Chapter Two: Midnight Interval

The recreational room had always been the favorite among the men to relax. And now, it was empty. That was, at least, when Renaud entered. He burst through the doors, grabbed a magazine and plopped himself down onto a cushioned chair. He took one look at the magazine, realized it was printed three months ago and tossed it across the room. He sunk into the recliner, putting his fingers across his lips and glaring to the right.

There was nothing there, merely Renaud letting off steam. He hadn't agreed to bring back the specimen, but anyone who disobeys an order gets shipped off to the border and gets a desk job. After Renaud's office occupation at the trading post for the Confederacy years ago, he didn't want to go back to that.

Renaud was so interesting. He knew that what the scientists were doing was cruel, but he didn't seem to care. While people like Van Camp had some remorse for what was happening, Renaud didn't react. Sure, he would cancel the research if it was in his ability, but it was not; he left it at that. The smartest thing to do was get on Blake's good side and then poke fun at him. Renaud had done it. It worked just fine.

It had been a few minutes, and the viewing was over. Renaud's eyes shifted to the entrance to the rec room as the men who decided to stay up started to filter in. His eyes rolled over each man who entered as he identified them. Every now and then there was some guy he couldn't name right away. So it took a few moments, what difference did it make?

Finally, one of his rivals bust into the room laughing and jeering with some guard. It was Grady, the pilot and overall annoying man at the outpost. He pranced towards Renaud, squatted, and looked him straight in the eye.

"I know we've never really talked, Renaud," said Grady sincerely, "but now I really think we should… nice job on finding a useless creature out in the snow!" Grady jumped up and ran to the center of the rec room as the crowd focused on him. "The temperature rose. It was so silly!" he said, mocking Renaud. "Then I stuck my finger in my ass and-"

"Can it, Grady," warned Renaud. He revealed the holster on his side which contained a handgun. Grady smiled, then sat down and sorted through magazines.

Renaud was never one for big talks. That little speech he had given had more words in it than he had said since he arrived at Outpost #68.

The place became very social, and Renaud quickly became uncomfortable. Realizing that people would eventually come up and ask questions about the expedition over and over again, he got up and exited. The corridors were empty. Good. It was a place where he could think. However, being trampled in the corridors was nothing new, and it was inevitable. Somewhere else would have to shelter Renaud.

The bunks would not be good. They were already crowded with men, many of whom were probably still talking about the finding. The only place he could really be by himself was the kitchen. Sure, Greck was there, but Greck didn't care about the Protoss at all. The fact that two zealots were trapped together inside a tiny chamber was more boring to Greck than trying to bend a fork with your brain. Of course, if he wanted to do that, he could just have the new zealot to do it.

Renaud strolled down the darkened path. The light bulb had gone out two days ago, and Jarvis hadn't replaced it yet. Of all the skills technicians had, of all the skill that Jarvis contained in operating an SCV, he couldn't screw in a light bulb.

The doors to the kitchen were closed, but not locked. They simply swung open, back and forth, and Renaud did push his way through. On that other side was stacks of meat. Frozen meat, to be exact. Obviously, Greck was reorganizing the freezer. A very not fun job, but someone had to do it. Renaud went to one of the sinks and turned on the water. Dirt-infested water poured out, but a good smack on the faucet fixed the problem.

I'll bet Jarvis couldn't do that, thought Renaud. He grabbed a glass from the pile of dishes, rinsed it a few times, and then filled it to the top. He turned around as he took a plug of the water to watch Greck struggle with the heavy bulk. Renaud leaned against the sink and shut off the faucet without looking. Greck stumbled with the meat before dropping it on a counter and wiping his brow. He looked at Renaud and frowned.

"You could help me with this, you know." Greck then took what looked like beef back into the freezer. Renaud grabbed a bulk, too, and followed him.

Connant, the cosmic-ray specialist, entered the kitchen. He was one of those that Renaud feared; one who asked questions. Connant was one of the younger scientists, though still one of the brighter ones. He represented the other cosmic-ray scientists, of which were three.

Though not his field, the energy that Renaud described fascinated him so. He stood at the entrance to the freezer, anticipating Renaud's exit.

Renaud, after setting the meat down in Greck's designated area, stood up and rubbed his back. He let out a quick chuckle and turned around. The smile from his laughter disappeared and turned into dread. He liked Connant, but he didn't want to talk. Renaud turned back to Greck.

"Forget it, Greck. I'll just stay in here and freeze," announced Renaud.

"I don't think so. I don't want a corpse in here with all this food. If you want to freeze, just step outside for a minute, you idiot." Greck pushed past Renaud angrily to grab another supply of mutton.

Renaud sighed then approached Connant, who was beaming with excitement. Renaud, upon reaching the entrance to the freezer, finally let out a real smile and patted Connant on the back.

"Okay, go ahead," Renaud released.

Connant grinned. He took Renaud's arm and slapped him into a metal chair. Connant jumped up on one of the cutting boards and rubbed his hands together; those hands were cold.

"First," Connant started, "what do you think caused it all? I mean, that temperature rise couldn't have been caused by that zealot simply being there in that area."

"Well-" started Renaud.

"But I think," interrupted Connant. Renaud nearly burst out laughing. "I think that the Protoss retain a level of psionic ability far beyond what we ever imagined. Nothing we know is capable of improving such conditions."

Renaud thought about it for a moment, and then gave an answer.

