A Sizzling Dot

A dot.

Do you know what a dot feels like?

I didn’t either.

Not until now, when it manifested unannounced on my bare shoulder. It sat there, the size of a medic's needle, but not quite the same pain. No... I know this feeling, but its name?

Its name is a fruit inside an old neighbor's garden, and I'm just a child hiding by the gate, an arm stretched between the iron bars.

I was patrolling. That I remember.

And now I'm not. Suddenly, I'm nothing more than the recipient of this one mocking dot.

Did the sickness finally catch up with me?

Another one.

Sitting gently on the fiery petals of the hibiscus flower by the main square's statue. I could swear I heard it sizzle.

Hibiscus.

They planted it around her grave, then put a statue on top. People have a visceral need for symbols. Especially around here. Functional to survival.

Survival. Safety.

Routine fosters safety. Predictability fosters routine. Patterns foster predictability...

...and this pattern is glitching.

Two dots are not a pattern.

But they won't stay two.

A third dot makes its way onto my cheek, stealing its heat, finally forcing me to confront reality and raise my eyes to the dome.

How...?

Surrounded by a gasping white cloud made of my stolen breath, I cannot see any of it.

The smooth iron, infrared lights, and the holographic cotton candy drifting lazily in a generated summer sky... everything up there has been swallowed by a thick charcoal shroud.

The same way these godsforsaken dots will swallow everything down here.

The flowers scream as the piling whiteness crushes them to the ground. A sound overpowered by giggles and awes of wandering children. An innocence quickly snuffed out in the moaning eyes of their parents. They know.

I have to move.

The thoughts that had frozen in my brain are finally thawing into the urge of duty. I must check with engineering, inform our leader, and direct people to safety.

Priorities, priorities...

Research, report, or reassure? Maybe retreat, regroup... reprimand the children!

Gods! I cannot think through all these goosebumps.

Comfort, confirm, complain…

...cover your ass?

Yes.

Home. More clothes. Take it from there.

My eyes shift into focus.

Children are just grabbing the stuff and throwing it at each other. A little behind the statue, our head gardener is slumped between the dying flowers, the pruning shears clutched in his hand so tight they're bleeding. The farming staff is crying at him for directions.

Poor fools.

"Attention, everyone! Our weather module is glitching. All civilians, return to your homes and stay warm until further notice. Farming staff, a moment?"

The gardener is still motionless on the ground, a pile of dirty rags abandoned by the laundry module. Tears clouding his weary eyes.

I have no time for this.

"Yes, sir?" The farming staff surrounded me.

"Under my authority, commandeer all the blankets in the emergency station and cover the crops. Minimize the damage until further notice."

"Yes, sir!" They can barely speak through their chattering teeth.

"And put on something warm. We cannot afford essential personnel to get sick! Dismissed." They scatter like scared pigeons, wrapping their aprons around their shoulders, tracking thick trenches in the relentless white stuff.

"They're not orders; they are a purpose. People are lost without a purpose." My father's voice echoes inside another unearthed memory.

Shut up, old man! Home, warm clothes, take it from there.

It follows me around as I reach my apartment cube. He's singing "White Christmas" while shaving insulation blocks carved from our walls on top of a broomstick he painted green.

The air in my lungs is getting heavier.

I trace my fingers inside the holes I never reported.

He was such a creative badass... except he was vandalizing our home for the memory of a tradition no one else cared about. Cold bites my fingers through the uninsulated wall. The weather module is positively screwing up.

Snap out of it and start looking for clothes!

Why do I own so many tank tops? Isn't there anything with sleeves?

As I rummage around in the unsealed seasonal module of my wardrobe, there it is. His old coat, layered in years of dust and bad memories, the colonel's stars still pinned to its collar. I knew.

Yet reported them missing.

Gods, I remember when he'd go on and on about how our seasons are all wrong, "too temperate," and on Earth they used to play with...

Of course! "Snow"!

“A messy waste of resources, my ass!” The ghost of a bottle explodes on the wall beside my head. Gods, was I glad Mom wasn't with us anymore!

My skin relaxes against the thick, scrubby texture of his coat. It stinks of him, yet it fits me now.

But he was so big...

"Your father was sick..." Her voice intrudes on my memories.

Na-ah, not now. I'm on duty.

