Free Impact by Rob Boffard

everything they know about Earth says it should be a frozen, radioactive dustball? Is the planet starting to fix itself? How long has it been like this? Surely not long–they would have seen it when they sent the Earth Return mission down, when they were scanning the planet for landing sites. That means it’s only been like this for seven years, at the most. How is it even possible?
    A hundred years before, the people still on Earth were using every technological trick they had to turn the tide of climate change. Cloud seeding, messing with the ionosphere, carbon capturing. None of it really worked, and then the nukes came raining down and it didn’t matter any more. But here, something has changed. Something made this part of the world different.
    His thoughts return to his parents, back on Outer Earth. The regret comes rushing back, rough and familiar as an old blanket.
    But what is he supposed to do? How can he possibly help anybody who might be alive on Outer Earth? There’s only one thing he can do now, and that’s survive. If he’s going to live through the night, then he’s got to shut out everything else.
    The wind has got worse–it’s constant now, whistling through the tree branches and every gust freezes him to the bone. He keeps hoping that the slope will deviate, that there’ll be a depression or gully where they can get out of the wind. But there’s nothing–no matter where they go, the ground is evenly sloped.
    Carver is to his right, and he can hear Mikhail behind him, swearing as he pushes through the foliage. He can’t hear Clay, or Okwembu, and he doesn’t want to lose them. “Everybody still here?” he calls.
    â€œStill here,” mutters Carver. The others echo him, one by one, their voices betraying their exhaustion.
    Abruptly, the trees open up. They’re in a small clearing, no more than fifty yards wide. There’s a sliver of moonlight, peeking down through a tiny gap in the clouds–enough for Prakesh to see some strange structures ahead of them. He identifies an old wooden table, half of it rotted away. Plants have grown into it, winding tendrils through the wood. Next to it is what appears to be a large steel drum, now rusted, most of its top half gone. The bottom is still held in place by two metal brackets.
    Prakesh runs his hand across the edge of the drum. It would have been installed over a hundred years ago, and probably hasn’t been visited in about as long.
    One thought leads to another. If humans really have survived, then they’ll have managed to keep some tech going–they wouldn’t have been able to broadcast a radio signal otherwise. The excitement rises again at the thought of what else might be out there.
    He pulls his hand back from the drum. Wouldn’t do to get an infected cut out here.
    The others stumble into the clearing behind him. Mikhail collapses on the table, which groans in protest.
    â€œKeep moving,” Prakesh says.
    But Mikhail is shaking his head. “No. No. This isn’t right. We stay here. We can light another fire.”
    â€œMikhail.” It’s Okwembu. She’s shivering, too, holding herself tightly, but her voice is as calm and controlled as ever. “Get up.”
    If Mikhail hears her, he gives no sign. He’s still shaking his head, muttering to himself.
    Okwembu walks up to him, grabs him by the shoulders. “Get up,” she says, and this time there’s real fury in her voice. He ignores her, rocking back and forth on the rotten wood.
    Carver strides off, heading for the other side of the clearing.
    â€œAaron!” Prakesh catches up to him just before he disappears into the trees.
    The wind has got even worse, and Prakesh struggles to hear Carver’s voice. “Forget that. He wants to stay where he is? Fine! Let him!”
    â€œWe need to stick together,” Prakesh says, but he doesn’t even know if Carver can hear