The gas plant had been deserted for five and half years. Engineers had drilled holes through the frozen ground, searching for pockets of Leonium gas. This planet was the third from its sun, and on the borders of suitability for human life. The name on star charts and official records was Dagda, but those who lived and worked there only ever thought of it as Tundra. The men who had set up the gas plant hadn't caredabout the strange drumlins, pingos and polygons of the open tundra landscape, or the lichens and mosses that clung to the thin, peaty soil. They only wanted the rare Leonium gas that powered so much on this half-frozen plant. But the source they had found had not been worth the cost of extraction, not way out here on the Shinji peninsula. The economists had said that the population would remain in the domed cities and there would be no market out here. So just a couple of thin-walled huts remained of the plant, huddled in the lee of a rock outcropping. Ice-laden winds had pitted their walls like the hull of a well travelled spaceship.
The snow-hovers parked beside the bigger hut were almost new. Bike models, they were swift, economical and no use to families or businesses. Dazzle designs in orange and red made them easy to find, even in moderately severe weather. No one could find anything in a real Tundra blizzard, as the two men waiting nearby knew. The taller one was in the main hut, which had been the living quarters of the scientists. The cooking range had been left in place, as if someone had hoped to return. Bending down, the tall man saw that the pipes were still in place from the gas bottle. The quilted glove made him clumsy but he turned the gas tap on the range, pressing the ignition button with his other hand. The gas hissed then popped as it caught light. It was blue at first, burning into the brilliant yellow-gold of Leonium gas. The tall man smiled at the sight and leaned over the low flame. It warmed his snow-tanned face around the heavy, blond beard.
His companion stayed outside, his eyes fixed on the ridge to the north. The glare of the snow troubled his eyes less than the pale blue ones of his companion. The weather was clear for the moment and he could see for miles in all directions. A herd of wild inis grazed along the banks of the braided river nearly a mile away. They scraped away snow to reveal mosses, or tugged at the tough leaves of dwarf shrubs. Sparkling snow, soft powder on frozen layers, was unsullied as far as the eye could see. It rose and fell over the rolled landscape. Sharp ridges of snow stuck up here and there, carved into shape by ice laden winds. Only a few low and twisted trees dotted the snow and rock landscape. With the huts and snow bikes behind him, there was no sign that humans had ever reached this planet, let alone set about adapting their animals to flourish here. An ice raptor soared above the ridge, tilting its barred wings to catch the wind. The man silently admired the graceful, tapering wings and slender tail as the silhouette glided serenely overhead, vanishing behind the ridge. when it was gone, the man glanced at the chrono built into the back of his glove. Tucking his hands back into the pockets of his long coat, he shifted his weight to his other foot, and went on waiting.
Inside the hut, the fair man had taken his gloves off and was carefully warming his fingers over the low, golden flame. Slowly and delicately, he stretched each finger, massaging the muscles and flexing the joints. Each finger was bent back until the tendons pulled tight, then relaxed and wriggled until the cold and stiffness had been worked out of them. The light from the doorway dimmed suddenly. His companion had moved in, watching the tundra as it disappeared behind the front of a sudden ice storm. The distant line of mountains was already invisible; as he watched, the braided river was veiled by the white cloud, then it struck the two huts. The fair man turned up the flame, the gold light dancing across his face. He picked up his glove to glance at the chrono, then went back to looking at the flame. They waited.
Storm ice drummed on the plastic walls of the hut, eddying around the half-closed, drunken door. The brown-skinned man pulled his hood closer around his ears to muffle the noise. He squatted down in the furthest corner from the door, pulling the long skirts of his coat over his legs. An empty bottle had been left, overlooked in the clearout. He picked it up and began reading the label. The blond man had finished working his fingers. He slid open the mag-zip of his long coat and reached across to the needle gun holstered on his left side. Working with slow patience, he examined the weapon, making sure that the low temperatures had not affected it. Choosing a faded patch on the far wall, he fired a single shot at it. The crack of the needle breaking the sound barrier was swallowed by the ice storm outside. His companion looked up, saw the needle embedded in the wall, and went back to his thoughts.
There was nothing for them to talk about, even if they could have heard each other above the screeching of ice on the walls of the hut. Their breath clouded about their faces. The blond man holstered his needler and crouched near the stove, his fingers laced around his knees. The brown-skinned man dropped the bottle then changed position. Opening a clasp knife, he used the blade to start picking snow from the tread on the soles of his boots. Triangles and wedges of packed, grey snow scattered around him. He concentrated on his work. The blond man watched for a bit. It passed the time.
