The recon module appeared in the middle of the desert with an unimpressive "Pop!" and the 114.34 liters of water that interdimensional jumping always carried with it.
The bright yellow hovercraft floated motionless for a moment as the water cascaded over its rounded form. Then, the wipers came on, and the powerful turbo engines activated. The craft hovered for a second, then lanced off.
Inside Department of Transportation and Exploration (DTE) survey craft #73, Jimmy activated the scanners and sensors.
"Eyes and ears are up and running, Mick," he said, toggling another set of controls as the craft hit a pocket of unstable air.
"We're in the pike," said Mick at the craft's controls. "It's kinda hot out there. Make sure the coolant pressure is high. Oh, and don't forget the dust screens. Wouldn't want to get stuck out here."
"No shit," grunted Jimmy, pushing his Des Moines Dodgers cap further up on his head, and wiping his brow.
Mick leaned forward in his seat and looked at the dead, bleached earth speeding by about four feet below the craft. It was always the same in the dims: dead soil, no water, no plants, hotter than hell.
Maybe that promotion would come through this time, he mused. Then, he'd get a road of his own, and an office in The Complex, hunting down and pre-scanning promising new dims for other half-wits to hop into and survey before the road crews came in.
He was interrupted by the craft's homing beacon.
"OK, here we are," he said, collecting his wits. "Activate the static screen and check the landing gear."
The craft banked to the left, and lowered itself gently to the ground. Dust floated around the craft, hung in the motionless air.
"Discharge static," ordered Mick. There was a brief sizzle of electricity, and the dust cloud was repelled from the ship, disappearing on the too-bright horizon.
It left the ship sitting alone in the middle of a bone-white desert that stretched flat to the sky in every direction.
"Running atmospheric check," said Jimmy. "Biohazards. Clear. Contaminants. Clear. Radioactivity. Clear. Lowering cabin pressure and unsealing hatches."
The air that rushed in was hot enough to take their breath away.
"Sheee-itt!" whistled Jimmy, rustling a canvas bag of gear out from below his seat. "It's gotta be 125 clicks out there."
When he hit the ground, Jimmy pulled out a spidery box and a folded tripod. He tested
the connection, activated the external power grid. The box began revolving crazily atop the tripod.
"Beemer's on. Want some water?" asked Jimmy, opening a door on the craft's side. A spigot and a rack of paper cups were tucked away inside, and he filled one quickly with cold water.
"God, I hate hopwater. It doesn't taste like anything," grimaced Mick, passing his cup back for more.
"Well, The Complex is frugal."
"You mean," said Mick, draining the cup, "The Complex is tight-assed."
There was a loud beep from the array.
"Found something," said Mick crumpling the paper cup, catching himself as he was about to toss it to the ground. Force of habit. Best not to leave anything in the dims. The boys at The Complex weren't exactly sure what effect it might have.
Mick had a personal theory, though. He thought it'd fuck things up real good.
He pushed the crumpled cup into the garbage receptacle.
The beemer was stuck, its iris open and pointing back in the direction they had come from.
"What the hell?" asked Mick, rubbing his sun-blind eyes.
"Everything checks out," said Jimmy, inspecting the array closely. "I think the motor seized from all the wind-blown particulates."
"Tell me we don't have to come back here."
"Well," Jimmy said, punching up the data on the array's small screen. "I think it got enough."
"You sure?"
Jimmy scanned the information again, tapped the box lightly. It emitted a warbling "beep," then began spinning again.
"Yeah," he said, frowning.
"Well, you're the expert. Pack it up, and I'll verify the coordinates," said Mick, strolling back to the ship.
)
