"Granddad, it happened again."

The little voice snuck through the dark, nosing into the sound of wind slithering outside the compound. But what was most noticeable was the lack of sound. The old man stretched out on the cot sat up slowly, aware of each tired muscle used to do so, and pressed his hand to a panel on the wall with the confidence of familiarity. Even disturbances in the dead of night had become almost routine to him. But that was all right.

Keep on and hold on. Those were the words he'd learned to live by.  

At the man's touch, the panel hummed and pale golden light issued from the flat disks suspended from the ceiling. The old man blinked, cornea vision plates sliding and adjusting to the change, until the small room came into focus. Strapped to the walls, tools and hand machines glinted back the light, and the two skylights above – filled with the dazzling display of the Io galaxy only moments before – were transformed into pools of shadow. But as his eyes brushed over all this, a cool draft stroked the old man's cheek, and he turned to look at the door.

A little boy in a white t-shirt and a pair of shorts appeared from the shadow of the corridor beyond, his curly hair tousled as a helios sheep's, and his brown eyes wide.

"It happened again," the little boy whispered once more.

"The generators decide to take a nap, did they, Genry?" The old man cleared his throat, and winced at the unsettlingly sweet taste of the phlegm the action stirred up in his chest.

Croupier than an unclean engine. He sighed and reached for the canteen sitting on the locker beside his bunk.

He patted the blanket, the fibers catching on his rough fingertips, and nodded to Genry. "Yep, I can hear for myself that the generators have died. The ventilation system sounds like it's off, too. Is your room overheating?" 

Genry nodded as he climbed onto the cot and dangled his legs over the side like his grandfather. His bare feet didn't reach the ground.

"Yep, granddad. It's awful hot."

"You got a fever then, bub?"

"I don't think so." Genry gravely pressed a palm to his forehead then shook his head. "You feel."

"All right, then."

"Granddad?"

"Yep?"

"You're awful hot."

"I was just dreaming about that pack of lupisaurs again. Must have gotten me all riled up. You remember the lupisaurs?"

"Those darn lizards," Genry grinned, mimicking the old man's voice. "You get them this time, or did they get the sheep?"

The old man rumpled the boy's curly hair. "They almost got the sheep."

"But did they? Or did you whup them?"

"There's some vinegar left in me yet. I whupped 'em, all right."

"How?"

"I got the sheep to safety. I got 'em home."

"Then what happened?"

"Then what happened is we go and fix the generator. Don't want your room turning into a smokehouse. You'd smell like a haunch of mutton then, and if there were any lupisaurs around, they'd come after you quicker than that!" The old man snapped his fingers under Genry's nose, and the little boy gave an appreciative shiver.

"Can we use the teleport, then, and get to the generators fast?"

The old man shook his head as he braced his hand against the locker and pressed down, easing himself to his feet. Bitterness rose in him.

"Naw, those things are for old people who can't walk."

"Mum and Dad used them, though." Genry pouted his lip. "And they look like fun."

"If Mum and Dad come back, you can ask them about using the teleports. You know that."

Genry slipped off the cot to join the old man as he gathered tools from the worktable opposite.

"You said 'if' this time."

The old man cleared his throat again, swallowed, and reached for his canteen once more. "I'm old, and I forget the right words, Genry, you should know that. Soon this head of mine'll be empty enough to roll tumbleweed about in when the wind blows through my ears."

Genry poked an inquisitive finger in his own ear, and giggled.

They held hands as they followed the eastern hallway of the vast compound to the generator room. None of the usual lights reacted when the motion sensors should have been triggered by the approach of the two, but more emergency lights glowed gently. Outside, the wind had picked up, and the hiss and rattle of sand striking the outer walls reminded him too much of the clawing of the lupisaurs from his dream.

But that was just a dream. The last of the lupisaurs died, like everything else here on Demeter IV.

He didn't relax, though. The wind-tossed sand sounded like it really did intend to claw its way inside.

Everything died because the sand hurricanes hit.

He quickened his pace, and the sound of his footsteps echoed faintly off the curved walls of the metallic corridor. Genry's own barefooted padding quickened to keep up with him. But as they passed the stairs down to the compound's basement and the inner passage leading to the teleport room, Genry slowed again.

