The sky is dark and the lone sun shines weakly across the snow dunes. Tilted stone skyscrapers cast long silhouettes broken only by gaping windows.
I shift the transmitter capsule on my back and wiggle my toes to make sure I can feel them. This is my first time making this trip and I hope it's the only time.
Reaching the base of the tallest building, I begin my ascent to the top. Its true base is buried a hundred meters in snow, but I can still remember what it looked like when it stood upright as the beacon of civilization.
When I take my last step onto the top level, I measure the sun. I have to hurry if I don't want to be taken by the winds after sunset. My plan was to set up the capsule on the rooftop, but it's already numbingly cold without exposing myself to the atmospheric breeze.
The capsule is easy to attach to the frame of the shattered window facing the sky. It's powering it up and sending the message that's hard. I have to take off my gloves.
For a moment I forget about the cold as the transmitter hums to life and a blue light lines its rims. I read the message on my tablet once more, imbuing it with hope. This is our only chance of survival.
The message is sending and I don't want to leave – even though I know it will send without me. I tear my eyes off the blue lights and shove my gloves back over my pale fingertips.
I make it back to the underground just in time. My wife orders me to sit by the lavastone to get feeling back into my limbs, but I am warmed to the bone once I feel the touch of her lips.
...
The tablet has been silent for too long. Three weeks passed and I find myself trudging through the snow again. Had it not been for the needs of the underground, I would be visiting the capsule much sooner. The people put too much trust in me.
I find the transmitter running smoothly. Brushing ice from its top I almost wish I had found it turned off. Is no one receiving our signals? Our planet is far, but the Intergalactic Order should hear us. Having wasted enough time fiddling with the capsule, I return to the underground in low spirits.
...
I hate the snow. I hate the sky. I hate the wind. And most of all, I ate staring at blue lights that give no sign of change. For three years the underground has forced me to walk to this infernal piece of metal. The first year I tried adding what's left of our technological stores to boost its power, or resend the message, or send a new message altogether.
Nothing.
I walk here for the people and the sake of acknowledging its existence. One day the people will forget and I will stop coming. On the walk home I hope that day comes soon.
...
My son wanted to come with me today. I almost let him. As much as his company would lift my spirits, spindly arms and legs are no match for the worsening weather. At least now my climb to the top of the building is shortened with the rise of snow.
Ten years ago I wanted to bash the capsule to pieces. Something stopped me and I instead moved it to the rooftop. The breeze is biting, but my body is acclimated. I send five messages each visit, remembering the hope in my heart the first time I did so. Anger is lost on me now. It is replaced with the sadness of what my son's future might be.
...
The people dig farther into the rock of the earth to keep warm as our planet's core cools. I let my son plan the underground's future. It is no longer my future and the underground is all he's ever known. He is more suited to lead them than I ever was. I realize this after he insists on joining me to check the transmitter. All that comes out of his mouth are ideas and gripes about the underground. Not once does he mention a life off this planet.
As he looks over the edge of the rooftop to the soft, grey horizon, he says something that isn't about the underground. How could this desolation ever have been a rich society?
I try my best to recall and share all this world was when both suns brought warmth and prosperity. He squints as if he would see the waters and the flowers and the clouds in the blue sky. He can't. All he sees is a figment of someone else's memory.
The blue lights on the capsule seem dimmer. The memory of things long gone weigh on my spirits and could be dimming my perspective.
...
Most people don't think about the transmitter anymore. Some still do. Thus, I go.
The transmitter's blue light faded years ago – I forget how many. No one else knows this. If there is still hope in their hearts the people should die with it still burning bright. That is what my wife would have said.
The walk is comforting to me. The nip of the air is familiar like a gentle kiss. Clacks and ticks from the building's crumbling stone is like a greeting from an old friend. It's probably no longer safe to enter, but I am not afraid.
I talk to the capsule now. There is nothing else to do. I tell it the great things my son has accomplished in spite of the dying world around him. Deep inside he knows there is no real future, but it's his only future so he holds it tight and inspires others to make the most of it. His mother would have been proud.
Sinking to the floor beside the capsule, I give my old feet respite and my strained eyes a rest. A deep sigh leaves my chest. I am so, so tired. As I lie still, the cold sinks deeper into my bones. Without my wife to warm them when I return home, they are forever chilled.
I raise my head to measure the sun. If I was twenty again I could make it to the underground with time to spare. But I am old and slow. There is no time left for me. Gazing across the sea of white, I wonder if I might still be here in thirty years – preserved by the cold underneath a layer of snow.
I hope the winds take my soul and carry it to meet with my wife's. I hope there are blue waters. I hope there are blue flowers. I hope there are blue lights to remind me of this life. It was hard, cold, and long, but it was also good.
Closing my eyes, I image those things. A gust of wind blows my hood back. The gusts strengthen until I can no longer feel my face. Finally, the blue light I see in my mind comes for me. A wave of heat washes over my body, but I am not afraid.
The wind stops and the heat fades, but I can still see the light. I open my eyes. A figure stands in front me. I call to my wife to come so I can see her clearly.
A man approaches me and kneels. "Are you Sintak?" His face is filled with awe.
"Yes," I stammer, too confused to say anything else.
"I'm here to help you and your people."
...
My granddaughter rode her bike to my house today. She likes to swim in the lake and paint flowers in the garden. Her favorite color is blue. She painted me my favorite picture and I hang it on my wall. It's a transmitter capsule rimmed with blue lights.