"I honestly think our instruments were just fucked up." Connant slumped in disappointment as Ames entered the kitchen with a great laugh.

"Ho-ho! Of course they were. Connant, the simple-minded Protoss zealots are not capable of such a storm of chaos. Their brains, though superior to ours, cannot control something like the atmospheric conditions," explained Ames as he took a beer from the refrigerator. Renaud pointed at Ames and looked at Connant as if to say, "Yeah, what he said."

Connant slowly descended the cutting board and started to exit. While he stood in the canopy, he turned around and looked at Ames.

"But if the instruments weren't incorrect, then how do you explain it?" asked Connant.

Ames took the cap off the beer, slugged a round and let out a sound of satisfaction before setting it down on the counter and looking at Connant.

"Friction. From the wind," he said as the beer once more approached his lips. "The wind on Braxis is known to falter from time to time, and the friction with the ground can create a certain amount of heat. Of course, I don't know how hard the wind was blowing; you'd have to ask Renaud." Renaud nodded and held his hands far apart, indicating much wind. "That friction created with the ground generates heat; the heat will then cause the instruments' measurements to be off, if not slightly but hugely." Another swig of the beer. "You can ask the entire crew. A jump of twenty degrees, but I doubt it felt much warmer." Ames then tipped his beer towards Connant and left through the swinging doors.

Connant nodded, and then grunted. Renaud stood up and led the young astrologist out of the kitchen, where Greck had almost finished. They moved into the room where Durhkhan had once been, where all the scientists once sat.

Blake was now gone, most likely had just left, and so was Wald. They moved to the window and stared out into the snowy abyss. Renaud didn't know what had happened to him while he was on that trip. He, Snider, Van Camp, Thurston, and de Roos were the ones who experienced about it, the ones who would dream…

For once, the clouds of Braxis parted, and the stars appeared in the dark sky. As Renaud watched, he swore that at least once, in the corner of his eye, he saw a star dance.

----

As Garrett continued to keep his eyes glued to the radar screen, MacFerran screwed with the radio equipment. The installment's last radio operator had been deported to Outpost #39 last month, so now the communication systems landed in MacFerran's hands. It was all right, he knew what to do. But now, in the dead of night, there was never anything to report.

Garrett then sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He then propped his feet up onto the screen and stretched. It was getting late, he wasn't getting younger. This job had been so unbelievably boring. That discovery that he had made, not Blake, had been the most entertaining piece of data he had come across.

MacFerran wore his headphones and switched from frequency to frequency, looking for any other radio operators who had nothing to do. He liked talking to them; mainly because those radio operators had events occurring at their base, unlike Outpost #68.

He came across a certain frequency that was fuzzy, but it held a low humming noise. This was odd, because it wasn't the usual high-pitched humming. This note was low, as if someone were broadcasting just this sound. When MacFerran turned up the volume, he realized that the humming would stay constant. He glowered, then took off his headphones and cast them aside.

Garrett looked over and saw that his comrade was frustrated. MacFerran just sat there, not moving, not talking at all.

"What's wrong with you?" asked Garrett. MacFerran took one look at him and then hit a switch that transferred the noise in the headphones to the speakers in the room. The humming took over, and Garrett was taken back in confusion. "What is it?" MacFerran threw his arms in the air.

"It sounds like someone is broadcasting it. I can't determine where it's coming from, though." MacFerran went back to the controls, flipping several switches and turning numerous knobs. Garrett put his feet down and supplanted them to the ground. With his shoes secured to the floor, he stood up and walked over to the radio equipment.

"Try talking to them," Garrett suggested. MacFerran looked at him like he was crazy.

However, the radio operator took the microphone, switched the concentration back to his headphones and spoke to the mystery broadcaster.

"This is PCA Band to caller, come in caller, over… repeat: this is PCA Band to caller, come in caller, over," MacFerran said. He paused, waited for a response, and then sighed. He turned to Garrett. "Nothing." Garrett leaned against the radio equipment as MacFerran went back to the microphone.

MacFerran opened his mouth, ready to speak. Suddenly, a voice cut him off. It was low, so deep it was impossible to understand. He drew back with his face perplexed, and Garrett saw and tilted his head. MacFerran said nothing, and Garrett did not want to interrupt. Within moments, the voice was gone, and the usually humming began once again.

MacFerran pleaded back into the microphone, but there was no response. Again and again he tried, but there was nothing. After his final attempt, the humming stopped, and static took control. He looked over his instruments to find the frequency number, but there was nothing. As strange as it seemed, the equipment read as though no station had existed.

"What? What happened?" asked Garrett. MacFerran shook his head. No, no something, someone had to be there. There had to be. But alas, no station could be found.

"I-I don't know," he started. "The person… or thing, whatever it was… they were there…" Garrett knew he had heard a message that could not have been pleasing. But, before he could ask; "But I couldn't understand him. Something about… I don't know. Damn, if only I had recorded it."

Blake came in to check up on things. He noticed the faces of the duo, confused as could be. Something had spooked them, but there was no time for that now. He ordered them back to work, and turned to leave. MacFerran then uttered that Jarvis needed to come help him fix the radio tackle. There was not a thing wrong with it, but MacFerran figured that the volume box may have been damaged, and that that is what caused the inability to understand.

Blake nodded, and then left. Garrett went back to his chair to stare at the radar screen. He did, but no matter what blip traveled across the monitor, he couldn't pay attention. The shadows crept on by the dim light while the voices over frequency went all along the towers.