"They will be coming back, won't they?" he whispered. "I miss Mum and Dad."

The old man remembered the large metal and glass docks, the blazing light, the weightlessness, the shrill note ringing in his consciousness when he'd been in the teleport room for the first time. That had been shortly after the ports were installed. They'd managed to finagle him into taking a short trip, and he hadn't liked it one bit. Technological advancements that made you feel like you were crumbling apart weren't a step above good old space travel at all in his opinion. 

His ears had been ringing on and off for a while now, as if he were starting to teleport again but hadn't gotten past losing his tangible shape. They rang a little now, at the exertion of walking all the way to the generators in the dead of night.

"As soon as they get the supplies they need, they'll be right back," he panted. "Nothing's preventing them on their part other than that, I'm sure."

He spoke truth. As far as he knew, there really was nothing blocking Genry's parents from coming back on their end. But he didn't mention the crumbled roof burying half the teleport control panels in the basement of the compound. There'd been nothing he could do to stop the destruction, or prevent its terrible results. He would never forget the words that appeared on the control screen as the dust settled: System compromised. Incoming teleportation not advised. Disengaging all functions as per security protocol.

The familiar anger returned, a hot, tense force whipping his heartbeat into a wild pace.

Confounded teleports. So full of flaws. 'Must be manually operated for all outgoing destinations.' Manually operated. Someone gets left behind. The old man tightened his hand around Genry's small fingers. Most darn-fool idea that ever hit the mind of a man. People aren't made to be left behind.

"People are made to be partners."

"What, Granddad?"

The old man started. "What, Genry?"

"You said people are made to be partners."

"And so they are. You and me, we're partners."

"Really?"

"Really. Best partners." The old man turned aside at a large door and pecked with his fingers at the touchscreen keyboard set in the wall at one side. "Which is why I brought you along to help me fix the generators, bub. You're smart as a newly-polished rocket."

~~~ 

It seemed an ordinary repair job at first – a few burned out converter coils, and a fried cord connected to the compound's database. Genry stood beside his grandfather, handing him the tools. The old man didn't have to ask for them, simply hold out his hand and grunt in such a way – he and Genry had been together, just the two of them, for almost three years. Sometimes, words were excess.

Silently, the old man replaced the lid of the generator and tapped the small Auxiliary Aid he wore strapped around his wrist. The little screen lit up, glowing soft blue, and holographic numbers announced the time to be 3:00, but the old man swiped at them with his fingertip. He had to do it a few times before they disappeared, replaced by a small menu of icons hovering over his wrist, though.

"Your AuxA is getting worn out. Why don't you get a new one, Granddad?" Genry asked. "The 6th eon one can be grafted into your nerbs."

"Nerves, Genry, those are nerves." The old man tapped away at the holographic menu until the energy input screen appeared in the hologram. He diverted the energy flowing wirelessly to the AuxA from the solar panels on the compound's roof, and sent it to the control panel of the generator, instead.

"The 6th eon AuxA connects to your nerves, then," Genry correct, lifting himself up on the balls of his feet in excitement. "You don't have to touch it, or anything, it just reads what you want it to do because it's already touching your nerves!"

"Nope, no 6th eon AuxA hacking my nerves for me." The old man shook his head. "Back in my day, that was called an invasion of personal space."

Genry sighed and dropped the soldering pen back into its case on the floor of the generator room. "Well, they probably aren't even making 6th eon ones any more, anyway. The download I read about them in was from ages ago. When we gonna get new downloads in, Granddad? I'm tired of reading the same old stuff. I've practically memorized how to assemble and disassemble a hologram projector."

"When we get incoming messages working again. They're broken, remember?"

Just like the teleports. Darn technology. We get too dependent on it, and look what happens to us when it's stripped away.

"Well, we can just fix 'em, then." Genry grinned.

But the expression faded quickly after the old man touched the generator's ignition icon. For a moment the familiar faint whir of the machinery filled the room, but then it was interrupted by a stuttered choking noise before halting altogether.

"Darn it, Granddad. What went wrong?"

"I'm not sure, bud." The old man rerouted the wireless solar energy and tried the ignition icon again.

Nothing happened.

"It must be something outside." The old man sighed. "Nothing's wrong on this end. You stay here, Genry, I'll be right back."

"Aw, c'mon, Granddad! I've never been outside!" Genry's eyes could not have been more meltingly pleading.

"You've been in the greenhouse."

"That's not the same. That's like taking a walk in a jar. I wanna go on a walk outside, on the dirt, like you did when you were little!"

The old man gazed down at the eager face turned up to him, skin smooth and flawless – a face that had never borne a freckle, never been burnt to tender pink. He licked over the dry cracks on his own worn lip then sighed again.

"All right, then. You can come. Just don't touch any of the machinery."

"But Granddad, I've read –"

"I know you're read about them. But just stick close and watch this round.

It took a few minutes for the security screens by the main doors of the compound to warm up enough for the old man to access them. They hadn't been used since before the first sand hurricanes, over three years ago. As the old man slid his fingers over the panels, burrowing in his memory for all the passcodes to allow exiting, Genry explored the lockers of gear in the rooms on either side of the entrance hallway.

"Granddad?" he called, voice echoing off the metal walls.

"Yeah, bub?"

"What we gonna need to wear outside? Will it be hot?"

"Nope, bub, it's hot during the day. It's been night for so long now, we'll need warm things to wear. There should be some parka suits in locker twelve. Find them for me, would ya?"

The thumping and shuffling of Genry's search was accentuated by the sound of faint whistling. The old man smiled as he listened, working his way through the last of the main door security. But the smile was halfhearted.

It had been a long time since that door was opened, since he saw the land he'd lived on for over forty years. His memory of what it looked like had grown distant. The shields over the compound's glass dome rooftops had jammed halfway down during the collapse that broke the teleports, and they stayed there, showing nothing but the star and nebula spattered sky of the Io galaxy.

The old man's fingers trembled as he typed in the last password, and the panels of the doors slid away into the walls, revealing the entryway chamber of the compound. Just one door between him and the land, now.

Genry came up, dragging a large pale grey bundle of clothing behind him. "Granddad, I found this. Is this what you need? You know, I was reading in our old downloads about this shirt that help you if you're diletic – "

"Diabetic, bub."

"– diabetic, because it'll do something about sampling your blood sugar levels just by being close to your skin. Isn't that cool?"

"Finger scanners aren't good enough?"

"No, just this is cooler. You don't have to stop and scan your finger all the time. The shirt just tells you, without you doing anything."

The old man cleared his throat, then had to do so again because of the muck it shifted.

"I don't need a shirt to tell me when I'm sick. I prefer good old instinct. And my instinct is that we should get these parkas on and get outside."