"Hellooo? Colonel?"

What? No! She never said this... Oh shit, of course.

A long breath forces my heartbeat to steady, while my fingers unfasten the long-wave communicator from its belt socket.

"My excuses, Madame. I was scrounging up warmer clothing. Reporting for duty now!"

"At ease, Colonel. Just tell me what's going on. I saw…" She sighs. "Is this a glitch?"

"I still have to check with engineering, Madame."

"Sure, but... what do you think it is?" She crackles back.

No sense in buying time.

"Foul play, Madame."

She gasps. It's been a while.

"How so?"

"The weather module can only glitch between existing parameters, and there is no code for something like this."

"Isn't it just a matter of temperature?"

"The clouds. They look... deliberate."

Another gasp.

"Then we're looking for someone who wasn't born here." She recovers.

"Please, Madame, give me time to investigate. Don't start containment procedures yet."

"Thank you, Colonel. I expect you to update me the instant you know more."

"Absolutely, Madame. Colonel out."

Someone's head is falling tonight.

"Your father was sick, and left me no choice: he had to be contained." Her voice crawls its way back from my memories again.

Go away!

I tie a tank top around my head and press the old jacket tighter against my skin. The smell is sickening. But it's not puke that's pushing in the back of my throat.

Not now.

Engineering is just past the main square.

Well, everything is just past the main square.

More civilians gathered here. Shirts around their necks and heads, pillows tied to their bellies, yelling against an authority that failed them: will there be enough medicine? And why are farmers hogging all the blankets?

"They're having a slumber party and leaving us to freeze our asses off!"

Oh, how wrong you are, sir. But I don't have time for you.

Selling their extra fabric for black market prices... Just like that, in the main square! I could have them executed on the spot for "exploitation of common needs".

"Never judge men for acting human, or there won't be people left to protect!" Another one of my father's pearls of wisdom... Annoying me long before I considered his role.

"Colonel, thank the Gods you're here! What is going on?" The Chief of Engineering shrieks through his blue lips.

"I was hoping you'd tell me." And what are you looking at, Chief?

"Nothing structurally wrong, sir. The capacitor... I thought it'd gone bust, but it's at full efficiency." He keeps jumping from one foot to the other, his eyes firmly glued to the thick collar of my coat.

"Full?!" Are you... flanking me?

"Yes, sir. It's not a glitch: the system is working hard to keep it up..." He's shaking too much for me to follow. But he keeps getting closer. A step back, and the cold metal of the wall hits my back with the coat's padded thump.

"I'll find the bastards and make them stop this." Back off, Chief! I open the coat to show the handle of my service gun.

"Of course, sir." The eyes of a starving predator... stalking me. The button of my holster clicks loudly, echoing in the small metallic room.

"Where is your relief, Chief?" My hand is now firmly gripping the gun.

"Stuck at the farm, sir. Angry civvies fighting for blankets..." I can see my reflection in the dilated pupils of his feral eyes. "...containment procedures, sir."

"Go home. Put on more clothes." The white vapor of my words hits his nose. Not a blink.

"Sir?" He's now completely still.

"It's an order, Chief." Are you too cold to feel this gun's tip? "I'll cover you for Containment duty until you return. I wanted to query the Computer anyway." What's it going to be, Chief?

A deep, shaking breath. His vapor landing heavy on my chin.

"Thank you, sir!" He runs away, chased by the longest exhale of my military career. My bones rattle and shake.

Gods, put that gun away and close the coat!

People mocked my father for keeping this "waste of fabric". Worth seven tank tops, easy. But he was so fond of this earthen fabric... "Wool", he called it. I hate how stuffy and itchy it is.

Just like his bearded bear-hug. Sweaty palms, alcohol stench, and all. More pressure in my throat.

"Computer!" I let my pupils refocus on the blue light. Toggle voice commands on.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"Run a system-wide diagnostic. Is there any sign of sabotage?"

"Processing. No, sir."

Bastards did their job well. Must be someone with an extensive tech background...

...or military-grade access.

"Run a capacity diagnostic on the weather module. When did it start working at full efficiency?"

"Processing. Yesterday, 9 p.m., sir."

Well before the first snow-dot appeared... What did it need to compute for so long? Of course!

