Supernova

Chapter Two

Peter

The crater cuts a large gash in the terrain—a wound bleeding with smoke. I stop at the edge and stare down at the wreckage below. The smell of ash and burnt oil has been present for the past half mile—it fills my nostrils and clouds my throat, making me cough. I pull my shirt up over my nose, taking in the scene before me.

The wreckage is obviously the remains of some kind of large aircraft. All that's left is a mangled steel skeleton and large sheets of shrapnel scattered across the terrain. I can see that the front of the aircraft is somewhat intact, though it's recently been on fire. Whatever made it crash must have been in the back of the ship.

I bend down and swing myself over the edge of the crater, falling a few feet before landing at the bottom. I steady myself and look around again, my eyes following the trail of smoke coming from what might be the remains of the engine. I walk slowly towards it, pebbles and ash crunching under my feet. I'm being noisy, but that doesn't matter. It's obvious nobody else is here.

A glint catches my eye. I turn and stare in its direction, looking for the source. A couple of feet away, a large capsule is wedged in between large bars of steel. The glass is shattered around the middle, as if somebody had tried to jump through it and forgot the glass would break. Glittering bits of the glass litter the ground around it, most of it blackened and somewhat melted. I'm not sure why, but it sends chills down my spine.

Suddenly I hear a large cracking noise. I whip around, clenching my fists tightly.

I can't see anything through the smoke, but everything is quiet. Eventually, I relax, thinking something might have just fallen. I turn and begin to move back towards the edge of the crater. Coming here was a bad idea, I realize. I've seen what I wanted, and now it is time to go home.

Just as I reach the edge, a metallic click and the sound of feet planting firmly on the ground makes me stop. I slowly turn around, my eyes landing on a boy standing several feet away. I look at his navy blue soldier uniform first, then his clean, carefully kept appearance, and finally, his gun, which is pointed at me. He doesn't appear nervous, and when he speaks, his voice doesn't shake. "Stay right there and raise your hands in the air. If you speak or attempt to escape, I will shoot you."

Jason

The boy raises his hands slowly, his face expressionless. I'm sure he is no threat. Based on the state of his appearance—old clothes, grimy hair, and face—I assume he's just a scavenger looking for something to sell.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" I ask sharply, keeping my gun steady in case he tries to run for it. He doesn't answer; he just glares at me and presses his mouth into a thin line.

I try again. "Who are you?"

He answers this time, his voice gruff and low. "Who I am and what I'm doing here is nobody's business but mine."

I glare at him. "As a soldier and officer of the law, I have a right to know and you have an obligation to tell me. If you do not I'll have no choice but to arrest you. I'll ask one more time: who are you and why are you here?"

He opens his mouth as if he's about to argue, but then closes it, apparently thinking better of it. He clenches his hands. "My name is Peter," he says finally, even more contempt in his voice. "I saw smoke and came to investigate. Nothing more."

"How could you have seen the smoke?" I press, suspicious. "This crash is a day away from the nearest town."

"I live out in the desert, not far from here."