 ~~~

The inner door of the entrance chamber slid shut behind the two grey-clad figures, and there was a moment of quiet in which the old man could hear only Genry's breathing in the intercom installed in the hoods of their jackets. Then the outer doors began to open. Wind whipped into the chamber, snaking red-brown sand across the metal floor so that it began to build up around his and Genry's boots. But they ignored it, watching with wide eyes as the opening doors widened and widened until they could see Demeter IV spread before them.

Genry bounced up and down, but his excited laughter over the intercom hardly reached the old man's reckoning. He stared out at the once-flat land stretching to the horizon, now cut and carved by the wind into gullies and valleys. Everything was silver and navy in the moonlight, and rocks washed nearly white reached up from the shifting earth like exposed bones. The old man closed his eyes.

Demeter IV, like the rest of the Demeter Cluster of small planets, had once been perfect for the growth and export of food for the entire Io galaxy – fertile soil, flat land, long growing season due to ideal proximity to the yellow dwarf star Alimenta. When the old man, his wife, and the rest of their Trailblazer team arrived to begin cultivating Demeter IV many years ago, they'd found a planet green, growing, and practically just waiting to be used. So they'd spent their lives building their compound and forging the huge AI plows, cultivators, and harvesters needed to farm the miles upon miles of flat cropland.

Nobody else came to Demeter IV – why visit a humble cropland planet when you could skysurf the Cerulean Nebula or tour the diamond-bristling mountains of Scintillat? So they were alone when, after forty years of farming, Demeter IV gave out. They'd overestimated the planet's resources. Without the thick grass that helios sheep grazed and lupisaurs raced across there to hold the rich earth down, it blew. It blew and travelled hundreds of miles, gathering speed and mass until the Trailblazer team's consequence for their overconfidence arrived in the form of massive sand hurricanes.

