The Crystalline Path

The bitter air tasted of metal and snow. Tobin’s gloved fingers, clumsy with cold, fumbled for the next handhold, his breath fogging in ragged bursts. The synthetic fibre of his climbing suit offered little defence against the raw, planet-killing chill that seeped into his bones. Below him, hundreds of metres of sheer, frozen rock dropped away into nothing. Above, Danny moved with a precise, almost brutal efficiency, his figure a dark silhouette against the grey, churning sky. There was no sound but the storm, a white roar that filled the universe.

"Hold!" Danny's voice, distorted by the wind and his comms unit, was flat, devoid of its old warmth. A shiver, not entirely from the cold, ran down Tobin’s spine. He paused, his crampons biting precariously into a slick patch of obsidian-like ice. He could hear the faint, high-pitched whine of the portable graviton winch above them, straining. This rig was ancient, scavenged, and barely suited for a quick climb up a maintenance shaft, let alone this vertical expanse of planetary crust.

A memory, sharp and unwanted, clawed at the edges of Tobin’s awareness: the grinding shriek of failing hydraulics, the sickening lurch of the shuttle. Danny, shouting something he couldn’t quite decipher over the blaring alarms, his face grimed with soot and terror. Tobin slammed the memory down, hard. Now wasn’t the time.

He watched Danny find purchase, his body a tight knot of muscle and resolve, then gesture, a curt downward flick of his wrist. "Clear. Move it."

Tobin pushed off, the small jump sending a fresh jolt of fear through him. The winch above pulled him up, centimetre by grinding centimetre. His knee scraped against a sharp protrusion of rock, tearing a thin rent in his suit. He ignored the stinging cold that immediately found the new breach. They needed to get out of the open. This blizzard was only getting worse.

"How much further to the thermal cave?" Tobin asked, his own voice hoarse, barely audible even through the filtered comms.

Danny didn't look down. "Fifty metres. Maybe less. Don't fall."

The bluntness stung, but Tobin had expected nothing less. Three years. Three years since the *Kestrel* went down. Three years since they’d seen each other, really seen each other, until Danny had shown up at his little homestead on the edge of the Dust Sea, looking leaner, harder, with eyes that held too much space. He’d just said, "Need a guide. North face." No 'hello', no 'how are you'. Just that.

The last few metres were the worst. Tobin’s muscles screamed, burning with a deep, persistent ache. The wind tried to tear him from the rock face, a malevolent force intent on claiming them for the chasm. He squinted upwards, seeing the faint, orange flicker of a beacon. Danny had reached it. He was already securing their lines.

With a final, desperate surge, Tobin hauled himself over the lip of the overhang. He collapsed onto a narrow, snow-covered ledge, gasping, the taste of rust in his mouth. The beacon, a relic of some forgotten survey team, cast a weak, pulsing light into the swirling white.

Danny stood over him, his silhouette framed by the storm. He didn't offer a hand. He merely unclipped the main line from the winch, securing it to a rock piton with practiced movements. "Get inside."

Tobin pushed himself up, every joint protesting. The 'cave' was more of a shallow recess, barely wide enough for them to sit, but it was out of the direct blast of the wind. A faint, earthy smell mingled with the metallic tang of the old beacon. He slid down, his back hitting the cold, damp rock.

Danny followed, dragging their packs inside. The small space immediately felt smaller, tighter, with Danny’s quiet intensity filling the air. He didn’t sit immediately, instead pulling out a compact, multi-tool and beginning to examine the beacon. Its orange glow cast stark shadows across his angular features. His brow was furrowed, a habit Tobin remembered from their academy days, when Danny would debug complex flight algorithms. Some things, Tobin thought, never really changed.

Shelter from the Storm

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the shriek of the blizzard outside and the soft clicks of Danny’s tool. Tobin pulled his emergency rations from his pack—a grey, flavourless nutrient bar and a pouch of recycled water. He unwrapped the bar slowly, the synthetic wrapper crackling loudly in the small space.

"Still eating those?" Danny’s voice, quiet and a little rough, made Tobin jump. He hadn't realised Danny was watching him.

"Easy to carry." Tobin mumbled, taking a bite. It tasted like ash.

Danny hummed, a low sound in his throat. He shifted, finally sitting opposite Tobin, his knees almost touching Tobin’s. He pulled out his own rations. For a long moment, they ate in a silence that was less comfortable than the one before. It was the kind of silence that held a thousand unasked questions, a hundred unsaid apologies.

"Your comms unit is dead." Danny finally said, wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. He held up a small, black device, its display dark and cracked. "Impact from the fall. Or the cold. Probably both."

Tobin nodded. He already knew. He’d felt the sudden drop in signal strength, then the complete cut-off, about halfway up. It was why they were relying solely on Danny’s rig, and why this old beacon was their best, last hope.

