Ginger is the Colour 1
没想到我的第一篇复健文居然是kylux。
1
It is the thirteenth month on the isolated, nearly forgotten planet named Pheldlon, an ice-locked backwater world as the fifth planet of a dimmed, deteriorating sun located on the Outer Rim. It was only retrieved by the New Public about eight years ago. Since then , it has been held as an outpost, a not much important one. A military ship squad would visit this desolated supply station once in two years, carrying out necessary inspection work, but no more than that. One could be easily familiar with every face on the base because there are only 76 people around, staff included.
So when the X-Wing sends request to them for landing, Sergeant Jo Danthroe begins to bark at everyone that is not fully occupied in their duties. "if you ever want to see a new face in the next two years you sure drag your lazy ass and come to the hangar ASAP."
The X-Wing has a high-rank clearance level, it seems. A few staff are waiting on the deck, a little bit excited and anxious. Danthroe goes in front of them, curiosity already in its crescendo. He hasn' t been informed of any information pertinent to this visit, neither the visitor's identity or his/her mission. The only thing they have been requested is to provide any kind of assistance when necessary.
The staircase is being laid down; they have a glimpse of the figure. Humanoid, Danthroe notes as the visitor approaches from the X-Wing. He is about 6.5 feet tall, all covered in grey robe and hoody. When he walks towards them, the robe flips in the blizzard like a menacing, giant bird.
He pushes his hoody back when Danthroe and his men solute to him. A human male in his thirties, Danthroe thinks. Dark, a little disheveled long hair; face marred by a angry scar from his right eye to the cheekbone, but somehow it doesn't make him look ugly, only adding something exotic to his expression and disturbing people's guess about his age. He is not as menacing as before with his face exposed, eyes somehow young.
"Apologies for arriving in such a weather," the man says, reaching out his hand, "Ben."
Danthroe blinks. "Sir," he automatically answers, "it's our greatest honour to receive you on Pheldlon and provide any needed assistance to your mission." That doesn't mean he knows the identity and rank of the so called Ben. It's probably not a real name at all, a code, maybe.
"My thanks for all your assistance. In fact, the mission, " he pauses, Danthroe recognises a little grimace on his face, perhaps just out of cold. "shall be carried right away. Sergeant Danthroe, according to the records, you've been here for about eight years and participated in the last Droma Battle?"
"Exactly, Sir."
"Good." he says. "So you are familiar with the local terrain."
"Most of it, Sir."
He nods with a gesture. "and all the wreckages of ships, I presume."
"Some of them, Sir. Many are unapproachable due to the constant gale and blizzard."
"That's not the problem for me." the man called Ben says.
It appears that his list includes a shuttle, a snowfield speeder, portions, water and Sergeant Danthroe himself. In such a weather. Danthroe doesn't question his discretion, but subtly suggests that launching under such conditions would require more preparation.
"Then make such preparation for yourself, Sergeant Danthroe." he shrugs. "I'm not in much need of it. We will depart when you are ready."
"To where, Sir?" Danthroe asks in confusion. Damn, at least he shall have the decency to know what they are heading to.
"The largest wreckage." after a moment he adds, "the one of the First Order."
～
They are close to their aim after about three hours drive in the shuttle. According to Danthroe, It's a Star Cruiser, fallen from the outer space by the fire of the fleet of the Resistance. Half of its main structure is buried deeply under the snow, only its left wing and broken bridge pointing starkly and meaninglessly against the steel grey sky.
"Not a star-destroyer?" asks the man--Ben, with a strange feeling of...relaxation.
"No. " says Danthroe. "No star-destroyer participates in that battle."
"The records of the battle in the database are rather limited." Ben comments.
"I think so, " replies Danthroe." after all it's not an important battle.Sweeping the remnants of the First Order fleets."
Ben barks a bitter laughter. "yes, " he says, "after all these years. Reduced to merely a star cruiser."
He does not make any comments until they land on the nearest flat area. There is still an hour walk from the landing point.
