1987, Mirny
14 hours before the "Storm"
The lighting softens some of the chill, adding a touch of life to the empty tables and chairs.
The owner reaches out from behind the counter, pushing over a steaming cup and a small porcelain plate packed to the brim with gingerbread.
Restaurant Owner: Sorry, miss, but we've already packed everything away. I'm leaving on the last truck tomorrow morning.
Restaurant Owner: There was still some fresh food around yesterday, but today I've got nothing.
Restaurant Owner: All I can offer you is a mug of boiled water and some gingerbread.
Pointer: That will be enough. Thanks.
She got here a little late. This is the last place in town with a light on.
The owner rummages around for a while and manages to find a bucket of instant noodles and some other homemade treats.
She bites into a gingerbread cookie, the soothing spice and sweetness lingering on her sensors.
Pointer: Wow. This gingerbread tastes amazing.
Restaurant Owner: You bet. I'm originally from Novomoskovsk. We're famous for it. I think I told your friend the story last time she was here.
Restaurant Owner: I'm no good with hammers or rocks, but I know food, and the miners always work up a healthy appetite.
Restaurant Owner: My friend, Raisa, makes much better gingerbread than I do. Sometimes I think the only reason people eat here is for the conversation, heh heh ...
Restaurant Owner: The winter chill keeps everyone huddled inside. So, what else can you do but talk the long nights away?
Pointer: It is good to have someone to talk to. Still, I'm curious why you decided to stick around until the last minute.
Restaurant Owner: I'm in no rush. No one's bothered to explain why it is we have to evacuate, so I'll let all the young folks with something to live for get out first.
Restaurant Owner: Could I ask you a question as well?
Pointer: Sure, but I can't guarantee I'll have an answer.
Restaurant Owner: It's only that my friend lived in a town a lot like this, a mining town. They had their own big shots running things there too.
Restaurant Owner: In her last letter, she told me that those big shots were talking about evacuating them. Then, nothing. It's been years, and I haven't heard from her since.
The description seems eerily familiar.
Before she can say the name of the town, the owner shakes his head.
Restaurant Owner: Forget it, miss. It's a small town. I doubt you or anyone knows what really happened there.
Restaurant Owner: sigh I often wonder where she is now, or if she's even alive, but I hope that I will see her again some day.
Pointer: ...
It's the kind of question that can't be answered. The town she's thinking of no longer exists.
But she believes people need something to believe in.
Pointer: Sorry, I really don't know.
Pointer: Perhaps they did evacuate, but relocation can be complicated. It can take years. Maybe you'll hear from her again when she settles down.
Restaurant Owner: Yes, that's true. These things take time. Well, at least I can sleep at night.
The owner turns back to his packing, leaving her alone.
She takes a moment to examine the restaurant. In the vase atop the cabinet, a flower droops slightly, its color a bright golden yellow.
Pointer: Sunflowers.
The seeds given away so casually, like they meant nothing, are now blooming in corners everywhere.
There are still some ingredients on the shelves that haven't been packed, sealed bags and cans each occupying a small space.
Pointer: Freeze-dried apples, and ...
She attempts to scan their descriptions, but in the poor lighting, it's a lost cause.
Restaurant Owner: Oh, I forgot to pack those. It's amazing, isn't it, when you think about it? Even here in the far north, we can get fresh fruit and vegetables.
Restaurant Owner: I guess this technology was invented to make food for cosmonauts, but now people in Mirny get to enjoy it too! The benefits of science, heh heh.
Restaurant Owner: You can take some if you'd like. I have no room for them.
Pointer stares at the freeze-dried food on the shelf, momentarily dazed.
The research she once worked hard on, once thought meaningless, had found its way into daily life.
Pointer: Thank you. I'll be fine with just this. You've actually already helped me out a lot.
She tears open the instant noodle packet.
Pointer: No veggie packets, hah.
Pointer: Can my day get any worse?
Hissabeth: They act as if all of their essential and valuable consumer technology just popped up out of nowhere!
Hissabeth: To think that aerospace engineering has less to contribute than their other projects?! S**t! They wouldn't even have vegetable packets in their instant noodles without us!
Things close by, solid and clear in texture. Undeniable proof of existence.
She has always valued what can be felt and touched.
Pointer: Come on, pull yourself together, Pointer. We don't buy into karma.
Pointer: This is only another damn coincidence.
What price are you willing to pay for that answer?
Pointer: ...
This might be the most irrational decision she's ever made.
Having made up her mind, she begins her battle with the bucket of noodles in front of her.
Pointer: Tastes awful, hmph.