The silence after the storm was eerie. The blond man turned the yellow flame down low and looked at his chrono. Shaking his head, he slid his gloves on. His companion yawned and ambled towards the door. As he was opening it, a pony whinnied outside. Both men stiffened. Unzipping his coat, the brown-skinned man went out first, the blond right behind him. Two Tundra mod-ponies were standing a short distance away, their heads down and their tails turned to the wind. Snow was packed into the dense, coarse hair. Facing the hut was their owner. Silver frost rimed the black hair showing around the hood of his jacket. His eyes were narrowed against the snow glare as he watched the two men move apart.
"Garret inside ?" he asked. His voice had a soft, purring quality.
"He just sent us." The blond man smiled as he looked at the stranger.
The ponies' owner wore a thigh-length, quilted jacket, tightly fastened against the weather. Snow had been driven deep into the folds of the jacket but the stranger seemed oblivious. It was hung about with plenty of utility clips and fasteners on waist cuffs and shoulders. Nothing more dangerous than a water bottle was clipped to his waist. He carried a pack in his right hand and a scarf in his left. The blond man eased his long coat back from his holster, matching the stance of his companion.
"Where is Garrett ?" The question was asked patiently.
"He ain't round here." The brown-skinned man stared at the ponies. "They won't be able to keep up with the snow-hovers."
It was too cold to stand around talked; he made up his mind to just carry out his orders.
It was over in seconds. The ponies' owner dropped the scarf concealing the gun in his left hand and fired. The brown-skinned man died without firing his needler. The blond rocking under the tearing impacts but fired a burst before collapsing. The stranger flinched as a needle scored his cheek and tore his hood down. Only the ponies remained unharmed.
The roan pony shook its head, dislodging some of the snow packed into its thick mane. It pawed at the ice fragments on the hard snow, clearing a patch of mosses. Ignoring its owners activities, it grazed steadily. Holding his needler at the ready, the man approaching his victims. Neither moved; he didn't bother examining them closely, it was unnecessary for him. Besides, if they didn't recover consciousness soon, they never would in these freezing conditions. Satisfied that they would never threaten anyone again, he entered the hut they had been using. The golden warmth of the gas flame attracted him. Unzipping his coat, he tucked the needle gun into the waistband of his thick trousers, removed his gloves and slipped the coat off. The needle had torn through the quilted fabric of the hood. The fused, man-made material wouldn't fray so there was no need to worry about mending it.
A whinny from one of the ponies brought the man to the door. The grey pony was standing just outside, its breath clouding around its head. Outside, the roan was still grazing, the scars of its pawing dark in the snow. The man watched for a moment until the grey pony nuzzled at his pocket with velvety lips. Pushing its head away, the man opened the door wide.
"Come in then, Shulty, if you've a mind to."
The pony pushed through the doorway, wandering about a little before sniffing at the spot where the brown-skinned man had been sitting. Satisfied, it stood patiently while its owner stripped off the saddle and packs. The man dug some oats from the pack, offering them on his flat hand. The grey pony's whiskers tickled as it licked up the treat with satisfaction. Its owner scratched it under the heavy mane. He wasn't worried about the one outside. Tundra mod-ponies had been created by tinkering with the genes of Earth's toughest native breeds; the Shetland, Icelandic and Exmoor ponies. They were short-legged, wiry coated animals with abundant manes and tails for added insulation. Selective modification meant that they could survive on a variety of indigenous Tundra plants. The ponies' homing instincts, stubbornness and cunning were entirely natural.
Giving the grey pony a last pat, the man turned his attention to himself. Blood had been sliding steadily down the right side of his face and neck to settle in the groove of his collar bone. He reached up to press blunt fingers against the torn skin. A vertical line deepened between his straight brows as he concentrated. The needle had torn a six centimetre rip along his jawline; a little higher and it would have pierced his ear for him. Banishing such stray thoughts, he concentrated hard. Anyone watching would have seen his narrowed eyes clear to a rich, golden colour. The bleeding began to slow and ceased, a dark clot forming along the skin. Within a few minutes, the scab loosened and fell away, revealing dark pink, new skin underneath. If another person had seen the accelerated healing, there would have been cries of 'mutie' and 'moddie'; the typical anger of fear. Out here, the only witness was the pony, who took no notice at all.
Letting out a sigh, the ponies' owner took his hand away, flexing his stiff fingers. Digging out a handkerchief, he wiped away the sticky blood from his face and neck. Between them, the pony and the gas flame made the hut pleasantly warm, at least to someone who was used to the outside temperatures on Tundra. He usually coped by adjusting his body temperature to higher than was normal. It came as habit now, requiring little effort, but after healing himself it was good to be able to relax his mind completely. He began to think about Garrett.

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