Ben walks on the ice like it is nothing, with a stunning grace. Hoody low on his eyes and Danthroe could not see his expression. What does he want on a long-fallen ship, he thinks. Any significant intel would be out of date after so many years, not to say the First Order has already been throughly plucked from the universe.
~
When they reaches the overwhelming giant steel body, to Danthroe 's surprise, Ben easily finds an emergency exit. He shakes and sweeps the snow from the door, pulling it with his strength. The hinge is nearly useless due to the extreme cold and long time out of use. It cracks but does not move.
"Maybe we could return to the base and come back later with some tech guys." Danthroe shouts in the deafening wind.
Ben just shakes his head, "stay back," he commands.
Danthroe does as he is told. Ben reaches for something hanged on his belt--it's not a blaster, or any other weapon that Danthroe has witnessed. A dark, metal cylinder with a few decorated lines.
And then Ben activates it.
A red, steady beam suddenly ejected from the cylinder; a mild hum even made the air a bit dense--Danthroe does not know how he could tell that in the gale, maybe just a natural hint, an instinct sense. And all he can do is to watch in awe as Ben use the weapon to cut off the frame and tosses it aside like it's plastic.
Ben stands in the snow, facing the roughly created entrance, his attitude a mixture between something amused and lost.
"I don't think you would still mind it...at least not now." he says softly. Though no one else is here, Danthroe still gets a feeling that the conversation is not directed to him.
Strange man, he thinks.
~
Thanks to the temperature far below freezing point, the inner part of the ship does not have a stale smell of wreckages often do. Ships have crew and they will die, quickly or slowly. There is always a mess in such a wreckage.
They pass a long, narrow corridor with scattered bodies. Storm troopers. "And now they are trooped by the storm." says Danthroe. It's bad joke, he knows, but he has to say something to distract him from the teeth clattering cold and...he hates to admit that, a little fear; The other man doesn't respond to his joke.
Apparently the so-called Ben is heading towards the control room. Maybe there is something he needed; a piece of information, a chip drive, or other storage device. The bridge to the control room dangerously inclines to the surface of ice, and they stopped right there.
The door of control room is broken. But it's not important at all, because a large part of the control room is covered underneath a thick layer of ice. Although the design's original purpose is to protect the structure and safety of the people inside, it still cannot stand the immense impact force caused by the unfortunate crash down to ground.
It's quite dark now. The light is so dim that Danthroe could only recognise the outline of things under their feet. A control consol, some furnitures. But Ben kneels on the ice, also with his hands put on it, like he's trying to wake the ice, to give energy or talk to it.
All in a sudden his whole gesture stiffens. "Oh. " he says quietly , gazing at the west corner of the ice-covered room.
Danthroe looks into that corner. Something, somebody, maybe--he could not recognise anything other than a hue of faint ginger, like a extinguished ember against all the sterile dark, chrome and grey.
"Object targeted?" asks Danthroe.
Ben does not reply. He stands up, slowly, walking towards the direction of that colour. His expression totally blank, showing nothing joyful of finding what he needs.
Danthroe follows him nonetheless. While getting closer, under the light of his head torch, he catches a glimpse of the object that attracts Ben's full attention.
"The guy has ginger hair." he comments, scanning the uniform. "An officer?"
"A general." To his surprise, Ben replies this time. His voice nearly a croak. Due to the cold. Maybe.
He kneels again on the ice, fingers weirdly tracing the cracks of the translucent barrier between him and the thing. A general. Danthroe gazes suspiciously. From this distance, there is nothing could be discerned to suggest his insignias.
"Sir, If you need to retrieve any intel in that room, I would like to suggest we may bring back more men."
"There is no need." after a moment Ben says,in a distant voice. "Sergeant Danthroe, I understand your inclination to return the base. The mission is to be closed. Just...give me a short moment. "
Notes:
It is my first story written in English, a rash work drafted during a terrilble traffic jam. All kinds of comments--spelling, grammar , plots, etc.--are welcome.
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