1987, Plesetsk Cosmodrome
13 hours before the "Storm"
Hissabeth: Final check.
Hissabeth: Spaceship?
Han Zhang: We've run a full diagnostic check. All components are operational. We're fully fueled, and we even installed that new insulation you invented.
Hissabeth: Data monitoring and communication systems?
Name Day: Check. All systems are functional, including the backups.
Hissabeth: Astronaut status?
Kiperina: I'm all checked out too. My arcane skill energy level, physical and mental status, and the integrity of my spacesuit are all within your parameters.
Hissabeth: Is there anything else we've missed? Anything at all?
She scans each person one by one until settling on the girl with curiosity burning in her eyes.
Hissabeth: Ah, what about our special humanitarian support staff? Maybe we should give her a check too.
Voyager: a cheerful tune
Hissabeth: Alright, dismissed. I'll see you at the launch bay doors in three hours.
Hissabeth: Now everyone, cool off a bit. We need to decompress before the action starts. Stay in touch via your communicators. I need everyone frosty. We're in the last mile now.
Hissabeth: There are still some things left to be checked through. If only we had more help.
As the others trickle out, Hissabeth's final inspection comes to an end.
She opens the drawer of her desk, stuffs the card lying in the corner into her pocket, and locks the door behind her.
The snow is trampled into muddy slush again and again, then flattened back into white. Pointer steps carefully, trying to follow footprints and tire tracks that haven't yet been covered.
There are no more voices in the town. Stripped of its adornments, Mirny is now cold bricks, scarred wood, and stained signs.
Boots and wheels once ground its days and nights into something solid.
The circus lights, the scent of food from the restaurant, the silver of the researchers' uniforms, and the occasional flash of gray plaid—all once decorated it and made it worth remembering.
Now it is a nameless ghost town, one of countless others.
Pointer: Mirny is so cold even in the daylight.
Pointer: At least the evacuation has gone smoothly.
No sooner has she said this than she notices a figure near the entrance of a shop.
Some flustered critter had wandered into the town and met its end. The soldiers likely didn't have time to deal with it properly and left its body in the snow.
The wild dogs, drawn by the faint scent of blood, arrive to enjoy a feast.
Pointer: Well, that's a security risk.
She calculates the best angle for a clean attack and starts to move.
COMBAT
Pointer: Scamper off and don't come back. I don't have time for another round.
The blood on her soles has been mixed with the snow, forming into icy red shards. Behind her, a trail of murky prints leads off across the snow.
Like red ribbons tied to trees marking a trail, this crimson path winds toward where the vehicle had been parked last night.
Pointer: I don't really know how much time I have left at all.
Pointer: These "Storm" predictions are based on fluctuations in arcane energy levels. There's even a chance that this won't be the "Storm" at all, just some kind of arcane phenomenon.
Pointer: No matter what the case may be, I can't afford an odyssey at a time like this.
Pointer: I have to get to the Cosmodrome, ASAP.
Hissabeth runs through delicate calibrations of all the equipment in the room. The snakes tilt their heads, thoroughly distracted by the many blinking prompts on the screen.
To focus, she tries turning the noise in her head into spoken words.
Hissabeth: Arcane energy fluctuations aren't a perfect method of predicting the "Storm."
Hissabeth: What if all these fluctuations are something else, something like that girl?
Hissabeth: Voyager, a mysterious girl with unbelievable power. I should let the Foundation handle this. I can't force her to join in an experiment against her will.
Hissabeth: There are too many redundant steps in the launching system. We need to streamline them if we're going to make our deadline.
She presses down firmly on the fingerprint scanner, keeping her tone civil through gritted teeth.
Snake V: Aren't those steps important for safety?
Hissabeth: Yeah, yeah, probably, but the process is too complicated. I think Pointer was the only one that ever managed to remember each step in order.
Snake V: Oh, so now you're thinking of her again?
Hissabeth: Yeah, whatever. I could use another hand, is all. She's probably still in the branch building, busy with her own stuff.
Hissabeth: Besides—
Snake V: Hey, you hear that?
Hurried footsteps approach the launch bay.
Snake V: It's an intruder! Hurry, we've got to stop them!
The little snake's mouth is pinched shut, and the room falls silent. She listens closely to the increasingly urgent steps.
Hissabeth: Effortless steps from a tall figure, with a tendency to lean forward.
Hissabeth: Sounds familiar. Could it be Windsong? Did she leave something behind again?
The figure that bursts into the room is unmistakably familiar. Unexpected, yet somehow inevitable.
Hissabeth: ...?