The rest of the Trailblazer team teleported out at the first sign of the sandstorms, hoping to contact the Intergalactic Alliance for aid in saving the AI machinery. The old man was the last one alive of the original Trailblazer team, and he knew more about the compound than anyone, so he remained behind to hold the fort with his son, daughter-in-law, and two-year-old grandson. But the sand hurricanes hit before any help could arrive.

The storms lasted for months. The lupisaurs, helios sheep, and everything else outside the compound died. The grass and crops were stripped away, and the atmosphere changed. The AI machinery out in the fields were torn apart, and all communication with the rest of the galaxy was lost as the storm broke all transmitters. A year passed, a year spent in half-light and varying heat or cold, all the broken generators and solar converters failing to supply any energy. The four inhabitants of the compound were nearing the last of their stockpiled emergency rations when the storms finally moved on.

But, even though they got enough machinery and data back online to make the compound self-sufficient again, things had hardly improved. The greenhouse was usable once again, the solar panels could backup the generators, and the four weren't living in constant fear of the compound being torn to pieces around them. But it wouldn't last forever. One of the first things the planet-surface radar picked up upon being rebooted was the retreating sand hurricane. As it travelled further away, it grew stronger instead of dying. And, according to the data analysis programs they ran, it would only continue to grow as it circled the planet. The storm would come back around someday, and, unlike the compound, it would be more than ready for round two.

Data analysis showed the storm would bypass them slightly the second time around, but things looked grim for the third. So, using the window of opportunity they'd been given, the four set to work, and they worked on repairing the teleports for nearly six months. The old man's son and daughter-in-law would teleport to Earth, the center off the Intergalactic Alliance. One would stay to gather a team to salvage the compound and get everything out before the third storm, and the other would return almost at once to Demeter IV with the good news.

But, with all power re-routed to the teleport chamber to support the procedure, the radar wasn't able to pick up the freak storm that blew up in the middle of the teleport departure. Already weakened by the first sand hurricane, the D-wing wall above the teleport room was ground down by this new strain until it caved in. The end result was that old man was left alone on Demeter IV with his grandson, a deteriorating compound, and two broken teleports.

That had been three years ago. Several more sandstorms had rolled in, spontaneously formed ones that toyed with the compound, reminding it of the big one circling around for another bout. The old man thought that the atmospheric disturbance that took out the generators had been another of these rouge storms. But he was wrong.

He opened his eyes, taking in the land before him once more. Genry was chattering about the odd formations of the rocks and the way the sand shifted almost as if alive across the ground, his voice shrill and rapid with excitement. But the old man didn't hear. His heartbeat seemed to grow weaker as his cornea vision plates shifted until the dark mass spreading across the sky, swallowing the blue, purple, and yellow beauty of the Io galaxy, came into focus.

"Genry," he whispered.

The little boy didn't hear him, straining against the old man's grip on his hand as he tried to run through the door.

"Genry!"

"What, Granddad?"

"How long were the generators off?"

"I dunno. I was sleeping. My AuxA battery was dead when I woke up, though, and that doesn't happen unless it was offline more than four hours."

The outpost radars that sent updates to the compound having been gradually wiped out by the sandstorms, the radar located in the compound itself was the only way to gain information on anything within a fifty-mile radius.

Five hours without the radar on.

 "Granddad, is that a thunderstorm over there? I've never seen a thunderstorm."

"It ain't a thunderstorm, bub. It's a sandstorm."

"Another one? But we're having one, now."

"No, this is just the beginning of that one over there."

"Does this mean we have to go back inside?"

The old man pursed his lips. He was so tired. Already his legs were trembling from bracing himself against the wind whipping into the entrance chamber. But he held tight to Genry's hand. He held tight for Genry.

Keep on and hold on.

"No. We've got to see what's wrong with the connection between the solar panels and the generators, first. We need the power on inside before the storm hits – don't know how long this one'll last."

