Steve watched the Sun set slowly over the trees. It was a sublimely human experience. He let his repaired left eye focus intensely on the corona of the redeeming light. The x-rays writhed and sparkled at the edge of his polarized vision. Then he let himself be human again.

"Another beautiful sunset, Colonel." Yabbie smiled as he pulled together the slim tentpoles in the dirt beside them.

Steve blinked. Then he nodded. "I like the stars on this side of the world. It makes me feel like I'm on another world."

Yabbie laughed. "The Bush is another world, Colonel." He held up a cardboard box with insipid yellow printing. "Chicory?"

Steve pinpointed the country of origin in the smallest of printing. "Don't you have real coffee? That stuff tastes like tree bark."

"It has medicinal properties Colonel Austin." He winked. "I thought you'd been to outer space? A bit of homegrown tree bark will remind you of home."

Steve accepted NASA's awful rations as necessary, essential even, for travel in space. All the astronauts knew that they had to be an efficient part of the machinery, and Steve particularly knew that they had to treat themselves as a machine - even before his accident. But when he stood back on the ground, he enjoyed the best he could. And a little good coffee now and again was not too much to ask for.

"Let's get the fire lit," he grumbled.

"I'll get the flame going," Yabbie volunteered. "Why don't you chop some wood?"

Steve nodded. He kicked the little hatchet with his foot, launching it lazily into his right hand. The bundle of branches beside their packs was a mixture of lengths. He took a short breath then let the rocking swing of his elbow demolish the wood into little more than matchsticks. He barely felt a throbbing across his shoulder.

Despite Steve's extra-human effort, Yabbie's face was already lit from beneath by the crackling sparks of flaming saw-dust. "A nice little trick, Colonel, but the old techniques are the best. I didn't even need the wood that short. Small logs would have done."

Steve raised an eyebrow, kicking a few of the sticks over to the sheltered stones that they had used previously.

"Don't make those flames too high. Your brothers will find us soon enough." Steve scanned the scrubby bushes in the fading light. They had picked the spot to give them the best view of any person or group approaching, but it also meant they would find it difficult to slip away quietly if anything went wrong.

"My brothers couldn't find us if we were playing electric guitar and drums. My uncles are the ones who will be most difficult. We could be buried in the mud of the creek for days and they would smell us."

Yabbie heated water in a flat kettle and made up the awful looking chicory drink. They each drank a couple of mouthfuls while the skillet boiled their main meal.

"Don't tell me what it is," sniffed Steve, spitting out the last drops of the chicory onto the flames. Yabbie had disappeared earlier in the afternoon and returned with a small sack of insects and worms. Although he had clearly mashed this collection into a paste, the overall effect was still revolting.

"Looks like NASA rations, no?" joked Yabbie.

"I never look at what comes out of those tubes. And I won't be looking at this while I eat it." Steve rubbed his nose subconsciously.

As the night fell, the background noises became louder and some new ones joined in.

"We should have slept during the day," warned Steve. "I'm sure they'll catch up with us tonight."

Yabbie threw dirt on the flames, but allowed the cinders to stay to warm the soil. "Who needs sleep? You get some rest. I'll listen out for their big feet. I'll hear them arguing from two miles away. Don't worry. It'll be over tomorrow when we get that flag."

Steve felt that he needed to show some strength. He was the United States' most secret operative after all. But he felt tired in a good way, like a boy who has played all day, and he needed to rest. He nestled down under a sack of a blanket close to the heat from the embers.

"Wake me at the first sign of trouble," he mumbled. Then the swirl of exotic sounds closed around him.

:::

Steve was woken by a buzzing noise in his head. The light of daylight was bright around him and his head felt like it was continuing to turn as he struggled to sit up.

"Yabbie?" he mumbled, his own voice appearing hollow within his skull. Steve knew something was wrong.

"Steve?" The comforting voice swam around him. A man's face slowly condensed among the brightness. The gaze met his. "Steve?"

"What's happened?" Steve slurred. "Where's Yabbie?" He had no instinct to jump up. He wanted to fall back into his childish sleep.

"Just come with us, Steve." The buzzing became louder, defining itself as the descending whip of a chopper's rotors.

Steve covered his eyes, sheltering them from the intensity of the day. The voice was familiar to him.

"Paul? Is that Paul?" He snatched the name from years past.

"Yes, Steve." The voice remained calm. "I've come to look after you. Just stay still, and we'll get you out of danger."

Steve's head began to pound with an ache he recognized. His mechanical implants, the bionic circuits, were reaching ahead of his own abilities. His legs were ready to run, his arm ready to smash, but his brain was inactive.

"I think I'm hurt. But it was just an exercise." He was plucking words from anywhere.

"Yes Steve." Paul reassured him. "That changed. We're going to get you out of here. Take you somewhere safe."

Steve felt a large harness slide behind him, slip under his arms and become tense.

"Stay still as we lift you Steve. You'll be fine."

"Paul?" Steve's head was still spinning.

"Yes Steve. It's me. Stay still."

"Paul?" Steve tried to lift his hand to his forehead. But it could not move.

"Yes, Steve? Stay still. Try not to look."

Steve suddenly knew what he had to say.

"You're dead, Paul. You died in space."