"Computer... what do snow clouds look like?"

"Like the Christmas dream of an old fool."

Father?

No. No mention of clouds in his song.

"What?"

"What is a word of the English language, defined as..."

"Stop. Not that. What did you say about the clouds?"

"More information is required to satisfy the user's demand."

"Don't you get all bloody technical now! What did you say snow clouds look like?"

"Like ominous charcoal shrouds, hiding our impending doom..."

"What?!"

"What is a word..."

"Stop it! What is snow to you?"

"Snow is internally defined as a messy waste of resources, sir."

My ears start ringing with the pain of a familiar voice.

I'm dreaming of a White Christmas...

"And clouds? What are snow clouds?"

"A metaphor of human mortality, and a foolish symbol of hope..."

"Who programmed that?" The ringing is getting stronger...with every Christmas card I write...

"More information is required..."

"What the...?" The ringing is now overwhelming, and the old song is coming to me from underwater...

...or underground.

"What is a..."

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" The ringing turned into darkness.

Nothing but empty darkness around me.

"Is everything alright, Colonel?" The Chief's voice pulls me out. Several shirts have been sewn together into a mantle; the smile of a child piling blocks for the first time rests on his lips.

"I err... not sure." I hide my bleeding knuckles. "Fix that console screen!"

"Yes, sir." He chirps.

Don't give him time to ask questions.

The ghost of my father's hug and singing voice brings me back to the main square. I remember. He once tried "fixing the weather," getting that "White Christmas"...

...for us, for hope.

He'd had the clearance, the vision, the madness...

...and so do I.

But it can't...

I sink.

I sink until my butt hits a soft, cold cushion, and the freezing stone of our founder burns my neck. I readjust the collar in between us and let the sky in. It looks so real. I remember it from Dad's movies.

I couldn't let those be "contained" too.

"You smell like an old friend." A frail voice from my left. The gardener, almost swallowed by the snow.

"Aren't you cold?"

"I am long past cold." He sighs.

His shears are now carefully tucked under a bench. Abandoned. Useless. Yet kept safe from the snow.

Just like me, in my mighty warm jacket.

"Are we going to die?" I hear my voice ask, more to myself than to my freezing companion.

"Everyone dies. But in our mortality is hidden the hope for new generations. We are making room for them." His voice is hoarse, but firm. Controlled, coherent.

Why can't I stop shaking?

I turn towards him.

"You knew my father?"

The whiteness of the gardener's hair is concealed by snow, but not his wrinkles. He could have met the old man before the madness.

"He was a dreaming fool, and so full of love." He tries to smile, I think. The muscles in his face seem unresponsive.

"Go home. I'll fix it."

And I know just how.

"Madame, I need your level of clearance for this." Her office door flaps helplessly behind me.

"Don't you knock anymore, Colonel?"

I don't have the energy for this.

Expert hands take control of her console, turning the screen towards me.

"Computer, pull the colony's logs." She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. She closes it again. "How many entries were filed yesterday prior to 9 p.m.?"

"31487 entries, sir."

"Colonel, we cannot possibly review all of them before the place freezes to death!" She rubs her hands together.

You greedy gossip.

"No need to. Computer, filter search for 'snow' and 'fool.' How many matches?"

"Processing. Two entries, sir."

"Who..." The leader tries to interject.

Na-ah. My mission, Madame.

"Extend filter to include 'mortality.' How many now?"

"Processing. One entry, sir."

"Read it out loud."

"Main Weather Module. Agricultural Dynamics. Department of Gardening. Senior Maintenance Clearance.

Begin of Entry.

Dear Laura,

I spoke to Doctor Beltham again, and I believe this will be my last letter to you.

We are all doomed to face our own mortality.

I dreamed I would join you for Christmas, but, alas, it's not to be.

Are you waiting for me in the sky?

If you are, grant this old fool a dying wish. I want to see children play with the snow one last time.

I want to leave knowing there is hope for them, hope beyond survival.

Thank you for listening to my ramblings over all these years. Maybe we'll see each other soon.

End of Entry."

In the window behind our speechless leader, I can see the main square. By the statue lies a small hill in the shape of a human silhouette.

"You can clear the emergency status, Madame."

Not a single dot is floating in the air, but their pain still lingers on my skin.