He'd brought the tools he used to repair the generators in his grey parka suit's pockets, so he showed Genry how to clip the suit's safety straps to the ladder leading to the roof of the compound, and they began their ascent. The wind buffeted them, rasping sand against the face shields of their hoods, but it couldn't interrupt their intercoms. Genry talked the entire way up to the compound's roof about the storm, how stuffy his parka suit smelled, and all about the new elevators, replacing all the stairs, he'd read about in their downloads. The old man didn't say anything. The higher they got, the more of Demeter IV he could see, and, just as everything he'd once known had been stripped away from the land, he now possessed no words to accurately express the hollowness, the sorrow he felt.

He had seen this land rich with life and growing things, covered with cloud-like flocks of helios sheep, and glittering with the AI field machines as they threshed the miles of wheat. Now, not even the ghost of these things remained. He'd been hoping for years now that somehow, things would go back to the way they were before the first sand hurricane. But no. Things had changed, and they kept on changing, no matter how hard he held on.

"And Granddad, the really cool thing about these elevators is that they can never fail, 'cos they're made with magnets! You ever ride a magnetic elevator?"

"No, bub, I haven't. And using good, old-fashioned stairs ain't so bad. How else would we know how to climb this ladder?" the old man said, forcing laughter into his voice as he reached the end of the rungs and stepped onto the roof of the compound. 

The wind blew harder up there, five stories up, but there were guard lines built in as a security measure, and the old man transferred his safety straps to them and then did the same with Genry's. Despite their precarious position, Genry himself was astounded.

"I'm up so high, Granddad!" he crowed as they made their way along the rooftop towards the wide solar panels. "I've never been up so high. I can see really far. I didn't know Demeter IV was made with so much dirt. Was it like this when you were my age, Granddad?"

"Nope, I lived on Earth when I was your age." The old man let the wind pull his safety line taut, and rested his trembling legs by allowing the tension to support him. Situated thus, he pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and prepped his energy-reader for use.

"Really? Did you live in the capitol?"

"No, the Earth's more than just a place for folks to argue politics and intergalactic law. It's the biggest and most important planetary reservation. It's where all we humans came from, our earliest history, so we have to protect it."

"What's the reservation like, Granddad? I read about it in our downloads, of course, but holograms aren't like the real thing."

So, as they began checking each of the solar panels' connections to the building, the old man spoke. It was good to talk of Earth, to remind himself that there were green, growing things and places of breathtaking beauty still out there – to remind himself that, hundreds of light-years away, his son and daughter-in-law were alive, waiting for him and Genry. To his surprise, as he shared about all he remembered from his boyhood on Earth, he found the things he remembered most were not life-changing or even that important at all.

Catching frogs, the squish of mud between his toes, sitting on board watching the sun set after a day of skysurfing; herding sheep with his DOG (Driving and Organizing Golem), the night when he got lost on the range and watched all the stars come out one by one, and holding hands with his future bride when they'd dared each other to sneak into the reputedly haunted shuttle hangar.

"Ew, Granddad, you held a girl's hand?" Genry's voice squeaked over the intercom.

"Just you wait, bub," the old man laughed, bracing himself against the edge of the solar panel they were checking when the wind increased for a moment, buffeting the both of them. "It'll happen to you too, someday."

"I don't think so. There aren't any girls on Demeter IV."

The old man sobered.  "That's true, bub. That's true."

No girls.

No frogs, mud, skysurfing, sheep, or even automatons.