"How’s yours holding up?" Tobin asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He knew the answer before Danny even spoke. They had stripped down Danny’s emergency gear to make his main comms robust, for the *Kestrel* mission. It had been a calculated risk. A bad calculation.

Danny didn’t answer right away. He ran a thumb over the cracked display of Tobin's unit. "It’s… intermittent. Static. Won't hold a signal on this frequency. Need higher ground. Or clearer skies." His eyes, when they finally met Tobin's, were dark, unreadable pools.

Another unwelcome echo from the past: the crackle on the comms, the frantic attempts to hail command, the growing desperation as the signal died, leaving them utterly alone, falling through a black sky. Tobin shifted, the scraped knee protesting. He could feel the cold seeping through the tear in his suit now, a sharp, constant ache.

"Right." Tobin forced the word out. "Higher ground. Later."

Danny pulled a small, flickering diagnostic tool from his pack, a contraption of wires and glowing diodes. He began to tinker with the old beacon, muttering to himself, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was good at this, Tobin remembered. Better than anyone. Had always been. That was why he’d been chosen for the navigation team. That was why Tobin had trusted him implicitly.

Tobin watched the small, mechanical movements of Danny's fingers. They were still deft, precise, even with the gloves on. The hands that had once guided them through asteroid fields, now struggling with a rusted, ancient piece of equipment on a forgotten rock. Funny how things changed. And how they didn't.

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the storm. It sounded like an angry ghost, rattling the very foundations of the planet. When he opened them, Danny was looking at him. Just for a second. There was something in his gaze Tobin couldn't quite decipher. A flicker of something. Concern? Regret? Or just the cold reflection of the beacon light?

"Cold?" Danny asked, his voice softer this time, barely a whisper over the wind.

Tobin nodded, not trusting his voice. He shivered again, consciously this time. He rubbed his gloved hands together, trying to generate some friction, some heat. The tear in his suit was a tiny, persistent drain of warmth.

Danny reached into his pack again, pulling out a small, emergency thermal patch. He leaned forward, closer than they’d been in years, and pressed it against the torn fabric of Tobin's suit, directly over the scraped knee. The patch instantly warmed, a small, radiating comfort against the bite of the cold. Their hands brushed for a fleeting moment. Danny's fingers were rough, calloused, but there was a surprising gentleness in the gesture.

"Better?" Danny asked, pulling back slightly, his eyes still on Tobin's. The question was simple, practical, but it felt loaded. It felt like an invitation to something more, something they both pretended wasn't there.

Tobin swallowed, the nutrient bar suddenly a dry lump in his throat. "Yeah. Thanks."

He watched the way Danny’s gaze dropped from his eyes to his knee, then to the diagnostic tool in his hand. The moment, whatever it had been, was gone. Danny returned to the beacon, the small, glowing diodes reflecting in his pupils. The blizzard roared on, a constant, indifferent presence outside their tiny, temporary sanctuary.

Tobin felt the warmth of the patch spread, a small comfort in the vast, indifferent cold. He didn’t know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second. The wind howled, rattling the loose rocks at the cave's mouth, but inside, in the small, cramped space, with the steady hum of Danny’s work and the new, quiet warmth on his knee, Tobin felt a strange, precarious peace settle over him. It wouldn’t last. Nothing ever did. But for now, it was enough. The storm outside was still a terrifying, indifferent beast, but in the amber glow of the old beacon, with Danny just a few inches away, the overwhelming sense of isolation seemed, for a brief, fragile moment, to recede.

The quiet hum of the old beacon, coaxed back to a steady, if weak, thrum by Danny’s diligent work, filled the space. Tobin watched a fine plume of snow drift in through a crack in the rock above, catching the faint light before dissipating into the cavern’s gloom. It was a cold, desolate beauty, like everything else on this world. Danny, oblivious, or perhaps just choosing to be, continued to adjust a small coil on the beacon’s circuit board. He finished, then leaned back, stretching his back, a faint grunt escaping him. He looked out at the storm for a long moment, then turned his gaze to Tobin. The wind screamed its rage, but inside, a new, tentative quiet had settled.

"Still a lot of climbing left," Danny said, his voice low, almost contemplative, the last trace of the day’s harsh edge softened by the close confines and the flickering light. He wasn’t looking for an answer. Just stating a fact, one that felt like it applied to more than just the mountain. Tobin looked at the snow, dancing in the beacon's glow, and then back at Danny, the warmth of the thermal patch a persistent reminder against his skin. The path ahead was still uncertain, and the chasm between them still vast, but for now, they were simply here, breathing the same cold air.

And for the first time in three years, Tobin felt a faint, almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere between them, a fragile, unspoken question hanging in the frigid air, waiting for the storm to break.