Paradigm Shift

Chapter 1

Beyond the expansive reach of red cliffs covered in orange dust and the little frozen rivers that ran across the rocky surface, a man wearing a thick layering of a suit who carried a cumbersome oxygen container stood on the exact top of the mountainous outreach, gazing upon the rising sun that had been rising for the past hundred and sixty-four hours. However, the sun could barely be seen as a small light in the brown cloudy sky. He gently made his way down the side of the cliff, down to the extensive river, and started drilling for water. It took a lot of effort, but his last reserve of water became infected with methane and ethane, so he had to be careful this time to drill deep enough for liquid hydrogen dioxide.

For food, just behind his little abode swept a large field of crops covered and protected from the harsh cold with super glass that could sustain the frozen winter, and in front of his small dome-shaped igloo, a dead tree, frozen solid, took root. It baffled the man how a living organism once lived and survived on such a barren wasteland.

—-

It had been exactly two months of living on the outskirts of Titan―a moon that gazed upon Saturn's dusty rings―alone, tired, bored—that when Samuel Taylor heard a commotion outside, he panicked and ran to his bulky generator, but to his surprise, liquid methane slowly started falling from the sky in big droplets of tear-shaped crystals. It had never rained before in Taylor's presence. He sat there, in the cold, listening to the pitter and patter of the raindrops hit his plastic suit. He sat there for two hours before getting bored and walked inside.

It rained for forty-seven hours, and after, massive puddles of methane the size of small lakes dotted the rocky, muddy surface. Ever since it rained the first time for Taylor, it rained on and off and planned to for the next hundred and forty-four hours. For the entirety of the hurricane weather, Taylor battened down the hatches and waited out the storm. Winds reaching up to two hundred miles an hour blew the methane rain sideways, and rocks started flying from the ground as if they were weightless, crushing the exterior of Taylor's hospitable home. Loud banging echoed along with the howling wind as Taylor cowered under his metal examination table, holding on for dear life to the leg.

When he had calmed down a bit, realizing he was safe inside, the sound of the rain felt comforting. Then, almost unluckily, a huge gust of wind ripped open the side of his house, and the oxygen dissipated from the room into the nitrogen infested air; Taylor gasping and gasping for air, and the cold freezing his skin.

What was lucky was that Taylor easily slid on his oxygen mask and grabbed his suit.

—-

It was dead silent when the storm passed. Samuel Taylor heard nothing, but as he moved the door panel he used as a shield, the metal door scratched the floor with a nail-bitingly, indistinguishable high pitched screech. Dust coated everything in a thin veil of orange, and the outside matched the same tint—but compared to during the storm, the sky was lit with orange light.

After gathering everything he ever needed: food, water, his AI computer, his tools, his tablets if he ever needed to sell them for money, a portable generator which he hooked up to his rover, and enough gas to power a fighter plane—Taylor revved the engine and left for town three thousand miles away. Traveling at the speed he was going (seventy miles an hour), the journey would take him two days exactly not counting the multiple rest stops.

—-

It was almost dark by the time he reached the outpost, and he was beyond hungry. He parked his bike at the entrance of the market before entering with two other people into the airlock. After the green light flickered and the doors opened, Samuel Taylor and the others hung their oxygen tanks on racks. He browsed the aisles for cereal brands just as a mother and her two young sons excitedly ruffled through the sugary cereals.

"Mrs. Jacobs, how's the pod coming along?" He asked politely.

"Fine, Julien has been adding an extension for quite some time, and the boys have been helping—Tom, Tobey, stop it, please. Mother's talking to her friend." The boys reluctantly quieted down but kept poking each other relentlessly.

The Jacobs family lived relatively close, so they came to the northern outpost often—Taylor was jealous of their commodity. When he finished shopping, Taylor grabbed his oxygen tank, hung it over his shoulders, and walked outside to find a man pointing a gun at Mrs. Jacobs and her children.

"Alright, lady, give me your groceries!" His mask muffled his threat.

Mrs. Jacobs cried out, "please, this is all I have!"

"Hey, leave them alone!" Taylor yelled and kicked the man, making him lose grip of his gun.

Mrs. Jacobs cried out one more time before dragging her boys inside; their oxygen tanks dragging along the rough surface of the moon. As Taylor tackled the perpetrator, they both reached for each other's mask to suffocate their enemy. Hands reached out, and heads leaned back as they fumbled in the dust. They grabbed at each other's necks, and they turned about in the dust. The sun began sinking, the light proceeded to fade, the wind started to pick up—a dust storm was on its way. When it hit, everyone scrambled inside, but Taylor and the ungrateful man kept swinging punches at each other.

It became increasingly hard to move in the intense wind—seeing was not an option. Taylor never had any goggles to wear, but when he closed his eyes out of pain, the man pushed him off and strapped on his clear glasses. Now, they were both standing as the man picked up his gun, and out of the corner of his eye, Taylor saw two other men in gas masks stride up to him, but he was too late—the three wrapped their arms around his shoulders, demobilizing him and then dragged him behind the shop.

They ripped off his mask and banged him against the metal wall.

"Listen here, you little shit," one man pressed his face against Taylor's, "the world is about to blow up if you don't follow exactly what I say. I am a government official from Mars, and if you don't find Watson, they're gonna come after you," the man sneered. Out of instinct, Taylor frantically attacked the man to his left. He managed to grab a hold of his mask and suffocate the man while the other two tried to rip Taylor off their friend. After the man passed out, Taylor reached for the gun still in his hands, and as the other two came lurching after him, Taylor turned around and shot both in the head.

They jerked as the bullet penetrated them, and then fell to the ground. Taylor reached back for the mask on the unconscious man and gasped for air as he harshly pressed it against his face.

. . . .

Despite how morally wrong it sounded, Taylor stripped the men of their suites and scavenged their bodies for resources without any thought in mind. What he found were a few coins, a map, bullets, a letter, and a name attached to that letter. The signature was scrawled and smudged, but Taylor barely made out the name. . . Vatyn—worksn—wa—Watson!

Written across the page, a warning in clear form threatened Taylor:

If you don't find Watson, your precious world on Titan will be blown up. A war is starting, which side will you choose? Life, or death?

He quickly stashed the letters in his pocket and left to seek out shelter.

—-

Twenty-one hours later, Taylor could see the edge of the barren town on the distant horizon, and after three more hours, finally entered the dusty streets of the innermost sector to Central City that still bordered his district. Taylor was a hard man that didn't understand the necessity of a social life, but when he needed someone the most, he had his close relationships—and one was going to explain the letter addressing Watson.