"Let's hurry up and get these solar panels fixed, Genry."

 ~~~

They staggered back into the entrance chamber half an hour later, shoved by the escalating wind that shrieked with disappointment as the outer doors of the chamber slid shut. Once the wind was blocked out, the silence was an almost palpable pressure when the old man unfastened the hood of his parka suit and let the front panel retract. He turned to Genry.

"Job well done, bub. Let's get back to the generators. I want to get the radar up and running so we can keep tabs on the storm. It'll hit soon."

They fumbled the little boy out of his parka, and left the two suits, streaming sand from their seams, on the floor by the entrance chamber. Then they made their way back to the generator room. All the way there, Genry bounced like a helios lamb set out to pasture for the first time, activating the solar lights lining the ceiling. The old man followed at a pace that he couldn't quite call his own – it was too slow, too tired. Resisting the wind during the repairs on the solar panels had taken a lot out of him, but the wind was growling along the walls, again, and it triggered fear that was even more exhausting.

"Genry! Wait up for me, bub!" The old man called halfway to the generator room. "Stick close to me."

With all his aches, rumbling breathing, and ringing ears, the old man knew that the little boy was the only thing on Demeter IV that held him there. And when Genry wasn't close to him, all he could hear was the wind howling across the wilderness outside, reminding him of his isolation and frailty.

Genry ran back up the metal staircase he'd disappeared down, and took the old man's hand.

"The wind's real loud, Granddad." He frowned, tilting his head to one side. "Is that what a roaring lupisaur sounds like? I read about them in our downloads, of course, but I've never heard any."

"Well... yes, sorta."

"Granddad!"

"Yep, bub?"

"Let's pretend! Let's pretend there're lupisaurs outside, and they want the sheep! The sheep are here inside with us," Genry added in a whisper, then glanced around. "They're invisible, Granddad, but just pretend."

The old man breathed deep and smiled even as a rush of wind buffeted the compound so heavily he heard metal groan. "Yep. I'm pretending."

"We can't let 'em get the sheep, Granddad!" Genry yelled, letting go of the old man's hand and sprinting ahead to the doorway just down the hallway. "We got to get to the generator room and turn on the electric fences so we'll zap all the lupisaurs!"

As Genry pressed the ignition icon on the generators and proceeded to broadcast his favorite music across the compound's intercom, the old man bent over the panels of the radar equipment. His heartbeat throbbed his chest as the wind continued to pick up outside, sand rasping against the outer walls in a loud, constant white noise. But his shaking fingers kept stumbling as he scrolled through the radar's functions.

Oh, to have a body that could keep up with his ideas, again! The old man cast an envious glance at his grandson racing in circles around the generator room. Oh, to be young, again.

Then the holographic screens of the radar flickered to life over the control panel, and they hummed softly as images and graphs began to filter incoming information. The old man's hands dropped to his sides.

"Granddad?" Genry's voice echoed from the other side of the generator room, and the music over the intercom got louder. "Where are the lupisaurs? I'm actually going to use a reverse tractor beam so I can send them far, far away from Demeter IV."

The old man stared at the rapidly broadening cloud of red and the increasing numbers on the screen.

One mile, five miles, twelve miles.

One week, two months, five months.

The numbers flickered faster and faster, but despite his cornea vision plates they blurred before the old man's eyes.

It's happening again.

Twenty-three miles, thirty-seven miles, fifty miles.

Fifteen months, twenty-two months, thirty-five months.

"Granddad? C'mon, where are the lupisaurs?"

The old man cleared his throat. Phlegm shifted and his lungs rattled.

One hundred miles, three hundred miles, five hundred miles.

Thirty months, forty-five months, sixty months.

The old man closed the holographic screen, and it slipped into a thin line and away. With a few quiet movements, he took the radar offline once more. Red alarm icons faded away. The old man straightened and walked over to the main controls of the generator room, where Genry was seated playing with the speakers.  

"The lupisaurs, they're all around us, bub."

"Everywhere? Well, I'll start –"

"No, Genry. There's too many of them. Let's... let's get the sheep to safety, instead"

"Why?"

"It's safer for the sheep. C'mon. We can use the teleports to get them out."

"The teleports? Really? Oh, boy!"

"Yep. But we got to hurry."

And then the storm hit. The entire compound shook with the blast, and the old man was thrown off his feet. All over the machinery, alarm icons he'd prayed would never go off again flashed, burning his eyes with red light.

"Granddad?" Genry's voice hardly carried over the din of the storm. "Granddad!"

The old man pulled himself to his feet and wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He crawled across the floor over to where Genry lay curled in a ball. The music had been cut off by now, replaced by a feminine computerized voice repeating:

"Warning: Structural failure in D wing."

"Genry!" The old man yelled, and the little boy peeped out from under his arm. "Genry, we've got to get to the teleport room."

"The lupisaurs are sure hungry, Granddad!" Genry shouted back, his words brazen but his wide eyes betraying him. "And you're bleeding."

"Ah, I'm tough, I'll be fine. And don't be scared, bub. It'll be all right."

Genry nodded, and the two of them struggled to their feet, gripping each other by the hand.

"That's it. Just keep on and hold on. Let's get to the teleport room."

The old man's lungs ached as he ran after Genry, out of the generator room, down the main hallway, and onto the inner passage that led to the teleport room. It didn't help that the entire building was shuddering with the force of the hurricane, and several times the old man lost his balance and crashed against the hallway walls. The grating of sand flailing the outer walls increased to a constant roaring hiss. At last, they clattered down the stairs and reached the inner passage. With his AuxA, the old man unlocked the door, and they staggered inside. The door shut behind them, and, insulated by the earth around them and metal levels above them, the sound of wind was muffled. The only wind to be head was his and Genry's panting. But the old man could not ignore the thudding noises vibrating through the metal walls. Rocks. The wind was growing stronger.  

But Genry didn't seem to notice, and rushed deeper into the room. The overhead lights sensed his motion and flickered on, swaying gently with the shaking of the compound. In the middle of the room, they illuminated Genry standing with his head back and mouth open.

The room was not the largest in the compound, but every inch of its walls was covered in dormant holographic control panels. After another flick at the old man's AuxA, they came glowing to life.

"Warning: Structural failure in D wing," the computer reported, and then proceeded with the status of the many programs rebooting in the room. "Mainframe energy connection confirmed. Guide and navigation online."

As each of the programs was named, a different panel along the walls lit up with buttons and icons, and the respective screen came coruscating into being. Last of all, in the center of the room, a soft white glow haloed two tall glass and metal cylinders suspended above the floor by anti-gravity gyroscopes.

"Teleport docks engaged," the computer announced.

"Whoa," Genry whispered, drawing the word out until it seemed he didn't intend to ever inhale again. "This is the best pretend ever."

But the old man braced himself. One, two, three heartbeats later, the computer finished its scan of the program.

"Error detected. System compromised. Incoming teleportation not advised. Disengaging all functions as per safety protocol."

The old man glimpse the collapsed ceiling crushing the far corner of the room – and several computers – before the holographic screens began to fade one by one.

"They're broken? Aw...." Genry's shoulder's slumped.

The old man joined him in the middle of the room and studied the teleports. His eyes lingered on the intercom installed at eye level in the glass cylinders.

"We hate to say goodbye, but we have to go. We love you guys. See you both soon!" he'd said, the son.

"Keep Genry safe!" she'd added, the daughter-in-law. "Just keep on working, and hold on until we come back."

And then came the light, the storm and the crumbling, breaking, and collapsing.

The old man straightened, wincing as joints popped in his back. "C'mon, Genry. If we're gonna get our sheep out of here, we've got to get these teleports up and running. Read anything about rebooting computers in the downloads?"

Genry's head jerked up, and he nodded. The old man smiled. Resignation, resolve, relief – sometimes they weren't so different.

"All right. I know nothing about these new-fangled machines. Just tell me what to do."

