Once upon a time, before all of the world’s money spontaneously burst into flames and normal, placid Americans began bartering sexual favors for medical attention, there was a dense, harmonious forest where men with pencils and dreams and seed money came to draw circles around spots on maps where they would clear land and build castles for the rich elite to come and rule their private kingdoms in secret and seclusion, out of reach, but within driving distance, of the Emerald City. Clearing an acre here and there, and the paths to connect them like the suckered tentacles of a cephalopod to the arterials of the rest of the city, barely nicked into the surface of the forest, so they remained largely hidden from view, and were therefore less of an embarrassment when the majority of the project was abandoned before completion due to dried up funding. Only Annabelle’s home, and a few more that peppered the denser woodlands, were entirely completed and inhabited.
From the sky above the neighboring tract, Sam had to rely on GPS and surface imaging to assure him that there was an abandoned clearing in which their freighter might be safe from aerial spies and other such pedestrian concerns. As oblivious as these Puny Humans tended to be about such things, Sam was facetiously confident that he could park the freighter in open view of one of their capitol buildings without raising any suspicions. And truthfully, he may well have. The standard Rigel freighter was about the size and shape of an oversized tour bus, but perhaps with a few more retracting awnings and oversized exhaust pipes.
A sweet zephyral bouquet of wild flowers accompanied the dense scent of pine, and Sam felt a little more placid with every breath he took as he waited for Fred to get a directional indication from their misplaced and activated prosthetic. “I really hope the thing has just eaten a dead squirrel or something,” he said offhandedly as Fred nodded over his global position device. The manual on emergency prosthetics did say that they can also be used for a variety of quick disposal tasks, such as carcass removal, and a temporary activation on contact was a distinct possibility, but the fear that the containment grid might be compromised, leaking loosely tempered Venusium onto a virgin planet, was a fear that even the hint of lavender carried on the breeze couldn’t quell.
“Hey!” Fred looked up from the beeping device. Sam looked over curiously, but he hadn’t taken the 3-week training course necessary to decipher the readout, so he blinked a few times at Fred from where he gently tapped his toe. “Okay, so this might be problematic.”
“Howso?” Sam frowned and stepped closer. Maybe he was just attracted to the bright lights on the console. “Do we need to dig it out of something?” He quietly began wracking his mental inventory to remember if the drill had been charged on their last stop or if they were going to need to get another battery from somewhere.
“I don’t think so, no, but get the shovel just in case.” Fred frowned as Sam turned to open the exterior supply hatch, quietly going through their shovels and other gardening supplies from their side job as landscapers. “No, it’s just really near what looks like a school, or a really big house or something”
“Oh, crap, that’s not good.” Sam blinked, nearly dropping his chain saw, which was charged. “Do you think anyone might have seen it? What kind of compliment are we looking at?”
“Just…I don’t know, it’s really faint, so maybe there is one. One!” Fred blinked. “Do you think it’s one person’s…wait.” Fred blinked and poked around a few more times on the console. “The prosthetic and the heat signature are bouncing around really close together.”
Sam nodded and frowned, putting the chainsaw and the shovel back into the compartment. “This is a Black situation.”
Fred’s expression became truly pained, and he nodded, the color fading from his face. “Yeah, I think it might be.”
Sam looked down, nodding again, and sighed with a slowly rising grief as he reached into the artillery compartment, tossing Fred his Rigel-issued sidearm and grabbing his own.
“You’ve got to do it when we get there, Fred. You’re the one who blew the hatch.” Fred swallowed dryly and nodded, holstering his sidearm as he trudged toward the indicated position. Sam gathered a large empty sack from the hatch before closing it, and made his way into the woods behind Fred, his face grey with morbid anticipation of their contractual obligation.
