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Thursday 2 June 2011

Epilogue

1Fnyrdh was sitting by a small open fire near a rude lean to of scavenged timber, rendered waterproof - to a point - by a thatch of dry grass leaves.   It had taken four days to locate the crashed life-craft and now, several months later, its energy cells were all but exhausted, though the emergency food packs were holding out.   She was supervising an improvised cooking pot of rehydrated bll8 strynng soup as it simmered.  Clean accessible water was at a premium; there was none to spare for washing so she had a dishevelled air, her hair was long and matted. her mole-skin coveralls were thread bare, stained and mud spattered, and she sported an increasingly inconvenient unkempt beard.    Boz was curled asleep in the long grass near the edge of what she now thought of as 'the lawn'.   Both were aware of the other's presence, but Boz was too well fed and arthritic to bother with hunting and 1Fnyrdh was more concerned with the whereabouts of Phoebus.
The sound, when they first heard it, was obviously some form of helicopter.  They were both used to the noise of the twin rotored Chinooks which regularly transported the planet's military above this area, so gave it little attention.   However, this time the source of the engine noise did not pass by and it got much louder.   They both looked up when it became apparent something was descending.
The craft, an Atmospheric-Operations General Purpose Tender, had a roughly cone shaped body, elongated fore and aft, which hung beneath a single multi-bladed rotor, and was decorated in angular camouflage patterns of black, white and grey.   It landed close by 1Fnyrdh's camp; the rotor ceased revolving as the engine was cut, and retracted, the blades folding upwards and inwards like the cirri of a barnacle.   A hatch opened, hinging at the bottom to form a ramp, cries of "...hut, hut, hut..." echoed from within and a group of space-marines, dressed in pristine white uniforms and peakless caps, emerged at the trot.   The shore party, armed with hangers and laser carbines formed a perimeter whilst the officer, distinguished by a conspicuous display of gold braid, approached with her small but viciously practical automatic projectile hand weapon unholstered.
"Well, you took some finding."
1Fnyrdh tried to look guilty and grateful by turns.   The officer looked her up and down critically.   How degraded we may become in difficult circumstances - this survivor was almost feral.
"You do know this is a closed world - no contact?   You should not be here and neither should we.   Get your kit together; I want to be off this planet before there's an incident.   The high Command is going to have some tough questions when we get you home." and, "What the hell is that ginger thing?"
1Fnyrdh glanced across at Boz who was watching the proceedings with detached curiosity.   "It's one of the locals.   It will get bored if we ignore it."   The cat stood up and one of the twitched marines fired his carbine.
"Kill that shooting!" screamed the officer.   On the word 'kill' the entire squad opened up.   Hair thin shafts of coherent light ionised the air and pin-pricks of jaundiced green illuminated the feline's fur - harmlessly.   "Frkt0z!   For Jddhrw's sake stop firing!"
Boz sauntered nonchalantly over to the tender, sniffed at the hatchway and gave the fuselage a contemptuous pat with a fore-paw.   He strolled some distance away and sat with his back to them all.   The ship had rocked, but not toppled.
"Get on board, now." the officer snapped to 1Fnyrdh.   "Detail... pick up the life-craft and get that on board too.   We're not leaving any evidence behind."   Then she shouted into a small device tucked under her left epaulette.   "Stoke her up!   I want out of here, this instant."
There followed a short period of frantic activity.   The hull of the life-craft was not too heavy for the squad of burly marines but it was awkward and unbalanced and for too long got stuck in the doorway.   Eventually the inevitable shouting subsided and the hatch clanged shut.   It hissed as it locked.   There had been a growing turbine wine, accompanied by a thin whistle throughout the retreat into the tender.   The whining hum increased in volume and pitch until it was a squeal that pained both feline and Kwmbryn ears.   The whistle, whatever its origin, remained constant.   The rotor blades did not redeploy - instead, quite suddenly, the craft shot into the air on a column of intense white light.   Phoebus emerged from nearby bushes.
He and Boz watched the ship recede into the vivid blue, cloudless sky until only a pinhead twinkle of its exhaust was still visible.   The whistle could still be heard faintly dying away.
"Looks like they really did come from the stars."