~~~

"Told you were smart as a newly polished rocket, bub."

"I was just in time, wasn't I, Granddad? Those lupisaurs are getting antsy." Hands on his hips, Genry stepped back from the rebooted holographic screen then shook his head at the swaying lights overhead as the wind beat at the ceiling. The motion was getting steadily wilder. 

The control panel hummed as it connected with all the teleport functions. But then the red emergency icon glared across the screen.

"Warning," the computer stated. "Structural failure in A, D, and G wings. Evacuation recommended."

"Granddad?" Genry's voice lost its playfulness. "Evacuation?"

As if waiting for this moment, a muffled crash came echoing down the hallway behind them. The computer lit up with more red.

"Warning: Structural failure in A, D, E, and G wings. Main computer control compromised. System failing."

"Grandad, what's happening?"

"Warning: Structural failure – external structure breached."

"The lupisaurs are getting in." The old man whispered as the evidence of the breach reached them.

The whole room shook. Out in the hallway, the noise of wind increased with a sudden rush, thundering through the compound like a stampeding herd. It howled at the door, but the old man had dead-bolted it upon their entry. Not that this would keep the wind out for long, though.

"Warning: structural failure in A, D, E, F, and G wings. External structure breached. Generators compromised. Solar converters compromised. Evacuation advised," the computer chanted.

An explosive 'boom' shook the ground, and the old man and boy were flung to the ground.

"Generator 1 failure," the computer assessed. "Fire detected."

