White Crystal Butterflies | Wattys 2021 Shortlist | ✔

Chapter Twenty

The blizzard runs out of breath overnight. I wake even earlier than usual, after another restless night in the string of restless nights that has plagued me with increasing frequency since we landed here. Not that I ever slept particularly well on the F-300s or overly plush hotel rooms they put captains up in between flights, either.

I eventually find myself in the common room, watching a watery dawn light leak through the clouds and run up against our snow-caked windows. We're still two and a half months from Qalupalik's aphelion—the most distant point in its orbit—but already the light from Mu Chaons' twin suns feels thin and chilly. By the time we reach that depth of space, temperatures here will be blizzard-cold at the best of times, and the suns' glow will barely filter through Mahaha's clouds. I once looked forward to those days for their hostility towards field trips, even if a lack of sunlight sends me spiralling as often as not. Now I would rather have warmer weather and communications back than neither.

The panel on the wall is still blank, the error message pinned up in its corner like a lost bookmark. The loss of data from outside makes me twitchy, especially when the last thing I want to do is walk out and check the weather myself. It's harder on Mahaha than on earth to gauge the temperature by the crispness of the sunlight and clarity of the air. The clouds here, of course, are perpetual. I can't even tell reliably when they plan to start snowing again.

Krüger sets his alarm to Aventureros time every day now, and today is no exception. He passes me wordlessly and starts breakfast preparations with a clatter of pots in the kitchen. Even the smell of oatmeal isn't enough to stir me from my place. I'm not hungry.

We're going to need to go outside this morning. I need to check the Pod for damage, and loathe though I am to admit it, I really do want Krüger to see to his frozen—or broken—instruments. The tension between maintaining the slimmest view of the outside world and lowering the risk of danger makes me sick to my stomach. I rest my forehead against the window glass. A threat of bodily harm to any one of us is more than enough to tip that balance, but Kwon is right that Mahaha hasn't hurt any of us. Not yet..

The question is how much longer that will last.

The rest of the team rises one by one. Krüger finishes with his breakfast and disappears into Kwon's workshop in search of our defroster; he knows we're going out. I force myself to eat before he returns. Then I get Kwon to turn as many of the external cameras as she can on the places we'll be walking. She takes up her post in the comms room as Krüger and I suit up and venture out into the calm, biting cold.

When we stop at the instrument panel, I'm really glad we brought the defroster.

"Jesus," grumbles Krüger. "It had to go ahead and bury them all, did it?"

Snow lodged on some of the instruments piled up on itself during the storm, turning the panel into a fat, white tumor. Krüger swats off most of the buildup, then slows as he nears the instruments. The snow has gotten denser, with more ice. I tip the defroster towards it, and he nods.

It takes us most of an hour to melt out the instruments. I'm as unnerved as I am relieved to find them entirely intact beneath the ice. Mahaha, clearly, doesn't equate them with the Isoptera. Is it because they're smaller? Less invasive? Closer to the Pod? Most whirr dutifully back to life, but Krüger removes and pockets three for further maintenance. When he's checked the rest one last time, I notify Kwon and wait for confirmation that she's watching us before we set out together to inspect the rest of the Pod. Patches of thin ice cling to its sides, but there's no real damage. I melt the ice I can reach and hand Krüger the defroster to get the rest. I don't want the patches providing footing for a thicker ice shell.