It had been three gruelling hell-haunted days on that abysmal planet. Frostbite had found its way into the appendages of the crew, each face grew thin and yearned for warmth, even subtle things like the sane and steady look in the eyes of the “Leader” had changed.

Complexities beyond the resources of a barren tundra world had shown themselves in the fixtures of the ship. Slowly the twenty thousand had dwindled to ten, and then that cycle recurred until only three thousand lone figures on a desolate snow stricken hill remained. Toying at the vast intricacies of the problem that they called their destroyed ship. Around a thousand had wondered into mountains and avalanched canyons, never to return.

Some of these wonderers took plenty: they constructed basic vehicles and transportation, they created aircraft carriers, phones. Primitive 21st century technology, not outstanding, yet decent, not wonderouse, yet useful.

The inhabitants of the planet were now tenacious enough, tough enough, innovative enough, they now took samples from recently shot species to test if they were edible, parties hunted with highly adapted rifles, secure snow boots were developed so the stinging cold couldn’t encroach into skin and numb limbs, compact snow bikes that run gleefully gliding on fathoms deep snow utilising secure treads, drones that probed for avalanches and tidal waves of snow. And here three figures remained, hopelessly grasping at technology too complex to repair without being hyper specialised in a branch of engineering requiring tome-like knowledge. And still they persisted on this task devoid of reward; each of those figures miles apart repairing parts of the ship’s external layer knew as they toiled among scaffolding and vast supporting beams. They would surely die of a pneumonic death. Perhaps in a few months, perhaps when dusk sets and a bitter cloud of snow storm ventures into their hill shadowed and valleyed by two adjacent mountains. Meanwhile nestled deep into mined bunkers laced with heaters and electric furnaces was the new inhabitants who would steadily grow old in the eyes of their offspring who would then multiply to be grandfathers themselves. Two other crafts had pummelled the surface of the harsh planet, a few hundred had become wreckage’s and even then the vast majority had burned in the atmosphere along with the individuals piloting them. Shrivelled metal carcasses were littered on valley beds or buried under numerous rock debris after beheading or pulverising pieces of geography. The planet’s armoshpere was semi-breathable but the gas that rested like oil separated from extract on the fringes of the atmosphere was flammable and if an object entered it that shrugged off sparks whilst diving into the planet’s atmosphere it would ignite it a miles radius from the object at the liquefying temperature of 6,383 degrees. I view with some jealousy the life of those who live in the bunkers, yet I must confess. I know why these ominous clouds of floating fire don’t descent down into the atmosphere and are chocked by some unknown force, an individual has indefinitely orchestrated this rum event. A population of scientists have been settled on this planet for years most likely. They have prepared this as a stronghold, a bastion and I must know the source. I suspect it is the Amra-Bhadamhada and I must uncover this archaic mystery to shed light, on a pinprick of why we’re here but other ships have been eradicated to liquid and then to grey mist. I must find the origin of this mystery, and urgently as well. As a population may yet be twined in his hands; marching rows of obstinate survivors made to follow his course of history.