Blocked by the door, the wind seemed determined to get in by some other means. The ceiling lights swayed so much they began to crash into each other. Sand trickled through cracks in the ceiling, and the collapsed corner groaned and began sinking further down. The voice of the computer began to be obliterated by the roar and clatter of sand and loose rock being flung against the walls. A whisper of wind snuck under the door, and brushed Genry's curls across his forehead.

No.

The old man sat up and pulled the little boy close as the walls creaked around them, the wind drowning out even the sound of his heartbeat.

Hold on. Hold on and keep on.

But then he could hear the scream-like scrape of metal as it began to twist, bend, and snap. The walls were giving way.

They can't last forever. Sooner or later they've got to give way.

Genry buried his face in the old man's shirt, his sobs covered by the din around them but his shoulders shaking.

It's only a matter of time.

The old man reached into his jacket pocket, drew out a pencil he'd brought from Earth years ago, and wrote on the floor. Then he cupped the little boy's head in his hands and lifted it so he could see the writing:

'Get in a teleport dock.'

Genry's eyes widened, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Mum?" he mouthed, fingers tightening on the old man's sleeves. "Dad?"

The old man nodded.

'Earth' he wrote.

Genry grinned. He tried to get up, but the old man's hands gripped him instinctively. Fear rose in him, nearly choking him.

"Let go of me, Grandad," Genry shouted, his words hardly audible even though his face was only a few inches from the old man's. "Lemme go, I want to get in the teleport!"

Something wilder and fiercer than the storm outside rose in the old man.

No. Don't let go. Keep on and hold on.

You need him, and he needs you.

"Grandad?" Genry's tear-streaked face creased into a frown. "I want to see Mum and Dad, and go skysurfing and have a pet sheep, like you did. I want to see Earth."

Suddenly, the wild, fierce emotion eased, channeling itself into something new. Something calm.

"I want to see Earth."

The old man knew what he needed to do. He let go.

Genry bolted across the floor. He quickly assessed the control panel just like he did the blueprints in the compound's downloads, and his young, strong fingers flew across it. The teleport dock opened, and he climbed inside. As the door of the glass cylinder slid shut, the intercom engaged and glowed as the little boy spoke again. His words appeared on the control screen, among all the red emergency icons.

"Come on, Grandad! Your turn!"

The old man braced his hands against the shaking floor and pushed himself to his feet. He was so tired. His ears were ringing again after the recent rush of emotion and adrenaline, almost obliterating the noise of the wind. Staggering over to the main control panel, he swiped away the emergency icons and initiated the navigation for the teleportation.

'Earth' he typed into the destination.

'Have fun, bub,' he answered to Genry's message. 'Catch some frogs, and the hand of a real sweet girl. Do that for me, will you?'

'What do you mean, Granddad?' Genry's reply appeared on the screen. 'Get in your dock, we need to teleport.'

'The teleports are manually operated. I have to stay here to send you off."

'But you have to teleport, too!"

'I'm going to teleport. I'll just be travelling somewhere else. But you'll see me again. You'll teleport to where I'm going, too, someday."

The navigation coordinates were locked. Energy levels grew as golden rods on one side of the screen, approaching the required quota for teleport activation.

I hate to say goodbye, but I have to.

The old man's sight blurred. His breathing grew heavier.

I love you.

The ceiling by the old collapse groaned, sand sliding down like small red waterfalls.

I have to keep you safe.

The dock began to glow.

I can't hold on to you any more.

 'Grandad?' Genry's voice appeared as more words on the screen. 'I don't want you to stay behind.'

'I won't, bub. With you getting away safe from here, I'm not really staying behind. Every adventure on Earth that you have, I'll be right there with you.'

'Promise?'

'Promise. We're best partners, remember?'

The teleport dock filled with light, and the old man stared straight at it. As if from far away, he heard the metal roof cracking and shuddering. The wind rushed in, snarling and clawing. But the green 'success' icon appeared on the control panel. The old man closed his eyes.

No more holding on and keeping on, now. All was well.

Those darn-fool machines did their job.

Brilliant light surround and filled him, and blessed quiet. His ears weren't ringing. His creaking, aching body seemed to float.

There was no pain.

No pain, never again.