some bugaboos in a cave,” he said. Troy looked away when Kipp turned a grin toward him. “Or this really is a lousy planet.” “Have you seen anything dangerous yet?” she asked. “What, like space scorpions? Absolutely not,” said Kipp. He shot Troy a nasty grin and moved to the front of the party as Irene led them toward the caves. Troy tried not to gag on the sharp air and focused on the sensation of all the hairs on his exposed skin standing on end from whatever strange charge was building in the storm. Desmond fell back to him. “He’s interested in you,” he said, scanning a clump of grass-studded ground as they passed it. Troy’s stomach dropped out. “Right,” he said, trying to sound genuinely sarcastic. Desmond smacked the side of his scanner. “I know it when I see it,” he said. “Matt was like that to both me and Suzi.” Troy held back a groan. Ever since Desmond’s husband and wife had transferred to the Heavenhawk II, he mentioned them whenever possible. It was almost more annoying than Kipp. “Thanks, but he’s just being a bastard for the hell of it,” said Troy. Desmond shrugged, but Troy was careful not to stare too long at Kipp’s ass in case he was watching.